THE ENEMY COMES
The water was cold--cold and clear and biting as ice. To Dennis,
inside the rubber suit, it seemed as though he had been plunged
bodily into liquid ice. Through the thick glass of the helmet he
could see the green translucence all around him, clear and empty and
shimmering with the sunlight from above. For himself, as for the
other green hands at the work, he knew that a long submersion would
be impossible.
Darker grew the water underfoot as the light from above was diffused
to the greater depths. Dennis had gone down from the quarter-deck of
the _Pelican_; this, according to the soundings, would bring him to
the sea-floor at the after end of the front half of the wreck. He
could thus see whether the contents of the _Simpson's_ main-hold, aft
of which she had broken in two, lay piled upon the sea-floor between
the two sections of the wreck. If so, the work of salvage would be
greatly hastened. Pontifex, in the meantime, was exploring the bows
and fore hatch of the wreck.
Down went Tom Dennis into the depths, in a seemingly interminable
descent. Suddenly a huge shadowy black mass seemed rushing at him
from below, and swift terror sent his heart throbbing; for he felt
very helpless. Then he remembered--the wreck, of course! The
regular "click-click" of the pumps, sounding down through his
air-valves, reassured and heartened him. An instant later he stood
upon the bottom.
He wondered that there was very little growth or algae to obstruct
him, until he realized that what little algae he could see were
bending far over in the grip of a fairly strong sub-surface current,
which, combined with the intense coldness of the water, had a
discouraging effect upon marine growths. The bottom was not smooth,
however, being extremely rocky and uneven.
The _Simpson_ had apparently broken just abaft the engine-room, and
the fore half lay with her sloping deck toward the shore. Dennis had
come to the bottom close to her keel, and he was no long time in
discovering that spilled over the sea bottom lay almost enough cargo
to fill up the _Pelican_.
Having brought a line ready prepared, Dennis got the bight around a
packing-case plastered with barnacles. As he was drawing it taut,
came a jerk upon his lifeline--the signal that his agreed "stint" was
up. Having no wish to be crippled or laid on the sick list, Dennis
responded, and at once was hauled off the bottom.
His ascent was very slow, and of necessity; for a quick jerk up from
the depths would ruin any man alive. The progression had to be
gradual and halting.
On the way up, it occurred to him for the first time that he was
literally in the hands of his enemies!
The moment he was in the morning sunlight again, Tom Dennis forgot
his uneasiness and laughed at the terror which had seized upon him in
the depths. It was absurd.
He did not go down again that morning, however.
Dennis was nearly clear of his diving-suit before the Skipper's
copper helmet broke the water amidships. Pontifex reported that the
bow plates of the wreck were torn out, and he had lined two cases;
these were brought in, together with that which Dennis had secured,
and were at once smashed open. The two cases from the fore hold
proved to contain ammunition; that from the main hold, two
excellently packed machine-guns.
This was enough for Pontifex, who at once conjectured that the main
and after holds of the _Simpson_ had contained the bulk of the
machine-guns, the most valuable part of her cargo. Corny at once
broke out a kedge, lowered it to the stern of his boat and hung it
there by a stop to the ring, then started off to the stern of the
_Simpson_. Once laid among the rocks in the shallower water there,
the crew tramped around the capstan while Bo's'n Joe lifted "Windy
weather! Stormy weather!" into a resounding chorus.
At last it was done. The _Pelican_, all reconnaissance over, lay
snugly ensconced between the two sections of the _John Simpson_. The
off watch went below, curiosity appeased by the barnacled unromantic
packing-cases; and Captain Pontifex fell to hard work, going down
again almost at once.
Dennis took charge of the after pumps, while the Missus herself took
the wheel of those in the waist. The Kanakas, only prevented from
diving naked by the depth and the icy coldness of the water, were
eager to try the diving-suits. As each man went down in turn, he
carried four lines, making them fast to as many cases. Thus, despite
the brief diving spells, in no long time the cases began to come
aboard as fast as they could be handled.
When the watch knocked off at eight bells, noon, Dennis was amazed by
the number of cases which had come aboard. He was dead tired, also;
the constant strain of watching the pump gauges and keeping the air
at exactly the right pressure was no light one, and at odd moments he
had tailed on to the lines with the other men.
"I see you're no greenhorn," commented Pontifex at dinner, with a
sharp glance at the hands of Dennis. "Where'd you learn to keep your
thumb clear while hauling a line?"
"Oh, I've knocked around ships a little," Dennis laughed. "Are you
going to stay in this position?"
"Yes. If the Japs come, we're fixed to keep 'em off both ends of the
wreck. Well, think you can go down again this afternoon?"
Dennis nodded. "Sure! I'm supposed to have a bad heart, but I
haven't noticed it."
As it chanced, however, he did not go down again that day, for during
Mr. Leman's watch the after airhose developed a leak which had to be
fixed, and the second apparatus was consequently out of business
until the following morning. Pontifex, who took the first dog-watch,
kept the one suit hard at work, and all aboard were well satisfied
with results.
That night, by the light of a huge flare set atop the try-works, the
cargo was stowed. Shears had to be run up over the hatchways to
handle the heavy cases, and the deck was not washed down until just
before the morning watch. When Dennis came on deck at 4 a.m. the
ship was incased in so heavy a fog that the lookout was withdrawn
from the island.
"Dis fog, maybe she keep up a week," grumbled Corny, overhauling the
diving lines. "If de Jap sheep come, den look out!"
The stern of the wreck, which had been hidden at high tide, was again
being uncovered. So thick was the fog that Dennis doubted the
possibility of diving, but his doubts were soon set at rest. Corny
and the skipper, each carrying lines, made a descent, and Corny
returned with word that it was a "cinch".
Pontifex was still down, and Dennis was preparing to get into the
suit as Corny vacated it, when of a sudden the voice of the Missus
bit out from the waist.
"Keep quiet, all hands! Listen!"
Astonished, Dennis obeyed. Corny, beside him, stood with hand cupped
to ear, slowly shaking his head. Nothing was to be heard, The fog
was impenetrable.
"What did she hear?" murmured Dennis. The Cape Verde man shook his
head.
"No telling. But nobody don't fool _her_--ah! Listen, queek!"
Dennis heard it then--an indistinct and muffled vibration, too slight
to be called a noise, which was felt rather than heard. It came
again and again, an irregular sound.
"It's de sail," said Corny. "De sail flap-flap in de wind--and
dere's somet'ing else goin', too----"
"A boat's engine!" exclaimed Dennis softly.
"Yeou, Corny!" The Missus gave swift command aft. "Call all hands
aft an' tell Mr. Leman to fetch the rifles. Lively yeou!"
Meantime, she was bringing Pontifex aboard, manifestly against his
will, as the signal-line testified. Dennis kicked out of the rubber
suit, getting clear just as Bo's'n Joe came up the companion way. A
moment later both Leman and Corny appeared, each with an armload of
rifles interspersed with shot-guns.
"Strike me blind!" exclaimed Ericksen, pausing beside Dennis, and
listening intently. "If it ain't them Japs--a schooner, likely,
beatin' up for the island under power, and all hands too lazy to take
in sail! Aye, that's them."
"But it may be someone else," said Dennis. "A fisherman, perhaps."
Bo's'n Joe gave him a look of pitying scorn from his uptwisted eye.
"You wait an' see!"
Rifles were served out to all aboard, Dennis among the rest, and by
the time Captain Pontifex was up and out of his suit, the ship was
ready for defence. Pontifex heard the news without comment; a rifle
under his arm, he dispatched Corny to the crosstrees to keep watch
from there, and ordered Mr. Leman to stand by with a megaphone.
"Growin' closer, sir," volunteered Ericksen. "Takin' soundings, she
is."
The skipper nodded. The fog-muffled thrum of an engine was now
distinctly perceptible, while the slatting of sails told that the
approaching craft was not far off. The fog was thick and steady
without a breath of wind to thin it out.
"All right, Mr. Leman," said Pontifex suddenly. "Let 'em have it."
Instantly the stentorian tones of Mr. Leman, intensified a
thousandfold by the megaphone, blared out upon the fog.
"Stand off or ye'll run us down, ye lubbers! Keep away!"
From the mist came a shrill thin yell of surprise, followed by an
excited jabbering of many tongues. Clearly the visitors were of
foreign origin. Then a shrill voice lifted in English amid sudden
silence as the thrumming motor ceased its noise.
"'Ello! Oo are you?"
"Very good, Bo's'n Joe," said the skipper calmly. "She'll be in the
centre of the fairway, most likely--about two points abaft our beam."
Ericksen lifted to his shoulder the shotgun with which he had armed
himself, and two smashing reports blasted into the fog as he fired
both barrels. A shrill clamour of voices made answer, followed by
instantaneous and blanket-like silence. Then came a single sullen
plunge, as of some heavy object striking the water.
"Ah!" remarked Pontifex, staring into into the fog as though he could
see through it. "Very good, Bo's'n--you reached 'em. They've
anchored, and they'll lie doggo until the fog lifts. They know we'll
waste no bullets if we can't see them."
"Reached them?" repeated Dennis. "You don't mean that Ericksen tried
to hit them?"
Bo's'n Joe guffawed, and Pontifex gave Dennis a peculiar smiling
look--a very diabolical look.
"My dear Mr. Dennis, that's exactly what he did. And some yellow
beggar caught the pellets in his hide--in other words, got the hint!
They'll try no games until they can see what they're up against."
"But where are they?" demanded Dennis, giving up any expostulation.
"About six fathoms away, I should say--not more than fifty feet,
certainly." The skipper glanced at Mr. Leman, who nodded
confirmation. "They might be less than that, and we couldn't see
them, nor they us. After the fog lifts--well, then there'll be fun!"
"They'll fight?"
Pontifex caressed his moustache and smiled softly.
"More or less--they'll try some deviltry on us first. Lay out some
harpoons and shoulder-guns, Mr. Leman; we'll have a few tonite bombs
ready. Corny, bring in those cases that I lined before I came up.
We'll get back to work directly."
Dennis saw no good in making protests. There was no law here save
that of the strongest, and Pontifex was dead right in carrying the
fight to the enemy, aggression being nine points of fighting law.
Besides, Pontifex was manifestly enjoying the prospect, and just at
present Dennis was playing a waiting game and had no desire to bring
about any crisis.
There being no time for more workman-like methods, an anvil and a
cold-chisel were brought aft, with half a dozen harpoons, and two of
the hands were set to work cutting through the iron harpoon hafts,
just behind the spear-points. Now, modern whaling is carried out
almost exactly as the New Bedford whalers did it a century ago,
except for a small brass cylinder fastened to the haft of the
harpoon. In this cylinder is carried a tonite bomb. Whether the
harpoon be flung by hand or be fired from a shoulder-gun, it carries
the bomb into the whale--and that ends the whale.
The points off the six harpoons, Mr. Leman made ready a couple of
shoulder-guns and loaded the cylinders of the harpoons with bombs.
As he observed, they might or they might not do much damage, but they
would make a big noise when they hit; and with this intent the
weapons were laid aside to be used in case of any aggressiveness on
the part of the enemy. For the present, at least, the Japs seemed to
be maintaining a careful silence.
"Well, Mr. Dennis," said Pontifex at length, "I'm going to resume my
interrupted job; I guess I can lay a few more lines before quitting.
Who's going down on your lines?"
"Why, I will--if you think it's safe," returned Dennis. "You're not
going to knock off work, then?"
"On account of that yellow scum? I should say not!" exclaimed
Pontifex. "Mr. Leman will do any fighting that's necessary while I'm
down; and the Missus will see to it that nothing fouls our lines.
But send someone else if you don't like the idea."
"Oh, it suits me," answered Dennis, knocking out his pipe. "I dare
say there's no great risk, but it would feel sweet if the ship left
us prowling on the bottom, eh?"
Pontifex grunted and went forward, being swallowed up in the fog that
cloaked everything.
Having learned from Corny that the bottom was pretty dark, but by no
means unsuited to working, Dennis called the steward. Although the
little Cockney was a viperous criminal ashore, he was a faithful soul
at sea, and Dennis had learned that he entertained a strong feeling
of responsibility while watching the pumps.
"Hi, steward!" he called. "Come and give me a hand with this
suit--and bring a couple of Kanakas to run these pumps, too. Corny's
busy with the lines."
"Comin' sir," said the steward's voice, and the Cockney appeared a
moment later.
Meantime, in the waist, Captain Pontifex was engaged in talk with the
cook, while the Missus listened.
"Now's the time, Dumont," said Pontifex, fondling his curled
mustache. "Work right along aft until you get on his line, savvy?"
"_Mais oui_!" returned Frenchy, his black eyes glittering. "But me,
I like not this _diable_ of a fog! It will be dark under the water."
"So much the better." And Pontifex smiled his cruel smile. "So much
the better! He thinks I'm going down. Let the steward attend to his
pumps--and we'll blame the steward for what happens. In this murky
water he'll not see you coming down there--you can get on top of him
and cut his lines and be off in a shot. Are you ready or not?"
"Yes!" exclaimed Frenchy, reaching for the diving-suit.
"And watch out for the tide," cautioned the skipper. "It's ebbing
strong and you might lose your bearings if you don't look sharp."
Frenchy grinned, and unstrapped his sheath-knife.