PONTIFEX PLANS REVENGE
"Strike me blind," observed Bo's'n Joe gloomily, "if they ain't gone
an' got poor Frenchy!"
No one else spoke for a bit. Mr. Leman spat over the rail and stared
at the fog in the direction of the unseen Japanese ship. The Missus
had gone to her cabin when the body was hauled aboard. Captain
Pontifex stood looking down at the form, still incased in its
diving-suit; and his pallid cavernous features were venomous with
rage.
"I'd sooner have lost anyone aboard rather than Dumont--except the
Missus," he said softly. "And to think they must have got him just
after he got Dennis."
"Aye," said Bo's'n Joe.
It was very evident how Frenchy had come by his fate. Transfixing
his body, fastened so firmly within him that no easy pull would
remove it, was a long-bladed knife with shark-skin handle--palpably a
Japanese knife.
"Well," the Skipper turned away, "see that he's sewed up proper, Mr.
Leman, and we'll bury him shipshape. Attend to repairing that dress,
too."
When the skipper had disappeared aft, Bo's'n Joe looked at Mr. Leman.
"What's the Skipper got on his mind? He ain't goin' to stand by and
see Frenchy killed without doin' anything?"
Mr. Leman reflectively tugged his whiskers, and squinted down his
broken nose.
"Not him, Bo's'n--not him! 'Ready to work to-morrow', says he. Just
wait till to-night, Bo's'n! If something don't happen to them Japs,
I miss my guess. Leave it to him and the Missus! If this blasted
fog don't break, he'll show 'em a thing or two."
The _Pelican_ swung idly to her anchors all that afternoon.
It was easy for those aboard her to deduce exactly how Dumont had
come to his end. The knife told the whole story. The flurry at the
end of the lines, Dumont's frantic signal to be hoisted, all
explained perfectly that he had encountered a diver from the enemy
ship. The Japs had diving apparatus, of course.
Sullen resentment and fury filled the _Pelican_, from skipper to
meekest Kanaka. All aboard had been wildly excited over salvage and
treasure; because of this fact, Pontifex had a solidly united crew
behind him in whatever he might attempt. Frenchy had not been
particularly loved, but his murder showed that the enemy meant
business--and in defence of their treasure-trove the crew of the
_Pelican_ were only too anxious to fight.
As the afternoon wore on, the fog thickened rather than lessened. At
the end of the first dog-watch all hands were called and Frenchy was
committed to the deep, with the usual bucket of slush.
Someone observed that there was no chance of laying the ghost of
Dennis in this customary fashion; within five minutes the remark had
gone through the brig. No one cared particularly how Dennis had
perished, but everyone was superstitious in the extreme. Mr. Leman
allowed an anxious frown to disturb his flat countenance, and even
the skipper, upon hearing the rumour, appeared disturbed.
"Not that I give two hoots for any ghost," he confided to the Missus,
"but it makes a bad spirit aboard ship. Nonsense! A ghost doesn't
come back, anyway."
"I've heard 'baout that happening," said the Missus gloomily but
firmly. "And what folks believe in is apt to come true. You mark my
words!"
"Then" and the skipper brightened--"they say that a death aboard ship
always brings wind--so we'd better get busy with those Japs before
the fog lifts!"
This latter superstition was equally well known aboard, and
predictions were that before morning the fog would be gone. Within
another hour, however, everybody aboard was too busy to bother
further with superstitions.
When darkness began to fall, with no sign of activity from Captain
Pontifex, open grumbling began to spread along the deck, It was
silenced by the Skipper in person, who appeared and ordered two of
the whaleboats lowered.
"Mr. Leman," he commanded quietly, the entire crew listening tensely,
"you'll take command of one boat. Lay aboard her six of those
oil-bags from the store-room. Muffle the oars. Take a compass and
mind your bearings. Two of you men lay aft, here."
Two of the white hands hastened aft and followed the Skipper down the
companion way. In five minutes they reappeared, struggling beneath
the weight of the pride of the whaling fleet---the green-striped
tea-jar. It was minus the big scarlet geranium plant, and should
have been light; but it seemed most unaccountably heavy.
"Easy, there!" snapped the Skipper.
"Corny, reeve a rope through that block at the mains'l yard and sling
the jar into the boat--not Mr. Leman's boat, but mine. Bo's'n, lay
down there and place her in the bow."
Ericksen seemed not to relish his task in the least, but he obeyed.
In ten minutes the jar was safely stowed in the other whaleboat; from
this boat all whaling gear was now removed, six oars alone being left.
"In with you, Corny," commanded the Skipper. "You and Ericksen with
four Kanakas will row me out. Mr. Leman, precede us very slowly;
when you sight that Jap, lay that oil on the water and then stand
back to pick us up."
He turned to salute the Missus with a chaste kiss upon the cheek.
"Good-bye, my dear! You insist upon taking the third boat?"
"I reckon I can do as well as yeou," returned the Missus impassively.
"Good luck!"
"Same to you," answered the Skipper.
Six men were at the oars in Mr. Leman's boat, four more in that of
the skipper. Mrs. Pontifex ordered the forward boat down, and the
five remaining men into her. To them she handed rifles, then turned
to the trembling steward.
"I'm leavin' yeou to tend ship," she stated firmly. "There's a
shot-gun beside the helm; if anybody else boards, yeou let fly! No
telling but some o' those Japs might ha' worked araound by the
shore--but we'll give 'em something else to think abaout."
With that, she descended into her boat, compass in hand, ordered her
rowers to give way, and vanished into the darkness of the fog--not
following the Skipper, but departing at a tangent from his course.
The steward hastened to the quarter-deck, secured the shot-gun, and
perched upon the rail.
The Cockney was by no means lacking in acuteness. He had been
cleaning up a muss in the stern cabin for the last half-hour; he knew
that this muss was the debris from several ammunition packets, broken
from the packing-case of ammunition that had been hauled in upon the
morning previous. He knew that the scarlet geranium had been
transplanted into a keg. He knew that this keg had previously been
full of gunpowder; he knew likewise that the skipper had laboriously
fashioned a fuse--and that the tide was now going out.
So as he perched upon the starboard taffrail and scrutinized the
blank fog, the steward had a fairly certain idea of what to expect.
"Gawd 'elp them yeller swine!" he observed reflectively. "Skipper's
going to lye out that oil; it'll drift around 'em wi' the tide.
That's what 'e was w'iting for, the hold fox! When the oil 'as got
hall haround that ship, skipper sends 'is boat at 'er. Ho! Then 'e
gets off in Mr. Leman's boat, first lightin' the fuse. Then 'e
lights the oil. Oil an' fuse--and then the jar o' powder--blime, but
'e's a fox, a ruddy fox! Ho! And then the Missus she takes a
'and--only I bet skipper 'e don't know as 'ow that fusee is dry!
Thinks it's wet as when 'e made it, 'e does! Well, wait an' see----"
His reflections ended in a chuckle. The steward, having no personal
anticipation of danger, cared not a snap what went on out in the
mist; in fact, he looked forward to a very enjoyable time.
The tide had turned, right enough, and was strongly on the ebb.
Rolling himself a cigarette, the steward stretched along the rail and
waited comfortably; he could feel the ship lift and tug and vibrate
as the pull of the tide-current swung her on the taunt hawsers from
stem and stern. The steward watched the dim banks of fog with lazy
anticipation. He was in the position of a front-seat spectator, and
was determined to have a good time.
Thus, being intent upon the fog, waiting for the first flare of
yellow flame and the first wild yell of alarm, the steward relaxed
all vigilance as regarded his own surroundings. He was no seaman,
and when the _Pelican_ gave a queer little sideways lurch, he merely
shifted his position slightly and reflected that a wave must have
struck her. Still there came no sound from the fog, no token of
flaring oil or fighting men. The steward lighted his cigarette and
reflected that emptying the oil bags seemed to take considerable time.
It was perhaps five minutes later that a queer sound came from
forward--a sound not unlike the breaking of a lax violin string, but
deeper. The steward did not hear it at all; but a seaman would have
known that somewhere a taut cable had parted. When the brigantine
began to rock gently and evenly, the steward took for granted that
there must be a ground-swell or something of that sort.
Behind the steward moved a queer grotesque figure--a figure that
might have been some strange nightmare shape moving silently in the
darkness; a figure with enormous and bulbous head which rocked upon
its shoulders in monstrous and uncanny fashion. The figure came to a
pause just behind the steward whose position was rendered quite
certain by the cigarette spark.
"Put up your hands!" snapped a voice suddenly.
The steward tumbled backward off the rail and plumped down on the
deck. A faint howl of terror escaped him as he stared up at the
grotesque, horribly-shaped figure whose bulk was intensified by the
fog. The figure stood over him, and a rifle poked him in the ribs.
"'Ave mercy!" howled the terrified steward. "I'm a poor, innercent
man----"
"Oh, it's _you_! Didn't know you, steward," said the voice of
Dennis. "Where's everybody? Get up, old boy--I'll not hurt you!"
But, recognizing the voice of Dennis, the steward could only emit a
horrified gasp.
"Don't 'a'nt me, sir!" he pleaded, folding his hands and getting to
his knees in desperate fear. "I didn't 'ave nothink to do wif it,
sir----"
"Good heavens, I'm no ghost!" Dennis laughed. "Where's the skipper?"
"Gone, sir," quavered the steward. "Heverybody's gone."
"Where?"
"To fight that 'ere Jap ship, sir."
"You're all alone on board?"
"Yes, sir."
Dennis broke into laughter, dropped his rifle and seized the hand of
the steward, pulling him erect.
"Here, man, don't be afraid!" he exclaimed. "I'm solid flesh and
blood. But you'll have to unscrew this helmet--the thing's killing
me, and I can't get rid of it. I've cut off the rest of the
suit--take hold, now!"
Dennis sat down on the deck. Trembling still, the steward unfastened
the catches of the helmet and unscrewed the big tinned-copper globe.
"Oh, but that feels good!" sighed Dennis, "I could open the front
sight, but I couldn't get the thing off. Now the corselet----"
A moment later Dennis stood erect, gingerly feeling his neck and
shoulders. Suddenly he laughed again and seized the steward's hand.
"Shake, old man!" he exclaimed heartily. "So they're all off
fighting the Japs, eh? Mrs. Pontifex too?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you didn't know that I'd cut the old ship adrift--and that we're
outward bound with the tide?"
The poor steward gave a violent start, and stared around; but the
shroud of fog was too dense.
"Drifting, sir?" he uttered fearfully. "And what'll the skipper do?"
"I should worry!" Dennis chuckled. "See here, steward--I know you
weren't in on the plan to murder me; your giving me the knife proved
that. So we'll stick together, old man, and if we get out of this,
I'll see that _you_ come out on top.
"Well, after Dumont cut my lines, I got out on the stern of the
wreck, above the water; with your knife I got rid of most of the
diving suit, and managed to get ashore. Two boats filled with Japs
came ashore about dark, not knowing I was there. They landed,
probably meaning to attack the _Pelican_ later. But I shoved out
their boats, and came aboard ship in one of them--got their rifles
too."
He laughed heartily. "See here, steward--the Japs are marooned on
the island! The Skipper is out attacking their schooner. Meantime,
we're drifting out to sea, and--what's the answer?"
"Blime, sir!" The steward gaped at him. "It's mortal queer!"
"It will be--for somebody," said Dennis grimly. "Now get me
something to eat."
"Yes, sir. This way, sir." The steward, still but half-conscious of
what had taken place, turned toward the galley.
At that instant a fearful yell arose from somewhere in the mist; a
yell that quavered up and died quickly.
The steward halted, gazing over the starboard counter; but the ship
had swung and was going out with the tide. It was over the port bow
that a wild flare of light glimmered. Dennis saw it and cried:
"The fools! They've set her afire!"
"No, sir, it's the oil!" Breathlessly the steward explained the
Skipper's plan of attack. Before he had finished, the flare of light
widened into a broad stream, lighting all the fog redly. With it
sounded renewed yells--shrill piercing yells.
Then, off to one side, broke forth a crackle of rifles. That was the
boat of the Missus, cleverly pumping bullets at the Jap ship from a
wide angle. Through this burst a volume of hoarse shouts, followed
almost at once by a single terrific detonation--the thunderous shock
of which sent the _Pelican_ reeling and shuddering. The
green-striped jar had exploded.
After that one bursting, rending, shattering crash, a swift darkness
ensued. Through this blackness pierced fragmentary glimmers as the
scattered and far-flung oil blazed up here and there, only fitfully
to perish again.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Dennis, awed and astounded. "Old Pontifex
got more than he bargained for in that bomb, or I miss my guess!"
The _Pelican_ was already past the scene of the explosion. What had
happened there in the fog, could not be told. Whether the enemy ship
had been shattered, or whether the whaleboats had themselves caught
the force of the explosion, could not be discovered. All was silence
and darkness from that quarter. But from far astern, lifted a chorus
of faintly quavering yells as the marooned Japs on the island
discovered the loss of their boats. Save for this, all was hushed
and still.
"Well, steward," said Dennis in the silence. "Let's get that grub.
I need it."
"Yes, sir," responded the steward meekly.
And the _Pelican_ drifted out upon the tide, swinging and heaving
gently to the slow swells that rocked up through the fog. It was an
hour later that the first breath of air came--the wind which, as
sailors say, always comes after death.