THE FIGHT IN THE FOG
To be exposed to the risk of disappointment when the intrepid voyagers
were two-thirds of their way across the Channel was terribly annoying.
Their failure or success, seemed to depend on the fickle wind, but
Harry Goodall did not lose heart, being confident in his own prowess
and resources, and being buoyed up with reminiscences of his own
good luck on previous occasions, especially under the circumstances
attending his arrival in Wedwell Park.
Harry Goodall assured his companions, therefore, that all the time the
wind was blowing from a northerly direction, they could pass on into
France, even if they had to allow the fishing-lugger to slip out of
their grasp, as she might do, if Croft saw the balloon advancing in
pursuit of him. The great point they had to study was this, could they
get sight of the French craft before the thick mist that was gathering
over the coast, covered the interval of sea that was before them?
“We are now, I should guess,” said Harry Goodall, “about twelve miles
from Dieppe, and we are inclining to the southward of that port. We
must therefore strain every nerve to ‘spot’ the lugger.”
“Hold on, sir!” cried Trigger. “What do you make of that vessel further
down to our right?”
“By Jove, Tom! Here hand me over Mr Strive’s sketch while Warner looks
at her with his glass. He knows more about her than we do.”
“That’s she right enough,” exclaimed the detective, “and I can actually
make out her number--365.”
“Well, then, that’s the vessel to a certainty, Warner. And, I say, just
look at that steamer, miles away, coming from the north; you see that
her smoke is drifting towards us, which clearly shows that the wind has
changed below. Still, we are holding our own up here, and we are moving
towards France.”
“Do you notice, sir,” said Trigger, “how fast the fog is bearing down
on the lugger?”
“Yes, you’re right; I have been observing that, Tom, for some minutes
past, and I noticed, too, that they have somewhat altered their course.
Depend upon it, Croft has seen the balloon, and is trying to make for
Havre, but we are moving that way too, which will favour the scheme I
now intend to adopt.”
“The lugger,” said Warner, “Will be hidden by the fog in a few minutes,
Mr Goodall.”
“So much the better,” replied the aeronaut, “and my mind is now fully
made up what to do before the fog lifts, and if we drop quickly, but
fail to grapple with her, we can re-ascend into the higher current and
pass into France. I have well calculated our distance, and intend to
descend on the other side of her, in fact, between her and the coast,
because then the easterly breeze below will carry us towards her,
exactly on the side they won’t expect to see us, and should we not
be running absolutely straight on to her, we can make the necessary
divergence by means of the drag and deflector. Do you follow me,
Warner?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Right. Well, now, I will let out gas and make a swoop through the fog,
so be ready, Tom, with the drag, and you, Warner, must stand by and be
prepared to unship sand at a moment’s notice.”
A rather rapid drop was then made, Harry Goodall having calculated
that he would break through the mist at about a mile, more or less,
to the east of the lugger, when the breeze off the French coast would
facilitate his project.
“Smothereens!” cried Warner, “but we’re in the fog now, and no mistake.”
“Silence, there,” enjoined Harry Goodall, in hushed but decisive
tones. “Be ready with the sand.”
A few moments of perfect quiet ensued, then came the word of command.
“Let go your drag, Tom.”
“Out it is, sir, and has struck the water. Ah! she’s checked now.”
“Yes, that’s all right,” whispered the aeronaut, “but we want just a
little more ballast overboard, or we may touch the waves. You see we
have to get a proper equilibrium, Warner, between our ascensional power
and the drag of our water anchor. And now,” said Harry Goodall, with
bated breath, “it is a case of hit or miss. Keep perfectly still, for
we must listen for their voices.”
For some time the party careered along at about a hundred feet above
the waves, which had become less rough, so that the balloon was
comparatively steady, though their motion could be felt as the drag
rose and dipped in the water.
“We can’t see far ahead,” said Warner, in an undertone.
“No, we shall have to be guided by sound, and the less we say, Simon,
the more we may hear,” replied Goodall to the detective, whose
conversational powers were difficult to restrain.
For the next half hour they were in a state of suspense and
uncertainty, not knowing whether they had overshot their mark, or were
going too far north or south to be within measurable distance of the
lugger.
Trigger busied himself with a coil of rope, which he first fastened
to the hoop, and, after doing so, he divested himself of his coat and
boots; he then attached the other end of the rope round his waist,
which amused Mr Goodall and Warner, especially the latter, who wanted
to know what he was preparing for.
“A miss would be as bad as a mile,” whispered Tom. “We might give her a
close shave and yet pass by her. In that case I would go down the rope
and try to hook on to the lugger where I could, being a pretty good
swimmer.”
“A good idea, Tom,” said Harry Goodall; “but you forget that when we
lost your weight the balloon would suddenly spring up, and we might
leave you below. Still, I credit you with being ready for any kind of
service in order to grapple with the lugger. The great point now,”
added the aeronaut, “is to lower the lee-board in the event of being
compelled to deflect one way or other, so we may as well do so at once
and see how it acts. You can pay away that fore rope, my lad, as we can
still draw ahead, and check her if necessary when we like.”
“They wouldn’t hear us do it, would they, sir?” asked Warner.
“Oh, no, or else we should be equally able to hear them. That board,
you see, will cause us to sway to starboard or to port.”
“Hush, sir!” said the detective, in a whisper, “I fancied I heard a
voice not far off.”
“Yes, you’re right, Warner--softly,” added Trigger, “I distinctly heard
someone speaking.”
“And so do I,” said Harry Goodall, under his breath. “They are straight
ahead, and are doubtless all unconscious of our proximity. We are
gaining on them,” said Goodall, after a lapse of a few seconds. “Slack
that lee-board line, Tom. Can’t you see her sails. We must bear more
south, for the fog lifts a trifle, and it won’t do to be seen. And put
your boots and coat on, Tom; you will not have to wet yourself after
all. The great point now is whether she is the right craft or not?
Heave on this line both of you--steady, Warner.”
“That gleam of sunshine will help us,” whispered Trigger.
“I heard a voice just now,” said Warner, “very much like Croft’s.”
“Hush!” muttered Harry Goodall. “Don’t you see the number on her sails
faintly looming in the distance?”
“We’re getting pretty near them,” whispered Warner. “Listen to what is
said.”
“I will pay you extra, skipper, if you land me at Havre.”
“That’s Croft, the Pocket Hercules, speaking, I’ll be sworn, sir,” said
the detective.
“Not a word more! We’re within an ace of running into them, but they
are looking the other way.”
“Are you steering for Havre, skipper?” asked a voice very like Croft’s
on board the lugger.
“I comprend vat you say, monsieur,” said the skipper, “but ve must
vait ontil de mist rise; ve are long vay from Dieppe, and vy you go to
Havre?”
“That’s no business of your’s, skipper; you take me there!” cried Croft.
“Oui, oui, mais mon Dieu! vat is that? A round ship or de sun?”
“By jingo!” cried Croft, “that’s that cussed balloon! Look here,”
exclaimed the fugitive, “I’ll give anyone on board a fiver for a loaded
rifle.”
“My crew no fight or ve may get into trouble,” cried the skipper.
“Pere-haps dat is a varbalon from my contree, it come dat vay from the
east.”
“I know where it comes from, skipper,” cried Croft. “If I only had a
gun--”
“Here you are, monsieur,” said a fierce-looking fellow, who did not
look like one of the crew. “It is fully loaded. And I say,” he added
in an undertone, “I am taking explosives to Paris for the glorious
Anarchist cause. Will one of our little dynamite _bons-bons_ suit you?”
“Yes, brother of my heart,” said Croft, “and if you can chuck it up
high enough, your fortune is made, but don’t blow yourself up in a
vain attempt that will fail. After all, it would be safer to trust to
ordinary firearms rather than these new-fangled concerns.”
On hearing this conversation, Trigger at once loaded the guns, handing
the air-gun to Mr Goodall, who was intent on thinking out a plan to
check the skipper from putting his helm up and so avoiding the balloon.
Harry Goodall’s idea was to lower their grapnel a few feet and give
it a pendulum-like swing so that it should stand a better chance, by
describing a larger area, of coming in contact with the spars and
rigging.
“I’m afraid, sir,” said Trigger, “there will be bloodshed.”
“Well, we must avoid it if possible, Tom,” replied his master.
“Don’t kill Croft,” said the detective; “I want particularly to take
him alive.”
A moment afterwards Croft and the French Anarchist were seen to raise
their guns to the shoulder. A flash followed, and Warner was grazed by
something on the forehead, while Tom had been hit in the leg. And the
rattle on the wicker basket-work of the car indicated that they had
been fired at with slugs.
“I say this is getting a little too hot, Mr Goodall,” cried Trigger.
“Look, sir, at that French villain climbing up to cut away our grapnel.”
“Shall I fetch him down with my bull-dog?” asked Warner.
“I thought you wanted to take him alive?”
“That’s true, sir, but another fellow wants to cut us adrift, and I
shall lose them altogether.”
But Trigger’s blood was up, and before his master could restrain him he
had fired, and immediately a man was seen to slip down the rattlings.
“I’ve dusted him in the stern sheets, anyway.”
“Yes, you’ve marked him, Trigger, but I hope not seriously.”
Then an excited conversation took place between the skipper and the
wounded man, but the aeronauts could not hear the actual words. But
whatever they were, their effect was that the little Anarchist dropped
some package overboard, and then, picking himself up, he retreated
with Croft behind an improvised barricade of cases which were on
the fore-deck of the lugger, while the skipper and his crew grouped
themselves astern, evidently as non-belligerents.
Then Harry Goodall called on the skipper to surrender Croft, but, to
the aeronaut’s surprise, the skipper made no reply. Thereupon Warner
prepared for further action, while Trigger popped into Bennet’s
double-barrelled breach-loader two more cartridges of No. 8 shot.
Taking his cue from Croft and the Anarchist, Goodall proceeded to hoist
the lee-board over the edge of the car, so as to be even with their
opponents when they renewed their attack, for it appeared as though
they intended to do so, as their duck guns had been reloaded, and Croft
had placed his leather bag, which was supposed to contain the squire’s
property, in a snug place by his side; but his companion was writhing
with pain, owing to the peppering his legs and back had received from
Trigger. Possibly he was not seriously hurt, but his vows of vengeance
on Tom Trigger and his companions, were truly horrible to listen to.
Evidently it had not been believed that the aeronauts were able to make
such a stout retaliation.
Presently the loud shriek of a fog horn was heard, as though a steamer
were approaching through the mist.
Croft, as if startled at the sound, decided upon immediate action,
believing probably in the badness of his own cause, and fearing the
approach of those who might lend assistance to the aeronauts.
“Now or never!” he said to his fierce associate, “let them have it,”
and another volley was discharged at the balloonists, but they had kept
their bodies well behind the board; and as Harry Goodall could just
discern a steam vessel looming through the fog, he at once ordered
Trigger and Warner not to return the fire, especially as someone could
be distinctly heard hailing them in English.
“Ship ahoy! What’s amiss?” asked someone. “What’s all this firing
about? Is there mutiny on board?”
“Blowed if there ain’t a balloon hitched on to the lugger,” exclaimed
another voice before Goodall could reply.
“If you will send a boat, I’ll explain matters,” said Goodall. “What
ship are you?”
“Oh, yes, I’ll have a boat manned. Hold on. I am Link, the captain.
This is the _Retriever_ from London.”
“What! my dear old friend Link, by all that’s wonderful. I’m Harry
Goodall. Well, this is a bit of luck and no mistake.”
The situation now became still more exciting, for Croft, who heard
what had been said, rushed out of ambush, bag in hand, and looked as
if he were either going to jump overboard or throw his bag into the
sea. Hereupon, Harry Goodall immediately levelled his air-gun and sent
a pellet through Croft’s left arm, which was extended with a swinging
motion, causing him at once to drop the bag. Then Goodall made a dash
for the deck of the lugger by slipping down a rope, he scarcely knew
how, being followed by Warner, while Trigger compensated for their
loss of weight by discharging gas very freely. The detective at once
confronted Croft, produced his warrant and slipped on the handcuffs,
while Goodall held a revolver menacingly; as he did so, Captain Link
and his crew, who had steamed up nearer to them, witnessed this
proceeding, and a ringing cheer was given when Harry Goodall held up
for their inspection the black bag which held the stolen cash, the
deeds and other securities.
The _Retriever’s_ life-boat had by this time brought Captain Link
alongside the lugger, and he quickly sprang on deck. The meeting there
was naturally one of great cordiality.
During their hasty consultation, the balloon had risen clear of all
surrounding obstacles to the full length of the grapnel rope, and was
swaying over towards the steamer’s stern. But the crew gradually hauled
in the rope, in accordance with Trigger’s instructions, while he opened
the top valve.
“So I have just arrived in time to give you a lift into Cherbourg, my
dear Goodall,” said Link, “but we must take this fellow Croft on board
at once. Here, Warner, you had better take off these handcuffs; the
fellow’s arms seem injured, though not fractured, I think. He can’t
escape, you know. How about this other man?” added Captain Link, who
did not like the look of the Anarchist, and thought that as he had
been warmly peppered in the legs and back by Trigger’s dust shot, he
might be left behind.
“He stay wid me,” cried the skipper. “You no punish him more.”
“I have a second warrant,” said Warner, who now had Croft in the boat.
“Oui, oui,” said the skipper, “but not for my contreeman.”
“I only wish I could meet with Croft’s master; I’ve a word or two to
say to him,” said the detective.
“Eh, vat you mean--Croft’s master? Is it Maester Fallcone you mean?”
asked the skipper.
“You shut up, skipper,” cried Croft, with a murderous expression of
face. “You have too long a tongue.”
“Hadn’t the skipper better come along with us on board the _Retriever_
and explain matters?” said Captain Link.
“Yes, I go vit you,” observed the skipper. “I no fear dat fellow,”
pointing to Croft, already in the boat, “nor his grand maitre.”
“Well, come and talk things over,” said Harry Goodall. “But how about
this Anarchist? Are you hurt, my man?”
“Sacré! Mort au bourgeoisie!” was his sole reply.
“He no run avay; pere-haps I vant him soon,” said the skipper. “He is a
good sailor, but a fool to do vit dy-nam-mite and bomb-shell.”
“I may have to run you into Cherbourg,” said Captain Link. “We must
talk it over on board.”
“See you here, monsieur capitaine,” replied the skipper, as Croft was
put below hatches on board the _Retriever_, “you vant to meet the
little man’s maister, don’t you? Den de first ting is to let me and the
luggare go.”
“I don’t quite see that,” said Harry Goodall.
“Come on board, skipper, and have a glass of Burgundy,” urged Captain
Link, diplomatically.
“Oh, certamong monsieur capitaine, aprèz vous. I vant to go avay in
my luggare, and you vant, I tink, Maître Fallcone to com to you; vary
vell. Vat is so, is it not?”
Warner, who had locked up his prisoner safely, then joined the party
in the cabin, where the skipper was gesticulating over his wine and
slapping his forehead, as if he had conceived a bright idea.
Warner’s quick brain at once realised the situation, and, taking up a
slate and pencil near him, he wrote down these words, handing them to
Mr Goodall and the captain,--
“Cut short the palaver by making him a liberal offer in cash.”
Captain Link, however, did not wholly approve of this short off-hand
way of proceeding, and said to the Frenchman,--
“If we take you into Cherbourg, skipper, we could--”
But Goodall cut in with,--
“We could there come to terms about arranging an interview with Mr
Falcon, but, since time is pressing, can’t you see your way clear to
agree at once, skipper, to accept one hundred pounds--ten on account
to-day--in consideration of fulfilling our wishes?”
“Oui, oui; I do dat dis moment for I know where Fallcone is located,
and can do--vat you call it?”
“Lead him,” suggested Goodall.
“Ah, grand, monsieur. Lead him or pilot him to exchange complements wid
you--say if you tink it vel--about tree mile from Cherbourg Harbour.”
“In your lugger, skipper?”
“No, no, in quite annudder sheep.”
“That will do capitally, skipper,” said Captain Link, “but you must let
us know the day and the hour as near as possible.”
“I do all dat, nevare fear. I vire you or write by poste. Au revoir,”
said the Frenchman, as he pocketed the ten pounds.
“Your name, I think, skipper, is Captain Ami?”
“Oui; Poste Restant, Dieppe.”
“All right,” said Harry Goodall. “Well, remember the ninety pounds
shall be forthcoming on your carrying out our bargain.”
“Vill dis veek suit you?”
“Certainly; the sooner the better. You had better address to Captain
Link, the _Retriever_, Cherbourg Harbour. Adieu!”