Touched by the live wire of human sympathy, Camp Spurling came wide
awake in an instant. Out there, four miles to the south, men were
perhaps battling for their lives. Jim issued his orders like bullets.
"Come on, boys! We'll take the _Barracouta_. Fetch a five-gallon can of
gas from the fish-house, Perce! Budge and Throppy, launch that dory!"
Dashing into the cabin, he quickly reappeared.
"Thought I'd better get one of those first-aid packets! Somebody may be
burnt bad. Now, fellows! Lively!"
The dory was barely afloat when Percy came staggering down the beach
with the heavy can. Spurling swung it aboard, and all but Filippo jumped
in.
"Start your fire again!" shouted back Jim to the Italian. "Make some
coffee! And be sure to have plenty of hot water! We may need it."
Soon the sloop was under way and heading out of the cove.
"Lucky you thought of that fresh can of gas, Jim," said Budge. "The
tank's pretty near empty. We'd have been in a nice fix if the engine had
stopped about a mile south of the island."
"Take the tiller, Perce!" ordered Spurling.
Vaulting up out of the standing-room, he grasped the port shroud and
fastened his eyes on the fiercely blazing vessel. The flames had run up
her masts and rigging, and she stood out a lurid silhouette against the
black horizon. It was evident that she was doomed.
"She's gone!" was Jim's comment as he dropped back into the
standing-room. "Hope her crew got off all right. There isn't much we can
do to help; but at any rate we ought to go out and tow in her boats."
"What is she? Fisherman?" asked Throppy.
"Most likely! And not a very big one. Shouldn't wonder if she'd had a
gas explosion in her cabin; I've heard of a good many such cases. Hope
nobody's been burnt bad!"
There were a few minutes of silence as they gazed on the spectacle of
destruction. The _Barracouta_, driven to her utmost, steadily lessened
the distance. Brighter and larger grew the fire; every detail on the
fated craft stood sharply out against the pitchy background.
"Here come two boats!" exclaimed Lane.
Sure enough, they were clearly visible, more than two miles off, rising
and falling on the swell, their oars flashing in the light from the
conflagration. The crew had abandoned the hopeless fight and were saving
themselves.
"Keep her straight for 'em, Perce!" directed Jim.
Whittington obeyed. Soon the _Barracouta_ was within hailing distance of
the dories. In the now diminishing light from the distant fire the boys
could see that both were crowded with dark figures.
"Must be at least twenty-five aboard the two," commented Stevens.
"Yes," returned Spurling. "These fishermen carry big crews. Ahoy there!
What's the name of your vessel?"
"The _Clementine Briggs_, of Gloucester," replied a man in the bow of
the foremost dory. "Running in to Boothbay from Cashe's with a load of
herring. The gas exploded and set her on fire. We tried to put it out,
but it was no use. Just got clear with our lives and what we stood in."
"Anybody hurt?"
"Couple of men got their faces burnt, but not very bad. Lucky it was no
worse. But the old schooner's gone. Pretty tough on Captain Sykes, here,
for he owned most of her and didn't have much insurance. Fisherman's
luck!"
"Want a tow in to the island?"
"Sure!"
"Well, toss us your painter, and tell the other boat to make fast to
your stern."
In a very short time the _Barracouta_ was headed back for Tarpaulin,
with the two heavily loaded dories trailing behind her. Delayed by her
tow, she moved considerably slower than when coming out. A strange
silence hung over the two dories. For fishermen, their crews were
unusually quiet, sobered, evidently, by the catastrophe that had
overtaken their schooner.
"Wouldn't those men who were burnt like to come aboard the sloop?"
inquired Spurling. "Perhaps I can give 'em first aid."
"No," returned the spokesman. "One of 'em's Captain Sykes, here in this
dory with the handkerchief over his face. He isn't suffering much, but
his cheeks got scorched, so I'm talking for him. The other man is in the
next boat. The only thing for 'em to do is to grin and bear it; but just
now they're not grinning much, 'specially the captain."
Silence again. The sullen, red blaze on the distant vessel was dying
down against the horizon. The flames had stripped her to a skeleton. Her
hempen running rigging had been consumed; sails, gaffs, and booms lay
smoldering on her decks; above the hull only her masts and bowsprit were
outlined in fire against the blackness behind.
Lacking anything better to do, Jim began counting the men in the dories.
He made thirteen in each. Most of them sat like graven images, neither
speaking nor stirring. They had not even turned their heads to look at
the perishing schooner. He could not understand such indifference to the
fate of the craft that had been their home.
Sprowl's Cove was right ahead. Filippo opened the cabin door and stood
framed within it, the light behind him casting a cheery glow down the
beach. Louder and louder the bank behind the lagoon flung back the
staccato of the exhaust. Presently the sloop nosed into the haven, the
engine stopped, and Throppy went forward to gaff the mooring.
The dories were cast off and rowed to the beach. By the time the boys
got ashore all the men had landed. Jim, who had been watching them
quietly, noted that most of them disembarked clumsily, more like
landlubbers than sailors. They separated into two groups of very unequal
size. One, numbering six, including the men with handkerchiefs over
their burnt faces, withdrew from the others and began to talk in low
tones, with earnest, excited gestures. The remaining twenty clotted
loosely together, awkward and ill at ease, still preserving their
mysterious silence.
Before Jim had time to offer his unexpected guests anything to eat or
drink, Filippo bustled hospitably down the beach to the larger group.
"Will you have _caffe_? It is hot and _eccellente_."
They stared at him without replying. By the light from the open door Jim
could see that they were dressed like landsmen and that their clothes
did not fit well. Their faces were darkish, they had flat noses, and
their close-cropped hair was straight and black.
Before Filippo could repeat his question a man from the smaller group
hurried up and pushed himself abruptly between the silent score and
their questioner.
"No!" said he, brusquely. "We don't want anything. We had supper just
before the fire."
His tone and attitude forbade further questioning. Filippo, abashed by
the rebuff, returned rather shamefacedly to the cabin. The speaker
remained with the group, as if to protect them from further approaches.
To Jim his attitude seemed to be almost that of a guard. It deepened the
mystery that already hung about the party.
It was now past eight o'clock, and naturally some provision would soon
have to be made for passing the night. Jim pondered. Twenty-six guests
would prove a severe tax on their already cramped accommodations.
Still, the thing could be arranged; it must be. The smaller group of six
could be taken into the camp. Six of the silent twenty could be stowed
away aboard the sloop; while the remaining fourteen must make what shift
they could in the fish-house. Jim proposed this plan to the sentinel.
The man disapproved flatly.
"No!" was his decided reply. "We've got to get away to-night."
"To-night?" echoed Jim in amazement. "Why, man alive, you can't do that!
It's fifteen miles to Matinicus, and you're loaded so deep it'd take you
almost until morning to row there. And even if you made it all right,
you wouldn't gain anything, for the boat for Rockland doesn't leave
until the first of the afternoon. Besides, this wind's liable to blow up
a storm. Of course you could row ten miles north to Head Harbor on Isle
au Haut, walk up the island, and catch the morning boat for Stonington;
but you'd have to pull most of the way against the ebb, and when this
wind gets a little stronger it's going to be pretty choppy. _I_ wouldn't
want to risk it. Better stop with us to-night and let us make you as
comfortable as we can; and to-morrow you can start for any place you
please."
The man shook his head stubbornly.
"How far is it to the mainland?" he asked.
Jim could hardly believe his ears.
"The mainland!" he exclaimed. "A good twenty-five miles."
"Well, we've got to be there before morning."
"You're crazy, man! Twenty-five miles across these waters in the night,
with thirteen men in each dory! You'd never make it in the world. You
can't do it."
"Well, maybe we can't," retorted the other, impatiently, "but we're
going to. There's more ways to kill a cat than by choking her to death
with cream."
He walked back to the smaller group, and soon they were in heated, but
indistinct, argument. Jim noted that the men with handkerchiefs over
their faces seemed now to have no difficulty in bearing their share of
the conversation. Captain Sykes, in especial, was almost violent in his
gestures.
Presently they seemed to have reached an agreement. The spokesman walked
back to Jim and came directly to the point.
"What'll you take to set the crowd of us over on the mainland near Owl's
Head before daylight?"
Jim was equally direct.
"No number of dollars you can name. I don't care to risk my boat and
twenty-five or thirty lives knocking round the Penobscot Bay ledges on a
night like this. But I'll be glad to take you all over to Matinicus
to-morrow for nothing."
"That won't do. We've got to reach the mainland to-night. I'll give you
fifty dollars. Come, now!"
Jim shook his head.
"Seventy-five! No? A hundred, then! What d'you say?"
"No use!" replied Jim. "I told you so at first."
The stranger eyed him a moment, then stepped aside to parley again with
the others. The colloquy was even more spirited than before. Captain
Sykes swung his arms like a crazy man. He pointed to the sky, then to
the sea, then to the voiceless score, huddled together, sheep-like, on
the beach. Back came the speaker again, a nervous decision in his
manner.
"If you won't set us over yourself, what'll you sell that sloop for?
Give you two hundred dollars!"
Reading refusal in the lad's face, he raised the bid before Jim had time
to open his lips.
"Three hundred! We've some passengers who must get to a certain place at
a particular time, and they can't do it unless we can land 'em before
daylight to-morrow. Say four hundred!"
"That sloop isn't for sale."
"Wouldn't you take five hundred for her?"
"No; nor a thousand!"
Jim's jaws came together. Back in his brain was forming a suspicion of
these fishermen who raised their bid so glibly. Why were they so eager
to reach the mainland that night, and why did the twenty have no voice
in the discussion? He scrutinized them searchingly.
"What are you staring at?" demanded the man, angrily.
Jim did not reply. Percy passed by on his way to the cabin. He had been
using his eyes to good advantage. He nudged Jim.
"Those fellows are Chinamen," he whispered. "I've seen too many of 'em
to be mistaken."
His words crystallized Jim's suspicions into certainty. The whole thing
was plain now. The crew of the _Clementine Briggs_ (if, indeed, that was
her name) were no fishermen, but smugglers of Chinese!
He remembered a recent magazine article on the breaking of the
immigration laws. Chinamen would cross the Pacific to Vancouver, paying
the Dominion head-tax, and thus gaining admission into Canada. A
society, organized for the purpose, would take them in charge, teach
them a few ordinary English phrases, transport them to New Brunswick,
and slip them aboard some fast schooner. The captain of this vessel
would receive three hundred dollars a head for landing his passengers
safely here and there at lonely points on the New England coast, whence
they could make their way undetected to their friends in the large
cities. Thus were the exclusion laws of the United States set at naught.
The destruction of the schooner had made it necessary for her passengers
to be landed somewhere as secretly and as quickly as possible. Twenty
men at three hundred dollars a head meant six thousand dollars. That
explained the anxiety of the six white men to reach the mainland that
night. They were criminals, breaking their country's laws for money.
Jim decided that they should never make use of the _Barracouta_.
The spokesman dropped his conciliatory mask and turned away defiantly.
"All right, young fellow! You've had your say; now we'll have ours."
"Throppy," said Jim in a low tone to Stevens, who was standing with Lane
beside him, "these men are smugglers. Call the cutter!"
He had time for nothing more. As Stevens slipped quietly back into the
cabin there was an angry outburst among the group on the beach.
"I've done my best, Cap," protested a voice. "He won't listen to reason.
Now take that rag off your face and handle this thing yourself. It's up
to you."
There was a sudden rush of enraged men toward Lane and Spurling. As they
came, two wrenched the handkerchiefs from their faces, revealing to the
astounded boys the features of the would-be sheep-thieves of the first
of the summer, Dolph and Captain Bart Brittler!
The latter was white with rage. His voice rose almost to a screech.
"No more fooling! We need that sloop and we're going to have her! Will
you sell her?"
"No."
"Then we'll take her!"
Brittler's hand shot into his pocket as if for a revolver.
"Stop there, Cap!" warned Dolph's voice. "No gun-play! 'Tisn't
necessary. We can handle 'em."
He flung himself suddenly on Spurling; another man leaped upon Lane.
Though taken completely by surprise and almost hurled backward, Jim
quickly recovered his balance. A sledge-hammer blow from Dolph's fist
grazed his jaw as he sprang aside. He returned it with interest, his
right going true to its mark; down went Dolph, as if hit by a
pile-driver. He lay for a moment, stunned.
Strong and active though Jim was, he could not bear the brunt of the
entire battle. Lane's assailant had proved too much for him; they were
struggling together on the gravel, the older man on top. Percy and
Filippo came running; but their aid counted for little. A stocky
smuggler turned toward them. A single blow from his fist sent the
Italian reeling. Percy lasted longer; but his skill was no match for the
brute strength of his foe. His lighter blows only stung his
antagonist to fiercer efforts. Little by little the boy's strength
failed and his breath came harder. He slipped on a smooth stone; with a
sudden rush his foe pinioned his arms and held him struggling.
[Illustration: "WE NEED THAT SLOOP AND WE'RE GOING TO HAVE HER!"]
Dolph recovered, staggered to his feet, and entered the fray again. It
was four to one against Jim; he fought manfully, but it was no use.
Presently he lay flat on his back on the gravel, bruised and panting,
one man kneeling on each arm, and a third on his chest.
"Take him up to the camp, boys!" puffed Brittler.
The doughty captain had not escaped unscathed. A swollen black eye and a
bleeding nose bore eloquent testimony to the force and accuracy of Jim's
blows. A guard on each side and another behind were soon propelling
Spurling toward the open door. From within came the ceaseless click of a
telegraph instrument. Throppy was still calling the cutter. Jim heard
the quick patter of the continental code; Brittler heard it, too, and
understood. He sprang forward with a shout of alarm.
"They've got a wireless! Smash it!"
A buffet on the side of the head knocked Stevens off his soap-box and
sent him rolling on the floor. Five seconds later a crashing blow from a
stick of firewood put the instrument out of commission. Brittler poised
his club threateningly over the prostrate Stevens.
"Wish I knew if you've been able to get a message through to anybody! If
I thought you had--"
He did not finish, but half-raised the stick, then dropped it again and
turned away. One by one the remaining members of Spurling & Company
were bundled unceremoniously into the cabin. Then the door was slammed
shut and two men with automatics were stationed on guard outside.
"Don't shoot unless you have to," instructed Brittler's voice, purposely
raised. "And remember a bullet in the leg'll stop a man just as quick as
one through the body."
And then in a tone lower, but perfectly audible to those inside:
"But don't stand any fooling! Stop 'em anyway! You know as well as I do
how much we've got at stake."