THE FLYING FISH PLAYS ITS PART
Hans led them up through the galleys and pantries into the First Class
Dining Saloon without encountering a single soul. They went boldly up
the main staircase to the promenade deck, which seemed deserted. A small
figure hiding in the shadows ran up to them, and Charlie gripped his
friends’ hands.
“Never mind the thanks,” he whispered. “We’ve got to work fast. There’s
an armed seaman at the gangway head. We must quiet him first. Then we’ll
take the ship’s boat that’s moored below.”
“Okay, boy.”
Without another word, Bill walked up to the gangway sentry, who
immediately brought his rifle to the present.
“There’s rust on that barrel,” growled Bill and held out his hand. “I
can see it even in this light.”
“But—but I think,” stammered the sentry, “that my officer is mistaken!”
He passed over the gun without suspicion.
Immediately afterward, he found himself in the same dilemma Otto had
encountered ten minutes earlier. Tied up and gagged with a handkerchief,
he was deposited behind a pile of deck chairs.
His captors wasted no further time. They ran down the gangway and piled
aboard the skiff moored to the grating. Hans got out the single pair of
oars, Osceola unloosed the painter, and Bill, who seated himself beside
Charlie in the stern, steered their small craft away from the ship.
There were men on the _Amtonia’s_ bridge but they received no hail to
return.
Bill looked about. Although there was no moon, the brilliant starlight
gave ample light for him to size up his surroundings. He found that they
were floating in a large cove or harbor almost landlocked. The body of
water was eggshaped; perhaps a mile long by half that distance in width.
The shores were rocky, with black patches of sandy beach. Beyond grew a
dense forest, except at one end of the bay, where twinkling lights
marked a small settlement. The outlet to the ocean was narrow, and
guarded by high cliffs. It was a perfect retreat for the Baron and his
pirates.
Charlie piped up in his boyish treble. “The _Amtonia’s_ absolutely
hidden by those heads from any ship passing up or down the coast. The
harbor entrance makes a right-angled turn half way to the sea. I heard
Lieutenant Brinkerhoff say that a warship passed the mouth, going west,
about eleven-thirty. The lookout on the head signalled in. Brinkerhoff
was laughing about it, I guess it made him feel good.”
“Well, his break is ours now,” declared Bill. “And there’s another one
for us!”
He pointed to where the _Flying Fish_ lay moored, with her wings spread,
a few hundred yards away.
“It’ll be hot as Tophet in her hull tonight! Row on, Hans. We’re going
over there to pay a visit. By the way, does anyone know exactly where we
are?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the man, “this harbor is on the coast of Maine.
Washington County, I think, sir—not very far from Englishman’s Bay.”
“Good enough! What are those lights yonder?”
“You might call that our private Navy Yard, sir. It’s the Baron’s shore
base. He keeps a crew on duty there, while the ships are at sea. There
are storehouses, a machine shop, the men’s quarters and a store. It’s
ten miles back to the railroad. He owns all the shore acreage
hereabouts. A high wire fence shuts in the property from all outsiders.
There are one or two big estates up and down the coast, but the nearest
house is a good three miles away.”
“How are the roads?”
“There’s no road along the coast, sir. The one from the base runs back
to the little town on the railroad. It’s in very bad condition, sir.
There is no other way out.”
“Thank you, Hans. You’re a treasure-house of local knowledge.”
“Thank _you_, sir. May I make a suggestion?”
“Fire away.”
“My brother, August, is deck watch aboard the _Flying Fish_, sir.
Usually, in port, only one man is kept aboard her. August does not like
this life. Like me, he was shanghaied into it. Once with this outfit,
there is no getting away, unless by a miracle, like tonight, sir. August
speaks no English. May I ask him to join us?”
“By all means, Hans. It will save a lot of trouble. Offer him what Mrs.
Evans said she would give you. I will see that it is paid.”
“Very good, sir. Thank you, sir.”
They were close to the converted submarine now. On the narrow deck,
abaft the motors a man was seated on a camp chair, smoking. He stood up
as the boat approached.
Hans hailed him and for several minutes the two brothers hurled harsh
gutturals at each other. Bill guessed them to be speaking a low Bavarian
dialect of German. He failed to understand a single word of what they
said.
“He wants me to thank you—he will come,” Hans asserted presently.
“What a polite family you are—” chuckled Bill. “Let’s get aboard.”
Fifteen minutes later those officers and men who had remained on deck
aboard the anchored pirate ship were astonished to see the _Flying Fish_
taxi down the harbor and take the air. A few seconds later her tail
lights disappeared into the dark beyond the headlands. Aboard the
_Amtonia_ orders were shouted, bells clanged, and presently the whining
howl of her siren awoke the echoes of the night.
Half an hour passed. Bill, at the wheel of the _Flying Fish_, leaned
forward, his eyes focussed on a pinpoint of light far below and about
ten miles ahead of the speeding airplane.
“There she is on a bet,” he said to Osceola, who was in the other
pilot’s seat.
“You mean the warship Charlie told us about? What makes you so sure?”
“I’ve got a hunch, that’s all. Anyway, nothing but a fishing boat or one
of the little steamers that put in at the small seaports along this part
of the coast would be so close to shore. That’s a big ship out there. I
think I’m right about her.”
Bill’s hunch was correct, as the two in the cockpit presently saw.
“It’s the _Stamford_, or her twin!” he declared. “Uncle Sam sure is on
the job!”
Catching up with the cruiser, he circled her three times. Then the
_Flying Fish_ darted ahead, landed and came to rest half a mile beyond.
By the time the warship hove to beside them, Bill had a sea anchor out
and was waiting on the heaving deck. He held a megaphone in his hand.
Beside him, staring at the big cruiser, stood Osceola, Charlie, Hans and
August.
“What craft is that?” came a hail from the warship’s bridge.
“The convertible submarine-seaplane, _Flying Fish_, Midshipman William
Bolton in command,” Bill yelled back. “She was part of von Hiemskirk’s
pirate outfit. She belongs to Uncle Sam now. We captured her less than
an hour ago. Are you the _Stamford_?”
“You’ve guessed it!” spoke a jubilant voice. “Commander Brown speaking,”
it went on, “are you the chaps who sent out that wireless?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Congratulations, Mr. Bolton. Where is the _Amtonia_?”
“At anchor in a small harbor a few miles up the coast, sir. One of her
propellers was shot off in the scrap the other day. She hasn’t got steam
up, or didn’t have, when we left—so I guess she’s still there.”
“Good! Take off at once and lead us to her.”
“Aye, aye, sir. There’s plenty of water but the channel to the harbor is
a narrow one between twin heads. You’ll have to be careful.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bolton. Any other suggestions?”
“Yes, sir. Please wireless to the state constabulary to guard the road
from Twin Head Harbor to Clayton. That’s the only way von Hiemskirk and
his crew can escape by land.”
“We’ll attend to it at once,” said the Commander. “Cut along now. We’ll
follow you, so don’t get too far ahead.”
“Aye, sir,” said Bill, and sent Hans forward to haul in the sea anchor.
The first pale rays of summer dawn were brightening sea and land when
the _Stamford_ navigated the entrance between Twin Heads and pushed her
wicked snout into the harbor. At the same instant, Bill landed the
_Flying Fish_ on the calm water.
Through the cockpit windows Bill saw that the _Amtonia_ was raising her
anchors.
“Von Hiemskirk was all set to run for it,” he said to the chief.
“But he wasn’t quite quick enough,” grinned Osceola. “Next stop,
Atlanta, for that bunch. There’s mighty little pirating to be done in a
federal prison!”
“They’re hauling down the Jolly Roger!” cried Bill. “Well, that cuts it.
Somebody will be sending a boat over here after awhile. Let’s see if we
can rustle some chow in the meantime. I’m starved!”
The boat came alongside shortly after the five aboard the _Flying Fish_
had finished doing justice to a very substantial breakfast. And all five
were on deck when the ensign in charge came over the side.
“Mr. Bolton?” inquired the young officer, as Bill stepped forward.
“Himself,” smiled Bill.
“I’m Pierce, of the _Stamford_.” The two shook hands.
“Commander Brown’s compliments,” he continued after Bill had introduced
the quartet, “he wishes you to come aboard the _Amtonia_. We wirelessed
the news, of course, and have just received a message of thanks
addressed to you, signed by the President. You are to go to Washington,
just as soon as this business here is cleaned up. In fact, the President
wants to meet the five of you.”
“I bet Bill will get the Congressional Medal!” shrilled Charlie.
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” smiled Pierce. “Gosh!” he exploded, “this is
a big thing you fellows have put over!”
“But Bill was the brains of it,” said Osceola.
“Without everybody’s help,” said Bill, “we never should have pulled it
off.”
“Cut the argument,” laughed Ensign Pierce. “The skipper is waiting, and
so are several hundred delighted passengers.”
“That’s just it,” protested Bill, “I’d rather be shot than face that
mob!”
“_Not me!_” said Charlie. “Gee, it’ll be swell! Because I was the
youngest on board, everybody took pleasure in jumping on me. Now I can
tell them all where to shove off! Let’s go!”
THE END
Those who read and enjoyed this book and the one preceding it, (_Bill
Bolton—Flying Midshipman_) will want to read the next of this series,
_Bill Bolton and The Hidden Danger_.
Transcriber’s Notes
--Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public
domain in the country of publication.
--Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard (or amusing)
spellings and dialect unchanged.
--In the text versions, delimited italics text in _underscores_ (the
HTML version reproduces the font form of the printed book.)