Through the night, full speed, with all lights extinguished, ran the
Watson, her only guide the information contained in Rutile’s brief
and indefinite message over the wireless. If this were correct--if
the yacht had indeed run due east for half an hour and if she should
continue in the same direction and at the same speed, and if her speed
were about 18 knots an hour (as it probably was), it was a mere matter
of calculation to determine where and when the Watson would overtake
her.
But there were many “ifs” in these premises. The night was dark; the
moon had set hours before, and the stars were invisible behind a
light film of clouds. If the Windbird should run without lights, as
she certainly would if Ouro Preto should suspect pursuit (and as she
might in any case), she would be invisible even at close range, unless
betrayed by the glow from her funnels. To find her without further help
from Rutile would be like seeking a needle in the darkest sort of a
haystack. Even with Rutile’s aid, Topham felt that he had no right to
hope to find her while night lasted. He did hope, however, to hang so
closely on her heels that her smoke should be visible above the horizon
when morning dawned.
Swiftly the moments sped by, and steadily the destroyer ate up the
miles supposed to intervene between her and the yacht. No further
signals came, and Topham, not knowing what conditions might be on the
Windbird or who might read off any message that he might send flying
through the dark, forebore to call, despite Quentin’s advice to take
the chance.
He yielded only when the Watson had reached the spot where calculation
placed the Windbird.
“I guess you’d better call Rutile, Mr. Quentin,” he ordered. “We’ll be
passing the yacht the first thing we know.”
Quentin was about to give the order when the operator suddenly began to
write.
“Do you hear me?” he scribbled, as the words come through the night.
“Answer if you do.”
“I hear,” tapped the operator.
“Am using reduced power. Been ordered to call H. I. M. Kaiserland,
supposed to be somewhere near. Can see light from somebody’s funnels
and suspect it’s yours or hers. If it’s yours you’re due north of us,
mighty near.”
Topham leaped for the companionway. “South by east, Mr. Quentin,” he
ordered. “Half speed. Keep sharp lookout! We’re close on her.”
“Tell him that,” he ordered, turning back to the operator.
“Good!” Came the answer. “You don’t want the Kaiserland to beat you to
it. She’s an armored cruiser.”
Quentin bent over the cabin skylight. “Saw her funnels flash just now,”
he cried, excitedly. “How about the searchlight?”
“Turn it on.”
Topham leaped on deck. As he did so the broad white sword of the
searchlight flashed through the darkness, lighting up the rolling water
and picking out the Windbird black against the night, scarce a cable
length away. The blinding light showed her every detail--showed her
masts and funnels and the white tracery of her rigging, silvered the
edges of the black smoke that trailed away behind her, and showed, too,
her half dozen rapid fire guns, with their crews manned and ready.
“Hail them. Say you’ll send a boat,” ordered Topham.
Quentin flung up his megaphone. “Windbird ahoy,” he bellowed. “Heave
to. I’ll send a boat aboard you.”
As the words left his lips the Windbird’s searchlight flashed out
and lighted up the bulk of the torpedo boat, long and low, far less
formidable to all appearances than the yacht.
A man on the yacht’s bridge raised a megaphone. “Who are you?” he
demanded.
“That’s Ouro Preto talking,” commented Topham, staring through his
glasses.
“The United States Destroyer Watson. Heave to!” ordered Quentin.
“Go to hell!”
Topham’s face flushed. You cannot tell an officer of the United States
Navy to go to hell without consequences. Fortunately the young fellow
was not impulsive. “Easy, Mr. Quentin,” he cautioned. “Warn him once
more.”
“For the last time, heave to, you damned pirate,” shouted Quentin.
“Heave to! or I’ll fire into you.”
Back came the answer. “Fire if you dare!”
Quentin lowered the megaphone. His eyes glittered and his breast
swelled with unholy joy. “It’s up to us,” he suggested.
“Send a shot between his masts,” ordered Topham. “It may bring him to
his senses.”
“Crack.” The spiteful snap of the aft six-pounder thrilled through
the night, and Topham saw the men on the yacht duck as the projectile
whistled about their heads.
The next instant Ouro Preto’s voice, crazy with rage rose. “Fire!
Fire!” he yelled.
But the yachtsmen did not fire. Ready as most of them were to take the
risks of battle with the Brazilian government, they were not ready to
fire upon a United States ship. Small though it might be, it carried
the power and dignity of the nation.
They did not fire, but still the yacht swept on. “I’ll put the next
shot through your pilot house,” megaphoned Quentin. “Be warned!” “Train
on the pilot house,” he ordered, in tones loud enough to reach the
yacht.
“Ay! Ay! Sir!” The gunners bent to their piece, but before they could
fire the door of the pilot house of the Seabird flew open and a man,
ducking low, ran out. Instantly the yacht, uncontrolled, swung off into
the trough of the waves.
“You damned cowards!” Ouro Preto’s voice was unintelligible with rage.
He snatched up a rifle and flung it to his shoulder, but some one
knocked up his arm and the bullet whistled harmlessly over Topham’s
head.
As the sound lost itself in the immensity of the ocean, Quentin’s voice
sounded. “Heave to!” he ordered, calmly.
The clang of the engine bells answered and the yacht lost way.
Instantly the Watson followed suit, sheering inward as she did so.
Closer they came and closer until the Watson poked her sharp nose under
the yacht’s overhanging counter, and Topham caught the trailing Jacob
ladder and swarmed over the rail and dropped upon her deck.
Ouro Preto faced him. “What does this--this piracy mean?” he demanded.
Topham took no notice of the words. He could afford to ignore them.
Besides Ouro Preto was “her” brother. Politely he saluted.
“I am instructed by the President of the United States to bring him the
young lady whom you kidnapped tonight. Kindly produce her!”
“I won’t do it.”
Topham shrugged his shoulders. “Then I shall be compelled to take you
into port as a pirate,” he said, distinctly.
Ouro Preto shook with the fury that possessed him. The hopes of years
were crumbling before his eyes.
“You have no right,” he clamored. “No right. This is a German vessel--”
“Your pardon. She was once a Brazilian ship, but she has forfeited her
rights by engaging in rebellion against Brazil. She is now an outlaw if
not a pirate. Give up the girl and do not force me to take the vessel
of a former friend into port as a prize.”
Ouro Preto glared for a moment. But before he could utter the defiance
that was on the end of his tongue, a feminine voice broke in.
“Good-evening, Mr. Topham!” it said, sweetly. “You’ve come in good
time.” Lillian Byrd stood smilingly by, with Rutile beside her. As all
eyes were turned on her. She went on. “Mr. Rutile let me out of the
stateroom where the count had locked me. You didn’t know Mr. Rutile was
on board, did you, Count?”
Helplessly Ouro Preto stared from one to the other. “Rutile!” he
gasped. “You here?”
Rutile nodded. “Sure thing,” he remarked, genially. “Been on board for
three weeks. Wireless operator, you know. Sorry, but the game’s up, old
man. It is, really!”
“One moment!” A man whom no one had seen before stepped quickly into
the middle of the group. Behind him stood half a dozen sailors.
Gravely he saluted. “Whom have I the honor of addressing?” he demanded,
looking at Topham.
Topham returned the salute. “I am Commander Topham, of the United
States Navy,” he answered, taking in the newcomer’s uniform as he did
so. “And you, mein Herr.”
“I am Commander Metternich, of His Imperial Majesty’s ship Kaiserland.
Captain Vreeland of the Kaiserland learned, through intercepted
wireless messages, that the operator on this ship is a traitor. He
therefore hastened here and sent me on board to demand his surrender.
No one seemed to observe my arrival and I took the liberty of listening
for a moment. What I have heard convinces me that the case is not
so simple as I thought. I therefore take possession of this ship as
a prize of His Imperial Majesty. The Kaiserland will escort her to
Hamburg. If you so desire, sir, you may accompany her.”
Before the last word had fallen from the German’s lips, Topham stepped
between him and Rutile. “Look sharp,” he hissed to the American. Then,
facing the German, he flung out his hand. “I’m delighted to hear you,
commander,” he declared! “Frankly, I didn’t know what to do with the
yacht, which is clearly little better than a pirate, but your action
solves everything. I can’t tell you how much I thank you.”
As he spoke, Topham pressed forward, crowding Metternich backward,
apparently merely by excess enthusiasm. The latter gave way for a
moment, though clearly bewildered by the American’s sudden excess of
friendliness.
Suddenly a warning cry rang out. “Stop them! Quick!” yelled Ouro Preto.
“He’s fooling you. He’s fooling you!”
The Brazilian was right. As Topham grasped the officer’s hand Rutile
caught Lillian by the arm and darted with her toward the rail, only
half a dozen feet away, beyond which lay the Watson. The German sailors
sprang to intercept them, but Rutile, leaving Lillian to scramble over
by herself, turned at bay and struck out savagely twice. Then, before
he could be grasped, he vaulted over the side of the deck of the Watson.
Metternich saw it all over Topham’s shoulder, and with a cry of rage,
he tried to jerk free from the American’s grasp. But Topham laughed and
chattered on for a moment longer. Then releasing the man he sprang back
to the rail.
The crew of the Watson, arms in hand, were swarming up the sides to his
rescue, but he waved them back. One of the German sailors was about to
spring down, and him Topham caught by the shoulders and flung aside.
Then he threw up his hand.
“Stop!” he thundered.
A pause followed, brief but sufficient. Topham did not let it slip.
“Call back your men, commander,” he ordered, sternly. “Are you mad?”
The German hesitated. Wild with rage as he was at the trick that had
been played upon him, he was not so frantic as not to realize the
consequences of forcibly boarding a warship of a friendly nation. To do
so would mean war; or if the Emperor did not want war, it would mean
disgrace for himself. He was only a subordinate, though an able one,
and he had no reason to suppose that Wilhelm did want war. Besides, his
force, though perhaps sufficient to prevent an escape was clearly not
enough for a recapture. Finally he sheathed the sword he had drawn.
“You will wait here till I consult Captain Vreeland,” he declared
positively.
But Topham only laughed. “Your pardon, Commander,” he said. “I have
been delayed too long already. Take your prize into port if you will. I
will content myself with taking the chief witness. Good-night.”
Courteously he lifted his cap; then, turning, he climbed slowly over
the side of the yacht down to the deck of the Watson.
As he went, Metternich caught up a megaphone and bellowed a torrent of
guttural German across the waters toward the Kaiserland. Topham did not
hear the answer that came back, for the moment he had touched the deck
of the Watson she glided away into the night.