THE MYSTERIOUS SHIP.
Discipline is brought to an excellent state of perfection on all
warships as a rule, and the practice cruiser was no exception.
Naval officers are trained to exercise instant discretion in time of
danger, and it is considered a sign of incompetency if one should lose
his wits under such circumstances.
Lieutenant Watson, the executive officer of the _Monongahela_, aroused
from a sound sleep by the indescribable pandemonium, lost no time in
heedless inquiries, but rushed on deck clad only in his nightclothes.
By the time he had cleared the companion ladder the officer of the
watch and the captain of the ship were thundering orders right and left.
Under their instructions the old _Monongahela_ was again before the
wind, and an immediate examination of damages being made.
But in the midst of it all, over on the port side of the main deck,
Trolley, excited and happy, was dancing about Clif, and shouting half
in Japanese and half in English:
“You right, you right! Hurray! Hiko boto, cli jara. You see ship after
all. Hurray! You bully boy. No sleep, but see ship all the time. You
are great peach. Hurray!”
“I knew he was right all the time,” exclaimed Toggles.
“So did I,” chimed in little Nanny.
“The first luff was evidently of a different opinion,” said Clif,
grimly. “But what can be the matter aboard that ship, and what is she?”
“There is something wrong on board,” spoke up Joy. “Those screams were
horrible. My blood is running cold. Yet--look! there she is again!”
He pointed excitedly to leeward, where, dimly visible through the
lightening mist, was the peculiar craft with which the _Monongahela_
had just been in collision.
She lurched and pitched and rolled with the wild irresponsible motion
of a vessel at the mercy of the waves. The dawn was not far enough
advanced to enable those on board the practice ship to distinguish more
than vague outlines.
Every glass on board was directed toward the strange craft as soon as
it was ascertained that little damage had been done the _Monongahela_
by the collision, but nothing indicating the presence of human beings
on board could be seen.
Clif and his friends were wild with curiosity, but not more so than
their shipmates. The peculiar experiences of the night, the sighting
and sudden disappearance of the stranger, the collision, and above all
those weird, half-human cries, had created intense interest.
The captain, Lieutenant Watson and other officers were gathered in the
gangway near where the carpenter and his assistants were making hasty
repairs.
The gale was giving promise of lessening. The wind had died down with
the coming of the sun, but the seas were still running high. Nothing
had been done to increase the spread of canvas, and the old frigate
lurched along at a reduced speed.
“I would give a great deal to learn what ship that is, and the meaning
of those horrible cries,” said Captain Brookes, gravely. “There’s some
mystery about it.”
“She looks like an old-time lightship,” spoke up the executive officer,
working his spyglass.
“Hardly of this century though,” remarked the surgeon, who was a
student of naval architecture from choice. “See! the mist is clearing
now. The sun is shining on her. By Jove, what a queer-looking craft she
is.”
“I’ve a notion,” began the captain, reflectively.
Standing at a respectful distance, but within earshot, were Clif and
his companions. They edged eagerly toward the group of officers,
and Faraday’s intelligent face lighted up with excitement and keen
anticipation.
“He’s going to send a boat,” he whispered to Trolley. “If he does I’ll
be one of the crew or break a leg.”
“Me, too,” chattered the Japanese youth. “I no miss that for----”
“I have a notion, gentlemen,” repeated the captain, “to send over there
and investigate.”
“It’s our duty, sir,” said Lieutenant Watson, emphatically. “If you say
the word, sir, I will take a boat now.”
“Any room for me?” asked the paymaster, earnestly.
“I can pull an oar, sir,” insinuated the marine officer.
“As navigator, I consider it my duty to make the visit,” spoke up a
tall, fine-looking lieutenant.
The captain laughed.
“If it wasn’t against the rules I’d go myself,” he said. “As it is, the
first deck officer shall make the trip. Mr. Jones,” turning to another
officer, “take the whaleboat and a good crew, and see what you find on
board that vessel. Better go armed. There’s no telling what you will
encounter. Make haste, and bring me a detailed report.”
The practice ship’s course was changed, and in less than an hour she
was hove to within a half-mile of the mysterious vessel.
The latter was in plain view now, and she presented a sight that
brought exclamations of wonder and amazement from the _Monongahela_’s
crew.
She was unlike anything in the shape of a vessel they had ever before
seen. She was high forward and aft, with a curious house-shaped
structure amidships. The masts were mere poles, guiltless of yards,
ropes or sails. There was no regular bowsprit forward, but in its place
was a queer, stumpy bow.
At the top of each mast were small, circular, wooden cages. The sides
of the hull seemed to be painted green at first, but the surgeon’s
sharp eyes soon ascertained that it was not paint, but a luxuriant
growth of marine grass.
The decks were littered with _débris_, and trailing over the stern was
apparently a mass of tangled ropes and sails.
This much was made out when the shrill notes of the boatswain’s whistle
calling away the whaleboat echoed through the practice ship. Clif was
disconsolate. His boat was the gig. He stood in the gangway watching
the work of lowering the narrow, double-ended craft, wishing with all
his heart and soul that he was one of the lucky crew.
Suddenly the coxswain poked his head above the hammock netting and
called out that he was a man short.
The lieutenant who had been selected to go, glanced about the deck
inquiringly. His eyes fell upon Clif, and that youth sprang forward,
hopped nimbly up the main shrouds, and was descending the boatfalls
before the officer could make up his mind to select him. A few moments
later the whaleboat was clear of the _Monongahela_, and being propelled
across the heaving sea by her sturdy crew.
Once, while the boat was swung around by a wave, Clif sighted the
strange ship. Something moving near the bow caught his eye, and he gave
a start and almost dropped his oar.
“Steady, there! What is the matter with you?” came sternly from the
lieutenant.
Clif said nothing, but his hands trembled as they clasped the oar
again. His brain was in a whirl. He longed to rub his eyes to see if he
was still awake, or if that which he had just seen or fancied he had
seen, was real or a phantom.
The cadet behind him said as he leaned forward:
“Did you sight anything? You look white and scared.”
Clif compressed his lips, and maintained an uncompromising silence.
He was not certain of his own senses, and he had no desire to expose
himself to ridicule.
The whaleboat swept on and finally gained a position on the lee side of
the tossing hulk. A weather-beaten rope dangling over the side promised
a means of ascending to the deck.
“Catch it, one of you,” shouted the officer. “Shin up the side and take
the painter.”
The position of the boat brought the rope within reach of Clif’s hands,
and he lost no time in obeying the order.
Fortunately the black tarry strands were strong enough to bear his
weight, and he was soon climbing agilely toward the high railing.
Slipping and sliding, up, up he went, the pressure of his feet
dislodging masses of the strange, slimy green marine vegetation
adhering to the storm-beaten planks.
Finally he grasped the rail and crawled over. Then, just as he
disappeared, those below heard a strangling, unearthly cry, followed by
the sounds of a desperate struggle.
Then came one shrill, agonizing appeal for help, and--silence!