pompous-looking old gentleman beside him.
"O Captain!" said the fat lady at my side, "you don't really think they
would blow up a ship?"
"I have no doubt they would if they could. But I am very sure they shall
never blow up mine."
"May I ask what precautions are taken against them?" asked an elderly
man at the end of the table.
"All goods sent aboard the ship are strictly examined," said Captain
Dowie.
"But suppose a man brought explosives aboard with him?" I suggested.
"They are too cowardly to risk their own lives in that way."
During this conversation Flannigan had not betrayed the slightest
interest in what was going on. He raised his head now and looked at the
Captain.
"Don't you think you are rather underrating them?" he said. "Every
secret society has produced desperate men--why shouldn't the Fenians
have them too? Many men think it a privilege to die in the service of a
cause which seems right in their eyes, though others may think it
wrong."
"Indiscriminate murder cannot be fight in anybody's eyes," said the
little clergyman.
"The bombardment of Paris was nothing else," said Flannigan; "yet the
whole civilised world agreed to look on with folded arms, and change the
ugly word 'murder' into the more euphonious one of 'war.' It seemed
right enough to German eyes; why shouldn't dynamite seem so to the
Fenian?"
"At any rate their empty vapourings have led to nothing as yet," said
the Captain.
"Excuse me," returned Flannigan, "but is there not some room for doubt
yet as to the fate of the _Dotterel_? I have met men in America who
asserted from their own personal knowledge that there was a coal torpedo
aboard that vessel."
"Then they lied," said the Captain. "It was proved conclusively at the
court-martial to have arisen from an explosion of coal-gas--but we had
better change the subject, or we may cause the ladies to have a restless
night;" and the conversation once more drifted back into its original
channel.
During this little discussion Flannigan had argued his point with a
gentlemanly deference and a quiet power for which I had not given him
credit. I could not help admiring a man who, on the eve of a desperate
enterprise, could courteously argue upon a point which must touch him so
nearly. He had, as I have already mentioned, partaken of a considerable
quantity of wine; but though there was a slight flush upon his pale
cheek, his manner was as reserved as ever. He did not join in the
conversation again, but seemed to be lost in thought.
A whirl of conflicting ideas was battling in my own mind. What was I to
do? Should I stand up now and denounce them before both passengers and
Captain? Should I demand a few minutes' conversation with the latter in
his own cabin, and reveal it all? For an instant I was half resolved to
do it, but then the old constitutional timidity came back with redoubled
force. After all there might be some mistake. Dick had heard the
evidence and had refused to believe in it. I determined to let things go
on their course. A strange reckless feeling came over me. Why should I
help men who were blind to their own danger? Surely it was the duty of
the officers to protect us, not ours to give warning to them. I drank
off a couple of glasses of wine, and staggered up on deck with the
determination of keeping my secret locked in my own bosom.
It was a glorious evening. Even in my excited state of mind I could not
help leaning against the bulwarks and enjoying the refreshing breeze.
Away to the westward a solitary sail stood out as a dark speck against
the great sheet of flame left by the setting sun. I shuddered as I
looked at it. It was grand but appalling. A single star was twinkling
faintly above our mainmast, but a thousand seemed to gleam in the water
below with every stroke of our propeller. The only blot in the fair
scene was the great trail of smoke which stretched away behind us like a
black slash upon a crimson curtain. It was hard to believe that the
great peace which hung over all Nature could be marred by a poor
miserable mortal.
"After all," I thought, as I gazed into the blue depths beneath me, "if
the worst comes to the worst, it is better to die here than to linger in
agony upon a sickbed on land." A man's life seems a very paltry thing
amid the great forces of Nature. All my philosophy could not prevent my
shuddering, however, when I turned my head and saw two shadowy figures
at the other side of the deck, which I had no difficulty in recognising.
They seemed to be conversing earnestly, but I had no opportunity of
overhearing what was said; so I contented myself with pacing up and
down, and keeping a vigilant watch upon their movements.
It was a relief to me when Dick came on deck. Even an incredulous
confidant is better than none at all.
"Well, old man," he said, giving me a facetious dig in the ribs, "we've
not been blown up yet."
"No, not yet," said I; "but that's no proof that we are not going to
be."
"Nonsense, man!" said Dick; "I can't conceive what has put this
extraordinary idea into your head. I have been talking to one of your
supposed assassins, and he seems a pleasant fellow enough; quite a
sporting character, I should think, from the way he speaks."
"Dick," I said, "I am as certain that those men have an infernal
machine, and that we are on the verge of eternity, as if I saw them
putting the match to the fuse."
"Well, if you really think so," said Dick, half awed for the moment by
the earnestness of my manner, "it is your duty to let the Captain know
of your suspicions."
"You are right," I said; "I will. My absurd timidity has prevented my
doing so sooner. I believe our lives can only be saved by laying the
whole matter before him."
"Well, go and do it now," said Dick; "but for goodness' sake don't mix
me up in the matter."
"I'll speak to him when he comes off the bridge," I answered; "and in
the meantime I don't mean to lose sight of them."
"Let me know of the result," said my companion; and with a nod he
strolled away in search, I fancy, of his partner at the dinner-table.
Left to myself, I bethought me of my retreat of the morning, and
climbing on the bulwark I mounted into the quarter-boat, and lay down
there. In it I could reconsider my course of action, and by raising my
head I was able at any time to get a view of my disagreeable neighbours.
An hour passed, and the Captain was still on the bridge. He was talking
to one of the passengers, a retired naval officer, and the two were deep
in debate concerning some abstruse point of navigation. I could see the
red tips of their cigars from where I lay. It was dark now, so dark that
I could hardly make out the figures of Flannigan and his accomplice.
They were still standing in the position which they had taken up after
dinner. A few of the passengers were scattered about the deck, but many
had gone below. A strange stillness seemed to pervade the air. The
voices of the watch and the rattle of the wheel were the only sounds
which broke the silence.
Another half-hour passed. The Captain was still upon the bridge. It
seemed as if he would never come down. My nerves were in a state of
unnatural tension, so much so that the sound of two steps upon the deck
made me start up in a quiver of excitement. I peered over the edge of
the boat, and saw that our suspicious passengers had crossed from the
other side, and were standing almost directly beneath me. The light of a
binnacle fell full upon the ghastly face of the ruffian Flannigan. Even
in that short glance I saw that Muller had the ulster, whose use I knew
so well, slung loosely over his arm. I sank back with a groan. It seemed
that my fatal procrastination had sacrificed two hundred innocent lives.
I had read of the fiendish vengeance which awaited a spy. I knew that
men with their lives in their hands would stick at nothing. All I could
do was to cower at the bottom of the boat and listen silently to their
whispered talk below.
"This place will do," said a voice.
"Yes, the leeward side is best."
"I wonder if the trigger will act?"
"I am sure it will."
"We were to let it off at ten, were we not?"
"Yes, at ten sharp. We have eight minutes yet." There was a pause. Then
the voice began again--
"They'll hear the drop of the trigger, won't they?"
"It doesn't matter. It will be too late for any one to prevent its going
off."
"That's true. There will be some excitement among those we have left
behind, won't there?"
"Rather. How long do you reckon it will be before they hear of us?"
"The first news will get in at about midnight at earliest."
"That will be my doing."
"No, mine."
"Ha, ha! we'll settle that."
There was a pause here. Then I heard Muller's voice in a ghastly
whisper, "There's only five minutes more."
How slowly the moments seemed to pass! I could count them by the
throbbing of my heart.
"It'll make a sensation on land," said a voice.
"Yes, it will make a noise in the newspapers."
I raised my head and peered over the side of the boat. There seemed no
hope, no help. Death stared me in the face, whether I did or did not
give the alarm. The Captain had at last left the bridge. The deck was
deserted, save for those two dark figures crouching in the shadow of the
boat.
Flannigan had a watch lying open in his hand.
"Three minutes more," he said. "Put it down upon the deck."
"No, put it here on the bulwarks."
It was the little square box. I knew by the sound that they had placed
it near the davit, and almost exactly under my head.
I looked over again. Flannigan was pouring something out of a paper into
his hand. It was white and granular--the same that I had seen him use in
the morning. It was meant as a fuse, no doubt, for he shovelled it into
the little box, and I heard the strange noise which had previously
arrested my attention.
"A minute and a half more," he said. "Shall you or I pull the string?"
"I will pull it," said Muller.
He was kneeling down and holding the end in his hand. Flannigan stood
behind with his arms folded, and an air of grim resolution upon his
face.
I could stand it no longer. My nervous system seemed to give way in a
moment.
"Stop!" I screamed, springing to my feet. "Stop, misguided and
unprincipled men!"
They both staggered backwards. I fancy they thought I was a spirit, with
the moonlight streaming down upon my pale face.
I was brave enough now. I had gone too far to retreat.
"Cain was damned," I cried, "and he slew but one; would you have the
blood of two hundred upon your souls?"
"He's mad!" said Flannigan. "Time's up. Let it off, Muller."
I sprang down upon the deck.
"You shan't do it!" I said.
"By what right do you prevent us?"
"By every right, human and divine."
"It's no business of yours. Clear out of this."
"Never!" said I.
"Confound the fellow! There's too much at stake to stand on ceremony.
I'll hold him, Muller, while you pull the trigger."
Next moment I was struggling in the herculean grasp of the Irishman.
Resistance was useless; I was a child in his hands.
He pinned me up against the side of the vessel, and held me there.
"Now," he said, "look sharp. He can't prevent us."
I felt that I was standing on the verge of eternity. Half-strangled in
the arms of the taller ruffian, I saw the other approach the fatal box.
He stooped over it and seized the string. I breathed one prayer when I
saw his grasp tighten upon it. Then came a sharp snap, a strange rasping
noise. The trigger had fallen, the side of the box flew out, and let
off--_two grey carrier pigeons_!
* * * * *
Little more need be said. It is not a subject on which I care to dwell.
The whole thing is too utterly disgusting and absurd. Perhaps the best
thing I can do is to retire gracefully from the scene, and let the
sporting correspondent of the _New York Herald_ fill my unworthy place.
Here is an extract clipped from its columns shortly after our departure
from America:
"_Pigeon-flying Extraordinary._--A novel match has been brought off last
week between the birds of John H. Flannigan, of Boston, and Jeremiah
Muller, a well-known citizen of Lowell. Both men have devoted much time
and attention to an improved breed of bird, and the challenge is an
old-standing one. The pigeons were backed to a large amount, and there
was considerable local interest in the result. The start was from the
deck of the Transatlantic steamship _Spartan_, at ten o'clock on the
evening of the day of starting, the vessel being then reckoned to be
about a hundred miles from the land. The bird which reached home first
was to be declared the winner. Considerable caution had, we believe, to
be observed, as some captains have a prejudice against the bringing off
of sporting events aboard their vessels. In spite of some little
difficulty at the last moment, the trap was sprung almost exactly at ten
o'clock. Muller's bird arrived in Lowell in an extreme state of
exhaustion on the following morning, while Flannigan's has not been
heard of. The backers of the latter have the satisfaction of knowing,
however, that the whole affair has been characterised by extreme
fairness. The pigeons were confined in a specially invented trap, which
could only be opened by the spring. It was thus possible to feed them
through an aperture in the top, but any tampering with their wings was
quite out of the question. A few such matches would go far towards
popularising pigeon-flying in America, and form an agreeable variety to
the morbid exhibitions of human endurance which have assumed such
proportions during the last few years."
THE END
By SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
_Novels and Stories_
DANGER! _And Other Stories_
THE DOINGS OF RAFFLES HAW
HIS LAST BOW
_Some Latin Reminiscences of Sherlock Holmes_
THE BLACK DOCTOR
_And Other Tales of Terror and Mystery_
THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL
_And Other Tales of Adventure_
THE CROXLEY MASTER
_And Other Tales of the Ring and Camp_
THE GREAT KEINPLATZ EXPERIMENT
_And Other Tales of Twilight and the Unseen_
THE LAST OF THE LEGIONS
_And Other Tales of Long Ago_
THE DEALINGS OF CAPTAIN SHARKEY
_And Other Tales of Pirates_
_On the Life Hereafter_
THE NEW REVELATION
THE VITAL MESSAGE
THE COMING OF THE FAIRIES
THE CASE FOR SPIRIT PHOTOGRAPHY
THE WANDERINGS OF A SPIRITUALIST
OUR AMERICAN ADVENTURE
_A History of the Great War_
THE BRITISH CAMPAIGN IN FRANCE
AND FLANDERS--Six Vols.
_Poems_
THE GUARDS CAME THROUGH
End of Project Gutenberg's The Dealings of Captain Sharkey, by A. Conan Doyle