BETWEEN TWO FIRES.
"I say, Farmer, can't we have a little target-practice and hit something
accidentally--even that Chinese junk over there would do--so as to stir
up some sort of a scrap?"
Lieutenant Staples, addressing his commander familiarly by the old
Academy nickname, yawned and stretched his arms in most undignified
fashion as he spoke. The two officers were on the bridge of the
_Osprey_, which lay at anchor off Chefoo. A gentle breeze barely stirred
the placid waters of the bay, and the sun gave a hint of the torrid days
that were to come.
"I'm tired of sitting here, like a toad in a puddle, aren't you?" added
the tall lieutenant, straightening himself up a little as a boatswain's
mate crossed the open deck below him.
"There is a kind of a sameness about it," laughed Rexdale, adjusting a
pair of field-glasses. "What sort of a craft is that yonder, Tel?"
"H'm--something under steam, anyway. Can you make her out through the
glass?"
"Unless I'm mistaken, it's the _Zafiro_," said the commander, working
the glasses for a focus. "Yes, it's the despatch-boat, bringing Starr
back from Tokio, no doubt."
Ten minutes later Bob scrambled up over the rail, followed by a young
man in civilian's clothes.
"Fred Larkin!" exclaimed Dave. "How on earth did he get on board the
_Zafiro_?"
As soon as Midshipman Bob had reported himself, the war correspondent
stepped up with a genial smile and shook hands warmly with the officers
on the bridge.
"Fact is, I'm a stowaway, Dave," said he. "That gay young lieutenant on
the gunboat would have put me in irons if it hadn't been for Bob Starr.
He's a good fellow and stood by me, when I disclosed myself on the
_Zafiro_ about twenty miles out."
"Well, what am I to do with you--that's the question?" said Rexdale,
laughing in spite of himself at the reporter's nonchalance. "Strictly
speaking----"
"Strictly speaking, I've no business on one of Uncle Sam's war-ships
without a permit from the Secretary of the Navy, or the admiral of the
fleet, at least," said Larkin, with utmost good-humour. "Therefore, we
won't speak strictly, until I've had time to look about a little, being
under arrest, theoretically."
"I can't very well drop you overboard, old fellow," assented Rexdale,
"there being a shark or two around who would gobble up even a newspaper
man. But really----"
"Really, I'll leave you before night, old man," interrupted Fred, "so
don't worry. Now you and Lieutenant Staples just sit down and tell a
fellow what's the news from home--and hereabouts."
"But how did you manage to get on board the _Zafiro_?" queried Dave.
"Ah, don't ask me, and then you won't know. The movements of some of the
heavenly bodies--comets, for instance, and reporters--can only be
calculated from their periodic appearances, my son. Didn't you learn
that at the Academy?" asked Fred, as the party of officers betook
themselves to the after cabin. "Let it suffice your
lieutenant-commandership that I really did go on board, and at the
proper dramatic moment materialized before the astonished crew. I had a
little more sail than I bargained for, not knowing that Mr. Starr had to
report to the admiral before coming here."
"Then Bob didn't know----"
"Hadn't the ghost of an idea about it, upon my word of honour," said
Larkin hastily. "There wasn't a more thunderstruck man on the ship than
he, when I stepped on deck. I wish you could have seen his face!"
They talked of Boston friends and of the progress of the war,
concerning which Rexdale could afford his friend but little
enlightenment. "All sorts of reports are afloat," said he. "I see in the
home papers--by the way, there's a bunch of them at your disposal--that
Chefoo is called a 'fake-factory, working over-time.'"
"Not bad," said Larkin. "But so-called fakes often prove to be facts,
after all. Has any attack yet been made upon Vladivostock?"
"Apparently not. They say the whole sea-front, up there, is a network of
submarine mines. Jap torpedo-boats and destroyers are patrolling the sea
in every direction, and have picked up one or two vessels with
contraband goods. I believe there was a bombardment of the port early in
the month, but it amounted to nothing."
"And on land?"
"Well, the Russians are said to have about four hundred thousand men in
Manchuria, and they are arriving by the railroad at the rate of a
regiment a day. The Japs probably have at least half that number on the
mainland. They are swarming across the Korean Peninsula and will have
Port Arthur isolated before long."
"If that is so," mused Fred, "I must move quickly."
"Move--where?"
"I'm going into Port Arthur, my boy."
"Port Arthur! You'll never get there alive--don't try it, Larkin!"
exclaimed Staples earnestly. "There's a close blockade, and you'll
either be sunk in the bay or at the very best be taken prisoner if you
reach the shore."
"It's just that 'very best' that I'm reckoning upon," rejoined the
reporter coolly. "I wanted to see you fellows before I went in, so you
can allude to my whereabouts if I don't show up in a week or two. I'm an
American citizen, Dave, and don't you forget it. You may be sure I won't
let Russian or Jap, whichever one captures me, forget that little fact.
There's no danger of my being hung as a spy, for I have my passport and
credentials, and the worst they can do, when they've made their
investigation, is to fire me out. All this is supposing I actually reach
one 'firing-line' or the other. I've sat round in Tokio and looked at
lanterns and spidery letters until I'm tired of it. The _Bulletin_ sent
me out here to get news, and I'm not going to disappoint the old man."
The day passed pleasantly enough, with stories, talk of old times and
discussions of war incidents. The routine duties of naval life filled
the intervals in the conversation. Late in the afternoon the officers
missed their jolly companion, and enquired for him, but no one knew
where he was. As evening came on they realised that the daring young
reporter had kept his word and left them, it was impossible to ascertain
when or by what means.
"I hope he won't get into serious trouble," said the commander
anxiously.
"Oh, Larkin can take care of himself," replied Liddon, who had joined in
the useless search. "He has been through one war, besides innumerable
scrapes in which he came out on top. That's why the _Bulletin_ chose him
for this service."
"Evening colours!" sang one bugle after another, on the war-ships; and
all hands stood with bared heads while the flags fluttered down from
staff and peak.
Shortly afterward a dull boom sounded across the waters of the bay. But
little attention was paid to it by the men on the _Osprey_, such
disturbances being of daily occurrence. That shot, however, meant much
to Fred Larkin.
About half an hour before he was missed, that afternoon, he had slipped
over the ship's side into a Chinese sampan, or small fishing-boat, which
had come alongside to dispose of its fare of fish. Fred tossed a coin to
the Chinaman who was seated in the stern and pulled a broad piece of
matting over himself in the bottom of the boat. All this was done in
less time than it takes to tell it. If any of the _Osprey's_ jackies saw
it, he said nothing. The sympathy of a sailor always goes with a
runaway, whatever the reason for the escape may be.
The owner of the sampan, understanding from a gesture of his unexpected
passenger that the latter wished to reach the shore without detection,
immediately cast off his painter and worked his small craft skilfully
and swiftly toward the docks of Chefoo. As soon as the _Osprey_ was
hidden by another hull--that of a British man-of-war--Larkin threw off
the matting gladly enough and sat up. Presently he caught sight of a
large junk, just hoisting its sails. It was heavily loaded, though the
character of its freight could not be ascertained.
Fred pointed to the junk, and the oarsman turned his boat toward it. A
moment later he was alongside.
"Where are you bound?" he called out to the skipper.
Fortunately the latter could understand English.
"Port Arthur," he replied, but not loudly.
Fred held up a coin. The man nodded, and the correspondent jumped on
board, taking in his hand the small leathern gripsack he had brought
from home.
The junk proved to be coal-laden, and the captain (and owner), having
made sure that no Japanese vessels were in sight, was about to make a
dash for Port Arthur, where he knew he would obtain high rates for his
cargo.
It soon appeared that he had underrated the watchfulness of the
blockaders, for within less than an hour from leaving port the men on
the junk perceived a torpedo-boat destroyer bearing down on them. The
skipper calculated his chances of safe return, and decided to "keep all
on" for Port Arthur. In twenty minutes the black hull of the pursuer
could be plainly made out, and soon after the sound of a gun was heard.
The Chinamen working the junk got as far down out of danger as possible,
in their clumsy craft, and Fred followed suit. He had no desire to be
killed or maimed, nor did he wish to be captured and sent back to Tokio.
He was beginning to despair of the successful issue of his adventure,
when a shout from the sailors called his attention to an object dead
ahead. It was a column of dense black smoke arising from the sea in the
direction of Port Arthur.
A cheer rang out from the Chinamen, as they perceived the smoke. There
could be no doubt that it arose from a Russian war-ship, coming out
under full head of steam to meet the destroyer.
Again the Japanese gun spoke, and this time the shot struck the water
within a few feet of the junk.
"They've got our range," said Fred to himself grimly. "Trust the Japs
for scientific work, when it comes to firing! I might as well improve
the time, though!" And drawing his note-book from his pocket he began to
take notes.
The junk kept on its course, foaming through the water under pressure
of her great sail until the lee rail almost went under. Clouds had
arisen in the west and it was nearly dark. A search-light on the
mainland flared out suddenly, and a broad ray wavered over the waves
until it picked up the Japanese boat, now within less than a mile of the
fleeing junk. A deep boom sounded ahead. The Russian had at last spoken,
and a big lump of steel swirled through the gloom, over the great
triangular sail. The Chinese craft was between two fires. The Japs
shrewdly kept her in line with themselves and the enemy, so that the
latter dared not fire low. The destroyer fired steadily and fiercely,
hulling the junk more than once. It was evident that a crisis was at
hand.
Crash! A solid six-pound shot struck the stern of the labouring _White
Dragon_, knocking her rudder to bits and killing the skipper, who had
remained bravely at the helm. The junk yawed wildly and fell off before
the wind. The sailors shrieked and ran to and fro, calling upon their
gods to help them.
Another shot, and the mast went by the board. But the Russian cruiser
was now close at hand and engaged the Japanese boat savagely.
Fred was watching the fight and looking for a chance to hail the
Russian, when a splinter struck him and he was knocked headlong into the
sea.