BRUTE STRENGTH
BROADMAYNE and Vyse had not been more than five minutes in their
bunks in the otherwise deserted crew's quarters, when the bo'sun
entered, storming and raging.
"Skulking again!" he shouted. "Here, you son of a horse-marine, show
a leg! And you, you limb of Satan, it's the like o' you as gets the
likes o' me into trouble. On deck with you, an' if you don't work
like blue blazes, there'll be trouble."
It was useless to refuse. Mildly, Vyse protested that their clothes
had been taken away and that having to hold a blanket round one is
apt to hamper a person's activities.
"Quite so," agreed Mr. Barnard, with a coarse laugh. "'Bout time you
did go into proper uniform."
He went to the doorway.
"Matthews!" he shouted. "Get the key of the slop-chest and rig these
skulking hounds out.... Give you five minutes to fall in in the rig
of the day," he added, "or, by smoke! you won't get even bread and
water for the next twenty-four hours."
Well within the stipulated time the two chums went on deck, each
dressed in rubber-boots, blue jersey and canvas jumper and trousers.
"Look lively there!" shouted the bosun. "Nip down the hold and bear
a hand."
The hold was almost empty. In one corner was a pile of iron-bound
boxes and a number of small sacks, the mouths of which were secured
with wire and sealed with discs of sealing-wax.
For some reason the derricks had not been brought into use. Each
packet was handled separately, passed from one man to another, until
by stages it reached the deck. Here a careful tally was made before
the booty was transhipped to the lugger _Fairy_.
"That's the lot, Cap'n Silas," shouted Captain Cain. "You know your
orders. Right-o; carry on and good luck!"
Quickly the dark brown canvas of the _Fairy_ was set. She was riding
head to wind alongside the _Alerte_, held only by a bow-and-stern
warp.
"All ready!" shouted Porthoustoc. "Let go, for'ard."
A slight touch of the lugger's tiller gave her sufficient sheer to
allow the head sails to draw.
"Let go aft!" bawled Silas.
"All gone!" shouted one of the _Alerte's_ crew.
Then like a wraith the lugger drew ahead. There was no doubt about
her speed and handiness. Without having recourse to her motor, she
glided between the rocky pinnacles and was soon lost to sight in the
gathering mist.
"Eighteen hours stand easy, men!" announced Captain Cain. "Clear
away and hands to diving stations. We'll lie here as comfortably as
any one could wish till to-morrow evening. If all goes well, my
lads, we'll rake in another twenty thousand or so before this week's
out."
Within twelve hours from the time when she cast off from alongside
the _Alerte_, the _Fairy_ was creeping past the Cornish coast, with the
little fishing port of Mousehole bearing one point on her port bow,
distant about one mile.
The _Fairy_ had made a quick and uneventful passage, averaging seven
and a half knots. Captain Silas Porthoustoc was almost shaking hands
with himself.
"Lawks!" he muttered. "'Yes a fair ole game. 'Ere's that there Cap'n
Cain, as he calls hisself, a-tellin' me to put the stuff in such an'
such a place until such times as they Lunnon men--fair sharks they
be, drat 'em--come down wi' a moty car an' take it away. Then
there's that Pengelly--I don't like him much, but 'e's a sight
better'n t'other un says 'e, 'Don't 'ee du it, Silas. Hide the stuff
in cave behind your kitchen, an' we'll share the profits.' Well, I
dunno. There's one thing, they girt swells from Lunnon won't handle
the stuff, or my name's not Silas Porthoustoc; nor will that Cap'n
Cain. An' tes more'n likely as 'ow Cap'n Cain an' Mr. Pengelly'll
row an' finish by blowin' holes in one another's skulls. That bein'
so, I collar the lot."
He interrupted his dreams of avarice by glancing skyward. The wind,
hitherto strong, had died away, which was just what he wanted.
"Garge!" he shouted to his mate. "'And that there topsail. We'm not
puttin' into Newlyn--tide don't serve. We'll bring up inside
Clement's Island. She'll be quite all right. If you an' young Bill
want a spell ashore, you can, 'slongs you'm board come eight
t'morrow morn."
Garge jumped at the suggestion. His home was at Newlyn. It was an
easy walk from Mousehole. Young Bill, Garge's nephew, could go with
him.
Accordingly the anchor was let go and the sails loosely stowed. The
_Fairy_, being one of a type common to Mounts Bay, would excite no
curiosity. She was registered as a fishing craft and, in fact, was
one except when Captain Silas had undertakings of a more hazardous
and withal more profitable nature in hand.
The mate hailed a passing boat, and uncle and nephew were readily
given a passage ashore.
Left to himself, Cap'n Silas paced the deck till nightfall,
relieving the monotony by exchanging bantering speech with the crews
of the outward-bound Mousehole fishing fleet, most of whom he knew.
After sunset he hoisted the riding-light, went below, and prepared
and ate supper.
Shortly after midnight Silas went on deck. Everything was quiet.
Softly he brought the dinghy alongside, muffled the rowlocks with
cotton waste and then proceeded to load up with the precious cargo
received from the _Alerte_.
Deeply laden, the dinghy was rowed shorewards, right into a small
cave about a mile to the southward of Mousehole village. Here the
cargo was unloaded and buried in the firm white sand forming
the floor of the cave, at fifty yards from its mouth.
Silas, when he worked, _did_ work. Normally easy-going and of a lazy
disposition, he had the gift of toiling with almost superhuman
energy when circumstances required. And this was one of them.
Ten times during the long December night did the dinghy, well down
in the water, make the double passage between the _Fairy_ and the
cave.
At a quarter to eight, Silas, looking fresh as paint, rowed ashore,
this time to Mousehole to pick up his crew. Two hours later the
_Fairy_ entered Newlyn harbour, where her captain received the
condolences of the fisher-folk on the news that his trip had proved
to be singularly unfortunate. The _Fairy_ had not brought back so much
as a solitary fish.
Captain Silas Porthoustoc, with his tongue in his cheek, went home.
His cottage was situated on the hillside beyond Mousehole. When
ashore, he spent much of his time gardening, and so poor is the
Cornish soil that to grow anything worth having the ground has to be
plentifully manured. Hence, it occasioned no comment when Captain
Silas toiled up the hill with a wheelbarrow full of seaweed, since
seaweed is an excellent fertiliser. Had any one, sufficiently
curious and daring to risk incurring the old skipper's anger,
investigated what was under the seaweed the result would have
surprised them.
In three days, Silas made forty-eight trips with his wheelbarrow. At
the end of that time his garden still required more manure; but
every ounce of the booty from the _Alerte_ was snugly stowed away in
the cave behind the kitchen of Silas Porthoustoc's cottage.
Darkness had fallen when the _Alerte_ rose to the surface, after her
eighteen hours' repose. Before the moon rose the crew had set up the
funnel, masts and rigging, and by nine in the evening she was
shaping a course slightly to the west'ard of the Casquets--that
dangerous and frequently fog-bound ledge of rocks six miles west of
Alderney.
Up to the present, Captain Cain had not put into execution his
threat of punishing Broadmayne and his chum for their "desertion."
For one thing, he meant to make an example of them before the crew,
and consequently waited until the men had had their greatly-wanted
rest; for another, he believed in "prolonging the agony," or
delaying the actual punishment in order that the thought of it would
prey upon the minds of the culprits.
From information obtained through the medium of Captain Silas
Porthoustoc, the pirate skipper of the _Alerte_ knew that a small
French steamer, the _Surcouf_, was leaving St. Malo for the French
islands of St. Pierre and Miquelon, lying off Newfoundland. Amongst
other items, she carried the sum of five hundred thousand francs for
the treasury of these Gallic dependencies and a quantity of valuable
silver plate, the private property of one of the chief officials of
St. Pierre.
An hour before sunrise the _Alerte_ stopped her engines. She was then
nine miles W.N.W. of the Casquets. By means of her wireless she
learnt that the _Surcouf_ would not clear St. Malo earlier than ten
o'clock, or two hours before high water.
That interval gave Captain Cain his opportunity to carry out his
threat to the Sub and Vyse.
All hands were mustered on deck. Seized by a couple of the crew,
Rollo Vyse was hauled to the up-turned boat that formed the screen
for the quick-firer. Although boiling with rage, Vyse kept his
feelings under control. Resistance was useless. He might easily fell
his two captors, but he could not hope to defy the whole crew
successfully. At one moment he harboured a scheme to break loose and
hurl himself upon the pirate captain; but to do so, he would have to
run the gauntlet of a dozen active and strongly-built men. So, in
the circumstances, he made up his mind to take his gruelling with as
much fortitude as possible.
Stripped to the waist, Vyse was secured to the boat, his arms over
the keel and his ankles lashed to one of the gunwales.
"All ready, sir," reported the bo'sun, who held a formidable-looking
whip of plaited sennet, terminating in a triple leather thong.
"Give him a dozen to start with, Mr. Barnard," ordered Captain Cain.
"We'll see how he likes that."
The bo'sun drew his fingers caressingly through the thongs, spat
upon his palm after the manner of horny-handed sailor-men, and
prepared to enjoy himself.
"Belay there!" exclaimed the captain. "Where's the other skulker?
Bring him on deck."
"I am here!" announced Broadmayne, stepping forward from the wake of
the conning-tower. "I don't suppose it's any use protesting----"
"It isn't," interrupted Captain Cain grimly.
The crew roared with merriment.
"Then I won't," continued the Sub. "But I will point out that you're
exacting the penalty before trial. We haven't had a chance to defend
ourselves. Now, Captain Cain, I'll make a sporting offer. I don't
suppose you have boxing-gloves on board, so I'll challenge any man
in the ship, yourself included, to a five-round contest with bare
fists. If I win, then my friend goes unpunished. I don't ask for any
favour on my own behalf. In any case, the hands will see a sight
worth seeing."
"Good lad!" shouted one of the crew, and about half a dozen others
applauded. The proposition appealed to their love of sport. They
were ready to witness the comparatively tame spectacle of a man
being flogged; but they vastly preferred to enjoy a fight with the
gloves off.
"Silence!" roared the Captain.
"Garn! Be a sport!" retorted another of the crew brazenly.
Captain Cain strode towards the delinquent. Three steps did he take,
then he stopped abruptly. Perhaps for the first time he realised
that maintaining discipline over a crowd of rogues--rogues of his
own making--was a different matter to that of the old days, when his
authority was backed by the King's Commission. The early successes
of the cruise had turned the men's heads. Between themselves, they
held the creed that "Jack's as good as his master," but as yet they
dare not profess it openly. Nevertheless, Captain Cain felt that he
was playing with a volcano.
"Good idea, my lads!" he exclaimed, without betraying his
suspicions. "Who'll uphold the reputation of the ship to the extent
of five rounds?"
There was a long pause. Several of the men, great, deep-chested
fellows who were good at a rough and tumble, were thinking about
accepting the challenge, but the sight of the tall, well-built
Broadmayne, who in addition had youth on his side, made them think
twice--or more.
"Blime!" ejaculated a bull-necked, bullet-headed fellow, "wot are we
all a-hangin' on to the slack for? 'Ere goes, ole sport. I'll take
you on."
The speaker looked, and undoubtedly was, a tough proposition. An
ex-first-class stoker, he had been employed as a coal-heaver at
Millbay Docks until, after a term of unemployment, he had been
engaged at the Polkyll Creek Shipbreaking Works as a hammerman. In
spite of being nearly forty years of age, he was in the pink of
condition and as hard as nails. Three inches shorter than
Broadmayne, he was certainly heavier and possessed the doubtful
advantage of three inches in girth. The muscles of his arms stood up
like egg-shaped stones under his firm flesh. The sinews of his chest
were like whipcord. But there was one defect that the Sub was quick
to notice. Like many a man of his build, the ex-stoker was
disproportionately weak in the lower limbs.
All the same, Broadmayne realised that he had a heavy task in front
of him. If he were to more than hold his own, he must avoid a direct
blow of the other's shoulder-of-mutton fist, and trust to science
and agility to counteract the fellow's superabundant reserve of
brute force.
"My chum's my second," declared Broadmayne. "Cast him loose."
Somewhat to his surprise the men did so, Captain Cain raising no
objection.
"Whatever happens," whispered the Sub, "you're free for the time.
That's something."
"Be careful," cautioned Vyse. "Try tiring him out."
"I mean to," rejoined Broadmayne.
Already the rough preparations for the contest were complete. The
slightly curving steel deck made a sorry ring, destitute of matting.
Two ropes had been stretched from rail to rail, two others crossing
them at right angles.
Pengelly was appointed referee. Barnard, the bo'sun, acted as
timekeeper, conspicuously displaying a handsome gold watch, lately
the property of the captain of the _Cap Hoorn_. Captain Cain, perched
upon the upturned keel of the quick-firer's screen, watched the
proceedings at a distance of about five yards; but the crew,
squatting on deck, crowded close to the ropes, determined not to
miss the advantage of the front row seats.
The ex-stoker opened the proceedings by making a bull-like rush at
his antagonist. Broadmayne avoided the onslaught with comparative
ease, but could not resist the temptation of delivering a left at
the side of the other's head. Adroitly ducking, the man avoided the
blow and retaliated with a jab intended for the Sub's ribs in the
region of the heart. It was not a vicious blow. The ex-stoker,
thinking he was bound to win, was loath to make an early finish. A
spectacular display to delight his comrades was what he wanted. The
knock-out, he decided, would come in the fifth round--not before.
Nevertheless, the jab jolted Broadmayne severely. It taught him a
lesson. For the rest of the round he was strictly on the defensive,
trusting to footwork to avoid further punishment.
The second round was much on the same principle. It ended with
Broadmayne feeling none the worse, but the ex-stoker somewhat blown
and perspiring freely. The spectators, disappointed at the tameness
of the contest, blew off steam by shouting to their champion to get
to work, and jeering at the Sub's wary and seemingly faint-hearted
tactics.
Goaded by the exhortations of his messmates, the ex-stoker warmed to
his work in the third round. More than once he drove Broadmayne
against the ropes, where only by dexterity did he escape a
disastrous "clinch." Once the Sub got home with a smashing blow
between his antagonist's eyes. It would have knocked out any
ordinary man, but the fellow, beyond recoiling, seemed none the
worse. Quickly he had his revenge by delivering a straight left on
Broadmayne's left cheek, which had the effect of sobering him
completely for the rest of the round.
"Fourth round--seconds out of the ring!"
Broadmayne left his corner feeling far from comfortable. The
ex-stoker, with blood trickling from his nose, grinned disdainfully
at him, then ducking, rushed headlong at his adversary.
For a brief instant the Sub stood his ground, then stepped nimbly
aside. The ex-stoker's massive fist grazed his left ear, the impetus
of the blow throwing the fellow forward. Before he could recover his
balance, Broadmayne, putting every ounce into it, delivered a right,
followed by a hook with his left.
Of what happened after that he had only a hazy idea. Like in a mist
he saw the powerful figure of his antagonist collapse. He appeared
to fall neither forward nor backward, but to subside as his knees
gave way. To Broadmayne it seemed a full minute that this continued;
then, as his knees touched the steel deck the ex-stoker rolled over
on his side.
"One... two... three..."
The man made an effort to rise. Broadmayne stepped forward, ready to
finish the business; but there was no need. Gasping like a stranded
fish, the ex-stoker rolled over again.
"... Eight... nine... ten."
Down and out!
Still a bit dazed, Broadmayne went back to his corner and leant
heavily against his chum. The men were cheering like mad. It dawned
upon him that they were cheering _him_. Tough, desperate ruffians
they might be, but they were sportsmen, members of a race that
produces the best winners and the best losers in the world.
Pengelly congratulated him; so did Barnard, Marchant and most of the
crew. But Captain Cain held aloof. He was furious with himself for
having allowed the contest to take place. His authority had been
wrecked. The crew's attitude towards his captives had undergone a
complete change. He bitterly regretted having taken them on board.
Yet, short of committing murder, he could not get rid of them. Had
he been sure of his crew, he might even have taken that step,
although he was loath to do so. He could not set them ashore: they
knew too much. Besides, he still hoped to rake in a substantial sum
for their ransom.
"Sail on the starboard bow, sir!"
Instantly Captain Cain cast aside his train of disturbing thoughts.
Hurrying to the bridge he levelled his binoculars.
"It's the Frenchman, my lads!" he shouted. "All hands to quarters!
She's ours, my hearties!"