“That doesn’t look like a pirate craft, anyhow.”
The boys were on the docks bright and early the next morning, and were
looking at the vessel in which they were expected to embark within the
next hour for the trip down the Elbe to the sea.
As Billy had put it, the ship they were viewing was neither “low,
long, nor rakish.” Herr Roque had not deceived them on that point, at
least. It was a “trading vessel.” All of the crew in sight were of the
roustabout class, except the captain, who was somewhat of a dandy, with
a glazed cap, high collar, military blouse, and corduroy trousers.
“Hi, there!” he called to the boys in high-pitched German, “are you
from Herr Roque?”
Henri advised in loud tone that such was the fact.
“Come aboard, then,” invited the boss of the deck.
The boys made short work of the rickety gangboard, and, aboard, cast an
eye about for their host.
The captain said something in his way of speaking that meant “you’ll
see him later.”
It was some time later--at the mouth of the Elbe, and late at night.
Before this happened, the boys, not experienced as seamen, were
surprised to the limit at the ready transformation of that “trade
vessel.” Tarpaulin coverings removed, like magic unfolding, revealed a
funnel, gunbeds, and guns in them, of the kind to raise the mischief
with a hull at short range; spars were stripped of clumsy sails, and
the craft generally departed from the peaceful classification in which
it cleared from Hamburg.
“Oh, you pleasure trip!” Billy merrily commented.
“You surely didn’t swallow that story?”
“You know I didn’t, Henri,” returned Billy. “When is a dummy not a
dummy? Answer: When someone thinks he is what he isn’t. How’s that,
Henri?”
“As good grammar as could be expected on a trick ship,” acknowledged
Henri.
The sailors even changed their faces with their clothes, their jaws
fitting as tightly as their sea-going outfits, and, as far as the
captain himself, he was no longer set up in landscape style. Straight
as a poker he stood on the newly discovered bridge like an image of
lead.
“Wouldn’t jar me if Herr Roque showed up with horns on his forehead
instead of in spectacle trimming.”
Billy was preparing for the next fall of the wand.
While the boys were watching the hoist of the anchor, following a
curt command from the officer on the bridge, and a distant chime was
proclaiming the midnight hour, Billy was made aware that someone, not
of the regular crew, was standing at his elbow.
The voice was that of Herr Roque, but the speaker could never for a
single moment be materially taken for the late elderly spectacled
merchant.
“How now, young sirs; is it well with you?”
Billy and Henri stared at the face showing in the pale gleam of a
spar light. Clean-shaven, thin-lipped, hard-eyed, not a trace of the
benevolent cast of countenance worn by the bland tradesman.
The line of talk was there, but not another line of the other assumed
character.
“Is--it--really--Herr Roque?” stammered Billy.
“At your service, young sirs.”
“It all works like a play,” put in Henri.
“I hope not a tragedy, young sirs.”
“Would you mind cutting out the ‘young sirs’?”
Billy was getting nettled at this mockery.
“No offense intended, I assure you.”
For reasons of his own, the secret agent had no desire to blunt the
edge of his selected tools in useless manner.
Indeed, he kept the boys on velvet, so to speak, for the first two days
at sea.
Then his mood changed with lack of leisure moments. He was constantly
on the alert and abrupt in word and action.
There was a sailor constantly in the crosstrees, sweeping the watery
expanse with powerful glasses. The gunners were standing, watch about,
in readiness for any emergency.
As a completing touch to this deck setting a runway had been rigged and
the boys for the first time realized the part they were expected to
play. There was a pair of monoplanes under cover, a waspish pair, of
exquisite make and finish.
“Get to them and get them in shape,” sternly ordered Roque, “as if your
lives depended on it--and” (grimly) “I guess they do.”
In this assignment Billy and Henri took the star rôles.
“Smoke ahead,” sang out the man up the mast.
“Whereaway?” demanded the captain.
“South by southeast,” floated back from the masthead.
“Get that?” The captain to the wheelman.
“Ay, ay, sir.”
“Hold her hard, then.”
Signal to the engine room: “Slow speed.”
Roque summoned the boys with imperious motion.
“Take the air; bring signal red, if English warship; signal white, if
French cruiser; and signal black, if channel steamer. Get away!”
Four sailors manned the runway--first Billy shot the chute; then Henri,
a moment later. A clean leap, and off they went.
The steamer they left logged lazily, drifting, waiting.
The aviators guided the flight toward the thin spiral of smoke
penciling a point on the horizon. The air was as clear as a bell.
With no fixed notion of what purpose they were serving, the aviators
exulted only in the joy of air conquest. The machines were keyed up
like a watch--that is, perfection--and could be directed to a hairline.
The smoke spiral was rope-sized, then body-round, then a column.
The aviators looked down for a fleeting moment on one of the large
channel steamers, somewhat out of its course, and instantly whirled
about, flying like the homing pigeon, and exactly as the compass set
the lines.
Each monoplane trailed a black streamer.
The sailor at the masthead caught the color in his glasses.
And drawing nearer the aviators, caught their signal to descend.
It is a nice piece of work to drop an aëroplane upon the deck of a
wave-rocked ship, and in this instance it was a nice piece of work
nicely done.
There was a gleam of approbation in the cold gray eyes of Roque, when
the machines floated in and nested without strain or creak upon the
foredeck.
“I see that I sized you about right,” he said, and it could be plainly
inferred that he accepted the exhibit largely as a vindication of his
own judgment.
True for Roque, for it had been said that he seldom erred in matters of
this kind.
It was also evident that the color of the signal streamer was the one
to his liking, for, with a great flurry of orders, the vessel, under
full head of steam, hastened its hunt for the big channel boat, as
located by the aviators.
As they ran in course, the channel steamer was crossing the line
followed by the fast-approaching German vessel. The latter, moving
free, could easily overhaul the cargo-laden ship, straightway, and more
surely in crossway.
The overhauling was soon accomplished, and the unarmed channel boat
hove to, to the tune of a round shot across her bow.
Billy and Henri were not included in the boarding party. They had
served their turn, and beyond that were not expected to serve.
They could not imagine what Roque had in mind when all hands were
hustling in the transfer of numerous canvas rolls to the German deck,
all labeled “music machines.” They well knew of the Teuton fondness
for music, but here was a whole lot of trouble and expense to get what
might have been easily and cheaply purchased in Hamburg.
Roque made no attempt to take prisoners or other plunder from the
nonresisting commercial carrier.
The “music machines” were all he wanted, and, with a deck full of them,
the German vessel broke its grapples and steamed away.
It never dawned upon the boys that the labels were not the true index
of contents, until one of the parcels was broken open for inspection.
The wrappings enclosed rifles--hundreds of them.