THE ATTACK
They had guessed it for the last few minutes of the yarn. To gauge the
effect upon them, one must remember that they were out to hunt the
narrator, fearing to be guyed if they did not catch him. What would
the guying be like when the real fact was known? The fact that they
had been sailing to hunt for Vanderdecken with Vanderdecken on board,
and not only on board but acting as sailing master. It was the sort of
joke that becomes immortal, like the joke about Handy Andy throwing the
wash jug out of the window instead of the water, the sort of story that
would preserve the protagonists in ridicule, not for years but for ages.
And yet there was no spark of anger in the mind of Hank, or in the
mind of George. Candon, by his confession and story and evident regret
for the business, had drawn their teeth; also in the last few days he
had taught them to like and admire him, and in some extraordinary way
he had in the last few minutes made them feel that their affairs were
subordinate to his and that they were only side characters in a story
that was his.
All the same in the mind of each lay the fact that they had been done
brown and the conviction that B. C. must now never be taken by the
police even if they had to shoot him.
Hank was the first to speak.
“Well,” said he, “it’s a Kid Lewis of a punch, there’s no denying it,
and if it was all from your own shoulder, B. C., I’m not saying I
wouldn’t have hit back, but there’s more in this than a man can see.
Maybe I’m talking through my hat, but seems to me it’s curious. Me
putting out on this show and J. B. advertising me and you coming into
’Frisco on top of the advertisement and taking it up. Well, there’s no
use in talking, let’s clean the slate. I’m not sure if an expedition
was putting out to collar Hank Fisher, I wouldn’t join it same as you
did, specially if I had the McGinnis crowd after me. What do you say,
Bud?”
“Oh,” said George, “what’s the good of talking. Forget it.”
“That’s easy said,” put in Candon, “mind you, I don’t blame myself for
joining in with you same as I did, you were after me, anyhow, and I
didn’t know you from Adam, but it was a low-down trick making you sign
that contract, binding you to put me ashore with five thousand dollars
in my pocket after handing you over the Dutchman, which was myself.
That’s what’s been getting me the last few days. It was just the same
with the yacht business. I started out only to douse the liquor, but
when it came to stripping the diamonds and money off those ducks I was
as keen as McGinnis, then when the thing was done and the stuff safely
hived, I was mortal sorry for myself. I’ve got a black streak in me and
that’s the truth, nigger black, and there’s no use talking.”
“No matter,” said Hank. “Forget it. You’ve got a damn big white streak
in you, B. C. I reckon we’re all pretty much striped if it comes to
that—anyhow what we’ve got to do now is save that girl and get the
boodle. You can skip when we’ve collared the stuff—it’ll be something
to bring back to ’Frisco anyhow.”
“I’m going back with you to ’Frisco,” said Candon, “I’m not afraid to
face the music.”
“Well, there’s time enough to talk about that,” put in the other. “The
thing is now to get the girl. Time’s up and we’ve got to start. What’s
your plan?”
“Rush them,” said Candon. “Three of our Chinks will be enough with us
to help in the shouting, go and pick three of them, will you? Then
we’ll row ashore, leave the boat beached, crawl over those rocks
’tween us and the next bay, get right up to the edge of their camp and
stampede them, shouting like ballyhoos and firing over their heads. One
of us had better look after the girl and pick her up and waltz off with
her, I reckon I’m the strongest, maybe, and I’ll do the snatching—don’t
use more than two rounds apiece when you let off over their heads,
you’ll maybe want the rest if the hatchet men show fight.”
“That’s clear,” said Hank. “I’ll go pick the Chinks.”
He left the cabin and the two others turned their attention to the
Lugger pistols, emptied the magazines, oiled them, tried the mechanism
and refilled them. Then with the pistols and extra ammunition they came
on deck.
The waning moon had not yet risen, but the stars were beginning to
blaze, and against them the peak of San Nicolas with its cloud top
looked like a giant with a turbaned head. Through the windless night
the wash of the waves on the beach came clear, rhythmical, slumbrous
like the pulse of the sleeping sea.
Hank had got his men into the boat, he took the pistol handed to him
by Candon and the ammunition, then, with a glance at the deck where
Charley was in charge, he led the way overside and the boat pushed off.
“You’re sure of the Chinks?” asked George in a whisper as they rowed.
“Sure,” replied Hank. “I’ve told them they’ve only got to shout and
I’ll give five dollars to the chap that shouts the loudest. I tipped
them that these guys have got an American girl with them and that
the American Government will plaster them with dollars if we get her
away—Oh, they’re right enough. Now, not a word out of you all when
we get to the beach. Just follow B. C. and hold your breath for the
shouting.”
The boat grounded on the soft sand and they tumbled out, hauled her up
a few feet and Hank, taking a small lantern he had brought with him,
lit it and placed it on the sands close to the bow. Then they started.
Europe in the van, Asia in the rear.
The rocks were soon reached. The rocks just here are easy to negotiate,
great flat-topped masses rising gradually from the bayside to a summit
that falls as gradually to the sands of the bay beyond.
When they reached the summit the blaze of two fires on the beach showed
out close together, their light blending in an elliptical zone, beyond
which the tents hinted of themselves.
“The Chinks are round one, the white men by the other,” said Candon.
“Couldn’t be better for we’ve got them divided. Now then, you two,
follow me and do as I do—and for the love of Mike don’t sneeze. Got
your guns handy? That’s right.”
He began the descent. Then when they reached the sands he got on hands
and knees.
Scarcely had he done so than the notes of a guitar came through the
night from the camp of the white slavers and the first words of a song.
They could not make out the words, but they could tell at once that the
singer was neither American nor English. That high nasal voice spoke
of Spain where the cicadas shrill in the plane trees in the heat-shaken
air.
“Dagoes,” said Hank.
“Come on,” said Candon.
Then, had anyone been watching, across the sands towards the zone of
fire-light, six forms might have been seen crawling, liker to land
crabs than the forms of men or beasts.
The Chinks around their fire were broken up into parties playing games
and smoking. By the white man’s fire sat the guitar player on a camp
stool, the light full on his sharp profile, another man leaning on
his elbow lay smoking cigarettes, and a woman seated on the sand, an
elderly-looking woman of Jewish type, was engaged in some sort of
needlework, and her hand as it moved, seemed covered with rings.
George thought he had never beheld a more sinister looking trio. The
girl was nowhere to be seen.
George, Hank and Candon put their heads together.
“She’s in one of the tents,” whispered B. C., “tied up for the night
most like.”
“Shall we rush them now?” asked Hank.
“Yep, get your guns ready. Look! There’s the girl! Now then, boys!”
The girl who had just left the most seaward of the tents stood for a
moment with the vague light of the fire touching her. She was very
small. To George, in that half moment, she seemed only a child, and
the sight of her contrasted with her captors came to them as though
timed to the moment.
The beach blazed out with noise, the ear-splitting explosions of the
Luggers and the yells of the attackers swept the man on the sands to
his feet. George saw, as one sees in a dream, the whole of the Chinese
casting cards and dice and flying like leaves driven by the broom of
the wind. He had a vision of Hank downing the cigarette smoker, then
he got a smash on the head from a guitar and was rolling on the sands
with a man who was shouting “Hell, hell, hell!” punching him to silence
whilst the woman with nails in his neck was trying to strangle him,
screaming all the time till Hank dragged her off, crying, “We’ve got
the girl—come on—come on! We’ve got the girl!” Then the nightmare
shifted and he was running, Candon in front of him with something on
his shoulder that struggled and fought and screamed for help, then he
was stumbling over rocks, Hank helping him, Hank laughing and whooping
like a man in delirium, and shouting to the stars: “We’ve got the girl!
We’ve got the girl!”
Then came the glow-worm glimmer of the lamp by the boat, and the boat
with them all crowding into it, Chinks and all, and the musky smell of
the Chinks, the push off and a great silence broken only by the oars
and Candon’s voice crying, “Lord! she’s dead!” and Hank’s voice, “No,
she ain’t, only fainted.”
The _Wear Jack’s_ side with Charley showing a lantern, the getting on
board with their helpless bundle, and the vanishing of Candon with her
down the companion way to the saloon, then and only then did things
shake back to reality whilst Hank took both George’s hands in his. “Bo,
we’ve done it,” said Hank.
“We sure have,” said George.
Which was a fact—if they only had known.