they were afraid to run her under the continual scrutiny which the
company put upon her. She was broken up and her gear sold for junk.
That was the end of her.
It was thoroughly believed that the treasure was planted somewhere on
the course we had taken during the chase, and many fishermen dragged
the sea on that line in the hope of reward. But nothing came of it, and
a year passed.
The time came for the doctor and his pal to get out, for the law which
cut the prison term to one-half for good behavior was now in force. I
watched the papers, and tried to keep posted, but nothing was printed
about the convicts.
One day the doctor and his partner came aboard just as we were leaving,
and spoke pleasantly to me. They had taken second class and return to
New York. It was pure nerve, I thought, but the regulations allowed
them the privilege, as they might not, under the "undesirable-citizen"
act, be allowed to land in the States.
They took no pains at all to hide their identity, and greeted me most
cordially when I met them on deck the first day out. I asked them about
their sojourn in Dartmoor, and they talked freely, telling of the
rigors of prison life.
"But it is all over now," said the doctor. "We will live our lives as
we always have, clean, honest, without fear and without reproach. We
were innocent, as you know."
"Perhaps so--but what became of the gold?" I asked cynically.
"Ah, yes, the gold," murmured the doctor. "To be sure there was some
doubt about the--what shall I call it?--the disposition of the treasure
that the robbers worked so hard for. That will always be a mystery."
I thought differently. I had by the process of elimination long ago
come to the conclusion that the gold never left the ship in Europe.
The strange way they had taken their baggage ashore, their ostentatious
manner of taking out the heavy trunk and lowering it over the side in
full view of all was evidently meant for a purpose.
Why had they taken so much trouble to let all see its weight? Why had
they dragged it with them when, after all, it contained apparently
nothing but old iron? That it was to cover up the real effort of
disposition was growing more and more plain to me, but, then, where
could they have planted the heavy weight of gold?
They could not have dropped it in mid-ocean--that was absurd. It did
not occur to me for a long time that the hour down the bay from New
York out to the lightship might suffice to enable them to cut into the
through safe, which, of course, would not be opened until the other
side was reached.
It was upon a return voyage that an incident occurred that started my
line of research upon the American channel.
I noticed that in going down the bay we were forced--owing to the great
length of the ship--close to the Southwest Spit Buoy. The turn here
is abrupt, and, while the tide runs swiftly, there is a certainty of
position always for a large ship.
A smaller vessel might swing well out, but a vessel of the _Prince's_
size could not. Then the idea of the buoys marking the line at close
intervals came to me. It was just what they would desire for marking
their cache.
They could make a note of position, and drop their swag so closely
to an established position that there would be no trouble at all in
picking it up, even after a year's submersion.
The trunk must have carried the hot-chisel outfit, the electrical tools
for cutting, and these the burglars had tossed into the sea at the
first opportunity, afterward filling the trunk with junk for a blind,
feeling sure we would think it held the treasure.
I had studied the process of cutting with an electrical jimmy, the
melting of the plates, and I soon came to the conclusion that the job
was done, finished before the ship left soundings off Sandy Hook.
The pair were seemingly not well supplied with money, and I determined
to watch them after they got ashore. By some strange freak the
inspectors passed them, and they disappeared in the city, leaving no
trace.
"I want a two-weeks' leave of absence," I said to the old man that
night, "and I want it right away--I'll get the gold we lost or lose my
job. I'll take the third mate with me. Smith knows them."
There was some trouble getting officers to fill our berths on such
short notice, but the old man had some faith in me, and let us go.
I drew a hundred dollars in pay, and we went right to Brooklyn and
chartered a fast and powerful launch.
Then we ran over the course the ship always steered on her run out the
main ship channel, going close to the Southwest Spit Buoy.
We did not come back to town again, but remained in the boat for two
days and nights, coming in only to get gasoline and supplies, and then
keeping right on the run in and out to sea.
It was lonesome work, and we passed many small boats daily, but none
had the men we hoped for in them.
The third evening, just about dark, we noticed a launch running for the
red buoy at the turn of the channel near Sandy Hook. We both were much
disguised, being rigged with false beards and uncouth clothes.
In daylight no one would have recognized us thirty feet distant, and at
night we might have talked to our best friends without detection.
As we came in, running very slow, we noticed a boat with two men in her
near the Southwest Spit Buoy. The boat had stopped, and the men were
doing nothing. They seemed to be waiting for something.
We came past, sitting well below the gunwales of our craft, but
watching the other boat. When we came within fifty feet Smith sank
below the coamings.
"That's them all right," he whispered.
I watched the pair from the corner of my eye, and headed away from the
vicinity, keeping well down in our boat, and showing nothing but the
back of an old battered hat.
It was the doctor and his pal, and they were at work. They stood back
and forth across the channel a few times, and one of them held a line
towing astern. It was evident that they were dragging a grapnel over a
certain part of the channel marked by the buoy and bearings upon Sandy
Hook.
Before we were half a mile away, they were hauling in the drag, both at
it with all their strength, and we knew they had struck something.
It was necessary to decide at once what to do. If they had the cache,
we would find it; if they had hold of something else or were simply
playing to throw any one off the scent, they would keep their secret.
We decided to take the chance.
I swung the launch around, and opened her up to the limit. In an
instant we were flying toward them at fifteen miles an hour, and
within two minutes were in hailing distance. They saw us coming, and
hesitated. That hesitation made me sure of our game. They would not let
go the cache unless something dangerous was about to happen, the danger
of losing it altogether being too great. Smith jumped up, revolver in
hand, as the launch came tearing up.
"Hands up--stop that drag," he yelled. "We've got you, Doctor Jackson."
A flash flicked the gloom, and a sharp "pop" sounded, followed by
another and another. Smith dropped his gun, and fell into the bottom of
the boat.
"They got me," he gasped.
Then he raised himself upon his knees and, while I headed the flying
craft straight for them and opened fire, Smith rested his revolver upon
the coamings, and shot the doctor through the head.
Then the launch crashed into their craft, going at full speed, and her
sharp nose cut straight in a full foot and a half before she stopped.
The young man who had shot my third mate was snapping an empty gun at
me as he went over the side into the sea. I stopped the engine, and
jumped for him.
He dived, but as he came up I hit him over the head with a boat hook
that lay handy, and before he sank I had caught the hook into his
collar and dragged him alongside.
Then I lifted him into our boat, and as his face came close to mine I
recognized him as the former "wife" of the doctor, the robber who had
masqueraded as a woman and who was evidently the electrical expert of
the pair.
I passed a lashing upon him quickly, and then went to Smith. My poor
friend and shipmate was gasping in pain, lying upon the boat's bottom.
I examined him, and found two wounds, one through his arm and another
through his chest, both bullets being from a high-powered automatic and
having passed cleanly through.
In a few minutes I had anchored the wreck of the launch which had
swamped to the gunwales, and was running for the fort at the Hook,
where I arrived fifteen minutes later, with Smith unconscious.
Here I turned him over to the surgeon and, getting help from the
officer in charge, I ran quickly back to the buoy. The dead body of the
doctor was still lying in the swamped boat, and the men removed it.
Then I got a pull upon the drag line, and was not surprised to find it
caught to something very heavy. Three men helped me haul it in, and it
came slowly.
A bight of chain appeared upon the surface. We caught hold of this,
and hove it in also. At each end were iron boxes weighing at least two
hundred and fifty pounds each. In spite of our misfortunes I gave a
yell. It was the gold at last.
Young Simpson told how it was done after he had been turned over to the
authorities. He had already been sentenced for the crime, and would
therefore not have to suffer again, having served his term.
He told glibly how they had done the job during the two hours they
had after the treasure room was closed and the ship warping out and
down the channel. The time had been ample, and the rest of the voyage
was just to cover up, to throw us off the track. They had the cutting
outfit in the trunk that had weighed so heavy, and had taken it away to
throw overboard, which they did long before we came near them in the
schooner.
They had kept the trunk, but when they saw we were after them they
had sunk it with a buoy, knowing that we would probably see it in the
smooth sea and were aware of the old smuggler trick of sinking treasure
down at the end of a fine line and small mark.
Then they had decided to make no resistance, believing rightly that
the easiest way was the best. They had taken their sentence based upon
the circumstantial evidence in the case, and they were just about to
get their treasure when we nabbed them. They had originally intended
to get it in their schooner at their leisure, but we had stopped that.
The location of the buoy at the turn of the channel marking the run to
sea was a safe place to drop anything. It would hardly be disturbed for
some time.
The heavy, small iron boxes had been made purposely for the work, and
the chains connecting them had been long enough to cover fifty feet, or
cross enough space to insure picking it up without delay when dragged
for.
The old man smiled when I reported for duty, but was sad at the thought
of our young third officer, who would be an invalid for many days.
"They are going to give him the first mate's berth in the new ship to
be out next season," said he, "and I'm mighty glad of it--he deserves
something."
"That's correct--he sure does, he worked hard, and took risks--and
Smith is a good man anywhere, a good navigator also. But did you hear
anything about me?" I asked.
"Sure; you're to stay right on here--chief officer, but they're going
to hand you one thousand dollars for taking one hundred and twenty-five
from the bottom--don't that satisfy you?"
"Mighty well indeed--mighty well indeed," I replied. "Shake, captain."
THE JUDGMENT OF MEN[A]
I had rowed in for fresh beef. The weather was cold, the water rough
and when Wilson asked permission to go up town to get tobacco, I let
him go and made my own way to the ship-chandler's, where we men of the
sea usually bought our supplies and sometimes spent an hour or two
discussing primage freights and other things pertaining to shipping.
There were two big five-masters lying just outside of us in the
channel and their masters were known to me. One of them had picked me
up at sea from a derelict and the other was Bull Simpson, well known
on the coast. Simpson was much given to gregariousness. Johnson was
companionable, but quiet, and I knew they would be in Jackson's store
that morning, for they would clear the next day.
The day was in midwinter. The gloomy sky whipped by the nor'wester
showed signs of snow. How one hates snow at sea! The nasty white stuff
making the decks like glass, hiding everything from view. The harbor
was white with the scrape of the cold wind, and the salt water froze
where it struck in spray. Yes, I would go to Jackson's store. The
shipping looked too gloomy to contemplate any longer. I thought of the
frozen fingers handling canvas stiff as tin.
The stove, a ship's bogie, was red hot in the back room. Simpson was
there, long, lean and solemn. So was Johnson there, but he was smiling,
smoking and so glad to be in harbor that it stuck out all over him.
Captain Cone, master of a tramp steamer, sat near and warmed his fat
toes, his pudgy hands red with frost.
"Go back, they're all there," grinned Jackson to me, as I passed the
desk. "Thought you'd gone to sea--sech fine wedder--for gulls--what? Go
back an' set in, Cap; I'll come back for your order presently."
"Hello, you look cool," said Johnson, smiling up at me from his chair.
"Glad to see you--set in," said Simpson, making room for a chair near
the bogie. "Shake hands with Captain Cone of the _Prince Albert_--Cone
has a good tea-kettle for this weather--don't you wish you ran a tramp?
Please? No, I didn't hear that last----"
I bowed to the Captain. A captain of a tramp was something new to us.
We seldom had any but sailormen in the group and British skippers
were always looked upon as a rarity. Still they were always welcome.
Cone stuck out his pudgy hand. I squeezed the fat fingers until he
winced and withdrew them. I never cared for pudgy-handed seamen--just
prejudice, a meanness, but it couldn't be helped. We can't help
everything, we must be human, and Cone took it good-naturedly--was way
above such things. He showed it by spitting voluminously at the bogie
and remarking it was very cold to go to sea.
Simpson didn't like it at all. He showed it, grumbled something about
Yankees and stiff-necked folks, then subsided while I lit up and gazed
complacently at Johnson. We talked of various things until Cone rose,
buttoned his coat and went into the office to fill his order. Simpson
glared at me for a moment.
"What's the use of being so damned short with the Britisher? What's he
done?" he asked.
"It's what he hasn't done I object to," I answered. "Stupid, heavy
brute----"
Captain Cone came back and extended his hand. "Good-by,
Simpson--good-by, gentlemen--hope you'll have better weather of it
to-morrow."
I noticed that he held out his left hand; it was the left hand that was
so pudgy, so fat and soft. His right hand was gloved and the fingers of
the glove were stiff, straight.
"Good day," I said, rising, "and good luck to you." Johnson nodded also
and the stranger withdrew, followed by Jackson who saw him to the door.
"Wake up," I said to Simpson. "Don't think I meant anything, but these
Britisher tramp skippers are the limit. High ideals! lots of feeling!
Human as a beef and twice as heavy--after dinner. Where did he blow in
from?"
"He came in for coals to take him to Brunswick--he'll load for lumber
there and go back home--hope he'll get a better reception than he got
here--he's a member of the English Masters' Association; you might have
been kind to him," said Simpson.
"Was he the man they fired from the Association last month? Seems to me
I heard of a Cone--seems like he was accused of brutality or something,
lacks humanity--looks like it, anyway," said Johnson.
"Yes, he was fired--yes--by God, he was," snapped Simpson, "and it
was just such judgment that gets lots of good men into trouble.
'Lacked human sentiment'--lacked human sentiment--well, that's a
charge for you! Hell! you fellows get narrower and narrower--I
happen to know Cone, knew him years ago--he was fired for losing the
_Champion_--'lacked human sentiment,' bah! Oh, now you remember him,
heh?"
"Yes, we remember him--the man who lost a fine ship in collision in a
clear night," said I, with something of a sneer. "But that wasn't the
worst of it----"
"Yes, you read the damned papers--you got a fine idea of it all,"
snapped Simpson. The old seaman turned and spat viciously at the bogie
as if the poor old stove, red-hot, had done him some grievous wrong.
Then he turned scornfully to Johnson.
"You remember the _Champion_? You know something about her, you ain't
so damned stuck about yourself. I happened to be aboard of her the day
she sailed, talking to Redding, her chief mate--Redding, that was lost
in the _Arctic_--yes, Redding was as straight as a string--and he told
me the details of that accident after he came from the hospital--too
late. He was nearly a year in the insane ward from a blow that smashed
his head, but he told me about Cone.
"Yes, it was Cone who left his wife--so they said--left her, deserted
her and the children. It was Cone who acted in every disgraceful way
the old women tell about, Cone who raised hell and paid the devil
wherever he went, Cone who only got command of the _Champion_ after
pulling shares and playing the game for all it was worth--no, don't
tell me--don't, I say--I don't want to hear about what he did. I'll
tell you how he lost the ship, and you say you'll believe anything poor
Redding said--so would I. If there was truth in any man it was in Dan
Redding--poor devil."
"Yes," I assented, "Redding was all right."
Simpson scorned to notice me. He talked at Johnson, or rather talked
at me through Johnson, over him, and--Simpson could talk, talk like an
Admiralty lawyer with two noggins of rum under his ribs. Jackson came
in and took Cone's vacated chair. He rubbed his hands. Cone had been a
good buyer, had needed plenty of stuff--and he got it at the highest
rates. Jackson approved of Redding also, approved of him for the sake
of memory--Redding had always paid a full bill--never asked rake-off,
_pourboire_, "graft," or other money from him.
"You heard all that stuff about Cone, too," said Simpson, sneeringly at
Jackson; "and I dare say you believe it like a good old woman you are,
but I'll tell you just how he lost the ship--if you believe Redding.
"They cleared at daylight, bound for St. John's--had twenty passengers
first class and about seventy second--no steerage those days. Redding
said the weather was hell and something worse from the time they
dropped the land, and you men know how it is on the coast in the winter
time. The old _Champion_ came across and poked her nose into the fog
bank off Sable Island--bad place? Well, I reckon it is. Bad because you
can't tell where the devil you are and can't keep any kind of reckoning
in that current. That Sable Island bank is nearly as bad as Hatteras
for us windjammers.
"Cone slowed his ship that last morning--according to Redding--slowed
her down to a few knots, made the passengers keep off the decks in
order to have peace and quiet aboard. One old lady didn't like it at
all. She insisted she had a right to go where she pleased aboard--told
the skipper so to his face and dared him to put her below. Some of the
other women folks followed her example--did Cone do it? Well, he just
called his quartermaster and told him to remove the objectionable old
women, told him to carry them below if necessary--and that square-head
did. Yes, sir, he just picked up the leader and carried her off in his
arms while she screamed and clawed him, calling to the men to save her
from the brutal assault.
"Oh, yes, he got a nice name for that. The passengers told how
he acted, told how he brutally made his men remove innocent and
unoffending females--oh, what's the use? He was a brute and they made
it out plain--it was all published in the papers.
"It was along about five o'clock and the sun must have been well along
to the nor'west horizon, tho' of course he couldn't see it in the
fog--that a horn blared out faintly right ahead. The man on lookout
heard it--for it was now quiet on deck--and the siren roared out its
reply. Then he got a faint blow right off his starboard bow, a blow as
if from a small fishing schooner. He kept along blowing regular blasts,
kept along very slow.
"Right out of the setting sun a bit of wind seemed to make. It lifted
the bank enough to show him a four-masted ship standing right into him
not two hundred feet from his bow. She was heeling with the growing
breeze and going about six knots or better with just a white bone
across her forefoot. Cone rang off his engines.
"It is in these moments, you know, that things happen. Had Cone rang
ahead full speed like Chambers did in the old _Lawrence_, rang and
shoved into her full swing, he would have either gone clear or cut
out enough to give her his stern on the turn and probably not sink
either ship. He kept to the rules by British force of habit of abiding
by them--and, well, the _Potomack_, under three skysails and shoving
along with four thousand tons of cargo in her, hit him fair upon the
side while he was swinging to port. The ship's jibboom reached over
and drove a hole through the deckhouse first, poked right through and
ripped off his blowoff pipe, letting the steam come roaring out of
her, and then the heavy forefoot sunk like a wedge fair in her, right
in the wake of her engines. It was the worst possible place to get
it--you know that--right in the wake of the engines and close enough
to the engine-room bulkhead to smash it so it was useless. Then it
cut, shore down under the water line, and there he was with a hole in
him big enough to drive in a trolley car, a hole and nothing but the
forward bulkheads to hold him up--no, he was badly hit, hit right in
the vitals, and the roar of the steam told him plainly that the ship
was going to be put to it to float.
"Then came the usual panic.
"Cone tried to stop it, tried to stem the tide of passengers. His
officers were good, but Redding was hit on the head by a block from the
maingaff vang and while Cone was trusting to him to take charge aft, he
set to work forward to get the boats out in ship-shape and seamanlike
order. His second was a new man--Billings--a blue-nose he knew nothing
about, but a good enough fellow to take charge. He and the third
officer stood the crowd back for a time and got the port boats over.
"You see, it was smooth and there wouldn't have been much trouble, but
the passengers had a grouch against Cone, hated him. The women thought
him a brute and the men had heard so much from them about his private
life, his affairs, his general rascality, they wouldn't stand it any
longer. They rushed it and two were shot, one fell overboard and
another was badly hurt. These were the only casualties--strange, wasn't
it? Only passengers hurt were those who were trying to save themselves
from the brutal and overbearing Cone.
"The _Champion_ settled quickly by the head, her nose getting well
down. This had the evil tendency of lifting her stern so high that the
boats couldn't be handled easily. It stopped the flow of the sea to a
certain extent, but it was too late to do anything to help that now.
The fireroom force came up, they were literally drowned out, forced to
quit, and the engineers came forward and told of the useless steam--not
enough to run the pumps. Then Cone knew it was get away while he could.
"Cone stood on the port side of the flying bridge, stood there and
roared out his orders, wondering why Redding didn't respond to the work
cut out aft. He saw no boats going over where Redding should be tending
to them, and when the crowd finally surged forward he had to let them
come, had to let them get into the boats there. Oh, yes, he was charged
with not holding them back, not being able to command his ship, but
man, he had to let them come forward, it was only the fighting ones who
insisted in getting first places and taking charge that got hurt.
"The _Potomack_ lay to and sent in her boats, sent in four big
whaleboats and one dinghy. The water wasn't rough--any good boat would
live a long time--and Cone let them take off his passengers as fast
as they could. He was well scored for it afterward; they told how he
couldn't do it himself, and if it hadn't been for the _Potomack_ he
would have lost all his passengers.
"When the _Champion_ settled Cone was still standing there on the
bridge, standing there and he knew what it meant to him.
"'You'd better go along, sir,' said Billings, 'we're going in the next
boat.'