THE SIGNAL FROM THE FO’CSLE
The momentary flash of the electric torch had shown a picture that
remained stamped on Joe’s vision long after darkness had returned to
the scene. A confusion of busy men, a small crane leaning over the side
where a section of the rail had been removed, and, stretching from
crane well toward the middle of the deck, a line of spherical shapes
each lying beside a coil of cable and a smaller square object. Joe’s
heart jumped into his throat as the truth came to him.
The _Sundsvall_ was laying mines!
Then the recollection of Jack Higgins’ revelation in the forecastle
of the _Warren_ the night before flashed on him. New mine fields had
been discovered and none knew how they had been planted, but suspicion
rested on an unknown ship posing as a neutral! And Fate, he reflected
awedly as he slipped back into the farther shadows, had tossed him into
the sea, given him miraculous help in the shape of that floating mine
and at last had landed him on the very ship that was engaged in the
nefarious work! Crouching there in the darkness, Joe tried to think
calmly. There was nothing he could do to prevent the murderous work
from going on. His only course was to return unseen and unsuspected to
his bunk in the forecastle and wait until he was landed or transferred
to another ship. Then, however, he told himself with a sudden gripping
of his hands, the _Sundsvall_ would need to look out for herself!
He wished there was some way of finding the present latitude and
longitude so that he could locate the mines now being lowered into the
sea, but there was no way of getting that information without having
access to the chart or log, and that was far too dangerous. Once
suspected of having witnessed the ship’s operations his life would
be worth even less than it had been a dozen hours ago! They would
simply knock him on the head, in all probability, and quietly drop him
overboard: in which case he would not only be of no further use to
himself but of no further use to his country and her allies. No, the
only course was to wait and secure his release from the _Sundsvall_,
and with that settled in his mind he began to retrace his steps toward
the bow. He had reached a point midway between bridge and forecastle
when a gleam of light shot across the water. Startled, he stood in his
tracks and turned.
A mile away, according to his reckoning, a searchlight was flashing the
three dashes of the International Code that stood for O and signified
“Who are you?” From the bridge came a sharp exclamation and as Joe
dashed for the shelter of the companion, footsteps came running along
the deck and shouted orders broke the silence of the night. Suddenly a
sharp stream of white light shot from the bridge and the _Sundsvall’s_
shutter clicked and clicked as she answered. Joe, ready to flee if
anyone approached the companion, watched and read. The operator at the
occulting light was slow, but he answered with painstaking care and a
fine avoidance of abbreviation.
“_Sundsvall_, Sweden, Stavanger to Santander, in ballast,” replied the
steamer.
Again the distant light twinkled. “Why are you off your course?”
“We have strained our propeller shaft and are making repairs,” answered
the _Sundsvall_ without hesitation. There was a long silence from the
other ship, and then, finally, the laconic: “Right!” flicked over the
sea.
Joe was already hurrying down the short companion-way, his thoughts
racing fast through his mind. The unseen questioner was undoubtedly a
patrol ship. She was only a mile distant. If――――
He stared eagerly about the forecastle. Overhead a single electric
light burned pulsatingly and dimly. On each side were two ports, closed
and carefully covered inside the glass by painted canvas. Joe stepped
to the door of the passage, unhooked it, closed it and shot a rusty
bolt. Then with trembling fingers he tore the covering from a port on
the starboard bow and, unfastening the round frame containing the glass
pulled it open. If only the lookouts aboard the patrol had sharp eyes!
With a jump he reached the table and his hand fumbled for the key at
the electric lamp. To his dismay it had none. But in the next instant
an expedient occurred to him and he quickly unscrewed the bulb until
connection was barely severed and the forecastle was in darkness.
For as long as it took his heart to beat a half-dozen times he stood
motionless in the gloom, one hand on the electric bulb. Then he turned
it slightly to the right and the light came on. For a second it
continued. Then darkness once more. Again light, but this time only a
quick flash. Again darkness. And so, slowly and anxiously, he formed
of dashes and dots the single letter that is the “negative” of the
British code. And when it was done he started again. And then, to
make assurances doubly sure, he changed to the dash-dot-dash of the
International. A long minute passed. In the brief moments of darkness
between signals he strove to look through the port and find the patrol.
But he was too high and the patrol was out of his range of vision. He
tried the negative in the secret code of his own country then, and
was half-way through with it when a glare of light swept through the
port and made a shaft of white brilliancy across the forecastle. It
glared for an instant and then passed away, but Joe knew that it was
travelling slowly toward the vessel’s stern, wafting up and down,
playing on deck and masts and bridge. And even as he leaped from the
table heavy footsteps pounded in the passage, a body was hurled at the
door and fists beat on the heavy woodwork.
But the door held firmly and only wild, guttural threats entered. Joe
backed away and looked about him for a weapon. Nothing more deadly than
a stool presented itself and he seized that and poised himself near the
door. Fortunately, it opened toward the passage and those beyond could
only tug and beat. As he stood there, awaiting what he felt must be the
inevitable so soon as one of his besiegers thought to fetch an axe,
he found a grim pleasure in picturing the scene on deck. The patrol
would have put her blinker on now and would be impatiently questioning.
The throng at the _Sundsvall’s_ rail would have scattered under the
searching beams of the light. On the bridge the painstaking signal man
would be spelling out lies. If only the patrol didn’t allow herself to
be hoodwinked!
Suddenly he felt the jar of the engines, and his heart leaped. “The
fools!” he muttered joyously. “They’re trying to run away! They can
never do it and they’re showing their hand!”
The blows and imprecations outside the forecastle door ceased for
a moment as though in response to an order from beyond. Then feet
scuffled and a ship’s axe dug its blade deeply into the upper panel
of the door. And simultaneously the white glare of the distant
searchlight sprang in again at the open port. Again the axe crashed
into the splintering wood. The steamer was fairly shaking now with
the reverberations of her hurrying screws, and the seas were pounding
against her nose and swishing past the open port. Joe, stool held aloft
to greet the first head that appeared, watched in a horrid fascination
as the axe blade bit and smashed at the panel. The disc of white
radiance travelled from the bunks to the forward partition, as the
_Sundsvall_ swung to port, and came to rest squarely on the yielding
portal. A gaping hole appeared and the muzzle of a revolver was thrust
through. Joe flattened himself against the bulkhead as the report rang
out. Then the stool descended swiftly and the revolver clattered on the
floor.
He reached out with his foot and drew the weapon toward him until he
could reach it without placing his body in range. Beyond the door a
howl of mingled pain and anger had followed the swift descent of the
stool, and now several voices arose in threats and curses. The axe
tore at the frame beyond the bolt and the blows drowned the sound of
the throbbing engines. Joe spun the cylinder of the revolver. It was
six-chambered and five cartridges remained. To hold the door after the
bolt had given would be impossible. He thought swiftly. Well forward
in the narrowing forecastle an upper bunk――they were built in tiers
of three――was so draped with swaying garments that it was almost as
if curtained. He appraised its possibilities and then listened in an
effort to judge of the number beyond the portal. He thought there were
four men there. Evidently he had gained possession of the only revolver
amongst them, which suggested that the force was composed of one
officer and three men; possibly four. He could, he knew, shoot through
the door and trust to luck, but cartridges were few, and, if truth were
told, he had little stomach for it. The searchlight which for a full
minute had lain on the door in a round disc now moved slowly aside and
the place was left in darkness.
Stool in hand, Joe crept away toward the bunk. Then he was crouched
up there in the unrelieved gloom, his eyes trying to pierce it in the
direction of the door. What he knew would happen happened. In the
darkness the besiegers could safely reach in and draw back the bolt,
and this they did. Joe heard the door grate softly and then slam back
as it was pulled quickly outward.
Lying face down on the upper bunk, with evil-smelling garments swaying
past his face, the hand holding the revolver stretched out and down,
he waited a brief instant. Then a footfall sounded and he pressed the
trigger.
In the darkness the flame from the barrel made a quick flash of
scarlet. There was a sharp cry of anguish, mutters and silence.
Joe strained his ears, his heart beating faster than the rapid
_thump-thump_ of the racing engines. He knew they had located him by
the flash of the revolver, but they would have to climb to get him.
A groan broke the silence that held above the sounds of the ship, and
steps shuffled in the passage. Were they drawing off? He waited, finger
trembling on trigger. Then a sound like a deeply-drawn breath came from
beneath him and he pointed toward it and fired again.
The spouting flame lit up a snarling countenance just below the bunk.
He swung the muzzle toward it, but at that instant a hand gripped
his wrist. Instinctively he pulled the trigger. A bullet crashed
downward toward the floor but the grasp on his wrist only tightened and
strained. He could no longer hold the weapon and his fingers relaxed.
He heard the revolver thud on the boards below. Struggling, he strove
to beat off his assailant, but his blows fell harmlessly. He was being
pulled over the edge of the bunk. He tried to find something to hold
to, but couldn’t. His captor grunted a word, was answered from the
darkness and in a moment other hands were about Joe’s legs and he was
pulled into space.
He fell crashing to the forecastle deck, but the violence of the
fall was in a measure broken by the men beneath him, for even in the
darkness and confusion he was aware that one of the enemy had gone down
with him. With his breath half driven from his body, he could only lie
there in a litter of garments pulled down in the struggle and gasp. And
then they were on him.
Blows rained about him, and only the darkness and the fact that the
enemy hindered each other, saved him for the moment. A giant fist
grazed his forehead and crashed onto the boards. Joe wrested an arm
free and struck blindly upward and got home under a bearded chin. The
grunt that answered the blow filled him with savage joy. Kicking,
thrashing, heaving under the weight of other bodies, he fought madly,
regardless now of punishment. Hands groped at him, at his legs and
arms, at his throat. He tore them aside. But the struggle was far too
uneven to endure long. They had his legs helpless now, crushed under
the weight of a great body. Then one arm was pinned to the floor and
a big hand closed merciless fingers about his throat. He tried to
tear them off, but it was no use. A knee settled on his free arm, the
fingers tightened and tightened. He struggled until the perspiration
stood on his forehead. Lights danced before his eyes crazily, a great
sound of roaring filled his head and his straining muscles relaxed. A
last wondering thought came to him on the verge of suffocation: this is
the end!
And then, coincident with the thought, a great crashing sound beat on
his brain, a sound that seemed to fill the world with its monstrous
voice.