Arrived ashore, Captain Murphy hurried to the cable office, registered
his cable address, borrowed a code book and sent a code telegram to
his owner. Then, having subsidized the operator liberally to rush it,
Michael J. Murphy set out for a stroll among the limited attractions
of Pernambuco. His cablegram would get through in two hours at the very
most, and though the captain figured the Blue Star offices would
be closed when the message reached San Francisco, still he was not
discouraged. He knew the cable company always telephoned to Mr. Skinner,
at his home, all Blue Star and Ricks Lumber & Logging messages arriving
after office hours and before midnight. Naturally Skinner could be
depended upon to have a copy of the code at home, and if he didn't
Murphy knew he would rush down to the office, no matter what the hour,
and decode it there. Of course he would cable his reply immediately, in
which event it might be that the captain would have an answer shortly
after midnight or by breakfast at the latest.
He decided, therefore, to return to the cable office about midnight and
await the reply to his cablegram. He had proceeded but a few blocks from
the cable office, however, before a disturbing thought struck him with
such force as to bring him to an abrupt pause.
_His owners had cabled him in care of von Staden & Ulrich, when in the
telegram sent just before sailing from Norfolk he had instructed them
to cable him in care of the American consul._ Murphy's native shrewdness
had made him suspicious of von Staden the instant the latter had so
nonchalantly offered him a bribe of five thousand dollars, for
the proffer of a bribe of that magnitude, without any preliminary
bargaining, did not co-ordinate with Michael's idea of business.
Certainly if the charterers had his owners “fixed,” five thousand
dollars was too much money to give their captain, particularly since
there were available any number of capable rascals eager to do the job
for twenty-five hundred, and the devil take the consequences.
At the time von Staden had handed him the two cablegrams from the Blue
Star Navigation Company, no suspicion that they were forgeries had
entered the captain's mind; indeed, Matt Peasley's cablegram to him
appeared at first blush to be an answer to the telegram which Murphy had
sent his owners from Norfolk. In that telegram Murphy had mentioned his
suspicions and hinted at unwarranted risks and the possibility of
the circumstances attending the delivery of his cargo forcing his
resignation. Matt's cablegram handed him by von Staden urged him to
remain in the ship and assured him there were no risks; that if there
were, the charterers assumed them. For the nonce, therefore, the
master's mind did not dwell on any doubts as to the genuineness of
the orders he had received, even though he decided instantly as a
precautionary measure to confirm them before proceeding to carry them
out. This, however, was merely because he was suspicious of von
Staden and desired to obviate the possibility of that individual's
double-crossing the Blue Star Navigation Company.
Under the circumstances, therefore, he had considered it good policy to
appear to fall readily in line, and, the better to disarm von Staden's
watchfulness, he had demanded extra compensation. The ease with which
the bribe had been secured having crystallized his suspicions, instantly
he had cast about in his ingenious brain for a good sound excuse for
going ashore and cabling his owners. To demand his bribe in advance and
then announce that he would go ashore and express it to those dependent
upon him, in case he failed to return and enjoy it himself, seemed to
present a reason that would not be questioned and accordingly he had
done so.
Michael J. Murphy removed his uniform cap and thoughtfully scratched his
head. “Now why,” he demanded of the scented night, “did Matt cable me
in care of that German firm when he must have known I would call on the
American consul in the expectation of finding a cablegram there?” He
shook his head. “They've got us winging, Michael,” he soliloquized, “so
I suppose the only thing to do is to play safe, call upon the American
consul immediately if not sooner, and ask if he has a cablegram for us.”
And without further ado the worthy fellow sprang into a cab and was
whirled away to the residence of the American consul. Yes, the consul
had a cablegram for him, but it was at his office. Could Captain Murphy
not wait until morning?
Most emphatically Captain Murphy could not. That cablegram was
important; it meant a great deal of money and possibly life or death--
Regretfully the consul entered the cab with the captain, drove to the
consulate and delivered the cable-gram to the eager mariner, who swore
when he discovered it was in cipher and not code, for this necessitated
immediate return to the _Narcissus_ in order to obtain the key to the
cipher. He thanked the consul and sent the latter home in the cab, while
he hurried for the harbor front and the nearest boat landing. He was
filled with apprehension, for indeed there was something radically
wrong when his owners cabled him in the secret cipher of the Blue Star
Navigation Company--something the company had, doubtless, never found
occasion to do before. For while each vessel of the Blue Star fleet
had a copy of the A.L. code aboard, with the cipher key typewritten and
pasted on the second fly-leaf, not a single Blue Star skipper knew why
it had been pasted there or why the company should have gone to the
trouble of getting up any one of the hundreds of secret ciphers possible
to be developed from the A. L. Telegraphic Code. This was a secret that
lay locked in the breast of Mr. Skinner. It is probable, however, that
it had occurred to him in an idle moment that a secret cipher might
come in handy some day, and Mr. Skinner believed in being prepared for
emergencies.
The captain bade the launch wait for him at the accommodation ladder,
while he hurried round to his state-room and promptly fell to work on
Mr. Skinner's cipher cablegram. When he had laboriously deciphered it
this is what he read:
“Unaccountably failed note suspicious clause charter. Something rotten.
We are playing square game. Think plot deliver coal German fleet South
Atlantic. Discharge your German crew immediately, first notifying
Brazilian authorities and American consul. Have help when you notify
them game is off, otherwise may take vessel away from you. They will
stop at nothing; fleet desperate for coal. Cable acknowledgment these
orders; also cable when orders fulfilled. Very anxious. 'BLUE STAR
NAVIGATION COMPANY.'”
“Ah-h-h!” breathed Michael J. Murphy softly, but very distinctly. “So
that's the game, eh?” His big square chin set viciously; subconsciously
he clenched his hard fist and shook it at his enemies. “The cunning
Dutch devils!” he murmured very audibly, and at that precise instant
Herr August Carl von Staden stood in the open doorway. He coughed, and
Murphy glanced up from the translation of the cipher message just in
time to note a swift shadow pass over the supercargo's face, a shadow
composed of equal parts of suspicion, embarrassment and desperation.
“You have returned very promptly, captain,” he remarked smoothly, and
then his restless glance fell on the cablegram and beside it the scratch
pad and the two parallel columns of words scrawled on it. A man of far
less intelligence than von Staden possessed would, have realized as
quickly that the first column was composed of cipher words, while the
second column was the translation. From this tell-tale evidence his
suspicious glance lifted to the skipper's face, and he read in Michael
J. Murphy's black eyes the wild rage which no Irishman could have
concealed--which the majority of his race would not even have taken the
trouble to endeavor to conceal.
In that glance each learned the other's secret; each realized that the
success of his plans depended on the silence of the other; each resolved
instantly to procure that silence at any cost. Von Staden reached for
his hip pocket, but before he could draw his automatic pistol and cover
the skipper, Michael J. Murphy had hurled ten pounds of code book into
the geometric centre of the supercargo's face. It was the first weapon
his hand closed over, and he did not disdain it. The instant it landed
and von Staden reeled before the blow, Murphy came out of his state-room
with a scuttering rush and von Staden fired as he came. The captain felt
the sting of the bullet as it creased the top of his left shoulder;
then his right fist came up in a blow that started at his hip and landed
fairly under the supercargo's heart. Von Staden grunted once, the pistol
dropped clattering to the deck and he folded up like an accordion. For
him the battle was over.
Not so, however, with Mike Murphy. Gone to the winds now was the caution
he would have exercised had the attack been delayed two seconds longer;
forgotten was the shrewd advice of his owners to have help standing by
when the ship cleaning should commence. Michael J. Murphy thought of
nothing but blood, for the fight had started now and he was loath to
have it cease.
“You bloody murderer!” he growled. “You'd kill me and steal my ship,
would you?” And with the reckless abandon of a sailor he planted the
broad toe of a number nine boot in Herr von Staden's short ribs, hoping
to break a few, for in the process of working his way up from the bottom
Michael had fought under deep-sea rules too often to be squeamish now.
So he kicked Herr von Staden again, after which a glimmer of reason
penetrated his hot head and he walked to pick up the supercargo's
automatic pistol. Then something landed on him from above and he went
down backward. His head struck the deck with a resounding thump,
and Michael J. Murphy had a through ticket to the Land of Nod and no
stop-over privileges.
The something which had thus inopportunely dropped on Michael was Mr.
Henckel, the second mate. He had gone up on the bridge to see if
the canvas jacket had been dropped over the brightly polished brass
engine-room telegraph apparatus at each end of the bridge, in order to
protect it from the tropical dew. While thus engaged he had heard the
shot which von Staden fired at the captain, and forthwith had run across
the top of the house and peered over to discover what was happening
on the deck below. Discovering the captain in the act of kicking a
distinguished son of the Fatherland in that fragile section of the human
anatomy frequently referred to as the “slats,” the second mate had stood
a moment, immobile with horror, the while he gazed upon the fearful
scene. Then the captain walked to a spot on the deck directly beneath
the position occupied by his subordinate, and stooped to pick something
up.
Even their enemies are proud of the dash and gallantry, the utter
contempt for consequences, which animate the German going into battle,
and Mr. Henckel, second mate of the S.S. _Narcissus_, was as fine a
German as one could find in a day's travel. The instant Michael J.
Murphy stooped to recover von Staden's automatic pistol, therefore, Mr.
Henckel saw his duty and, in the language of the elect, “he went an'
done it”--the which was absurdly simple. He merely leaped down off
the house on top of the captain, and forthwith deep peace and profound
silence brooded over the good ship _Narcissus_, of San Francisco.
It is worthy of remark here that Mr. Terence Reardon who, had he been
present, might have had something to say--not that his action would
indicate that he despised Mike Murphy the less, but that he loved his
owners more--was unfortunately down in the engine-room. Consequently he
failed to hear the shot, and when he came up on deck the victims of
the affray had been collected and taken thence, a seaman with a mop
had removed the profuse evidence which Mike Murphy's rich red blood had
furnished and Mr. Schultz, the first mate, was on the bridge, while Mr.
Henckel was up on the forecastle head with his gang, waiting for the
order to break out the anchor.
Presently a seaman came up on the bridge and reported that the light in
Mr. Reardon's state-room had been out fifteen minutes. So Mr. Schultz
waited an hour longer to make certain the chief engineer would be
asleep; whereupon commenced a harsh, discordant tune--the music of
the anchor chain paying in through the hawse pipe. When it ceased Mr.
Schultz stepped to the marine telegraph; a bell jingled in the bowels of
the _Narcissus_; an instant later all the lights aboard her went out as
the first assistant engineer threw off the switch, and silently in the
heavy velvet gloom the great vessel slipped out of Pernambuco harbor and
headed south.