A FIGHTING CHANCE
Mascola's boats advanced warily, spreading out and covering off the
defending fleet as they came. It would be a boat to boat, man to man
fight in the darkness.
Head-on, the opposing fleets collided with a crash which twisted their
keels and racked their timbers. Lights merged together and became
stationary as hull locked with hull in a grinding embrace. The alien
crews swarmed to the decks and leaped across the rail upon the American
sailors who surged forward to meet them. Fists flashed in the darkness.
Men met hand to hand. The night was filled with wild cries, the
trampling of heavy feet, the thud of contact of wood meeting wood and
flesh meeting flesh. From the center of the struggling mass of men and
boats came a sudden flare of light which dispelled the dark shadows cast
athwart the vessels and brought into bold relief the struggling figures
of the men who battled on the decks.
"Fire!"
The cry was taken up by every throat and echoed down the line. It came
to Kenneth Gregory on the extreme end of the left wing where he had
been directing the defense of his weakened quarter, by a
counter-flanking movement. A boat afire! And right in the center of his
fleet! When the tank exploded hundreds of gallons of burning distillate
would flood the waters. But he dared not think that far. Whirling the
_Richard_ about, and circling behind his line of boats he dashed away to
face the new peril.
The crew of the _Florence_ abandoned the attack at the first cry and
surged to the hold to fight the conflagration. A gasoline stove,
carelessly left burning by one of that vessel's drunken crew, had been
overturned by the shock of collision, and had fired the bilge. Fanned by
the rising winds, the flames were licking at the oil-soaked timbers and
spreading rapidly toward the tanks in the bow.
The alien crew of the _Florence_ fled in a panic of fear. Leaping to the
rail they flung themselves to the deck of a neighboring craft which was
already backing away from the ill-fated vessel. From all sides, friend
and foe alike drew away from the blazing fishing craft. For the time
being the sound of conflict gave place to the rasp of reverse levers,
hoarse cries of warning and the labored chug of heavy-duty motors going
full astern. In the ever-widening cleared space about the ill-fated
derelict the lurid waters were churned into a roseate foam by the
frenzied lashing of the heavy propellers of the fishing craft as their
masters sought to clear the dangerous area.
As the _Richard_ sped on in the direction of the ever-brightening
glare, Gregory's mind kept pace with the rapid pulsing of the high-speed
motor. He must tow the blazing vessel clear of the fleet before the
tanks exploded.
Dodging among the retreating fishermen he grazed the _Curlew's_ hull and
plunged into the open space. Warning cries sounded above the roar of the
flames but he did not hear them. His plan, formed on the instant, must
be put into execution at once. If it failed, the speed of the _Richard_
would carry Dickie to a place of safety. It was a fighting chance. That
was all.
Swinging the _Richard_ about, he drove straight for the _Florence_.
"Take the wheel, and stand by," he cried to the girl. "If the tank goes,
run."
He leaped from his seat as the _Richard_ breasted the blazing hull and
Dickie found herself gripping the big steering wheel before she could
utter a protest. Gregory was already in the stern of the _Richard_.
Grasping the stern-anchor chain of the speed-launch, he caught the
wire-stays of the _Florence_ and pulled himself aboard, dragging the
chain after him. For an instant he clung to the rail, shielding his face
with his arms. Then he scrambled on deck.
Holding the _Richard's_ stern close to the _Florence's_ bow, Dickie Lang
saw Gregory running across the deck. Saw his reeling figure silhouetted
against the white glare of the blazing cabin-house. Heard the rattle of
the heavy anchor chain of the alien fishing-boat. Keeping the _Richard_
in place with an effort against the wind and chop, she waited. He
expected her to stand by.
His hair singed by the heat, with blistering face and burning lungs,
Gregory dropped by the snubbing-post in the bow and tugged at the heavy
chain and knotted it about the block. Then he made the free end fast to
the chain of the _Richard_. Running to the rail he threw his body over
and hung by his hands, searching the air with his feet. Then he felt the
deck of the _Richard_ beneath him.
Dickie Lang had stood by.
The next instant he was again at the wheel and the _Richard_ lunged
forward.
"Steady," cautioned the girl. "Don't take the slack so fast. Hard a
port. Now kick your stern over. That's the stuff. Pay out. Now you've
got her."
For an instant the _Richard_ quivered with anger to find herself in
leash by the fiery incubus at her stern. Then she settled doggedly to
work and the two vessels began to gather way. To the right and left the
fishing-boats scattered before them. The tanks of the blazing tow might
explode at any minute. It was best to be in the clear. In the common
fear of the new danger the contending factions drew apart, friend and
foe uniting in the universal effort to gain a place of safety. The wind
caught the blaze and fanned it upward in a solid sheet of flame which
blistered the varnish of the _Richard's_ stern-deck.
"Get down," Gregory shouted above the roar of the speed-boat's exhaust.
Dickie started to protest when she felt herself jerked roughly from the
seat.
"There's nothing you can do now. Lie still. Keep your head covered." The
tone was gruff, the words commanding, spoken by a man. A man who thought
of the safety of others and placed it before his own. A man who was not
afraid to take chances. Dickie's heart glowed with pride as she huddled
in the _Richard's_ cockpit. It was worth while to know a man like that.
Mascola watched the progress of the burning _Florence_ from the deck of
the _Lura_. His blood-shot eyes gleamed red in the glow from the burning
vessel and the lust of destruction surged into his heart. He was losing
one of his best boats. Somebody must pay.
In the light of the fire he saw the vessels of the defense scattered.
Now would be his chance to crowd through to the fishing fleet. With the
wind and sea at his back he would pile them up on the rocks. Jumping to
the _Fuor d'Italia_ he sped away to direct the attack upon the heavily
laden fishing-boats.
Clear the fishing fleet and shunt the _Florence_ to the rocks with the
wind and current. For the space of a few seconds it was Gregory's only
thought. The rising wind at his back was hot with the fevered breath of
the burning tow. What did it matter if the heat was scorching his neck?
Only a few boats remained ahead. Then he would be in the clear. If the
tanks of the _Florence_ exploded he must crawl to the stern and cut the
tow-line. The crested waves began to slap angrily at the speed-boat's
hull. Then the _Richard's_ motor began to miss.
"She's all right. Keep down. I can----"
A muffled roar interrupted his words. The hull of the _Florence_ bulged.
A jet of flame mounted upward from the deck. The engine-house tottered
and collapsed in a shower of glowing sparks which filled the air and
rained down into the _Richard's_ cockpit. A stream of burning oil surged
up from the hull of the derelict and tumbled into the sea, blazing
fiercely on the crest of the waves.
"Take the boat."
Before the girl could gain the wheel Gregory was fighting his way to the
stern. As Dickie's fingers closed on the steering-wheel he was slashing
at the rope spliced to the chain. With blistered hands and burning lungs
he hacked at the tough strands of hemp with his pocket-knife. The
threads of the line snapped and crinkled from the heat. The water about
the speed-craft's stern was on fire. Tottering drunkenly, he bent low
and held his breath. The rope was more than half severed. The threads
were already parting from the strain. Then the knife slipped from his
blistered fingers and fell into the water.
Mascola witnessed the explosion of the _Florence's_ first oil tank with
a grim smile. The vessel was already clear of the fleet. She could do no
damage now save to the _Richard_ and her crew. With his eyes fixed on
the fire, Mascola prayed to his saints that the second and larger tank
might explode before Gregory could sever the tow-line. Fascinated by the
sight, he moved farther to windward and watched.
Kenneth Gregory's bleeding fingers tore at the straining fiber of the
quivering line which bound the _Richard_ to destruction. One by one the
threads snapped and curled in the heat radiated from the burning vessel.
Dickie Lang huddled in the driver's seat and jerked the hull of the
speed-craft frantically against the strain of the tow-line. For an
instant death held them by a single strand. Then the line parted and the
_Richard_ leaped to safety. The cool rush of air revived Gregory's
senses and he found himself leaning weakly against the coaming of the
speed-boat. Then he heard the girl calling from the wheel.
"Mascola's broken through."
He gulped in the moist sea air and groped his way forward. Far astern
the wreck burned fiercely, bringing into bold relief the frowning peaks
which fringed the shore-line of El Diablo. As he caught at the rail for
support he saw the flames leap skyward, blackened by smoke and bits of
timber. The waves burned brightly about the settling hull. Then came the
sound of the explosion of the _Florence's_ second tank.
"Mascola's broken through. Can't you hear me? Are you hurt?"
Gregory staggered to the seat and dropped beside the girl.
"I'll be all right in a minute," he said. "Keep going. I can't see very
well yet. You say he got through?"
"Yes. He's trying to crowd the fishing fleet to the rocks. Look!"
In the light that the burning vessel astern cast upon the waters ahead,
Gregory saw a confused jumble of boats crowded close against the
saw-toothed reef.
"Damn him!" he grated. "We'll beat him yet. Slow down. Give me the
wheel."
Dickie relinquished the steering-wheel with reluctance.
"We ought to be putting to sea," she observed as a sudden gust of wind
and rain assailed them. "This is a bad place to be caught napping."
Gregory's eyes glowed with the lust of battle. "No," he gritted. "We're
going to stay and fight. Mascola's not going to win on a fluke if it
costs me every boat I have."
In a frenzy of activity he threw the _Richard_ wide open and sped away
to gather his scattered boats for a flank attack upon the alien fleet.
Mascola was in high good humor. His boats were crowding the fishermen
backward in the direction of the reef. Forced to the rocks they would
have no chance in the face of the approaching storm. What was the loss
of the _Florence_ in comparison to the destruction of a dozen or more
fully equipped fishing vessels, laden to the water-line with their
valuable cargoes?
Repairing to the cabin of the _Lura_, the Italian refreshed himself with
a drink. A shout from without brought him hurrying to the deck. Bearing
down upon him at full speed came the cannery fleet. His vessels were
broadside. They would strike him full on the beam. Cut his boats in two.
Mascola shrieked out an order to put about and face the enemy. His
captains sprang to their respective wheels and battled desperately among
themselves for steerage way.
Then came the crash.
Skirting the mass of snapping grinding hulls, Gregory shot through with
the _Richard_ and came among the fishing-boats. Some were already
grazing the reef. A line from the speed-craft pulled them again to
safety and launched them around Mascola's rear. Fighting their way
through the press of the alien craft they circled and renewed the attack
from the opposite flank. Mascola's fleet was caught broadside between
the Americans.
The din of the battle mingled with the roar of the wind. Again men met
over the rail. Knives flashed in the sullen glare from the burning
_Florence_. Pistol shots echoed above the tumult and the air was filled
with flying splinters.
Slowly and inexorably Mascola's fleet was ground back. An alien craft,
reaching the clear space to the rear of the battle line, turned hastily
about and fled down the narrow channel leading to the sea. Another
followed. Still another.
Mascola strove vainly with shouts and curses to stem the tide of his
retreating vessels, but the boats brushed by him and continued on their
way. Soon the exodus became a rout with hull scraping hull in the effort
of the alien boats to gain sea-way in the channel.
In a few minutes the last of Mascola's fleet, leaking badly and settling
low in the water, lumbered by with rapidly pulsing motor in the
direction of Northwest Harbor.
"We beat him at his own game." Kenneth Gregory repeated the words again
and again. Blood flowed from a jagged cut in his cheek. His face and
hands were raw and blistered, but his eyes were shining with the light
of victory.
In the shadow of the _Pelican_ his arms closed about Dickie Lang and he
drew her to him. "We beat him," he cried. "You, and the boys, and I."
The girl struggled for a moment, then lay passive in his arms. He was
delirious from the fire and the battle. He did not know what he was
doing. Freeing herself with an effort from his clinging arms she drew
away.
"We must put to sea," she cried. "Before the storm breaks."
Gregory roused at her words and turned quickly away.
"Yes," he answered. "You're right. I forgot."
Within a few minutes the cannery fleet was heading down the main harbor
channel in the direction of the open sea.
Then the storm broke. Battling desperately into the teeth of the gale,
the fishing-boats plunged head-on into the curling waves. Lashing the
sea into white-caps, the wind picked up the water and hurled it to the
decks in great clouds of choking, blinding spray.
In a last dying flare the flames leaped upward from the charred hull of
the _Florence_ as she lay pillowed on the rocks. And in the feeble glow,
only Hawkins, who was looking astern, saw the shadowy outline of a long
gray boat nosing her way about the island.
The _Gray Ghost_ was running before the storm.