ABANDON SHIP
"A fine place for defense," commented Jack, looking about him.
"If we keep down, they may not even discover us," said Mr. Temple.
The front wall of the little radio room was composed of stout wooden
panelling to half a man's height from the floor with glass above. Mr.
Temple, Bob and Jack knelt or crouched behind this protective screen,
their heads showing just above it, as they looked along the deck toward
the forecastle where the crew was housed. The forecastle door was
closed.
On the narrow deck below were two immense hatches opening into the hold
where when the trawler was legitimately employed, fish would be packed.
But "Black George" used that big hold in which to pack Chinese coolies.
Beyond the hatches rose a stout derrick, and beyond that the forecastle.
Behind the bridge and the radio room, or aft in the trawler, lay the
engine room. That way the view was cut off by the blank wall of the
radio room against which stood the instruments which Frank was now
trying to use.
"Listen," whispered Jack. "Frank's talking."
All three withdrew their gaze from the deck and glanced around.
"He's got the Sub Chaser," whispered Bob, gleefully. "Say, this is too
easy. Why, we'll have help here before the Chinese ever realize what has
happened. Hear that. Old Frank's giving the Sub Chaser our bearings
right now, just as Murphy gave them to him."
A slight scratching sound caused Jack to face about in alarm. The door
from the bridge stood slightly ajar, as they had left it on entrance. He
listened. Someone was creeping up the ladder. Now he was on the bridge,
creeping on hands and knees toward the door. Jack nudged Bob who was
next to him, and laid a hand on his lips. They as well as Mr. Temple who
was farthest away were all crouched so low to avoid being seen from the
deck that they themselves could not look out.
In the silence Frank's voice rang clearly:
"Prisoners, I tell you. Yes, that's our position. What's that? I can't
hear you. Hurry. This is ticklish. We've got their radio room, yes. They
haven't discovered us yet. But when they do, they'll cut off our juice.
We'll hold out, all right. But come your fastest."
The creeping sound outside had ceased. Jack could bear the anxiety no
longer. He raised his head cautiously. Nobody in sight as the deck came
into view. The door of the forecastle still was closed. He rose a trifle
higher to bring the bridge into view. Then he yelled as the door was
dashed inward against him, knocking him to the floor.
"Black George," tall, powerful, his head bandaged, his eyes aflame with
maniacal rage, stood swaying in the little doorway, crouched to spring.
Bob sprang forward. He had given his revolver, the one taken from "Black
George's" room, to Frank. He had retained the long knife, but the
unaccustomed weapon lay on the floor where he had placed it when he
knelt, forgotten. He was unarmed. Mr. Temple shouted in alarm, and
raised his revolver to fire. Then he dropped it again. He would hit his
son.
Bob's right fist shot out, but "Black George" dodged and the blow slid
harmlessly over his shoulder. With a snarl, "Black George" flung his
arms about Bob's waist. They reeled out to the bridge, tight-locked
together, swayed a moment on the edge, and then fell with a crash to the
deck at the foot of the ladder.
It all happened so suddenly that by the time he could regain his feet
and dash out to the bridge, Jack was too late to prevent the disaster.
Revolver in hand, Mr. Temple was a step ahead of Jack and started down
the ladder, with eyes only for the two figures below, apparently not
much hurt by the fall and writhing now on the deck. But Jack saw what
the older man missed, and shouted a warning.
"Look out, Mr. Temple, here they come."
Frank had heard the shouts. With a last word to the Sub Chaser, he
ceased radioing and ran out on the bridge. He too saw the menace, and
realized there was no time to lose.
For out of the forecastle, aroused by the shouts, seemed literally to
boil a dozen Chinamen.
Throwing up his revolver, Frank fired over their heads to scare them.
Jack did likewise. Then both boys leaped to the deck beside Mr. Temple,
who, oblivious of all but the danger to his son, was bending over the
latter as he threshed about at grips with "Black George."
Some of the Chinamen sprang behind the derrick. Others flung themselves
down behind coils of rope, several of which lay about the deck. In a
twinkling the deck was cleared. Not a human mark was left to shoot at.
Were they armed? That was the question the boys anxiously asked
themselves. The answer came quickly, not in bullets, but in a knife that
whizzed unpleasantly close to Jack's head, burying itself inches deep in
the bulwark behind him, where it stuck quivering, and in another that
struck the deck at Frank's feet and would have caught him in the stomach
had he not leaped backward in the nick of time.
"Fire a couple of shots to scare them, Frank," panted Jack, whose chest
was laboring with the excitement. "Keep them down while I help Bob.
We've got to get under shelter."
Obediently, Frank sent a bullet pinging into the derrick mast and
another into a coil of rope. The latter shot brought a howl of fright,
and a Chinaman darted from behind the rope and like a rabbit into the
open forecastle door. Frank sent another bullet into the deck behind him
to hasten his flight. The shots had a salutary effect, not a Chinaman so
much as poked forth an arm to fire weapon or throw knife.
Jack meanwhile leaped to where Mr. Temple was trying to pull "Black
George" from his son. But neither wrestler was willing to release his
grip.
"We've got to get under shelter, Bob," cried Jack. "Break away."
"Let me alone," panted the big fellow. "I've got him now. Ah."
And with a sudden mighty heave, Bob rose upward. "Black George" rose
upward, too. Over Bob's head he went hurtling through the air. They all
turned to look. There was a cry of anguish. Then a thud. Out of the
engine room door Engineer MacFinney, emerging at that crucial moment,
was met by the body of "Black George." Both fell to the deck together,
then rolled backward down the engine room steps.
Several shots from the direction of the Chinese thudded into the
bulwark. Frank replied.
"One of them behind the derrick has got a revolver," cried Frank,
pumping several more shots into the derrick mast. "Keep up the fire on
his position, Jack, so he can't take aim. I've got to reload."
Jack pressed the trigger. No result. He tried again.
"It's jammed," he groaned. "Mr. Temple, try your revolver."
The respite was enough for the armed Chinaman. Perhaps he saw Frank
working frantically to put a fresh clip of cartridges in his automatic.
He fired, just as Mr. Temple raised his revolver. The bullet sent the
weapon spinning. A yell of triumph went up from the concealed Chinese.
It was a critical moment. Another such shot, and the Chinese would be
encouraged to break from cover and make a rush across the deck. Frank
succeeded in reloading. But he was trembling so much from excitement
that he could not steady his hand sufficiently to pump his bullets into
the derrick mast as before, and the shots went high.
"This way, lads, quick," cried a voice.
It was Matt Murphy. He stood aft at the stern post, beckoning, and
beside him was the fat little Doctor Marley, white with fright,
trembling, wringing his hands. Bob, Jack and Mr. Temple started towards
him. Frank who had taken one swift glance around, called that he would
guard their rear and, sending an occasional shot along the deck, walked
backward after his companions.
"Come on, come on," called Murphy's voice impatiently.
What did he want? What was his intention? Frank found time to wonder.
Nevertheless, he did not relax his vigilance. Sending several more shots
along the deck, he bumped into a form and whirled about. It was Murphy.
Then the boy saw a boat in the water below, with the doctor and Mr.
Temple already in it, Jack climbing over the thwarts and Bob sliding
down the rope.
A yell of rage went up from several Chinese sufficiently courageous to
peer from their hiding places and realize that their prey were escaping.
"Give 'em another shot to hold them," commanded Murphy.
Frank complied.
Several Chinese who had gained their feet and started forward threw
themselves prone again on the deck.
"Now give me that gun," said Murphy. "I fixed your friend's gun for 'im,
so ye'll have one in the boat. And down the rope with ye, an' cast off."
"But, but----"
"No buts about it," said Murphy, roughly. "I heard ye callin' for help
an' I want none of Uncle Sam's men puttin' me in jail for the rest of me
life. Over ye go, Jonah, an' good luck to ye."