He slept soundly, and as he slept the wind blew up from the east,
driving the mosquitoes to cover and bringing with it a damp,
impenetrable fog that sank down over the navy yard and hid sentry from
sentry, compelling them to count their steps as they paced.
They were scattered through the yard, at various important points, one
at the gangway of each ship at the docks, others at corners and
entrances to the different walks that traversed the green lawn, and
others under the walls of the huge naval prison.
One of these, whose walk extended from corner to corner, heard
something, and paused often to listen intently, his eyes peering around
into the fog. But the sound was not repeated while he listened--only as
his footfalls sounded soggily on the damp path were they punctuated by
this still, small sound, that he could not localize or remember.
If asked, he might have likened it to the rustling of paper, or the
sound of a cat's claws digging into a carpet.
But at last it ceased, and he went back and forth many times without
hearing it; then, when about half-way from corner to corner, a heavy
body came down from above, landing on his head and shoulders and bearing
him to earth, while his rifle was knocked from his hand and big fingers
clutched his throat.
He struggled and endeavored to call out. But the grip on his throat was
too strong, and finally he quieted, his last flicker of consciousness
cognizing other dropping bodies and the muttered and whispered words of
men.
So much for this sentry.
"I know the way," whispered the garroter, and a few gathered around him.
"We'll make a bee line for the dock and avoid 'em. Then, if we can't
find a boat, we'll swim for it. It's the only way."
"Right," whispered another; "fall in here, behind Jenkins--all of you."
The whispered word was passed along, and in single file the dark-brown
bodies, each marked on knee and elbow with a white number, followed the
leader, Jenkins. He led them across the green, around corners where
sentries were not, and down to the dock where lay the destroyer.
Here was a sentry, pacing up and down; but so still was their approach
that he did not see them until they were right upon him.
"Who goes--" he started, but the challenge was caught in his throat. He,
too, was choked until consciousness almost left him; then the stricture
was relaxed while they questioned him.
"Got a boat around here?" hissed Jenkins in his ear. "Whisper--don't
speak."
"No," gasped the sentry, unable to speak louder had he dared.
"How many men are aboard the destroyer?" was asked.
"None now. Crew joins in the morning."
"Nobody on board, you say? Lie quiet. If you raise a row, I'll drop you
overboard. Come here, you fellows."
They closed about him, thirteen in all, and listened to his project. He
was a pilot of the bay. How many machinists were there in the party?
Four claimed the rating.
"Right enough," said Jenkins. "We'll run her out. She's oil fuel, as I
understand. You can fire up in ten minutes, can't you? Good. Come on.
Wait, though."
Jenkins, with his grip of steel, was equal to the task of tearing a
strip from his brown prison jacket, and with this he securely gagged the
poor sentry. Another strip from another jacket bound his hands behind
him, and still another secured him to a mooring cleat, face upward. This
done, they silently filed aboard, and spread about through the interior.
The sentry had spoken truly, they agreed, when they mustered together.
There was no one on board, and the machinists reported plenty of oil
fuel.
Soon the fires were lighted, and the indicator began to move, as the
boilers made steam. They did not wait for full pressure. Jenkins had
spread out a chart in the pilot-house, and when the engines could turn
over he gave the word. Lines were taken in except a spring to back on;
then this was cast off, and the long, slim hull moved almost silently
away from the dock.
Jenkins steered by the light of a match held over the compass until
there was steam enough to turn the dynamos, then the electrics were
turned on in the pilot-house, engine room, and side-light boxes--by
which time the dock was out of sight in the fog, and they dared speak in
articulate words. Their language was profane but joyous, and their
congratulations hearty and sincere.
A table knife is an innocent and innocuous weapon, but two table knives
are not, for one can be used against the other so skillfully as to form
a fairly good hack saw, with which prison bars may be sawed. The sawing
of steel bars was the sound that the sentry had heard mingling with his
footfalls.
Jenkins, at the wheel, called to the crowd. "Take the wheel, one of
you," he ordered. "I've just rounded the corner. Keep her sou'east, half
south for a mile. I'll be here, then. I want to rig the log over the
stern."
The man answered, and Jenkins departed with the boat's patent log. Down
in the engine and boiler rooms were the four machinists--engineers, they
would be called in merchant steamers--and under their efforts the
engines turned faster, while a growing bow wave spread from each side of
the sharp stem.
The fog was still thick, so thick that the fan-shaped beams from the
side lights could not pierce it as far as the bow, and the forward
funnel was barely visible--a magnified black stump.
Jenkins was back among them soon, remarking that she was making twenty
knots already. Then he slowed down, ordered the lead hove, each side,
and ringing full speed, quietly took the wheel, changing the course
again to east, quarter north, and ordering a man aloft to keep a lookout
in the thinner fog for lights ahead.
In a few minutes the man reported--a fixed white light four points off
the starboard bow, and a little later a fixed white-and-red flashlight
two points off the port bow.
"Good," grunted Jenkins. "I know just where I am. Come down from aloft,"
he called, "and watch out for buoys. I'm going out the South and
Hypocrite Channels."
Then a dull boom rang out from astern, followed by another and another,
and Jenkins laughed.
"They've found that sentry," he said, "and have telephoned Fort
Independence; but it's no good. They've only got salute guns. We passed
that fort twenty minutes ago."
"Any others?" they asked.
"Fort Warren, down on the Narrows. That's why I'm going out through the
Hypocrite. Keep your eyes peeled for buoys, you ginks, and keep those
leads going."
Calm and imperturbable, a huge, square-faced giant of a man, Jenkins
naturally assumed the leadership of this band of jail-breakers. The
light from the binnacle illuminated a countenance of rugged yet
symmetrical features, stamped with prison pallor, but also stamped with
a stronger imprint of refinement. A man palpably out of place, no doubt.
A square peg in a round hole; a man with every natural attribute of a
master of men. Some act of rage or passion, perhaps, some non-adjustment
to an unjust environment, had sent him to the naval prison, to escape
and become a pirate; for that was the legal status of all.
Soon the wind shifted and the fog cleared to seaward, but still held its
impenetrable wall between them and the town. Then they turned on both
searchlights, and saw buoys ahead, to starboard and port.
Jenkins boasted a little. "I've run these channels for years," he said,
"and I know them as I know the old backyard at home. Hello, what's up?"
A man had run to the pilot-house door in great excitement.
"An officer aboard," he whispered. "I was down looking for grub, and saw
him. He's been asleep."
"Take the wheel," said Jenkins, calmly. "Keep her as she goes, and leave
that black buoy to starboard." Then he stepped out on deck.