Those few minutes seemed hours. I was vitally anxious to see that
close-cropped little head above the water. I stood on the deck of the
_Sprite_, with rifle in hand, ready to fire.
I was conscious that the down line slightly moved, but did not dare
look too closely. The tide was bringing the Huns a little closer, and
all depended upon vigilance.
I was right in expecting a rifle barrel to show over the edge of their
boat. It came cautiously to view. I drew down on the spot, and the
instant a hatless head was raised enough to aim at me I got it. The
rifle fell back, discharging in midair. I knew that one Boche was done
for. The rest might be deterred for a time, but they were bad men in
desperate straits. Instantly I brought another cartridge forward. I
knew I was an easy mark standing there in the open. However, there was
no other attempt. They evidently had enough. I glanced at the down
line. It was still moving; and I knew there was life in the sea below.
Then I saw a small hand grasp the boat's side and heard a long gasp
for air. With one hand I helped her drag a heavy-bearded man aboard,
to all appearance dead, then with rifle in both hands I resumed
crucial watch of the Boche boat. I noticed her as she detached a heavy
cord from his belt, fastening it deftly to a cleet. Spongers fasten
their baskets to themselves that way. I knew the little girl, though
painfully struggling for air, was working rapidly. The Boches were
cowed enough for the time being. I glanced at her. She had a big
cushion under her father's stomach, and was putting her whole weight
on his back and chest at regular periods.
She soon seemed satisfied and placed the oxygen mask upon his face,
after taking several long drafts herself, and she then continued to
bear her weight upon his chest between breathing intervals. She had
told me that both she and her father had been resuscitated in that way
many times, and as soon as she had regained somewhat normal breathing
she began murmuring words of endearment, a sort of an incantation,
hypnotic in its effect.
"Daddy--Daddy, dear, can't you hear me? You are coming to now. You
will be back with me in a moment. Can't you hear me?" She would lean
over and speak into his inert ear, softly at first, then pleadingly.
In a moment there was an exclamation of joy that made my heart jump.
It was from the child. She was almost hysterical, now that her father
showed signs of regaining consciousness.
"I knew you would come back, Daddy. I am here. Don't you know me? This
is little Jim. I came to get you. Daddy, you know me now, don't you?"
she pleaded joyfully, her face lighting as victory neared, her
movements quick as a sparrow. The determined fierceness of a few
minutes before I could hardly comprehend.
The name, "Little Jim," gave me another distinct thrill. Somehow she
had never told me her name and I had never asked. I was contented to
know her as "little girl." But when she mentioned "Little Jim,"
evidently a pet name, as a charm to bring her father back to life, the
name of Canby took on a new significance. It was as though a window in
my memory flew open as I recalled that the schooner on which Howard
Byng used to ship paper to New York was named _Canby_, and probably
was the old wreck thrown up on the coral reef just outside their
little bay.
I could not tell in hours what happened in minutes then. At best I can
give but a poor impression of the fierce intensity of the situation.
Suddenly a new question arose in my mind. Where did Canby get those
ingots of lead or copper, wrapped in sharkskins? The fact that Bulow
and Company wanted to destroy him flashed through my mind. That I had
caught the Huns "with the goods" was all I could really think of then.
My theory was working out. It moved me to instant action. I must get
those men--the bulky man with a bandaged hand and the two
others--alive. Stupendous things depended on it. Danger meant nothing
to me then.
The Huns still kept out of sight, with no attempt at gunnery. I heard
a deep moan in the bottom of our boat, as of one coming out of an
anesthetic, augmented by the delightful endearments of the little
girl.
"Oh, Daddy, I knew you would come back. Don't you know little Jim now?
I am here to take care of you. Now you know me, don't you?" I glanced
to see that he was on his back and she was kissing his forehead above
the mask in frantic joy, a most remarkable filial demonstration.
"Is your father out of danger?" I called to her.
"Oh, yes--he is breathing the oxygen regular now and knows me; he
will be all right soon. Can I help you?" she replied joyfully. "He has
been that way often. So have I, when sponging."
"I must examine that boat yonder before it sinks. I want some heavy
cord."
She looked about for a moment and spied the cord she had taken from
her father's belt and tied to the cleet. She unfastened it and began
pulling it in, but she could raise it only part way. I took the rifle
in my right hand and assisted her with my left. In a moment we brought
up an ingot of copper.
"Daddy must have used this to carry the line to the bottom," said she,
but I thought of the heavy rolls of sharkskin leather in the
warehouse. She removed the cord and began winding it about her little
hand into a hank.
"Now, little Jim, I am going to use your boat to reach that wreck.
Time is important. Has your father a rifle aboard?"
"Yes," she replied exultingly. "And here it is."
"Now, I know you are a dead shot. While I start the motor and get our
boat over to the wreck, keep it covered."
An anxious glance at her father reassured her. He was breathing the
oxygen regularly.
"I can do that. Shall I just scare them?"
"Unless they come out with hands up, instantly shoot to kill," I
replied positively.
She brought the rifle across the gunwale, resting on one knee in the
cockpit, her body tense and alert. Her steadiness was inspiring. I
knew then that the man I most wanted, the man with the bandaged hand,
would know I was protected, for he had already tested her markmanship.
A moan came from the reviving father drinking the life-giving oxygen.
"Yes, Daddy, I will be there in a few minutes. Breathe the oxygen deep
and you will be up soon," she called to him affectionately, at the
same time gazing steadily along the rifle barrel trained upon the
Boche boat.
"Is there another 'terror' in the _Titian_?" I asked as I stepped
into the boat and pushed off.
"Under the stern seat," she replied, without taking her face from the
gunstock.
I started the motor of the little boat, swung around and came boldly
down upon the sunken bow of the Boche boat, fastened to it, and took a
position just in front of the cabin. There was no sound of life
inside.
I called to them to surrender and come out with hands up or I would
dynamite the wreck and send them to Hell there and then.
This order started muffled voices inside, but with no apparent
inclination to obey.
I repeated the order, and added, "I will give you just one minute to
line up or be blown up."
This last information produced animation.
I looked back to the _Sprite_. Little Jim's eyes were gleaming down
the rifle barrel like an avenging angel. The game was big and I was
after it.
The man of big girth came first, having to wriggle his way out of the
tiny cabin door, and stood facing me with his hands elevated as far as
his fat would allow. Then appeared another middle-aged, medium-sized
man, of a business-like appearance, who looked like a decent person
caught in bad company.
"Where's the other one?" I demanded.
"He's dead," instantly replied the man with the bandaged hand.
"I want to see him," said I, far enough away to use the rifle.
"I say he is dead--inside," the fat man replied in rather a surly
tone.
"Bring him out where I can see him," I demanded, not moving. "You
bring him out," I added, looking at the thin man.
Frightened and craven, he let his arms down, went in the cabin. He
returned soon, dragging out a body covered with blood. My shot must
have hit him fair.
The thin man then took his stand beside the fat one, and elevated his
hands again without an order, and both looked across at little Jim and
her deadly rifle.
"Who are you?" demanded the pudgy man with the bandaged hand. "What
right have you here?"
"An American citizen arresting a criminal caught in the act," I said,
proceeding to put the "Yankee Bridle" on his wrists behind him.
"You needn't tie us up like slaves. We are gentlemen," he urged
stoutly, but I ordered him to keep his mouth shut, which he did.
I then ordered the two men into the stern of the motor boat and
applied the same "Yankee Twist" about their ankles, fastening the two
of them together. The other man appeared dead.
I searched out and tossed into the motor boat everything of a private
nature, including some expensive hand luggage, afraid the boat would
sink.
I left the dead man on board and started with my prisoners at full
speed to where I thought the engineer and cook had possibly landed in
the riddled lifeboat.
I could soon see them lying on the beach. As I approached they started
away.
Running into the shore as close as I could, I fired at them, and they
stopped. It didn't take long to get and tie them up with the rest.
Without arms, on one of the barren coral islands that compose the
Tortugas, they knew they had no chance of escape.
I then returned to the wreck, taking the lifeboat in tow. Small air
compartments in each end prevented the cutter sinking entirely, but it
had drifted away from the anchored _Sprite_, on which I could see
little Jim moving about. Turning my attention to the "dead" man, I
found the bullet had hit him so high on his forehead it did not enter
his head, but had ploughed its way under the skin, the shock causing
insensibility. Drenching him with sea water soon developed signs of
life, and it wasn't long before he joined the sullen crew in corded
harness, his head bandaged the best I knew how.