SMERNOFF PAYS HIS DEBT
While the boys had been relating the story of their astonishing
experience, Sam had been talking with Jules and other members of the
village. Now, as some of the women approached bearing trays of food
for the strangers, he rose and, accompanied by Jules, walked over to
the hut where the boys and the others were seated.
“Ah been havin’ a extended conversationin’ with Mr. Jules,” the
Bahaman announced, in his odd stilted manner which invariably amused
the boys, “an’ Ah’s fo’med the opinion that th’ info’mation he’s
imparted is mos’ highly important an’ wo’thy o’ consideration, Chief.”
“Yes, well, what is it, Sam?” inquired Mr. Pauling as he helped
himself to the smoking viands.
But at Sam’s first words Mr. Pauling, and even the famished Rawlins,
forgot all about their hunger and the appetizing food before them, for
the Bahaman’s story was to the effect that Jules and his fellow French
West Indians were just as keen on getting the “reds” as were Mr.
Pauling and his party. According to Jules’ tale, a number of their
friends and members of their families had settled on Trade Wind Cay
and had been living a peaceful happy life, raising goats, fishing and
cultivating tiny garden plots, when a party of white men had arrived
and without warning or reason had butchered the West Indians and
burned their homes, exactly as Smernoff had described when questioned
in New York.
It was not this story of cold-blooded massacre which was of such
intense interest to the Americans, but the Fact that Jules calmly
informed them that he not only knew where the “devil boat” was hidden,
but that he could actually lead them to the cave where the murderers
lived.
“Phew!” whistled Rawlins. “I’ll say you tumbled into the right camp,
boys! So old Frenchy here’s into their hangout! If that isn’t the
all-firedest piece of luck! Lead us to ’em, old sport, lead us to
’em!”
“By Jove! if it’s true everything is coming our way,” declared Mr.
Pauling, “but let’s be absolutely sure first. Ask him how he knows his
friends were killed, Sam. And why he has not complained to the
authorities and demanded justice. Ask him why, if it is true and he
knows where these men live, he has not tried to avenge his friends’
death. Ask him what they look like, tell him to describe some of them
and the ‘devil boat’ as he calls it.”
Sam turned and began talking to Jules and the others in patois.
“Well, true or not I’m going to have grub,” declared Rawlins. “I don’t
eat with my ears, though; I’m almost sorry I can’t, I’m that hungry.”
For several minutes the negroes chattered and gesticulated, their
voices often rising excitedly and vehemently. Then, at last, Sam
seemed to be satisfied and addressing Mr. Pauling explained that Jules
said that two men had escaped from the Cay. They had been fishing and
when returning, saw the massacre and realizing resistance was hopeless
got away from the place in their boats unseen. He then went on to
state that Jules had complained to the Dominican authorities, but had
been laughed at; strange negro squatters—in the minds of the
Dominicans—were of too little consequence to bother with and had no
legal standing; and moreover, Trade Wind Cay did not belong to Santo
Domingo. In fact, it was a port of No Man’s Land claimed by Haiti,
Santo Domingo, the Dutch and a British corporation and its real
ownership had never been settled. Jules and his followers had never
avenged their friends merely because they feared to injure any white
man knowing that summary arrest, a farcical trial and death would
follow and so, as the next best thing, they had worked spells, had
placed Obeah and had danced Voodoo in the vain hope of bringing
disaster on their enemies. Indeed, Jules declared that their dance of
that night had been for this purpose and that when the boys had first
arrived the negroes had felt sure that their heathen gods had
delivered their enemies into their hands, but that the “devil box” had
spoken in English and they knew their enemies used another tongue.
Jules’ description of the submarine was too accurate to leave room for
doubt that he had seen it and the boys, at least, were convinced that
he had seen the “reds” when Sam repeated Jules’ description of the
red-bearded giant, the dark man with the earrings, the thin fellow
with the Kaiser-like mustache, and several others.
“I’ll say he’s got a line on ’em, all right!” declared Rawlins, as Sam
finished his translation of Jules’ description and statements, “and by
glory! I’d hate to be in their shoes if these buckos ever get their
hands on ’em. Say, did you notice that one of the bunch he described
would be Smernoff to a ‘T.’ Wonder if any of ’em recognized him?”
“By Jove!” ejaculated Mr. Pauling. “I hope not, I’d forgotten he was
one of the murderers. If they see him and recognize him we’ll be
looked upon as spies and enemies. Better run down and warn him,
Rawlins. He’s in the boat, asleep probably. Tell him to keep his face
hidden or to daub it with mud; or anything and tell the quartermaster
to see that he does it.”
Rising slowly and stretching himself as if nothing unusual had
occurred, Rawlins strolled off towards; the landing place while Mr.
Pauling kept Jules and his friends busy with questions and suggesting
plans by which they could aid the Americans.
When the negroes discovered that Mr. Pauling and his friends were
looking for the murderers and would make them prisoners if found, they
were highly delighted, and Jules assented instantly to guiding the
Americans to the cave and the submarine and offered to bring a number
of his men along to help.
They were still discussing these plans and Rawlins had almost reached
the edge of the clearing when a shot rang out, there was a savage
yell, and the next moment Smernoff appeared at the edge of the trees,
waving a pistol in his hand and backing away as if from an unseen
assailant.
The next instant, he leveled his pistol, there was a flash, another
report and then, before the wondering onlookers could move, before
they could utter a cry, a figure hurled itself from behind a tree.
There was a flash of descending steel, a dull thud, and the Russian
plunged forward on the ground. Standing over him, whirling his
bloodstained machete about his head and yelling in fiendish glee was a
huge gaunt negro.
With two bounds Rawlins was upon the man from behind; before another
blow could fall he had pinioned his arms in a vise-like grip and as
the others raced towards the scene of the tragedy Rawlins struggled
and strained to wrest the deadly machete from the negro’s grasp.
Mr. Pauling was the first to reach Smernoff’s side. That the fellow
was mortally wounded was evident at a glance. Across neck and shoulder
extended a deep, gaping gash that had almost severed the head, but the
man was still breathing and Mr. Pauling bent over him.
Suddenly the Russian’s piglike eyes opened and into them flashed a
look of such malignant, unspeakable hatred that Mr. Pauling drew back.
As he did so, the gasping, dying man hissed a curse between his
blood-covered lips, and with a last superhuman effort drew up his arm,
aimed the pistol at Mr. Pauling’s head and pulling the trigger dropped
back dead. So close to Mr. Pauling’s face was the weapon that the
blast of blazing powder singed his hair and filled his eyes with
acrid, smarting smoke and burnt powder and with a hoarse, choking cry
he reeled backward. But before the horror-stricken boys could cry out
he was upon his feet, wiping his eyes, coughing, shaken, but unhurt.
Death had missed him by the fraction of an inch, by a split second.
Smernoff had waited a thousandth of a second too long to wreak his
treachery; death had robbed him of his vengeance; life had flown from
him at the very instant he had pressed the trigger and he had paid his
debt without adding another to his long list of crimes.
It had all happened in the twinkling of an eye. From the moment when
Smernoff’s first shot had startled them until he had breathed his
last, not half a minute had elapsed and now all was over. The negro
who had settled his score with the murderer of his family no longer
resisted Rawlins, but stood regarding the mutilated body of the
Russian with much the same expression that a hunter might wear when he
has brought down a tiger or a lion. Sam was trying to convince Jules
that Smernoff was a prisoner who had escaped; Bancroft and the boys
were hovering about Mr. Pauling striving to make sure that he was not
even scratched; and Rawlins was explaining matters to the
quartermaster who had come from the boat on the run at sound of the
shots.
“I’ll say he was a dirty skunk!” declared Rawlins, “And I thought he
was straight and reformed. Guess once a ‘red’ always a ‘red.’ Blamed
if I ain’t sorry I didn’t let him drift. By glory! for all we know
he’s been tipping his friends off by radio or something. Well, that’s
that for him.”
Then, turning towards the negro executioner, he gave that individual
the surprise of his life by slapping him heartily on the back.
“Guess you saved us the trouble!” he cried to the amazed man who had
expected nothing short of being summarily killed for taking a white
man’s life. “Here, shake!”
Although the negro understood not a single word, yet Rawlins’ tones
and gestures were unmistakable and with a surprised grin he seized the
diver’s outstretched hand and pressed it firmly.
“I guess he’ll be a good boy to have along with us,” Rawlins
commented, as he picked up Smernoff’s pistol and pocketed it.
“Rum lot, them Russians,” remarked the quartermaster as he spat
contemptuously into the bushes and regarded Smernoff’s body
impartially. “I never trusted of him, Sir, and I kept me weather eye
on him. I’m thinkin’ he no more than got his reward, Sir.”
The boys, now that they were convinced that Mr. Pauling was unharmed,
glanced at the dead Russian and turned away with a shudder.
“Just the same I’m rather sorry for him,” declared Frank. “Of course
he was a beast and tried to kill you, Mr. Pauling, but somehow it
seems terrible to see a man cut down that way!”
“Death’s a terrible thing in any form,” said Mr. Pauling as he led the
boys away. “But don’t waste pity on him, Frank. He was a murderer many
times over and would have ended on the gallows or in the electric
chair if he had not met death here. He richly deserved his fate and
you cannot blame the negro for killing him. I thank God that his dying
effort to murder me was frustrated by his own violence.”
Sleep was out of the question after the exciting events and the final
tragedy of the night, and now the first faint light of dawn was
showing in the east.
“We’ll start as soon as it’s light enough,” announced Mr. Pauling.
“Jules and a few of his men will go along. He’d like to send a crowd,
but they’re of no use. They have no arms and I have no intention of
taking any chances or undue risks. I wish to locate the submarine and
the hiding place of these men. There is a remote possibility that we
may take them unawares or find but a few there, but I trust mainly to
locating them, then sending for Disbrow and his bluejackets and
attacking the rascals’ lair with an overwhelming force.”
“Well, of course you know best,” assented Rawlins. “But personally,
I’d like to take along this bunch of wild men and sail into those
‘reds.’ I’d back these bush niggers with machetes against any
sneaking, bomb-throwing Bolsheviks that ever grew whiskers.”
“Undoubtedly,” smiled Mr. Pauling, “but I’m not leading any party into
peril with the boys along.”
“Yes, you’re dead right there,” agreed Rawlins earnestly. “Some one
would most likely get hurt and we can’t risk the boys. Well, any time
you say the word, I’m ready.”
Half an hour later, the party set forth. Jules with four men—among
them the powerful negro who had cut down Smernoff—led the way in a
narrow dugout and Rawlins chuckled as he noticed that every man
carried a naked, razor-edged machete beside him and that two were
armed with old muzzle-loading guns. Unknown to Mr. Pauling, he had
slipped Jules the Russian’s pistol and he felt confident that, should
occasion arise, the Martinicans would, as he put it, “give the ‘reds’
some jolt.”
Silently as ghosts, the West Indians paddled through the waterways of
the vast swamp, following, with unerring instinct, the channels and
leads they knew, but leaving the white men hopelessly confused as to
the direction in which they were traveling.
They had proceeded steadily for more than two hours, the sun was high
in the heavens and the boys were wondering how on earth they could
have drifted so far while they slept, when Jules’ canoe swung sharply
to the left, his men ceased paddling and an instant later it grated
upon a low clay bank with the boat close behind it.
With a signal for silence and caution, Jules stepped ashore, gave a
few whispered orders to his men, and led the way up a narrow, almost
invisible trail.
Close at his heels followed Rawlins, Mr. Pauling, the two boys and
Sam, while the quartermaster and Bancroft remained in the boat beside
the canoe in which Jules had left two of his men.
“Guess there won’t be any fighting just yet,” Rawlins remarked to
himself. “Just a bit of scouting likely.”
Noiselessly as shadows the negroes slipped along the trail with the
leather-shod white men striving to make as little sound as possible
and ever climbing higher and higher up the steep hillside. Finally,
after ten minutes’ steady walking, Jules halted, crouched down and
crawled forward on all fours, signaling for the others to do the same.
As they reached his side they found themselves at the summit of a high
hill with a precipitous side facing the swamp and thus leaving an
unobstructed view of all below and before them, while they were
effectually hidden among the dense growth of ferns and broad-leaved
plants.
Jules pointed and in a low whisper muttered “devil boat!” Hemmed in by
the labyrinth of mangroves and winding channels, and apparently
completely surrounded by the swamps, was a large lagoon and towards
the side nearest them a large dark object loomed above the placid
water.
All this they took in at a single glance. Before them, there upon this
hidden lagoon within the fastnesses of the mangrove swamps, was the
long-sought submarine.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” exclaimed Rawlins under his breath. “Blamed
if the darned sub isn’t sunk!”
“Sunk?” repeated Mr. Pauling inquiringly. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t you see?” muttered the diver. “She’s wrecked, sunk, on the
bottom. Look how she’s keeled over. Must be full of water! Look at
that smashed conning tower; the hatch is open and the water’s half
over it. Say, I’ll bet that shot of mine bumped ’em more than I
thought. Must have ripped things loose. How the dickens they got in’s
a puzzle to me. Must have had emergency hatches or bulkheads or
something. Whatever ’twas the old sub’s done for now. Say, they’re
trapped! They can’t get away! I’ll say that’s luck! By glory, we’ve
got ’em right by the neck!”
“You’re right,” affirmed Mr. Pauling, after carefully scrutinizing the
submarine. “She’s evidently deserted and useless. Yes, they’re
certainly trapped—that is, unless they clear out overland. As soon as
we locate them we can summon Disbrow and make the raid. They certainly
cannot escape by water.”
Elated at the thought that luck was with them, that the “reds” were
marooned, and that within a short time they would be on their way home
with their prisoners, the party followed Jules down the hill to the
boats.
“Now for the big secret!” remarked Rawlins as they embarked. “If old
Uncle Tom here’s got the right dope we’ll be there in time to look in
on ’em at breakfast. Hope they’ll be at home.”
Jules grinned, chuckled, and significantly patted his keen-edged
machete. Only now and then could he grasp the meaning of an English
word, but he knew, with the African’s primitive instinct, what the
diver was talking about. He had proved the accuracy of his statements
by showing them the “devil boat” and he rejoiced to think that he
would soon see the murderers of his friends led away as captives to
meet their just punishment.
“You bet!” nodded Rawlins as he noted Jules’ gesture, “I’ll say you’d
like to use that pig-sticker, old boy; but hold your horses. Don’t go
losing your head and rushing in where angels fear to tread and
spilling the beans before they’re ready to serve. Just make him savvy
that, Sam!”
“He say he understand, Chief,” replied the Bahaman when he had, after
some difficulty, translated Rawlins’ speech into the limited
vocabulary of Martinique Creole. “He say he mos’ careful an’
circum-spec’, Chief. He quite assimilate the importance of carry in’
out yo’ comman’s mos’ precisely, Chief. Ah’ve impressed it upon he an’
he nex’ fr’ens. Yaas, Sir, Ah’ni sure he quite comprehen’s, Chief.”
Tom chuckled. “You _are_ funny, Sam!” he exclaimed. “If you use
as big words in patois as you do in English I’ll bet he didn’t
comprehen’ a bit.”
But whether or not Jules understood the importance of being
cool-headed and obeying orders, it was certain that he had assimilated
the necessity of proceeding with caution and in silence and his
upraised hand and low “Psst!” warned the boys that even whispers must
cease. Very slowly and carefully, avoiding the least splashing of
paddles, bending low as they passed beneath overhanging branches, the
negroes crept along the narrow channel—a slender ribbon of water
scarcely wide enough to accommodate the boats—until, when it seemed
as if they could go no farther, the canoe slipped into a mass of lily
pads and reeds and Jules, stepping into the shallow water, drew it
silently upon a shelving bank. When all had disembarked, he turned,
crouched low, squirmed through the fringe of underbrush and with the
others at his heels came out into fairly open forest. Once more he led
them along a game trail, but this time the way led up a gently sloping
ridge and in a few moments he came to a halt.
Creeping forward, he beckoned to the Americans, while his negro
companions melted into the shadows. Before them was a narrow valley
with a small stream flowing through the center and directly across
from where they lay among the bushes was a conical hill, its farther
side lapped by the waters of a small semicircular bay or estuary that
cut deeply into the land. Along the banks of the stream were
cultivated lands; plots of banner-leaved plantains and bananas, small
gardens of cassava, beans, yams and corn; numerous fruit trees and the
dark foliage of coffee; while upon the sides of the hill were groves
of coppery-tinted cacao trees with here and there lofty coconut palms
towering over all. Half-hidden in the greenery, the roofs fallen in
and evidently deserted, were the remains of once large buildings; a
stone bridge spanned the stream, and at the edge of the bay were the
tumble-down remnants of a dock.
Evidently, at some former time, the place had been a well-kept and
prosperous plantation, but now everything appeared abandoned and
deserted, although the gardens were carefully cultivated and attended
to.
“Humph!” muttered Rawlins. “Don’t look as if our friends lived there.”
Jules whispered a few words to Sam.
“He says as how tha’ men mek they abidin’ place in the hill yonder,
Chief,” interpreted the Bahaman.
“In the hill?” murmured Mr. Pauling. “Ah, of course, in a cave! But
where _is_ the cave?”
Sam put the question to Jules.
“Tha’s the entrance, Chief, tha’ dark spot beyon’ tha’ clump of
cabbage pa’m, Chief,” announced Sam in whispers.
“Well, I’d like to have a closer squint at it,” declared Rawlins. “I
vote we go over and say ‘howdy’ to ’em.”
“Odd that there’s no sign of life or smoke,” commented Mr. Pauling. “I
don’t see a soul. Surely they must have a boat.”
“He says as how tha’ boat goes out an’ in tha’ cave by water, Chief,”
explained Sam. “Tha’s a’ openin’ on tha’ water side also, Sir.”
“Foxy old guys, eh?” muttered the diver. “Don’t intend to be caught in
there like rats in a trap. Well, I won’t rest easy till I know they’re
there. I’ve a hunch our birds have flown.”
“You’ll never get there without being seen—that is, if there are any
men about,” declared Mr. Pauling.
“Not down this way, I admit,” replied Rawlins. “But we can sneak down
around the head of the valley, keep back of those thick rose-apple
trees that make that hedge above the yam field and work around the
base of the hill until—— Thunderation! What’s that?”
From just beyond the brow of the hill, cutting through the clear
water, leaving a tiny trail of bubbles behind it, a small object was
moving swiftly from the land across the bay. The next instant it was
gone.
“Shark!” declared Mr. Pauling.
“Shark nothing!” cried Rawlins leaping up. “It’s another sub! I’ll be
jiggered if they haven’t cleared out! Given us the slip! Come on,
who’s afraid! Atta boy! I’m going to that cave!”
Before any one could stop him, the diver had burst through the foliage
and was tearing down the hillside and so contagious is excitement
that, without stopping to think, Mr. Pauling dashed after him with the
boys close behind, while Jules and his men, thinking apparently that
the signal for an attack had been given, sprang from their hiding
places, and with waving, flashing machetes and blood-curdling shouts
bounded down the slope with the quartermaster, blowing like a porpoise
and crashing through the brush like a herd of elephants, bringing up
the rear.
The sudden appearance of the company, the flashing blades, the savage
yells, the glint of sun on rifle and pistol would have proved most
disconcerting to any one lurking in the valley or the caves, while the
noise made by the two-hundred-pound sailor lumbering through the dense
undergrowth must have sounded like the onslaught of a score of men. In
fact, it was the sudden rush, the surprise, the reckless charge which
Rawlins had counted on to win the day, for he had seen the value of
such tactics on the Flanders battle front and on one occasion, with
but two companions, had captured a German machine gun and crew without
a scratch, by just such methods.
To reach the bottom of the hill, dash across the valley, cross the
bridge and rush up the short slope to the mouth of the cave took less
time than to tell of it, but before the bridge was gained Jules and
his men were beside Rawlins, Mr. Pauling was at his heels, and the
boys were but a few paces in the rear. Heedless of shots that might
come from the cave at any instant, Rawlins and the half-crazed negroes
tore up the slope, dodged back of the palms, and with a yell leaped
into the cavern with upraised blades and cocked weapons. But not a
shot echoed through the rocky chamber, not a blow was struck, not a
voice answered Rawlins’ demand for surrender. The cave was empty,
deserted, silent as the tomb!
For an instant Rawlins stood gaping about, while the negroes lowered
their weapons, drew back a step as though afraid, and jabbered
excitedly among themselves. Then the diver grabbed off his hat, hurled
it on the floor of the cave and swore volubly and vehemently.
“Of all the rotten luck!” he cried as Mr. Pauling and the others
reached the cave panting and out of breath. “They’ve gone! Vamoosed!
Cleared out! Given us the slip! That _was_ a sub we saw. Another
one. They were wise to us.”
As he spoke, he strode into the cave and the next instant gave a
shout. “Look here!” he yelled. “Regular hang-out! Electric lights,
beds, billiard tables, and by Jiminy! even a phonograph and a piano!”
It was perfectly true. Just within the entrance of the cavern, a heavy
curtain was hung across and beyond this the great, vaulted,
subterranean chamber was furnished with every luxury and convenience.
There were no partitions—merely draperies and curtains of rich
tapestry, satin and plush, but no palace on earth could boast such a
ceiling with its vast arches, its thousands of gleaming, snow-white
and cream-tinted stalactites and no millionaire’s mansion ever had
such walls of scintillating, multicolored dripstone that gleamed and
sparkled like myriads of jewels in the light of the clusters of
incandescent lamps.
The floor, covered with upjutting stalagmites, had been chiseled and
chipped smooth, leaving the shorter columns as supports for tables,
stands for rare vases and beautiful statuary, while the great columns
where stalactites and stalagmites joined were surrounded by luxurious
cushioned seats and hung with pictures. At one side was a grand piano,
in a corner was a Victrola, and in two smaller chambers were brass
beds and luxurious bedroom furnishings. At every step the boys and
their elders exclaimed in wonder and admiration at the luxury and
richness of the furnishings of the great cavern. Beyond the first hall
was a smaller, narrower chamber, equipped with a huge range and the
latest cooking and kitchen devices; beyond this was a small connecting
cave where a dynamo and gasoline motor were installed, while far
overhead, in the most remote corner, was a tiny aperture in the roof.
Presently Rawlins, who had been nervously and hurriedly searching
everywhere in the hopes of routing out at least one member of the
gang, gave a ringing cry which instantly brought the others to his
side.
“There’s the secret to the place!” he announced triumphantly, pointing
down from a ledge of rock whereon he stood. “There’s their get-away.
I’ll say, they’re clever!”
At this spot, the floor of the cabin came to an abrupt end, dropping
in a sheer precipice some fifty feet to a huge pool of dark blue
water. But from the verge of the wall a slender ladder led down, its
foot resting on a narrow ledge of rock in which several large
ringbolts were set. Scattered upon the ledge were coils of rope,
tackle blocks, a broken oar, some wire cables and other boat-gear,
while beyond, and so perfectly reflected in the glass-like pool that
it appeared like a complete circle, was an arched opening with a
sunlit strip of water visible through it.
“Get the idea?” asked Rawlins, as the others gazed about. “There’s
their dock and there’s where they came in and went out with their sub.
But not with that big one that’s knocked galley west out in the
lagoon. No, this old boy lived in some style I’ll say—didn’t practice
all the socialist Bolshevist stuff he preached, I guess—and had his
own private sub, instead of a limousine, tied up handy at his back
door. Hello! There’s a paper down there! By crickey! perhaps they
dropped something!”
Hurrying nimbly down the ladder, Rawlins stooped, picked up the bit of
paper which had caught his eyes and a mystified, puzzled look spread
over his face. Slowly and with an odd expression he climbed the
ladder.
“Hanged if that don’t beat all!” he declared, as he gained the top and
extended the paper towards Mr. Pauling. “It’s a letter, and I’ll be
swizzled if it isn’t addressed to you!”
“What?” exclaimed Mr. Pauling as he took the envelope. “By Jove! This
_is_ amazing!”
Ripping open the envelope Mr. Pauling drew forth a single sheet of
paper. One glance sufficed to read all that was upon it, for there was
but a single line.
“Good luck in your search. Sorry not home to receive you.
Remember Mercedes.”
There was no signature, but none was needed. The words were
typewritten and the machine which had printed them was the one which
had typed the inflammatory, revolutionary Bolshevist propaganda which
had flooded the States.
Once more the arch criminal had slipped through their fingers. But it
had been a close shave.