[Illustration: _THE BOAT HEADED UP TO THE BUOY_]
A
UNITED STATES
MIDSHIPMAN
AFLOAT
_by_
Lt. Com. Yates Stirling Jr. USN
[Illustration]
Illustrated _by_ Ralph L. Boyer
THE PENN PUBLISHING
COMPANY PHILADELPHIA
MCMVIII
COPYRIGHT
1908 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY
[Illustration]
Contents
I ENEMY OR FRIEND 7
II UNDER ARREST 21
III THE TRACK MEET 38
IV THE FACE IN THE LOCKET 56
V HURRIED ORDERS 71
VI SECRET SERVICE 87
VII AN IMPORTANT DISCOVERY 100
VIII PRISONERS 118
IX A TERRIBLE PREDICAMENT 141
X THE SCENE CHANGES 161
XI A NAVAL ENGAGEMENT 185
XII CAPTAIN GARCIA’S STRATEGY 204
XIII LAZAR’S CUNNING 224
XIV THE HOUSE ON LA MESA 243
XV THE DEFENSE 258
XVI THE ASSAULT 277
XVII THE ACCUSATION 295
XVIII AN IMPORTANT WITNESS 311
XIX THE COURT MARTIAL 326
XX THE SEARCH 339
XXI CONCLUSION 364
Illustrations
PAGE
THE BOAT HEADED UP TO THE BUOY _Frontispiece_
“WELL?” HE INQUIRED, COLDLY 76
HE FOUND A CONVENIENT AIR PORT 98
THE THREE PRISONERS RUSHED THROUGH THE FLAMES 163
“YOU SEIZED ONLY A CARGO OF ROCKS” 241
“DO YOU REFUSE?” HE CRIED, HOARSELY 289
THE DOOR OF THE ROOM OPENED SUDDENLY 351
A United States Midshipman Afloat
CHAPTER I
ENEMY OR FRIEND
The Navy-Yard at Brooklyn buzzed with its daily turmoil of labor. It
was a bright June morning, and the high chimneys of the numerous shops
and foundries belched forth flame and smoke. Thousands of begrimed
workmen toiled incessantly, hammering, bending and riveting masses of
metal, fashioning them into shape to be carried by the steam cranes to
be blended into the hulls of waiting battle-ships.
Through this scene of activity two boys walked briskly. Their clothing
was new and in the latest style. It clung to their well set up figures,
betraying the hand of the military tailor. Each carried a bright
leather suitcase to the top of which a cased sword was strapped.
Emerging from the tangle of buildings, the youths glanced about, and an
exclamation of pleasure escaped them as a view of their nation’s sea
power met their eyes: ten huge battle-ships resplendent in their glassy
white and contrasting buff paint lay tied up, filling every foot of the
dock frontage.
“Which is ours, Phil?” asked one of the youths, stopping and setting
his case down with a sigh of relief.
Philip Perry, as he slowly shifted his bag to his other hand, glanced
down the long line of stately defenders.
“There she is, Syd,” he finally replied, pointing his free hand in the
direction of one moored at the foot of the street. “The one with three
smoke-stacks and eight turrets. What a beauty she is!”
Philip Perry and Sydney Monroe were the names stenciled in bold type on
the new traveling bags, and underneath the names in smaller capitals
were the letters: U. S. N.
Any one familiar with the navy could have told by a glance that they
were midshipmen, just graduated from the Naval Academy at Annapolis
and in the distribution of their class to the many ships of the navy,
these two had received orders and were on their way to report for duty
on board one of the powerful battle-ships lying directly before them.
The four years’ course of study at Annapolis had filled their minds
with a store of wisdom, and the rigorous outdoor drills had given
to their bodies suppleness and strength. They were a sample of the
finished output of the Naval National Academy.
The picturesque life on the ocean would give them ample opportunity
to benefit themselves and put to good use their stored-up knowledge.
They were on the threshold of a new era, in which their character and
professional worth would be valued by the success achieved.
As they walked in silence toward their future home, their minds dwelt
on the vast intricacies of this creation of steel, but these thoughts
were quickly forgotten as they stepped over the side of the U. S. S.
“Connecticut” and reported their arrival to the officer of the deck.
They were wrapped in wonder at the work of getting a battle-ship ready
for sea. Ammunition and stores were being taken on board from huge
cargo barges with lightning rapidity by hundreds of strong bronzed
sailormen. All was activity. The dockyard had completed its work on the
steel hull and all hands seemed eager to breathe once more the pure air
of the sea.
Five minutes later they were grasping the welcoming hands of their
future messmates--those midshipmen who had been graduated from
Annapolis one short year ago, yet had mastered the mystery of many
things which to the newcomers were as an unopened book.
“The captain will see you both as soon as you are ready, sir,” the
marine orderly reported to Phil.
Donning their bright new uniforms, which had been the sole contents of
their valises, and buckling on their swords, they were ushered into the
captain’s spacious quarters.
They found him brusque and businesslike. A hand to each in turn, with a
firm manly pressure:
“Glad to have you with us;” then to the attentive orderly:
“Show these gentlemen to the executive officer,” and the ordeal was
over.
Phil and Sydney had no time for conversation during the next twenty
minutes, while they found themselves hurried through the rounds of
official formality and then sent to their quarters to unpack and be
ready for immediate duty.
“They gave me no choice of a roommate, did they, Syd?” said Phil, ten
minutes later, as he dived into his trunk and commenced to toss his
belongings on to his bunk to have them more handy to stow into the
numerous small receptacles located about the narrow room which he and
Sydney had been ordered to occupy.
“No, they didn’t,” answered Sydney, with a grin, “but we have stood
each other for four years; I guess we can do it for two more.”
The last of their belongings was scarcely stowed when a servant
announced that the midday meal was ready in the mess room.
They entered and were greeted by more of their former schoolmates. Phil
found his seat next to Marshall, an old friend of Annapolis days, who
was anxious to give him all the tips possible on what he could expect
in his daily life on a battle-ship. Phil listened intently while he
breathlessly recited all the gems of wisdom that came into his head:
“You are in Lazar’s division. It’s a crackerjack, too; you’ve got
your work cut out for you. He’s a hustler. He isn’t much liked by the
middies because he ‘horses’ us so much, but the captain swears by him.
Beaty--you remember old ‘Pike’?--he had your job, but I guess Lazar was
too many for him. We sent him to the hospital with nerves a week ago.
Some of the fellows saw him yesterday, doing the gentleman act there,
looking as pink and fresh as a girl. Hope you will manage all right.”
Phil tried to look cheerful, but Marshall’s quick eye detected
something wrong.
“Do you know Lazar? of course you were at the Academy with him, but----”
He stopped and glanced hurriedly into Phil’s face, then dropped his
voice:
“Why, it was you that fought him. How unfortunate!” Then musingly, “He
is not the man to forget.”
“I can’t believe that he would allow a boy’s quarrel--remember, that
was nearly four years ago--to influence his feelings for me now,”
answered Phil, gaining but scant comfort from his own words.
He remembered how bitter Lazar had been in his relations to him the few
months before the older man graduated and left him in peace. He was but
a plebe then. Well, the future would tell.
As soon as the short meal was over Phil went to his room and changed
his uniform, donning the oldest he owned, but the bright lace and
lustrous braid was in great contrast to the uniforms of those officers
and midshipmen who had received their baptism of salt spray, in the
year at sea on board the battle-ship, cruising and drilling until their
ship was considered to be in efficient condition to join the fleet and
compete in all the drills and games that go to make up the very full
itinerary of the sailor’s life afloat.
Sydney came in full of enthusiasm, having seen his divisional officer
and obtained an idea of what he had to do.
“I have a fine job,” he cried, as he threw his coat on his bunk and
started to get out his older clothes. “Four seven-inch guns, all my
own; Lieutenant Brand says if I don’t make all hits at target practice,
he won’t give me a two-five----”
Then, stopping and catching sight of his chum’s face in the mirror back
of the washstand:
“Whatever is wrong, Phil?” he exclaimed anxiously. “You look as glum as
an oyster.”
Phil hesitated. Should he confide in his roommate of Annapolis days? Or
should he fight it out alone? He felt it was a situation needing every
ounce of his manhood and tact. What harm could be done by asking Syd’s
friendly advice?
“I have great misgivings, Syd,” he commenced cautiously. “I was
prepared for almost anything, but Lazar for my divisional officer had
never occurred to me. Do you blame me for looking and feeling glum?”
Sydney’s joyous face became serious in an instant.
“That’s certainly hard luck. Why couldn’t I have been assigned to his
division instead of you?” exclaimed he, generously. “I never liked him,
but he doesn’t know me from an old shoe, and he has a good reason to
know you.” Then, reminiscently, “I can remember his face after your
fight with him as plainly as if it were yesterday; the referee called
it a draw, but every one knew that you had the better of the fight. He
was in the hospital for a week until his face healed up, while you were
in ranks at the next formation, with no more marks than I give myself
daily shaving.”
“Do you believe he has forgotten, or at least forgiven?” asked Phil.
“You or I would have long ago,” replied Sydney thoughtfully, “but Lazar
always seemed so vindictive to me; maybe his Latin blood makes him
so. Jules Lazar is not an appropriate name for a forgiving nature; it
sounds very belligerent to me.”
“You certainly are comforting,” smiled Phil, as he started to leave the
room to report to his divisional officer and find out for himself what
the outward signs of friendship or enmity might tell.
With many misgivings he went up the companion ladder leading to the
quarter-deck. As his foot touched the clean white deck, he raised his
hand to his cap in salute to the flag.
Standing near the great twelve-inch turret, managing the labor of
filling the spacious storerooms and magazines, was Lazar, the spy-glass
in his gloved hand identifying him as the officer of the deck, in
charge of the progress of work on the big fighter.
Phil stepped smartly up to him and saluted.
Lazar turned slowly toward him. His brow contracted imperceptibly as he
returned the salute of the midshipman.
“Mr. Perry reports to you, sir, as junior officer of the fourth
division,” Phil said in the official tone he had been taught to use at
Annapolis. His eyes unwaveringly sought the restless energetic face of
his divisional officer.
Would Lazar give him his hand? Phil was ready to believe that his
boyish quarrel and fight were forgiven. He waited what seemed a long
time while officer and midshipman each looked straight into the eyes of
the other. Neither wavered, and each seemed to wish to sweep aside the
other’s mask and read the thoughts behind the cold impassive exterior.
“Aye, aye, Mr. Perry,” finally replied Lazar. “Get a correct list of
the division, and a copy of our station bills. You will find them
posted in the division bulletin-board.” Then glancing at the bright
clean uniform of the youth before him, “You had better put on your
oldest clothes, then come up here, and I shall give you something to
occupy you. You stand watch with me, you know?”
Phil held his hand at his side ready to offer it at the first
intimation that it would be accepted by the older man, but Lazar did
not show by voice or sign that he wished for anything more than purely
official relations with the midshipman.
“I am ready now for duty, sir,” answered Phil in a voice that, strive
as he could to hide it, betrayed a tone of disappointment, tinged with
indignation. Glancing down at his converted Annapolis uniform, “I have
no older ones,” he confessed. “I might as well break this in, sir.”
“Very good; you will take charge of the work on the forecastle.”
Glancing about and motioning a smart-looking petty officer to advance,
“O’Neil, here, is in our division.” Then addressing the attentive
coxswain, “You are excused from other work and will lend Mr. Perry a
hand. He is our new midshipman, and is about to direct the work on the
forecastle.” Then again turning to Phil and dropping his voice: “That’s
a splendid man, he knows the name of every man on board. You will find
him a willing subordinate.”
Phil saluted stiffly in Annapolis fashion, while O’Neil jerked his hand
toward his cap and in a businesslike voice announced his readiness by a
hearty, “Aye, aye, sir.”
O’Neil led the way through the battery deck, the men engaged in work
there standing aside in respectful attention to allow the new arrival
to pass.
Phil’s mind wavered between the decision that Lazar would give him
a fair showing, and the contrary one that he would make his life as
unpleasant as possible; and from the accounts he had heard of Beaty,
the midshipman in the hospital with “too much Lazar,” as one of the
midshipmen had diagnosed his complaint, he knew his new divisional
officer, by voice and action, could make the life of one he disliked so
unhappy that a cot in the hospital might be preferable.
He found his work on the forecastle just what he needed to keep his
mind off his troubles, and in the language of O’Neil: “he made good,”
as he encouraged, directed and helped the men handle the bulky packages.
“That’s a fine young gentleman,” O’Neil confided to a brother petty
officer, as he watched Phil put his shoulder against a twelve-inch
shell and guide it clear of an iron hatch top. “Do you see the way the
boys are working? As if they were to get shore leave at the end of this
job. It’s a pity to see him spoil them bright new clothes, but when I
tried to help him he told me he wanted exercise.”
Phil had found his thoughts very unpleasant companions as he had
watched the work progress, and now doing the manual labor of a leading
man, he had forgotten, for the time at least, the sombre reflections
that had, like spectres, come into his mind.
Would this man attempt to ruin him? And could he do so if he so wished?
He considered going to the captain and asking to be assigned to another
division, stating his reasons, but he saw immediately how childish it
would seem to that busy officer. A boys’ quarrel, long ago forgotten,
he would call it.
Phil wished it were so.