HURRIED ORDERS
The accident came so unexpectedly that it was some moments before Phil
could find his voice. Then he realized there was nothing to be done.
The damage was beyond his capacity to repair. The turret was useless
for further service.
He glanced, apprehensively, upward through the jagged rent of the
shutter and his eyes fell upon the angry, excited face of his
divisional officer.
There was small reason to ask the trouble. The dangling end of the wire
rope told the story only too plainly: the hoist rope had broken when
the ammunition car was nearly at the breech of the gun, and it had then
plunged downward, with its burden of nearly a ton of shell and powder,
wrecking itself and the shutter.
A moment later Lazar was in the handling room, viewing the effects of
the unlucky accident.
Stooping down he raised the car end of the wire rope.
“Cut half through,” he cried in a voice full of passion, “and by a file
or saw.” His disappointment was too keen to conceal.
“All my work for nothing. The umpires will decide the accident against
me, and only half the firing over.”
Phil felt sorry for the older man. He would willingly take the blame on
himself, if that could have helped matters.
These charitable thoughts were however quickly stifled by the
humiliating words of his superior officer.
“This looks like your work,” he hissed in Phil’s ear. “I have no way to
prove it, but it looks very black for you.”
“I, sir!” he gasped. Then the thought of the locket and his secret came
to him. He stopped vexed and mortified.
It did look black, indeed.
Lazar gave him a swift glance of triumph as he turned away.
Phil directed the work of clearing away the wreck and as soon as the
ship’s machinists had commenced on the repairs, he hunted up his friend
to make a clean breast to him of the secret which had grown in a night
from a mole-hill to the size of a mountain.
He found Sydney in his room, washing the evidence of target practice
from his face and hands.
“I made a fine score,” Sydney cried joyously, without looking up, as
Phil entered their small stateroom. “What on earth happened? Your
turret started out finely; every shot hit the target, then suddenly you
stopped shooting.”
“Everything happened,” answered Phil, sadly. “The ammunition hoist
broke and Lazar thinks it’s my work, and the only way I can clear
myself is to get myself further implicated.”
“Well, that certainly is Irish,” laughed Sydney heartily; then a view
of his friend’s face cut short his mirth, for he saw that it was
serious.
“I beg your pardon, Phil,” he added soberly, “but your words were
droll. Tell me about it?”
Phil unburdened himself to his roommate; telling of the noise that he
had heard in the handling room the day before; of his suspicions, and
of the fatal mistake he had made in not confiding in Lazar before the
firing commenced; then of the accident and Lazar’s accusations.
“But why should he accuse you?” Sydney asked aghast.
“I don’t know, but he has,” Phil answered, “and I was struck dumb. I
can’t explain to him now. It would only make things worse.”
Sydney thought deeply.
“Phil, the idea is preposterous,” he said decidedly; “he certainly has
better sense than to accuse you openly of this.”
“That’s the worst of it,” Phil answered sorrowfully; “all he need do is
to cast a suspicion on me and then I must endeavor to clear myself of
the suspicion, and I can’t. If I tell what I have told you, those who
are ready to believe I am capable of doing such a cowardly act to spite
Lazar, will see all the more proof that I am guilty.”
“It surely is complicated,” Sydney replied.
Phil opened his desk drawer and picked up the locket, holding it out to
Sydney.
“This is what I found in the handling room. There’s a girl’s picture
inside. It doesn’t belong to any of the turret’s crew, at least none
have claimed it.”
“This was dropped by the man who cut the wire,” Sydney mused aloud,
“and this face may help us find him.”
“You are so mysterious, Syd,” cried Phil impatiently; “how can that
girl’s face help us? There is probably no likeness between it and the
culprit. It’s the face of his sweetheart, undoubtedly.”
“Yes, but the fact that her face is here will cause him to try to
regain it,” Sydney answered assuredly.
“Do you believe that Lazar would recognize the face in the locket?”
Phil questioned. “I might show it to him without telling him of the
noise I heard before finding it.”
“That’s what I was about to suggest,” replied Sydney; “the man who did
the act is an enemy of Lazar’s; he may recognize the girl.”
Phil immediately sought Lazar.
“Come in.” Lazar’s voice answered the knock on his stateroom door.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” he said discourteously, without rising. “Well,
what do you want here?”
Phil was confounded.
“I have a locket here which I found in the handling room yesterday
while I was working on the cars,” he began hesitatingly.
Lazar took the locket in his hand, then glanced up at the face of the
speaker.
“Well?” he inquired coldly.
“There’s a face inside,” Phil stammered. “I thought you might know the
owner in that way.”
Lazar opened the locket, and if Phil had not been so much occupied
nursing his injured dignity, he might have seen a flash of recognition
in Lazar’s face. However, when he looked up it had passed away and a
look of boredom had taken its place.
“No, I don’t know her,” he answered shortly, handing Phil the locket.
“Is that all?”
“That’s all, sir.”
[Illustration: _“WELL?” HE INQUIRED, COLDLY_]
Phil withdrew in some confusion, anger and mortification struggling
within him.
“I am a child in that man’s hands,” he cried, as he reëntered his own
room. “Syd, he awakes in me all the instincts of a brute. I can hardly
keep my hands off him.”
“Don’t let any one on board hear you express such sentiments,” Sydney
continued gravely. “You must guard your tongue if you are to fight him
successfully.”
At evening “quarters” Phil saw Lazar in conversation with Captain
Taylor, on the quarter-deck.
As he passed them he overheard, from Lazar’s lips, words that made his
face flush with anger.
“I feel I can never trust him again, sir; his work has been very
unsatisfactory from the beginning. I desire to have him relieved.”
“So that is the reward for my hard work,” thought Phil, despairingly.
After quarters he hesitated whether to go and tell the captain all the
circumstances and endeavor to save his good name, or let matters take
their course. He felt that Lazar did not believe that he was the cause
of the damage, he only used it as a weapon against him. But how would
the captain act? Would he demand an explanation?
These reflections were cut short by an orderly at his elbow.
“Mr. Penfield wishes to see you, sir,” announced he.
“Mr. Perry, the captain has directed your assignment in his office,”
the executive officer explained, as Phil saluted him a moment later.
“Your duty in the turret will be taken by Mr. Marshall.”
Phil saluted and turned away. What did it mean? The captain surely did
not believe him guilty of the act he was accused of by Lazar, else he
would not place him in such a responsible position. He felt he had been
removed from the turret under a cloud, yet his promotion to the office
as secretary and assistant to his commanding officer took out most of
the sting.
“Phil, you can dismiss it from your mind,” Sydney told him after he had
given him the good news. “Lazar has played his trump card, but he has
not moved the captain. He likes you, and of those we like it is hard
to believe evil.”
Phil’s face beamed with pleasure.
“Syd, I count myself, indeed, fortunate to have two such friends,
you and Captain Taylor,” he answered, lowering his voice to hide his
feelings.
In two days more target practice was ended and the fleet once again
anchored at its base under the protecting wing of Cape Cod.
Phil’s new duties kept his mind from brooding over his troubles with
Lazar and opened up to him a new side of ship life.
All official papers now passed through his hands and the lad found
himself in very intimate relations with his revered captain.
It seemed to him, sometimes, that there were some of his shipmates who
were less friendly.
“It may be my imagination,” he thought. “I have not been entirely
honest and my conscience feels guilty for concealing my secret.”
In the midst of these thoughts, the wireless operator brought him a
message, just received from the flag-ship.
He glanced casually at the bit of pink paper, then his eyes opened wide
with excitement as he read the words of the message.
“Prepare your ship immediately for sea. Destination La Boca, Verazala,
South America. Revolution in progress. Your confidential orders are
being prepared and will be sent over directly.”
Hastily entering the cabin, he placed the message in his chief’s hand.
The captain read slowly, and then rang the bell for his orderly.
“Show this to Mr. Penfield,” he said quietly. “Tell him to make all
arrangements. We shall sail inside of four hours.”
Phil marveled at the cool manner in which the captain had received
these sudden orders.
After forty years’ service, he would understand that such orders as
these were too frequent in the course of a navy man’s life to cause
more than passing surprise. Captain Taylor had received orders as
suddenly to go around the world. Why should he show surprise at a small
matter of a couple of thousand miles.
Phil took an important part in the preparations for carrying out these
sudden orders. Inside the allotted time all was ready. The written
orders and instructions were sealed in the captain’s desk, ready to be
opened and studied at leisure on the way south.
While the “Connecticut” steamed past her seven mates, the marines and
band were drawn up on each to salute her as she sailed by, officers and
men waving good-byes to friends. Phil’s pulse beat faster.
“This is a great life, Syd,” he cried joyously to his companion
standing by him on the quarter-deck. “Who of us thought ten hours ago
that this evening would see us bound for South America.”
The next morning Captain Taylor and Mr. Penfield sat at the cabin
table, reading and discussing the import of the lengthy written
instructions from the Navy Department and admiral.
Phil stood by, pencil and paper in hand, ready to write down the plan
these experienced officers were about to draw up.
Each of the high-ranking officers read the letters carefully, weighing
every word. Then Mr. Penfield waited for his superior to speak.
“This promises to be a very delicate business, Penfield,” the captain
commenced. “The insurgents are said not to be very strong at present,
but it seems they are receiving arms from the United States, which has
greatly embarrassed our relations with the government of the republic.
Official telegrams from the minister, our representative, report the
insurgents a lawless band led by an outlaw called Ruiz. The minister
fears if the city should be captured much valuable foreign and American
property will be destroyed by the rebels, who cannot control their
soldiers. This state of affairs may involve our country seriously.
In upholding the Monroe Doctrine it will insist on a policy of
non-interference by foreign governments, but where neutral property is
destroyed, due to the weakness of the government of Verazala to control
these internal disorders, restitution to the injured must be guaranteed
by our government.”
“I can read in the tone of the letter,” said Mr. Penfield, speaking
slowly and deliberately, “a purpose to uphold the government through
this rebellion.”
“Yes,” answered Captain Taylor, “our policy has always been, in
dealing with these rebellions, to uphold the government. If the rebels
win the upheaval is very disastrous to our moneyed interests and
harmful to our friendly relations with the citizens of the republic.
Our country believes, and justly, that it is a crime to change the
government through bloodshed, and has ever counseled the honest use
of the ballot-box to obtain the most popular candidate for president.
But, as this system of suffrage does not appeal to the people here, who
place the military before all else, it is our duty to do what is in our
power to assure the defeat of this rascal Ruiz; but we must do it so
cleverly that the insurgents will never know that our government was
unfriendly to them.”
“Then what is your plan, sir?” asked Mr. Penfield, much mystified.
“Our government,” answered the captain, decidedly, “having taken the
side of the present government of the republic, it is our purpose to
see that the rebels receive no aid from the outside world.”
“You do not mean that we shall actually aid the government?” asked Mr.
Penfield. “Our letter there,” pointing to the mass of correspondence
on the table, “enjoins the strictest neutrality.”
The captain laughed.
“No,” he answered, “not aid them openly, but shut our eye to what they
do, and seek diligently for this leak by which the rebels are receiving
arms from our country.”
“What is it, Mr. Perry?” the captain added, surprising a look on the
lad’s face that told he had a question he would gladly ask.
“I’d like to volunteer to find out from where the arms come, sir,” he
replied eagerly.
“That you will,” agreed the captain, smiling at the enthusiastic boy.
“I shall depend upon you young men to ferret this out and stop up the
hole through which this aid comes.”
Phil’s hand trembled with excitement as it took down the plan devised
by the captain and his executive officer. It included a guard for the
legations, the home of the minister, and all foreign property of value.
Lazar, on account of his linguistic attainments, was to have charge,
and Marshall and Morrison were to be his assistants. Phil was to have
the “Vidette,” a large sixty foot steamer, at his disposal, and Sydney
was to accompany him.
Bristling with his important news, he found his roommate in their room,
hard at work brushing up his Spanish.
“Good work, Syd,” Phil cried, glancing at the book in Sydney’s hand;
“we are both going to have lots of practice with that tongue;” and then
he recited to him the news.
Sydney was delighted and showed it by pounding his roommate over the
back with his book; then he flung it on the bunk and opened a drawer,
disclosing two handsomely mounted Colt revolvers.
“My graduation present from dad,” he replied to the questioning glance;
“aren’t they beauties? I am going to give you one; they are so much
handier than our large navy revolvers.”
“I couldn’t think of receiving one,” Phil replied gratefully. “I don’t
believe we need to carry arms at all, and if we do, it would be wiser
to carry them openly.”
“I shall insist, Phil,” urged Sydney. “Give it back when you have no
further use for it. But you must see there may be times, in secret
work, where we might wish to be considered unarmed civilians, and in
a country in the throes of revolution, it’s much safer to have one of
these little persuaders handy.”