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[Illustration: AS HERC SPOKE THE BRIGHT RAYS ENVELOPED THEM.
--Page 53.]
THE DREADNOUGHT BOYS ABOARD A DESTROYER
by
CAPTAIN WILBUR LAWTON
Author of “The Boy Aviators Series,” “The Dreadnought Boys on Battle
Practice,” etc. etc.
New York
Hurst & Company
Publishers
Copyright, 1911, by Hurst & Company
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE FOREIGN AGENT 5
II. A WILLING TOOL 20
III. AT SEA ON A DESTROYER 31
IV. MAN OVERBOARD! 44
V. THE DREADNOUGHT BOYS’ FORTUNE 55
VI. THE SECRET OF THE DERELICT 68
VII. AN INSULT TO THE FLAG 84
VIII. THE BOYS MAKE AN INTERESTING DISCOVERY 98
IX. ON SPECIAL DUTY 110
X. A BATTLE IN THE DARK 121
XI. ON SECRET SERVICE 133
XII. PLAYING WITH EDGED TOOLS 147
XIII. PRISONERS OF WAR 161
XIV. A DRUM-HEAD COURT-MARTIAL 172
XV. A SHELL FROM THE SEA 182
XVI. THE BOMBARDMENT 195
XVII. UNDER THE GOLD-STARRED FLAG 206
XVIII. A BOARD OF STRATEGY 220
XIX. THE SEA FIGHT OFF SANTA ANNA 232
XX. TORPEDOES 245
XXI. VICTOR AND VANQUISHED 257
XXII. AN ORDER TO HALT 266
XXIII. WITH THE COSTAVEZAN CAVALRY 276
XXIV. NED’S HEROIC DEED 288
XXV. HOMEWARD BOUND--CONCLUSION 304
* * * * *
The Dreadnought Boys Aboard a Destroyer
CHAPTER I. THE FOREIGN AGENT.
“Pardon me--but surely I am not mistaken,--you two young men are brave
sailors on board the _Beale_?”
“Hum; don’t know about the ‘brave sailor’ part of it,” smiled Ned
Strong pleasantly, as the dark-skinned speaker halted him and his
companion Herc Taylor in the shadow of the gray wall of the Brooklyn
Navy Yard. “We are on board the _Beale_, though, or will be shortly.”
The man who had addressed the two stalwart, sunburned young fellows
wearing the natty uniform of Uncle Sam’s sea-fighters flourished his
silver-headed cane as if in token of having attained an object.
“The _Beale_--the torpedo-boat destroyer?” he asked, as if he were
anxious to make quite sure of his ground.
“Yes, sir,” said Ned, briskly taking up his suit-case, as if about to
start off again. He had set down the piece of baggage when the stranger
first addressed them.
“One moment,” demanded the fashionably dressed first speaker, who spoke
with a trace of foreign accent, “since you are on board that craft, you
must come with me.”
Ned looked astonished at the other’s brusque manner of address. As for
Herc Taylor, the red-headed, his freckles shone pinkly under his tan.
“I guess you’re a foreigner, sir, aren’t you?” he asked gently.
“Why, yes, senor,” the other twisted his little waxed mustache
nervously, “but I----”
“I guessed it,” went on Herc serenely, “because in the United States we
have a foolish habit of saying ‘please’ if we wish anything done.”
“Well, ‘please,’ then, senor. Come, I wish to talk with you, please. I
know a place, not equal to the Hotel Espanola, perhaps, but where we
can get a good drink----”
“Count us out then,” snapped Ned sharply, “we don’t drink.”
The stranger placed his thumb and forefinger together, elevated them to
a level with his chin and, after gazing at them for a second, gave a
light:
“Pouf!”
“He’ll blow away if he does that again,” muttered Herc. But apparently
the man of the waxed mustache had been only taking this way of
dismissing any possible offense he might have caused. He bowed low.
“Ah, well, I have made a mistake, I see. Of course not. Zee brave
sailors of the Uncle Sam do not drink, nevaire. Perhaps, then, you will
do me the honor of accompanying me to that drug store at the corner. I
see they sell ice-cream sodas there. Will you try one of those?”
This was touching Herc Taylor in a weak spot. He gazed at his
companion inquiringly. But Ned Strong’s eyes were riveted on the small
wicket gate which opened in the long, gray-painted wall, a few feet
from where they were standing. The wall inclosed the humming hive of
activity known as the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Inside the gate stood a
marine, sharply scanning all arrivals. It was his duty to protect the
gateway to one of Uncle Sam’s ship hospitals, where everything from
a rib to a rivet can be adjusted or replaced, even on the largest
Dreadnoughts.
“We ought to report at ten-thirty. It’s ten now,” he said, gazing at a
handsome gold watch he had just drawn out of his breast pocket. Inside
the case it bore an inscription, “Presented to Ned Strong from Henry
Varian, in slight token of the inestimable services rendered by him at
Guantanamo, Cuba.”
Readers of the “Dreadnought Boys on Battle Practice” will recall the
occasion which Mr. Varian, the inventor of the powerful explosive
Chaosite, had thus chosen to commemorate. The watch had been presented
to Ned Strong, as an ordinary seaman on board the big Dreadnought
_Manhattan_. At the risk of his own life he had saved Mr. Varian from
some rascals who had abducted him, and under the threat of blowing him
up, had tried to compel the inventor to give up the formula of his
explosive and the blue prints of a patent gun-breech of his devising
for handling the stuff. It was Ned Strong’s ingenuity and pluck, it
will be recalled, which had resulted in the plans of these men being a
complete failure, and in their all being sentenced to long prison terms.
Closely following on this adventure, for which he received the
congratulations of his own commander and also of the rear-admiral
of the fleet, Ned Strong and Herc Taylor had behaved with singular
gallantry just after the eruption in the forward turret of a dreaded
“flareback.” At great risk they closed the safety doors, which had
jammed, and then carried several unconscious men, including Lieutenant
Timmons, the officer in charge, from the inferno of smoke and deadly
gas. For this, readers of that volume will recall, both had been
awarded medals of honor. Thus, in a few short months following their
enlistment from the remote New York State village of Lamb’s Corners,
both had become national heroes--that is, during the brief period of
public memory. Had the recollection of their gallant deed not died out
in the public mind, it is doubtful if the man who had accosted them
would have chosen just these two youths who had so fully deeded their
lives to their country and their flag.
“All right, we will go with you,” said Ned briskly, as if he had
suddenly come to some private conclusion.
“Ah, zat is good,” smiled the dark-skinned individual. “I am glad you
have come to zat determination.”
He started briskly off, headed for the drug store and followed by the
two young man-of-war’s men.
As the boys were a short distance behind him, they had an opportunity
to exchange a word or two as they went.
“Say, Ned,” began Herc, in a tone of remonstrance, “what’s the matter
with you?”
“You don’t like the looks of that fellow?”
“No more than I like the looks of a skunk with its tail swung toward
me.”
“Hush, he may hear you. I’ve got a good reason for going with him.”
“All right, then. What you say goes.”
This brief exchange of words brought them to the drug store, the
interior of which looked cool and inviting, in contrast with the
glaring sidewalk, for it was a hot day in early June.
Presently the trio were seated at a small table in the rear of the
store, which was empty for the moment of customers.
“Ah, that sounds good,” exclaimed Herc approvingly, as the long, cool
fizz-z-z-z of the fountain announced that their refreshments were being
drawn.
The stranger bent forward as the red-headed lad spoke, and in a
cautious voice said:
“But I have something to talk to you about which will sound bettaire.”
“So?” said Ned carelessly, as the soda glasses were placed in front of
them, and Herc at once buried his nose in pink, creamy foam, “What is
it?”
“Hush! Do not speak so loud. I don’t want it that any one should hear
us.”
“Oh, then, it’s sort of secret business?”
“Zat is eet. You are a young man of penetration.”
“You’d say so if you saw him wading into any one he doesn’t like,”
grinned Herc, setting down his empty glass and investigating its depths
with a spoon.
The clerk was instantly at his elbow. The stranger looked up angrily at
the store attendant.
“What are you doing listening here?” he demanded sharply.
“I wasn’t listening,” expostulated the aggrieved clerk, “I came to see
if this gentleman wanted any more.”
“Bring us all three some, and then keep away,” grunted the
black-mustached foreigner aggressively.
“Make mine vanilla this time,” ordered Herc.
“One nevaire knows who may be a spy,” explained the stranger, as the
clerk brought the new order, and then busied himself, out of earshot,
in the front of the store.
“Well, we’re not afraid of any spies,” returned Herc Taylor, giving the
stranger a searching look.
“Oh, no, of course not. Zee brave sailor of Uncle Sam----”
“Never mind that,” interrupted Ned, “you brought us here, you said, to
talk to us about something important--what?”
“You young men have heard of the Republic of Costaveza?”
“Of course, that tamale-eating South American merry-go-round,” blurted
out Herc, “that’s where the _Beale_ is bound for--so I heard,” he added
rather confusedly. He had caught Ned’s eye, and he thought it held a
reproof for his outspokenness.
“You are pairfectly right,” assented the other. “Now, there is an
opportunity to make what you call zee big money down there, for two
bright young men like you.”
“How?” inquired Ned bluntly.
This directness seemed to confuse somewhat the dark-skinned man, who,
like most of his race, which was Latin-American, preferred intrigues
and dark hints to coming straight to the point.
“Why,” he began, and then paused, as if searching for a word, “by--by
keeping zee eyes open.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Let me explain. The Republic of Costaveza is now in a state of
revolution.”
The boys nodded.
“The United States government is not friendly to the rebels, but dare
not show zat this ees the case. It would not be consistent with her
policies to interfere.”
“Well, what’s all this got to do with us?” asked Ned in the same direct
way. He was growing to like the mysterious manner of the stranger less
and less.
“Wait a moment, and you will see. In Costaveza there are, however, many
very important American interests--mining, lumber, asphalt and so on.
In the event of the rebels gaining power--which Heaven soon send--the
policy of the new government would be Costaveza for the Costavezans.
You follow me?”
“You mean that if the rebellion succeeds the property of the Americans,
which they have paid for and developed, will be confiscated. Is that
it?” questioned Ned.
“Exactly. Now, as I said, the United States dares not openly interfere.
Her treaties with other nations prevent that. But just the same, she
wishes to look after her citizens.”
“You bet she does,” put in Herc fervently.
“Now, the rebels are well armed. They have modern guns and equipment of
every kind. Where has this been coming from?”
“Search me,” blurted out Herc, on whose freckled countenance the
other’s dark eyes had fixed themselves.
“Hush, Herc!” reproved Ned. “Go on, sir.”
“It has come from the outside, from the good friends of the rebellion.
Now, the only way to prevent the rebels winning the day is to head off
their arms. Therefore, the American government sends a destroyer down
there to guard her interests--but secretly, mind you.”
“Why don’t they send the fleet down there and blow the rebels into the
sea?” asked Herc, who had not noted a fact which Ned’s keen observation
had instantly taken in, and that was that the dark-skinned man was
decidedly pro-rebel in his feelings. Carefully as he had tried to mask
it in his talk, this fact stuck out to Ned as plainly as the nose on
his face.
“That would not be diplomacy,” rejoined the stranger airily.
“No, but fine judgment,” added Herc sagely.
“Now, the point is this,” resumed the stranger, not noticing, or not
deigning to notice, Herc’s remark, “we want to know what is going on
on board the _Beale_ every moment that she lies off the coast of
Costaveza.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” thought Ned to himself. But aloud he said
innocently:
“Did you say we, sir?”
“Yes. Why should I disguise it?” said the stranger, his eyes lighting
up enthusiastically. “I am a patriot. The heart of Jules Charbonde
bleeds for his unhappy country, and so----”
“And so, being a patriot yourself,” snapped out Ned, with blazing eyes,
“you have come to ask us to betray our country.”
“Oh, no. Do not use so harsh a word, I beg of you. Not betray, but
report what she is doing.”
“That is a very fine distinction,” said Ned in musing tone. The other,
struck by his thoughtful tone and posture, too hastily assumed that his
errand was complete. He extended a roll of bills and shoved them across
the table, having first cautiously looked around him.
“You will make your reports when you arrive at Boca del Sierras, the
principal city of Costaveza,” he said, “when your shore boat docks, a
man will approach you and say, ‘A carriage, senors.’ You will go with
him, and he will bring you to a place outside the city. Then you can
make your reports, and----”
“Then we get more money?” inquired Ned in level tone, although danger
signals gleamed in his eyes.
“Why, yes. You see, your services will be very valuable. You can keep
us informed of every move of the _Beale_. But now place that money in
your pocket.”
“I don’t think so; I’ve another use for it,” said Ned quietly.
“Another use for it, senor, why----”
“This!” shot out the Dreadnought Boy, springing to his feet and
flinging the roll of bills at the South American agent. It hit the
dark-skinned fellow full in the face, and with such force was it hurled
that a dark patch burned out against his countenance where it had
struck. Jules Charbonde’s skin went a sickly yellow. His eyes glittered
as balefully as a serpent’s.
“So,” he snarled, “you insult a South American gentleman?”
“Gentleman!” scoffed Ned, “We’ve another name for fellows who practice
your sort of trade.”
The clerk, alarmed at the sound of loud voices, came hastening up.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded.
“How much is the bill?” asked Ned.
“Sixty cents. You had----”
“Here’s a dollar. Never mind the change. Come, Herc, let’s get out of
here, or I’ll feel tempted to give that fellow a lesson.”
Together the two Dreadnought Boys hastened from the drug store, but the
eyes of Jules Charbonde followed them with a menacing glint.
He raised his hand to his face, where the red spot still showed angrily.
“I’ll make you sorry for this,” he snarled, in his turn leaving the
shop.
Suddenly he wheeled sharply. A hand had been laid on his elbow.
“I’d like to speak to you a minute,” said a low voice almost in his
ear.