“You’re wanted aft.”
The word came to Ned the next day as he lay, feeling rather dizzy and
light-headed, in his hammock. There is no sick bay on a destroyer, and
so special leave had been granted him to have his hammock slung during
the daytime.
The Dreadnought Boy had been the only one of the boat’s crew injured in
the onslaught of the mighty wave. Strong arms had pulled the rest to
safety without injury. Ned, however, had been caught in the wreckage
and badly bruised. As the parting of a light line released him from the
tangle of the smashed boat, he had been flung head first against the
_Beale’s_ quarter.
“The commander added,--that is, if you feel well enough to come,”
amended the messenger.
“Ask his indulgence for a few minutes till I get my sea legs, will
you?” laughed Ned. “I feel mighty queer and shaky.”
At this moment Herc, who had been released from his duties on deck to
see how his chum was faring, came below. With the red-headed lad’s
assistance, Ned was soon ready for his visit aft. He found that the
salty blast of fresh air which struck him in the face as he emerged
from the crew’s quarters was as good as a tonic. The gale had blown
itself out. Overhead was stretched a clean-swept, blue sky, while about
them a bright sea, crested with sparkling whitecaps, raced along.
Through it the _Beale_ was plunging her way south at a good rate of
speed, the black smoke pouring from her funnels and encrusting her
after deck with a crunching carpet of cinders.
“Well, my lad, how are you feeling to-day?” asked Lieutenant Timmons,
as Ned entered the cabin, cap in hand, and, after saluting, stood
respectfully at attention.
Ned assured his superior that he was suffering no ill consequences.
Whereupon Lieutenant Timmons called forward a young officer, whom Ned
had not previously noticed.
“Here, Stark,” he said, “is the man you have to thank for your being
here to-day.”
“And I do most heartily!” exclaimed the middy, stepping forward with
outstretched hand. “I don’t know how to word it, Strong, but I hope you
know how I feel.”
Ned nodded, rather embarrassed.
“That’s all right, sir,” he said. The boy had supposed that this
concluded the interview, but in this he was mistaken. Fingering some
papers which lay on his desk Lieutenant Timmons went on.
“I am especially glad that your officer and you have this bond between
you, Strong, for this reason:--when we reach our destination,--which
you may, or may not know?----”
Ned nodded to show that he was aware of the objective point of the
voyage.
“When we reach Costaveza, I say, I have some special duty outlined,
which I have already explained to Mr. Stark. He will command such
men as he thinks he requires to assist him. I do not think, and he
shares my opinion, that he could make a better choice than you and your
companion, Hercules Taylor.”
“Of course, we’ll do our best, sir,” said Ned simply, though his heart
was beating high at the distinction which his commander was conferring
on the Dreadnought Boys.
“I know you will, Strong,” said his superior crisply, “and that is
why I selected you for the duty. There is no need to explain it in
its details, which will largely be governed by the conditions we may
find existing in the republic. Of course, from reading the papers, you
are familiar with the fact that there is a revolution there, which is
antagonistic in the extreme to American interests.”
“Yes, sir,” rejoined Ned, debating within himself whether he would tell
his commander about the dark-skinned man outside the navy yard. He
finally decided not to, deeming it the wisest course not to speak on
such an indefinite subject.
“Very well, Strong, you may go. You and Seaman Taylor will be notified
when you are wanted.”
Ned clicked his heels together, placed his hand to his bandaged head,
and left the cabin. As he walked forward the last vestige of his
dizziness was gone. He felt capable of tackling a whole ship’s company
single-handed. As soon as he found an opportunity he related what had
passed in the commander’s cabin to his chum. Herc was as overjoyed as
his companion at the opportunity that appeared to be held out to the
Dreadnought Boys for distinguishing themselves.
“At this rate, we’ll be admirals before long,” chortled Herc.
“You’ll have to get some of those freckles off your face first, then,
and----”
He broke off abruptly, as he suddenly became aware that their
conversation must have been audible to a man who was reposing in the
sun on the other side of the cowl ventilator, in the shelter of which
they had been talking. It was the smoke hour after dinner, and many men
were lolling about the decks, but neither of the boys had noticed this
particular fellow.
“What did you stop so suddenly for?” began Herc, with a blank look, but
Ned cut him short.
“Hush,” he whispered, “don’t say any more. After all, he may be asleep.”
“Well, what on earth----”
“Come on and take a turn, Herc.”
Ned forcibly raised his chum to his feet and walked forward with him.
Then they turned aft once more. They chose the other side of the
_Beale_, however, so as to get a good view of the figure that Ned had
spied on the other side of the ventilator. But in the brief interval
they had had their backs turned the man had gone.
“That confirms my suspicions,” said Ned.
“Suspicions of what?”
“That that fellow was there for no good purpose. He was crouching down
to hear what we had to say. He must have come up softly after we were
seated.”
“Well, he didn’t hear anything that was very important.”
“No,” admitted Ned, “unless----”
“Well, unless what? You’re the most suspicious chap I ever saw.”
“I was going to say that I am almost positive that that fellow was the
fireman we noticed eying us so curiously the day we left the yard.”
“Even so. Aren’t you making a mountain out of a mole hill, or a
battleship out of a dinghy?”
“I’m not so sure of that,” responded Ned slowly, and with an air of
thoughtfulness, “something about that chap roused my suspicions that he
was watching us for no good purpose.”
“Well, there wasn’t much nourishment in what we said, even if he is
what you suspect him to be.”
“Humph! he heard that we are to be Midshipman Stark’s assistants in
secret duty, didn’t he?”
“Well?”
“Well, it may be of the highest importance that no one should know that
but ourselves and our officers. I’d like to kick myself overboard for
not looking round before we started talking.”
At this moment Stanley, the man who had handled the bow oar in the
boat the night before, came up to them. With him were the other
volunteers of that heroic venture. In discussing the details of it and
“fighting the battle o’er again,” the Dreadnought Boys speedily forgot
the incident which had for an instant cast a cloud over Ned’s good
humor.
Three more days of steady steaming brought the _Beale_ within the
tropics. It was delightful to the boys to be once more in Caribbean
waters. The blue sea rippled by. Only a gentle swell made a pleasing
contrast after the terrific “tumblefication” the _Beale_ had been
through on her way down the coast.
Awnings now made their appearance, and meals could be eaten without,
as Herc expressed it, “hanging on with your toe nails.” White uniforms
were the order of the day, and very natty the jackies and officers
looked in their snowy regalia.
One morning, soon after they entered the “gulf-weed belt,” as
sailormen call it, the crew was busy at brass work and in patching up
the numerous small damages sustained by the destroyer in her rough
experience off the American coast. The scene of activity was abruptly
halted soon after five bells by a sudden cry of:
“Wreck ahead!”
The hail thrilled everybody. It meant a break in the monotony, and
possible adventure.
“Where away?” was the hail from the small bridge forward of the conning
tower, on which Ensign Conkling was on duty.
The next minute the officer’s glasses were eagerly scanning the
glistening sea in the direction in which the lookout had indicated the
wreck. A brief consultation followed. Ned, whose duty took him near the
conning tower, heard Lieutenant Timmons remark to Ensign Conkling:
“She’s a distinct menace to navigation, and would be much better out of
the way.”
“I agree with you, sir,” agreed the ensign. “Shall I change the course?”
“You had better do so, if you please. We are too far south for any of
the regular derelict destroyers to happen along, so it becomes our
duty to put her out of the way.”
The _Beale’s_ course was changed. She was headed up toward the
derelict, which speedily became visible to the naked eye as a low-lying
hulk, with the stumps of three masts sticking up from her clean-swept
decks. Few objects equal in melancholy suggestion a derelict met
with in mid-ocean. The sight of a craft which once gallantly bore
human beings, with their hopes and aspirations, now miserably tumbled
about by every passing breeze or wave, invariably affects a sailor
depressingly.
As the _Beale_ drew closer there was not much conversation among the
men. Such as there was, was carried on in low tones.
“She’ll have been a barque,” remarked Stanley, who was himself an old
blue-water man, and who stood alongside the boys. “See those three
stumps. An old-timer, too, judging by that deck house right aft of her
foremast.”
The derelict was, indeed, a battered relic of the seas. Green weeds
could be seen clinging thickly to her underhull as she dipped slowly
and lazily on the swell. Ragged, bleached ends of ropes hung over her
side like the rags on a beggar. It was evidently some time since she
had been abandoned. So far as her timbers went, however, she was, to
all seeming, still seaworthy, as her large amount of free-board showed.
“What are we going to do?” Herc asked curiously, as the _Beale_ ranged
up alongside at a distance of two hundred yards or so.
“I imagine that we are going to blow her up,” rejoined Ned.
“That’s it,” put in Stanley. “She’ll make a fine target, too.”
“As good a one as I did once,” grinned Herc, reminded of the occasion
on which he had almost served as a human mark at target practice. Both
boys laughed at the recollection.
“Come on, you Strong, and you Taylor and Stanley, I want you,” said a
petty officer, coming forward. “The ensign is going to be put aboard
that old craft to see if there’s anything on her of value before we
blow her to Davy Jones.”
This task just suited the boys. The derelict had already excited their
interest. To have a chance of setting foot on her was just what they
desired. The other men watched them with envy, as one of the remaining
boats carried by the _Beale_ was launched, and the ensign took his
place in the stern sheets.
As may be imagined, the oarsmen gave way with a will, and were soon at
the side of the abandoned craft. To board her, however, they had to row
round her stern, which was square and ugly, and bore on it in faded
white letters the name _Donna Mercedes_.
“A dago, eh?” commented Stanley, in low tone, for he did not wish
the officer to hear him talking, which would have been a breach of
discipline.
“Ease all!” shouted the ensign at the same instant. He had sighted a
place where the breaking away of the mast had smashed a bulwark, and at
which it would be an easy matter to board the derelict.
“You men may come aboard if you want to,” he said, as he sprang nimbly
upward on to the moldering deck. “Leave one of your number to guard the
boat, though.”
“You fellows go,” said Stanley. “I’d rather sit here in the shade and
have a smoke.”
Nothing loath, the Dreadnought Boys quickly followed the ensign, little
dreaming what consequences their visit was to have for them in the
immediate future.