But the boatswain was proved a poor prophet. Not that week, nor the next, did they reach Fire Mountain. TheCohassetcrossed the path of the Orient mail-packets, the great circle sailers, and they entered their last stretch of Pacific sailing, above the forty-eighth parallel.
Captain Dabney's objective was the little-used gateway to the Bering that lies between Copper Island and the outlying Aleuts. They sailed upon a wild and desolate waste of leaden sea; a sea shrouded frequently with fog, and plentifully populated with those shipmen's horrors, foot-loose icebergs. And their fair sailing abruptly terminated.
It began in the space of a watch. The glass tumbled, the wind hauled around to foul, and it began to blow viciously. For days they rode hove to.
That was but the beginning. For weeks, they obtained only an occasional favorable slant of wind, and these, as often as not, in the shape of short, sharp gales. They made the most of them; the blind man on the poop coached cannily, and Ruth and the boatswain carried on to the limit.
Martin, once again, as in the days leaving San Francisco, saw the smother of canvas fill the decks with water. But such sailing was rare, and of short duration. Always, succeeding, came the heavy slap in the face from the fierce wind god of the North.
Martin labored mightily, in company with his fellows, it being a constant round of "reef, shake out, and come about." The days were sharp, and the nights bitter cold—though, as they won northward, and the season advanced, the days grew steadily longer.
Went glimmering, as the weeks passed, the high hopes of a record passage. Disappeared, also, the assurance of recovering the treasure. The shadow of Wild Bob Carew fell between them and their destination.
When one day the capricious wind drove them fairly past Copper Island, and they plunged into the foggy, ill-charted reaches of the Bering, their jubilation was tempered with a note of pessimism. They debated, in theCohasset'scabin, whether the adventurer of theDawnhad been beforehand; and Captain Dabney discussed his plans for proceeding on to the Kamchatka coast for trading in case they discovered Fire Mountain to be despoiled.
The situation, it seemed to Martin, resolved itself to this: If Carew knew the latitude and longitude of the smoking mountain—and being familiar with the Bering Sea, all hands admitted that he might well know it—the ambergris was most certainly lost to them, unless, as was most unlikely, theDawnhad had even worse luck with the weather than theCohasset. But if Carew did not know Fire Mountain's location, they had a chance, though Carew was probably cruising adjacent waters, on the lookout for them—and if they encountered him, they might prepare to resist a piracy.
Martin, in truth, had a secret hope that they might encounter Carew's schooner. He had a healthy lust for trouble and a scorn bred of ignorance for the Japanese crew of theDawn. He harbored a grudge against theDawn'sredoubtable skipper. Ruth was the kernel of that grudge.
And, oddly enough, he had a queer companion also wishing they might be compelled to battle the Japanese. It was none other than Charley Bo Yip, the cook.
Yip hated the Japanese with a furious hatred, if the garbled words that dropped from his smiling lips were to be believed. He hated them individually and nationally. And he sharpened, ostentatiously, a meat-cleaver, and proclaimed his intention of procuring a Jap's head as a trophy, should they have trouble.
"Me China boy, all same Melican," he told Martin, as he industriously turned the grindstone beneath the cleaver's edge. "Me like all same lepublic—me fight like devil all same time when China war. Now Jap he come take China. No good. Me kill um Jap. Velly good. All same chop um head, chop, chop!"
And Yip waved his cleaver over his head, and a seraphic smile lighted his bland, unwarlike face.
At last, on the sixty-eighth day of the passage, Martin came on deck for the morning watch and found the vessel bouncing along under unaccustomed blue skies, and with a fair breeze. The boatswain went below, swiggling himself very stiff with the fervent hope that no bleeding Jonah would interrupt the course before the next eight bells, and Ruth took up an expectant watch with the glasses handy. Captain Dabney also kept the deck. Martin knew the landfall was expected.
At the middle of the watch, a squall sent Martin racing aloft to furl the royal. It was then that his sea-sharpened sight raised the land.
His hail to the deck aroused the ship. By the time he had finished his descent from aloft, all hands were at the rail, endeavoring each to pick up the distant speck.
Four bells had gone while he was aloft, and he strode aft to take his wheel. As he passed along the poop, he heard Ruth say—
"If the breeze holds, we'll be inside in a couple of hours."
Captain Dabney turned his old, sea-wise face to the wind. After a moment, he shook his head.
"I feel fog," he said.
Within the hour, Captain Dabney's words bore fruit. The spanking ten-knot breeze dropped abruptly to a gentle four-knot power. Then in the twinkling of an eye, as it were, the fog enveloped them.
Martin, at the wheel, was straining his eyes, trying to make out the land ahead that he had seen from aloft. Abruptly before his eyes rose a wall of opaque gray.
It was a typical Smoky Sea fog, a wet, dense, Bering blanket. From his station near the stern, Martin could not see the rail at the break of the poop, could hardly, indeed, discern objects a dozen paces distant. Familiar figures, entering his circle of vision, loomed gigantic and grotesque. TheCohassetsailed over a ghostly sea, whose quiet was broken only by the harsh squawking of sea-birds flying high overhead.
Of recent weeks, Martin had become accustomed to fog. But there was about this fog a peculiarity foreign to his experience, though he had been informed during the cabin talks of the frequent occurrence of this particular brand of mist in these waters. For, though Martin, standing on deck, was surrounded by an impervious wall of fog that pressed upon him, though he could not see the water overside or forward for a quarter of the little vessel's length, yet he could bend back his head and see quite plainly the round ball of the sun glowing dully through the whitening mist overhead.
He understood the wherefor. The fog was a low-lying bank, and thirty feet or so above his head it ended. He could not, from the wheel, distinguish the upper hamper, but he knew the topmasts were free of the mist that shrouded the deck. Presently, from overhead, and ghostily piercing the gray veil, came Ruth's clear hail. She ordered him to shift the course a couple of points. So he knew his officer was aloft, up there in the sunshine, in a position that enabled her to direct their course.
In such a fashion, creeping through the fog, theCohassetcame at last to Fire Mountain. The fog delayed, but did not daunt, the mariners of the happy family.
After the hurried noon meal, Ruth returned to her station aloft and resumed conning the vessel by remembered landmarks on the mountain's face. On deck, Martin, in company with his fellows, labored under the boatswain's lurid driving to prepare the ship for anchoring. They cockbilled the great hooks, overhauled the cables, and coiled down running braces and halyards; for, said the captain, attending upon their bustle with his abnormally sharp ears:
"It's a wide breach in the reef that makes the cove, and the water is deep right up to the beach. The lass should have no trouble conning us in, for she has a clean view aloft. But just have everything ready for quick work, bosun, in case we get into trouble."
Hence it was that Martin, a-tingle though he was with curiosity, found no opportunity to run aloft into the sunshine and view the place he had talked and dreamed so much about. Other men went aloft on ship's work, but Martin's duty kept him racing about the wet decks.
The fog pressed closer upon them as the day advanced, it seemed to Martin. It required an effort of his imagination to admit that a few feet above him the sun shone.
The ship seemed to be crawling blindly about in a limitless void. Anon would come Ruth's cheering and mellow halloo, cleaving sweetly through the drab enveloping blanket, and seeming to Martin's eager ears to be a good fairy's voice from another world.
The screaming of the sea-birds grew in volume—but not a wing did Martin spy. The air appeared to take on an irritating taint; the fog tasted smoky.
Added to other sounds, slowly grew a great surging rumble. Aided by Ruth's calls, Martin knew he heard the sea beating against the reef that encircled the mountain; but he saw nothing overside but that dead gray wall.
The upper canvas was clewed up and left hanging, and the brig's slow pace became perceptibly slower.
A boat was lowered, and Little Billy was pulled into the void ahead; and directly his musical chant came back, as he sounded their path with the lead.
The surging thunder came from both sides, and Martin knew they were entering the haven. The voices of Ruth and Little Billy brought echoes from the giant sounding-board ahead.
A sharp command from Captain Dabney, a moment's rush of work to the accompaniment of a deal of fiery swiggling on the boatswain's part, the ship lost way and rounded up, the anchor dropped with a dullplub, the chain roared through the hawse-pipe and brought a vastly multiplied echoing roar from the invisible cliffs, and there was a sudden, myriad-voiced screeching from the startled birds. Succeeded an ominous, oppressive quiet, broken only by the dull thunder of the surf.
Martin drew a long breath and stared at the blank, impervious void about him.
"So this," he thought whimsically, "is the terrible Fire Mountain!" He was excitedly happy.
A few moments later, when he went aloft to furl sail, he saw the shore, this unmarked, unknown rock that had filled his thoughts for months.
It was a sudden and eery transition as he mounted the rigging, from gray night to sunshine in the space of a few ratlines. On the foretopgallant-yard he was above the fog, the very roof of the bank lying a dozen feet below. The decks were concealed from him.
Overhead, the sky was blue and the gulls drove past and circled about in white screaming clouds. Before him, and on either side, not five hundred yards distant, loomed the mountain.
Martin stared intently and curiously, and, despite himself, that bleak and desolate outlook sobered the gaiety of his mood. On three sides the rock reared skyward, bare and black, with never a hint of vegetation.
The mountain formed a rough cone; some two thousand feet overhead was the summit, and over it hovered a cloud of white steam vapor, and a twisting column of curiously yellow-brown smoke that trailed away lazily on a light wind. Martin, staring at it, decided that the air he breathed did have an alien, a sulphurous taint.
There were no raw fissures about the crater edge, and no evidence beyond the rather thin volume of smoke that the volcano contained life. Yet Martin seemed to hear, above the thunder of the surf in the fog beneath him, a distant, ominous rumbling, as if the slumbering Vulcan of the mountain were snoring in his sleep.
But it was the mountainside that longest held Martin's fascinated gaze. For, in her fiery past, the volcano had clad her flanks with black lava that was now molded into a vast chaos of fantastic architecture and sculptures. It was as if an army of crazy artists had here expended their lunatic energies.
He saw huge, round towers, leaning all awry; a vast pile fashioned like a church front, with twin steeples canting drunkenly; the tremendous columns the captain had told him of; jutting masses that hinted in their half-formed outlines of gigantic, crouching beasts. And everywhere in that weird field of shapes were the openings of caves—dark blots in the black stone.
The mountain was truly a sponge-like labyrinth, Martin perceived. He could not see the strip of beach, however, or the cavern mouth, shaped like an elephant's head, of the whaleman's log. The fog hid them from view.
But what he did see was sufficient. It was an evil landscape. It loomed black and forbidding against the background of blue sky, and the sun failed to lighten the aspect. It threatened. The stark desolateness of the place was enhanced by the wild cawing of the gulls and the mournful booming of the sea upon the reef.
Martin was depressed, as by a foreboding of ill fortune. He turned to Rimoa, who was on the yard-arm with him, and spoke with forced lightness—
"A cheerful-looking place, eh, Rimoa?"
The Maori shuddered, and there was fear in his eyes.
"No like!" he said. "This place bad, bad, bad!"
Then, as they bent to their work, the fog-bank suddenly lifted, enveloped them, and hid the black mountain from view.
"No, we'll not go ashore tonight," stated Captain Dabney at supper. "We would only lose ourselves blundering about in this fog. If the stuff is still there, it will keep until tomorrow. In the morning we'll have a try, whether the fog has lifted or not."
"We'll find the junk unless Wild Bob and Ichi have beaten us to it," said Little Billy. "Hope they are not snugged close by behind this blooming curtain."
"No danger of that," answered Ruth. "If theDawnhad been anywhere near us, I would have raised her topmasts above the bank. I didn't, so she is neither outside nor inside. They have either been here or gone, or they never arrived. In either case, I am thankful for Carew's absence. Shall we stand watch and watch tonight, captain?"
"Hardly necessary," said the captain. "Make it an anchor watch. Guess you'll welcome a couple of extra hours in your bunks. Let's see, Martin, you stand watch with the afterguard; that will make four of you—Ruth, Bosun, Little Billy, and Martin. Have the fo'c's'le stand watch in batches of two. Make Chips and Sails—they have been farmers the passage—stand watch and watch. That will make four hands on deck at a time—plenty for any sudden emergency. But if the fog lifts during the night, rouse the ship at once and we'll set off for the beach. Got your directions ready, Billy?"
"Yes, in my pocket," said the hunchback. "But I venture that we all know them by heart."
"If the fog lifts, wind may follow," added the captain. "If it breezes up from the south we may have to hike out of here in a hurry. How much chain is out? Forty-five? Well, have the bosun clap the devil's claw on ahead of the shackle, and loosen the pin, in case we have to drop the cable. And—all hands at four o'clock."
In the lottery that presently followed, Martin drew the watch from two to four in the morning. Little Billy's paper called for from twelve to two. Ruth and the boatswain divided the first four hours.
Before he turned in, Martin went forward to discover which of the forecastle hands would share his vigil. When he came abreast the galley door, where a beam of light shining out lighted dimly a small patch of the pervading, foggy murk, he encountered Sails.
MacLean was standing in the light, bitterly recounting his troubles to the cheerfully grinning Charley Bo Yip. Martin paused, and was promptly aware that Sails had transferred his flow of words to the newcomer, as being a better audience than the unresponsive Chinaman.
Martin gathered that Sails was to stand the middle watch, and that he was aggrieved that the best blood of Scotland had been bested in a game of chance by a blanked squarehead ship's carpenter, who had, it seemed, won the right to stand the earlier watch. And, in any case, it was sacrilege to violate the night's rest of a MacLean. And a sailmaker was a dash-blanked tradesman and should never be blankety well asked to stand a watch under any dashed circumstances! So quoth Sails.
Martin commiserated with the other.
"You'll be on watch with me, Sails," he concluded. "I have the two to four. Little Billy has the earlier half of the watch."
"Little Billy!" echoed Sails. "Did ye say Little Billy, lad?" His belligerent voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "Och, lad—Little Billy?"
"Why, yes. What is wrong with that?" answered Martin.
Suddenly Sails raised an arm and shook a clenched fist at the mountain that brooded invisible behind the fog curtain.
"Och, ye black de'il's kirk!" he declaimed. "Ye blood-sucker! The MacLean's curse on ye!"
He stood in relief against the muddy background, his features dimly lighted by the ray from the galley lamp, wisps of fog eddying about his gray head and beard, his features wild and passion-working. And he cursed the Fire Mountain. It was unreal, unearthly, a scene from another age. But Martin felt a superstitious thrill.
"Great Scott! What is the matter?" he cried, startled.
MacLean lowered his arm, and his shoulders slumped despondently. He mumbled to himself. Then, in answer to Martin, he said:
"Little Billy—och, 'tis Little Billy, dear Billy! 'Tis feydom, lad!" And he turned abruptly, strode forward, and was lost in the fog.
When Martin reached aft again, he intended to tell Little Billy about MacLean's strange behavior. He found the hunchback restlessly pacing the tiny floor space of their common room. Little Billy lifted a haggard face as Martin entered.
"Hello, Martin," he said. "I was waiting up for you. Here—keep these for me, will you?" He extended a bunch of keys. "I'm feeling extra dry tonight, and I don't want to be tempted by knowing I have the key to the medicine-chest in my pocket. Whenever I pass that confounded box, I think of the two quarts of booze inside, and my tongue swells. Just keep the keys till tomorrow, will you? Ruth kept them for me when I had my last big thirst, a few weeks ago—remember? But I would rather you kept them this time. I don't want her to know I'm having a hard time. She makes such a fuss over me, stuffs me with pills, and makes me drink that vile sassafras tea."
Martin dropped the bunch of keys into his trousers pocket. He regarded Little Billy with sympathy. For the past few days, the hunchback had again been engaged in a bout with his ancient enemy. Little Billy was fighting manfully, but the strain was telling, aging his mobile face, making rare his sunny smile and whimsical banter. Martin keenly felt the other's suffering, for he had learned to love the little cripple.
"Cheer up, Billy!" he said. "A better day coming."
"Oh, sure! Don't worry about me," responded Little Billy. "Turn in and get your sleep. I'm for the bunk, too—but I guess I'll read a bit before I turn the lamp down. Lord, don't I wish I owned a saloon! Well, tomorrow we'll find the ambergris, and I'll have money enough to drink myself peacefully to death—providing that devil, Carew, hasn't been before us to this cheerful spot. Good night."
Clambering into his bunk, the little man composed himself to a pretense of reading.
Martin decided he would not trouble Little Billy with a recital of MacLean's outburst. The poor fellow's mind was feverish enough without being bothered with the old Scotchman's wild, nonsensical raving. Martin knew the hunchback would consider gravely, and be disturbed, if he spoke. Little Billy apparently had some faith in Sails' mystical foresight.
In truth, Martin himself, was impressed and oppressed by the Scot's obscure hints of evil to come—they fitted so well with the wild and gloomy face of the volcano and the depressing fog. Martin was half ashamed of his dread of something he could not name; but he turned in standing, removing only his shoes and loosening his belt, before crawling into his bunk and drawing the blankets over him.
A strange hand grasping his shoulder brought Martin out of deep sleep to instant consciousness. The light still burned in the room, and his opening eyes first rested on the tin clock hanging on the wall opposite. It was one o'clock.
The hand that shook him belonged to MacLean. The old man was bending over him with the white face of one who has seen a ghost.
"He's gone!" he softly exclaimed, before Martin could frame a question.
Startled, Martin sat up and swung his legs outboard.
"What—Little Billy?" A glance showed him the upper bunk was empty.
"Aye—Billy," responded Sails. "Och, 'tis a bad night outdoors, lad—a thick, dark night. And Billy's gone. Didna' I see him in the dark, and wearing the black shroud, these months agone! He was feyed! Yon mount is the de'il's home, and others——"
"What are you talking about?" interrupted Martin impatiently. "What nonsense! Isn't Little Billy on deck? Isn't he on watch?"
"On watch? Aye, who kens where he watches now? He's gone, I tell ye!" hissed the old man fiercely. And then, apparently observing Martin's bewilderment, he went on: "He has disappeared from deck.Och, I can no say how! The Powers o' Darkness can no be seen through, and he was under the black shroud! I saw him at one bell when he came for'rd and routed me oot the galley where I was taking a wee spell.
"Och, 'tis a black, bad night the night. Ye canna' see your hand afore ye. And Billy went aft, and I leaned on the rail, and listened—listened, for I couldna' see. And I heardIt! Aye, I kenned 'twasIt, for 'twas no the soond o' the waves, nor the calling o' the birds, nor the splash o' anything that lives in the sea. I kenned it wasIt. Hadna' I seen the shroud? Soonded like an oar stroke. 'Twas the Prince o' Evil soonding his way, a-coming wi' his shroud.Och! I run aft to tell Billy, and I tell ye, lad, Little Billy was gone!"
MacLean leaned forward, grunting his words earnestly, his face working with superstitious fear.
"Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed Martin. "You make me tired with your eternal 'fey' business. Little Billy is somewhere around the deck—probably seeking you, this minute."
"He's gone!" reiterated Sails. "I searched, I tell ye! I got my lantern, and I looked all aboot the poop, and all aboot the decks, clear for'rd, and I sang oot as loud as I could wi'oot rousing all hands—and no hide or hair o' Billy could I find.Och, he's gone, I tell ye, lad. Didna' I see him lying stark in the dark place, wi' the black shroud over him. The MacLeans ha' the sight, lad, and I am the seventh son."
"All right, all right! Don't chatter so loud, you'll awaken everybody," interrupted Martin. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and bent over and pulled on his shoes. "I'll go on deck with you, and of course Little Billy will give us the laugh."
But Martin was, in fact, a little bit impressed by the old sailmaker's earnest conviction. As he laced his shoes, a little superstitious thrill tingled along his spine at the thought ofItplucking Little Billy from the deck and carrying him into the dark depths of the brooding mountain.
But that was nonsense, he immediately reflected, half angry with himself. By George! If he allowed that confounded volcano to affect him so, he would soon be as bad as old Sails! Still, he had better go on deck and take a look at Little Billy, and satisfy the old man. His watch was soon, anyway.
Martin was recalling the hunchback's nervousness a few hours previous; Little Billy was wrestling John Barleycorn. If he had disappeared as the sailmaker claimed, he had probably lost the bout and would be found in drunken sleep. There was whisky in the medicine-chest—no, he had the keys. Well, then the alcohol in the boatswain's locker.
"Was there anything unusual about Little Billy's manner when you saw him at one bell?" he asked MacLean.
"No, lad. I ken your thought," replied the other. "He'd no had a drop, though he was jumpy as a cat."
Martin was taken aback by Sails' shrewd guess. He tiptoed to the door.
"Come on," he whispered to Sails. "Don't make any noise. We don't want to disturb the others until we make sure Little Billy isn't on the job."
They stepped into the cabin, and Martin's first glance was toward the medicine-chest. It had not been disturbed. They went forward, through the cabin alleyway, toward the main deck. The boatswain's room opened off here.
Martin opened the door, half expecting to see the hunchback chatting with his bosom friend. But the room was dark, and the red giant was sleeping noisily. Then they opened the door at the end of the alleyway and stepped out on deck, Martin softly closing the door behind him.
Abruptly, Martin found himself isolated in a sea of murk. At that hour, the sun had dipped for its brief concealment beneath the horizon, and the fog, which had been a gray-brown curtain in daylight, was now an all-enshrouding cloak of blackness that rendered eyesight useless.
Literally, Martin could not see his hand before his face. Nor could he see the door to the cabin alleyway, that he had just closed, though he had stepped but a couple of paces away from it. Nor could he see Sails, though the latter stood but an arm's length distant. Sails's hoarse whisper came through the gloom:
"Ye see the night, lad?Och, 'tis a night for evil!"
Martin shivered at the sound of Sails' dismal croaking. See the night! He could see nothing. The other's voice came out of an impenetrable void. Above him, beneath him, all about him, was nothing but blackness, thick, clinging gloom. The Stygian, fog-filled night crushed, like a heavy, intangible weight; one choked for breath.
Martin felt like an atom lost in back immensity. He wanted to shout at the top of his voice. But what he did do was lift his voice gently, so the words would not arouse the sleepers in the cabin.
"Little Billy! Billy!" he called.
His call was swallowed up, smothered, by the night. He strained his ears. But the only answer was the eery cry of a night-flying gull and the deep moaning of the sea upon the rocks—that and the hoarse, uneasy breathing of the invisible MacLean.
Martin was more than disturbed by that silence.
"Sails, who are the foc'sle hands who have this watch?" he said.
"Rimoa and Oomak," came MacLean's voice. "They were for'rd when I came aft for you."
Martin called again, along the decks.
"Rimoa! Oomak! For'rd there—speak up!"
The wailing voices of the night replied; not a word, not a footfall came out of the gloom to tell of stirring human life.
"Good Lord, they must all be asleep!" exclaimed Martin testily. "Sails, where is that lantern you spoke of?"
"In the galley—I left it there," answered the sailmaker. "I will go fetch it."
He heard MacLean's retreating footsteps, uncertain and uneven, as the man felt his way forward. The diminishing sounds affected him strangely; he was suddenly like a little child affrighted by the dark. The sinister night contained a nameless threat. The black wall that encompassed him, flouting his straining gaze, seemed peopled by rustlings and leering eyes. Abruptly, Martin decided to follow MacLean, instead of waiting for him.
He stepped out in the other's wake, as he thought. After a blundering moment, he fetched up against the ship's rail. He tacked away and bumped into the after capstan, which stood in the middle of the deck. He barked his shins there and swore aloud to relieve his surcharged feelings.
Then his groping hand encountered a little object, lying on top of the capstan, that checked his words instantly. It was a well-known article, one he had handled often, and recognized immediately he touched it—it was Little Billy's rubber tobacco-pouch. He fingered it apprehensively, staring about him. Why was Little Billy's pouch abandoned there on the capstan-head, this pocket companion of an inveterate smoker? Why, Little Billy must be near by! He called excitedly:
"Billy! Billy! Where are you?"
The night took his hail and returned its own sphinx-like reply. Martin stuffed the pouch into his pocket. He was distinctly uneasy, now, on the hunchback's account. Something had happened, he felt—some accident had happened to Little Billy. It was not like Little Billy to thus forsake his beloved shag, his constant ally in his fight against the drink hunger. Had the poor devil succumbed after all? Had he deserted Nicotine for Barleycorn?
Martin leaned over the capstan, peering into that baffling gloom. He stiffened tensely. He seemed to hear whispering; it came out of that black pit before him, the very ghost of a man's voice.
He strained his ears, but the sound, if sound it were, was not repeated. He was impatient for MacLean to appear with the lantern, but he could no longer hear MacLean's footfalls. Then his ears caught another sound; it was peculiar, like the patter of bare feet.
"MacLean! Where are you?" he called sharply. "Hurry with that lantern!"
Instead of MacLean's voice in reply, he heard a heavy breathing, the sound of a man taking several long, sobbing breaths. The breathing ceased immediately, but a light patter followed it, and then the scrape of a shod foot across the deck. The sounds came from just ahead, close by, but he could see nothing. But he sensed some kind of a struggle was taking place on the deck.
He started forward, and then stopped dead. Out of the black void before him came MacLean's voice—strangled words in a horrible, ascending pitch:
"Marty! Marty! My God! Ah-h-h!"
There, was the thud of a heavy, falling body striking the deck.
For a second Martin was anchored by horror. Then he leaped forward, giving voice as he did to a great, arousing, wordless bellow. And even as he ran blindly ahead those few paces, he heard a heavy voice give a shouted supplement to his call.
The darkness was suddenly alive with rushing feet. A body hurled itself against him, an arm struck a sweeping blow, and he felt the knife rip through his flannel shirt and graze his shoulder near his neck.
He went reeling backward, his foot tripped on a ring-bolt in the deck, and he fell heavily. His head struck with stunning force against a bulwark stanchion.
The collision scattered his wits, and Martin lay in the scuppers, blinking at the dancing lights before his eyes. In his ears was a great humming. Then, after a moment, the humming broke into parts and became a babel of shouts.
He heard a harsh chatter—voices crying out in a foreign tongue. He heard a great booming voice that stirred memory. He heard a pistol-shot. He heard Ruth's voice, raised in a sharp, terror-stricken cry:
"Martin—Billy—Martin! Oh, help!"
The scream galvanized Martin to action.Shewas calling him!
He struggled to arise, got upon his knees, reached upward and grasped a belaying-pin in the rail above. Clutching the pin, he drew himself erect.
He swayed drunkenly for a moment, still dizzied by his fall. The pandemonium of a moment agone was stilled. Ruth did not cry out again, but voices came from aft. The belaying-pin he grasped was loose in its hole and unencumbered by rope. Quite without reasoning, Martin drew it out, and, grasping it clublike, lurched aft.
Twice during his headlong flight toward the cabin, hands reached out of the darkness to stay him. And twice the stout, oaken club he wielded impacted against human skulls, and men dropped in their tracks.
Martin burst out of the gloom into the small half-circle of half light that came from the now open alleyway door. He rushed through, into the cabin.
He had time but for a glimpse of the scene in the cabin. One whirling glance that took in the scattered company—the bedraggled Japanese, Captain Dabney lying face down across the threshold of his room, his white hair bloodied, Wild Bob Carew lifting a startled face. And Carew was holding a squirming, fighting Ruth in his arms!
Martin hardly checked the stride of his entrance. He flung himself toward the man who held his woman, and his club cracked upon another skull.
A man hurtled against him and drove him against the wall. He saw Carew fall, and Ruth spill free of the encircling arms.
Then a hand took him by the throat, long, supple, muscular fingers stopping his wind. He saw a face upraised to his—an expressionless yellow face, with glittering, slanting eyes. He drew up his club for the blow. The slender fingers were probing upward, behind his jawbone, and he was choking.
Then, it seemed to Martin, a stream of liquid fire flooded his veins, searing his entire body. The belaying-pin dropped from his nerveless hand, his arms dropped, his knees sagged.
The terrible fingers squeezed tighter. He could feel his eyeballs starting, his tongue swelling. The flame consumed his vitals. It was hellish pain—quite the sharpest agony Martin had ever felt.
He was upon his back on the floor. The fingers were gone, but the awful pain continued. His wits were swimming. A pair of soft arms were about him. His reeling head was cushioned against a loved and fragrant breast; a dear voice spoke his name anxiously.
"Martin, Martin! What have they done? Oh, Martin, speak to me!" He tried to speak, but could not.
Then the loved presence was gone, and he was alone. A face bent over him!—a yellow face. It was a well-remembered face, the face of little Dr. Ichi. But what a towsled, bedraggled successor to the former dandy!
Ichi was smiling at him. It was all very strange to Martin, unreal, like the fancies of a delirium. A mist came before his eyes and blotted out the smiling face. But his senses left him with Ichi's courteously spoken words in his ears:
"Very, very sorry, Mr. Blake. You were of such roughness we were compelled to use the ju-jitsu!"
It seemed to Martin he was wandering in a vast and thirsty desert. To the very core of his being he was dry. Drink! Drink! With his whole life he lusted drink. He waded through that parched world, burning up with thirst.
Despite his efforts, his mouth sagged open, and his tongue, swollen to prodigious size, burst through its proper limits and hung down upon his breast, broiling in the rays of the hot sun. To make the keener his thirst, there lay before him a delectable oasis, a patch of moist green, with playing fountains and rippling cascades plainly visible to his tortured gaze. He struggled toward it, and always, as he neared it, some malign influence clutched his wrists—which unaccountably stuck out behind him—and jerked him back.
For ages and ages he waded through the dry sand toward the water, and ever the Evil One who controlled his wrists kept him from attaining his desire. Water! Water! He was in agony for water. Water! Would he never reach that blessed water?
Then something cold, slimy, horrible, ran over his face, and the loathful thrill he felt shocked him into reality.
The desert vanished. He tried to move and sat up. He heard a frenzied squeaking, and a light scampering on wood, and he knew that a rat had run over his body.
All the sensations of consciousness assailed him abruptly. He heard the rats, and a deep rumble near by; he saw dimly in the darkness; he smelled of mingled odors of provisions; he felt thirst. Though he was out of the desert, he was still consumed with thirst.
He sat quietly for a moment while his confused thoughts gradually arrayed themselves in orderly fashion. He knew where he was instantly—the jumble of casks, and kegs, and boxes, that surrounded him, and which he could dimly perceive in the gloom, and the smell, told him he was in the ship's lazaret. How he came to be there was as yet concealed behind a haze that clouded his memory.
Next, he became aware that something was the matter with his arms. They ached cruelly. After a moment's experimenting and reflection the truth came to him with shocking force—his arms were drawn behind him, and his wrists were handcuffed together. The shock of that discovery dissipated the fog over his mind. He began to remember.
But while his wits groped, he was sharply conscious of his thirst. It blazed. His tongue felt like a piece of swollen leather. He felt pain. His throat was throbbing with pain. Water! Water was the pressing need, the most important thing in existence.
He tried to mouth his desire, to speak it aloud, and a weak and painful gurgle struggled outward from his throat.
There was a stir close by him, and a voice spoke up. Martin was then aware that the deep rumble he had been listening to was the sound of a man swearing deeply and softly. The man now spoke to him.
"Ow, lad, is that you? 'Ave you come to, Martin!"
Martin peered toward the voice, and saw a few feet ahead of him, beyond a circular stanchion, the shadowy outline of a man. He tried to speak, to say, "Bosun! Bosun!" But his misused throat and parched tongue refused to form the words. And with the other's voice came memory, complete and terrible. The past was arrayed before his mind's eye with a lightning flash of recollection. The dreadful present was clear to him in all its bitter truth.
He remembered the trip to the deck in search of Little Billy; the black, evil night, and MacLean's horrified outcry. He remembered the scene in the cabin, Captain Dabney lying inert on the floor, the hateful ring of yellow faces, and Carew—Carew clasping Ruth in his arms!
He remembered felling Carew, and being felled himself by the lethal clutch of the Japanese. He remembered Ichi, and even Ichi's words, "compelled to use the ju-jitsu." They had ju-jitsued him! That was what was wrong with his throat.
The sum of his memories was clear, and for the moment it crushed and terrified him. For it was evident that that which they had speculated upon as a remote almost impossible, contingency, had come to pass—the brig was in Carew's hands. They had been surprised in the fog, a piracy had occurred, murder had been done, and Wild Bob and his yellow followers had taken the ship.
He was a prisoner in the bowels of the ship, his hands chained behind his back, absolutely helpless. And Sails was dead! And Little Billy was dead! Captain Dabney was dead! The crew—God knew, perhaps—they were slaughtered too! And Ruth—Ruth was alive, in Carew's hands, at the mercy of the brute she so feared. Ruth was alive—to suffer what fate? And he—he who loved her—was chained and helpless.
Panic, rage, despair, shook Martin. In excess of misery, he groaned aloud, a smothered sob of anguish.
"Martin, lad! 'Ave you come around? You're sittin' up. Ow, swiggle me, lad, pipe up!"
The words came from the huddled figure behind the stanchion, in a husky beseeching rumble. The shadowy figure stirred, and Martin heard the sharp clink of steel striking against steel.
The words and the sound pierced his dread, and brought his thoughts back to the boatswain. He tried a second time to answer the other's hail, and managed to articulate in a hoarse mumble. The words tore barbed through his sore throat, and were hardly managed by his dry, swollen tongue.
"All right—bos—dry—come."
He got upon his knees and peered into the darkness about him. He was in a narrow passageway between two rows of ship's stores that fan fore and after the length of the lazaret. He was facing forward. Just behind him, on his right hand, a ladder ran up to the cabin overhead, but the trapdoor in the cabin floor was closed.
His scrutiny was aided as much by memory as by eyesight, for he had several times been in this chamber, breaking out stores. The passage he sat in, he knew, ran forward to the row of beef casks which abutted against the forward bulkhead. Midway was an intersecting, thwart-ship alleyway between the stores. At this point of intersection was the stanchion, behind which was the boatswain, a hulking black blot in the surrounding gloom.
He hunched himself along upon his knees, and reached the stanchion.
"Drink—dry—water," he gabbled painfully.
"Marty—Marty, lad, I'm glad you're 'ere!" came the heartfelt whisper from the boatswain. "I feared 'e 'ad choked the life out o' ye. Dry, ye say? So am I, lad. Cussed so much I can't spit—an' my back's bloomin' well busted from bending over 'ugging this stanchion!"
Martin, leaning against a tier of boxes, was able to see the boatswain more clearly. He could not make out the other's features plainly, but he almost rubbed against an arm and leg, and he saw that the big man was in his underwear. The boatswain was seated on the floor, and his arms and legs encircled the stanchion.
"I'd 'a' come to you, Marty, but the blighters 'ave me ironed, ironed 'and an' foot around this bloody stanchion! Ow, but it's a black business, lad! But can ye stand, Martin? 'Ave they ironed you, too?"
Martin desperately endeavored to swallow the dry lump in his throat.
"Behind back—hand," he managed to gulp out. "Throat bad—can't talk—dry——"
"Be'ind your back!" broke in the boatswain. "Ow —— blast the cruel devils! Be'ind your back—ironed be'ind your back! An' you lyin' on your arms these hours! That's cruel 'ard—'arder than me 'ugging this ruddy post. Throat bad? I know—I seen them giving you the squeeze. Ju-jitsu—swiggle me if it wasn't! But can ye stand, Martin? 'Ave you the use o' your legs? Because, them boxes you're leanin' against are canned goods, tomatoes an' such, and——"
But Martin heard no more. He had struggled to his feet, and begun to investigate. For the boatswain's remark concerning canned goods had brought two memories to his mind. One memory went back to the old, half-forgotten days of his clerkhood in San Francisco. In those days he had occasionally gone on Sunday hikes over the Marin hills, in company with Fatty Jones, who worked in a neighboring office. And Fatty Jones, he recalled, always carried with him, in preference to a canteen, two cans of tomatoes for drinking purposes.
The second memory went back but a week. He, and the two Kanakas of his watch, had been sent below to break out a fresh cask of beef. As they struggled with the heavy burden in this very passageway, one of the Kanakas had knocked from its position on top of a pile, a box of tomatoes. The fall broke open the box. They had tossed it back into place, unrepaired. Unless some one had subsequently renailed the cover on that box, it was open to him, somewhere along the top tier.
A vision of himself quaffing deeply of the cool, wet contents of those cans, filled Martin's mind to the exclusion of aught else.
The row of boxes was about breast-high. Unable to use his hands, Martin leaned over and explored with his chin. The fourth box rewarded him. He broke his skin upon a bared nail, and, craning further, rubbed his jawbone over the cold, smooth, round tops of cans.
He crooned with delight. Then followed despair as he discovered that he was unable, without the use of his hands, to either move the box or extract a can.
The boatswain, following his progress with eye and ear, counseled him:
"Turn around, an' bend over, an' reach up backwards. No? Well, try and get on top o' the pile, and flop over."
It was bracing advice. Martin pulled himself together and essayed the attempt.
Slowly he wormed his way upward until his middle balanced on the edge of the top tier. A quick writhe placed him atop. Then he bent back, and his manacled hands felt around till they encountered the cans.
It required repeated attempts ere he was able to draw one out of the box, for the cans were large, of gallon size, and his numbed arms were almost strengthless. But at last he plucked one out and canted it over the edge of the box. It struck the deck with a thud. He scrambled down from his perch, croaking excitedly—
"Got it—bos—got—one."
An instant later, he had kicked the can to the stanchion, and was squatted again by the boatswain's side.
The boatswain slid his arms down the post and felt of the treasure.
"Aye—ye got it!" he commented. "But 'ow'll we open the thing? Too big for me to get my 'ands around, or I'd twist it open—an' the way we're tied up we can't bash it against anything. Strike me a blushin' pink, what rotten luck. An' we fair perishin' with thirst!"
"Got—knife?" mumbled Martin.
"Knife! I ain't got my bloody clothes, let alone my knife! Caught me in my bunk, asleep, they did. And you needn't twist about looking for your sheath-knife, lad. I seen them take it from you, up there in the cabin. Swiggle me' we're stumped—but, you 'aven't a pocket-knife, 'ave you?"
"No," answered Martin.
His spirits were at zero, with the diminishing prospect of tasting those wet tomatoes. His raging thirst, whetted by expectation, assailed him with added force; he was actually dizzy with lust of drink.
"Blimme! 'Aven't you anything in your pockets what's sharp?" asked the boatswain. "Ow, what tough luck!"
Martin suddenly remembered something.
"Got—keys," he croaked. "Bunch—keys."
"Keys!" echoed the other. "Bless me that's better. May work it. Can you reach them—what pocket? Side? 'Ere—lean closer to me, an' I'll get 'em out. Keys! Ow—any of them sharp pointed? Any Yales?"
Two of the boatswain's clublike fingers worked their way into Martin's trousers pocket.
"Don't know—not—mine," Martin answered the questioning. "Keys belong—Little Billy—gave——"
The boatswain's fingers stopped prodding for a second. The man tensed, drew in a sharp breath, and then exploded an oath.
"What! Billy's keys? God 'elp us lad, did ye say you 'ad Little Billy's keys?"
The fingers dove into the pocket with redoubled energy, grasped the keys, and drew them out. And then the boatswain pawed them over for a moment.
"Ow, strike me, 'e spoke right!" he muttered exultingly. "Billy's keys—the steward's ring! Oh ho! An' may the devil swiggle me bleedin' well stiff, if 'ere ain't the wery key! By 'Eaven, I'll 'ave my bare 'ands on that bloke yet! Ow—what luck!"
"What—" commenced the astonished Martin.
"What!" echoed the boatswain. "Ere—you just stand around, and let me get at them bracelets. I'll show ye what! Ow—where's the bloody 'ole! Ah-h!"
There was a tiny click—and Martin felt his steel bonds being drawn from his wrists. His nerveless arms fell to his sides.
The boatswain explained the miracle.
"Little Billy's keys—'ow'd you 'appen—don't ye see, lad? There's a duplicate key to these irons on Billy's key-ring. Old man 'as the other key—or 'ad, suppose Carew 'as it now. It fits all the irons. 'Ere, turn me loose now. This little key!"
A moment later, Martin's fumbling fingers completed their task, and the big man's limbs were free. The boatswain straightened and stretched with a grunt of satisfaction. Martin, obeying the dominant need, which was to drink, seized the can of tomatoes and commenced to pound it against the stanchion, in the hope of bursting it open.
"'Ere—stop that!" hoarsely commanded the boatswain. "You'll 'ave them down on us with that noise. Give me the can—an' the keys. Ah—'ere's a Yale, saw edge. Just drive it through—so. An' use it like a bloomin' can-opener—so. 'Ere you are, lad, drink 'earty. I know 'o'w a chokin' like you got makes a man crazy with thirst. I'm some dry myself."
Martin seized the can. The boatswain had cut a small, jagged opening in the top and Martin clapped his mouth over it, cutting his lips in his eagerness. He drank, drank. It was an exquisite delight to feel the cool stream pouring down his throat; his whole body was instantly refreshed, invigorated.
He paused for breath, and drank again. The contents of the can were three-quarters drinkable, and he gulped the major portion down. Then he stopped with a sudden shame of his greediness, recalling the boatswain's expressed need.
"Oh, bosun, I forgot!" he exclaimed, noting as he spoke that his tongue was limber and tractable again, and that he could form words.
"That's all right, laddie," said the boatswain, taking the proffered can. "I know 'ow you felt. Enough for me 'ere. Ah, that's better than the best drink ever mixed be'ind a bar. Plenty, lad, plenty—I feel fit now. 'Ere, 'ave some more."
Martin finished the tin. Then he heaved a surfeited sigh.
"Oh, I didn't think I'd ever get enough," he said. "Why, I was so dry I couldn't talk. And my throat——"
"I know," interrupted the boatswain, sitting down beside him. "You're bleedin' lucky to be talkin' now, even in a whisper. I've seen other men choked like you was, an' they couldn't say a word for days. Slick beggars with their fingers, them jitsu blokes! And now, Martin, let's figure it out. Ow, swiggle me, what'll we do? The lass——"
The boatswain swore deeply and energetically.
Martin groaned in unison with the other's oaths, his love-born panic for the girl's safety overwhelming him again. Grim, horrible fears surged through his mind and pricked him unendurably. God! Ruth, his Ruth, was alone, helpless, at the mercy of those devils' lusts! And he was sitting here inactive! It was unendurable!
He scrambled to his feet, with the wild idea of mounting the ladder to the cabin and battering his way through the trap-door. He must succor Ruth!
The boatswain reached up a huge hand and pulled him down again. Martin struggled for a moment, his reason clouded by his hot fear.
"But, bosun—Ruth!" he cried. "Ruth is—Good God, man, Carew and those yellow men have Ruth!"
The giant restrained him as easily as if he were a child, and talked soothingly.
"Aye, aye, lad—I know. But Ruth is safe, I think, so far. An' ye can bet your bottom dollar Carew will keep the Japs at their distance of the lass, and she'll stand off Carew—for a w'ile, any'ow. Swiggle me, Martin, 'ave sense. What can ye do bare-'anded? 'Ere, now, sit still, and we'll figure out some plan. Ruth's all right. She's in the Old Man's room, a-nursin' 'im."
"No, no—the captain is dead!" asserted Martin. "I saw him lying dead on the floor!"
"'E wasn't dead," said the boatswain. "Carew took 'is gun away, and 'it 'im over the eye with the butt of it. Laid 'im out, same as you. They let the lass take 'im into 'is room and stay there to nurse 'im. I seen it, I tell ye!"
Martin subsided.
"But what will we do?" he exclaimed. "We must do something, bosun!"
"Aye—please God, we'll do something," said the boatswain. "Please God, I'll 'ave my 'ands on that black-'earted murderer—and on Ichi, too! I 'ave a plan. But first, tell me what 'appened to you? 'Ow did you 'appen to be on deck? It wasn't your watch. What 'appened on deck before you came bouncing into the cabin and batted Carew on the knob with the belayin'-pin? Neat crack! Too bad it didn't 'urt the beggar much. And brace up, lad! I know 'ow ye feel. I know 'ow 'tis between you and the lass—I've seen the eyes ye give each other. She'll be safe, Martin. Strike me, God will never let them 'arm 'er, swiggle me stiff if 'E will!"
There was a wealth of simple faith in the giant's voice, and some of it found lodgment in Martin's troubled breast. He composed himself, held himself in sure check, and upon the boatswain's repeated request, told what had happened to him from the moment the old sailmaker had awakened him till he felt his senses leave him in the cabin.
When he finished, he discovered it was his turn to hearten. The boatswain was immersed in grief, and the hunchback was the cause.
"Ow, swiggle me! I 'oped as 'ow Billy was safe somewhere—locked up like us," he groaned. "But 'e's gone. Got 'im first, likely. Must 'ave slipped up be'ind 'im, while 'e was fillin' his pipe there w'ere ye found 'is baccy, and give 'im the knife. They didn't 'ave guns—used knives. They got guns now, blast 'em. An' Little Billy's gone! I—I loved the lad, Martin." The man's voice choked.
"But he may not be dead, not even injured," urged Martin. "I only heard Sails cry out. Perhaps Billy wasn't around when they slipped aboard. You know his failing, bosun, and you know how he has been the last few days. The reason I have the keys, you know, is because he didn't want to be tempted by the medicine-chest. Maybe he gave in, and got some alcohol, forward, and got drunk and went to sleep."
The boatswain snorted indignantly.
"You don't know Billy like I do!" he cried. "Drunk, no! Billy 'ad 'is failing, but 'e'd sooner 'a' died than give in at such a time. No—'e's gone. Ye say old Sails told ye Billy was feyed! Ow, that proves it. That —— burgoo-eater was always right in such things! Billy, dear Billy—'e was a proper mate, Martin."
The boatswain's mood changed abruptly, and rage possessed him. Martin felt the man's great body tremble with the intensity of his passion. He spoke through his clenched teeth, slowly and strangely, without using his accustomed expletives.
"They killed 'im! They'll pay. We're goin' to get out o' 'ere, Martin—I know 'ow, now. We're going to try an' take the ship back. Aye—maybe they'll get us, but I'll twist the necks o' some o' them first. And I'll get Carew, 'imself!"
He spoke the words with a cool positiveness that bred belief. Martin, in almost as vengeful a mood as the other, was grimly cheered by the pictured prospect.
"I'll tell you what I know about it," went on the boatswain in a somewhat lighter voice. "They got me in my bunk. 'Ad the irons on me before I was awake—ye know 'ow I sleep, like a ruddy corpse. Ichi steered 'em. The blighter knows the ship, knew where the irons 'ung in the cabin, knew 'ow the rooms are laid out. When I woke up I was 'elpless, and 'alf dozen o' them picked me up and packed me into the cabin and threw me down be'ind the table. That's where I lay when you busted in. They 'ad gagged me with my own socks.
"They must 'ave been on board before Sails came aft, and as soon as the two of ye went for'rd, they slipped into the alleyway be'ind ye. I was already dumped on the cabin floor when the rumpus broke out on deck—at the same instant Carew appeared. At the noise, the Old Man jumped out of 'is room, gun in 'and, and 'e shot at Carew's voice. Carew grabbed the gun, and banged 'im over the eye with it, and the Old Man went down across 'is doorway. Then Ruth popped out o' 'er room, and Carew grabbed 'er. She fought like the devil. Then you bust in with your belayin'-pin.
"After they 'ad choked you, an' after Carew 'ad got to 'is feet and pulled the lass away from 'uggin' and kissin' you, Carew and Ichi began to confab. It was English, and I 'eard a bit. Ichi went to the Old Man, 'oo was breathin' heavy, and examined 'im like 'e was a sure enough sawbones. 'E says the Old Man is just knocked out, and no fracture. 'E takes the Old Man's keys. Then Carew 'as a couple o' 'ands hoist the Old Man into 'is bunk, and 'e says to the lass as 'ow she can 'tend to the skipper. Ruth bounces into the room and slams an' locks the door. Carew laughs and turns to business.
"An' what do ye think 'is first order was? To 'ave the cook aft. In a jiffy, they 'ad Charley Bo Yip afore 'im. 'E ordered grub—slathers o' grub, immediate, for fifteen. Yip took the order without turnin' a 'air—trust a Chink for that. Then they give us attention, an' they lift the trap an' dump us down 'ere. They leave you where you fell, but they boosted me along to this 'ere stanchion and, while Carew tickled my shoulder-blades with a knife, Ichi, using the skipper's key, trussed me up around the post. Then they went aloft again, slippin' the cuffs on you as they passed, I think, for they didn't do it in the cabin.
"Well, in fifteen minutes they were back—'alf dozen o' them, with Yip, and plenty o' lanterns. Breaking out stores for Yip. Yip never looks at me till he's ready to go aloft again. Then, making sure I can see 'is mug, 'e tips me a big wink. That means something, Martin. They're deep uns them Chinks.
"That's all. I sat there, cuffed up proper, for hours, cussing, and thinking, and calling to you. Hours! Swiggle me stiff, 'twas a bloody lifetime, it seemed like. About five or six hours though, I think—must be about seven or eight o'clock now.
"That's all that 'appened. But I'll tell you what I learned from Carew's and Ichi's talk, and from lookin' at them. They've been cast away, lad! That's why we didn't sight the schooner when we looked for 'er. TheDawnwas wrecked, some time ago. Carew ordered food for fifteen—theDawnwas fitted for seal 'unting, and carried a crew o' nigh thirty. That shows only 'alf were saved—a bad wreck.
"They ordered grub first thing—shows they didn't save stores, and 'ave been starvin' ashore. Must 'ave saved a boat though, or they couldn't 'ave boarded us. Must 'ave seen us come in; spied us from one o' the caves in the wolcano, an' we could not see them. The blasted fog just played into their 'ands. 'Av'ing been ashore, they must 'ave found the ambergrease. They needed a ship, and they took us. And there ye are! Sails dead, Little Billy dead, God knows 'ow many o' the crew gone, the lass at the whim o' Wild Bob Carew. Ow, what a bit o' blasted luck! Swiggle me stiff!"
The boatswain growled desperate oaths to himself. For a few moments he gave himself up to lurid and audible thought.
Martin, in as black a mood himself, kept his peace, but he, too, spent the time in thought, in gloomy surmising, in attempting to form some plan of action. "What to do—what to do!" The refrain sang in his troubled mind. They must act, and act quickly. Ruth's safety, and the lives of their comrades, if any were alive, depended on the boatswain and himself. But—what to do?
Though they were free of their bonds, they were still boxed in this storeroom like rats in a trap! Obviously the first thing to do was to get out of the lazaret.
Martin commenced to formulate a hazy plan of lurking beneath the trap-door until opened from above, and then trying to burst into the cabin, trusting to luck aiding them there. A mad plan, fore-doomed to failure, he conceded to himself, even as he thought of it. But, what else? They must act! Ruth ...
In the somber field of Martin's misery bloomed a tiny flower; and whenever his mental eye rested upon this exotic, a sudden glow of happiness pervaded his being. This bright flower was a memory—the thought of himself lying helpless on the cabin floor, while two soft arms pressed his sore-addled head to a protecting bosom, and warm lips caressed his face, and a dear voice entreated; the thought of the boatswain's confirming words, "Carew pulled the lass away from 'uggin' and kissin' you."
So, she loved him! She returned his love! The love he had seen lighting her eyes, but which he could never force her to acknowledge by words, she had unmistakably admitted by action. In that black moment in the cabin, she had bared her heart to him—bared it fearlessly before all that hostile, leering company. His love was returned. Ruth loved him!
Such was the origin of the exultant thrills that shot brightly through Martin's despair. But the triumphant thought was momentary. Love could not brighten their lot; nay, love but made more numerous the grim host of cruel fears that pressed upon him. Ruth—God! What would happen to Ruth, what had happened to her, what was happening to her even now, while he sat mooning, cooped and helpless in this black hole? It was unendurable! He exploded a fierce oath.
"Bosun, we must do something—now—at once!" he cried.
The giant placed a restraining hand upon his shoulder.
"Easy lad! Not so loud, or ye'll 'ave them coming down for a look-see. We don't want that," he admonished. "Steady! I know 'ow you feel—but raising a rumpus down 'ere won't 'elp us none. We'll do something right enough. I got a plan, didn't I tell ye! I was just thinking it out—'ere, I'll tell you. First, though, let's fix these bleedin' irons, in case they pay us a visit."
He leaned over, searching about on the dark deck, and Martin heard the clinking as he gathered up the cuffs. He fiddled with them for a moment.
"'Ere, Martin, stick out your 'ands!"
Martin complied, and felt the handcuffs close about his wrists.
"See if you can pull your 'ands out."
Martin found he could, easily.
"All right—just keep them 'anging from one wrist," said the boatswain. "In case they come down on us, we don't want them to find us loose. Just clap your 'ands be'ind you and slip your irons on. I 'ave mine fixed, too, and I'll be 'uggin' the post in the same old way. They won't think o' examinin' us."
"But we can't lounge here indefinitely," commenced Martin impatiently.
"We'll bide quiet for a bit," said the boatswain. "I 'ave a 'unch they'll be coming down soon to give us some scoffin's. They wouldn't 'ave gone to the trouble o' chuck'in' us down 'ere if they was going to kill us off'and. And they won't starve us to death—they'll feed us till they get ready to slit our throats an' dump us overside. And if ye strain your ears, lad, you'll 'ear the occasional rattle o' dishes over'ead. They are eatin' up there. Now, what's the natural time to send scoffin's below to the prisoners? Why, thinks I, after they 'ave their own bellies full, and Charley Bo Yip is clearin' away the leavin's. If they don't come in an 'alf-hour or so, I'll commence work."
Martin immediately proposed rushing the hatch as soon as it was opened. The boatswain vetoed the proposal.
"They'd slaughter us, lad. We'd never 'ave a chance. No—'ere's my scheme: We can get out o' this lazaret into the 'old. Aye, that's something ye didn't know, isn't it? Nor does Ichi know, for all 'e was cook aboard. One time, some years ago, we was tradin' in the New 'Ebrides, and the Old Man stowed some o' 'is trade stuff in the after'old. 'E 'ad a door cut in the for'rd bulk'ead, 'ere, so 'e could get at the goods without opening the 'atch on deck. Afterward, we boarded it up—but the boards aren't nailed; just 'eld by cleats. Right at the for'rd end o' this alley we're squattin in, be'ind the beef casks. We can get through into the 'old."
"What good will it do?" queried Martin. "We would be just as much prisoners in the hold as where we are. The hatches are battened down."
"Don't ye see? We can make our way for'rd, there being naught but a bit o' ballast in the 'ooker. And from the fore'old I think we can reach deck by way o' the peak. The two of us ought to be able to bust our way into the peak. And ye know where the forepeak 'atch is—in the middle o' the fo'c's'le deck! Well, I figure they 'ave what's left o' our foremast crowd locked in the fo'c's'le. Aye, I figure there is some o' them left. If Carew 'ad meant to make a clean sweep at once, we'd not be down 'ere. So—if we can get into the fo'c's'le and join our lads, the odds won't be so great against us. Be great enough, though, even if most o' our 'ands are safe; swiggle me, fifteen o' them, and the blighters 'ave the use o' our own guns, out of the cabin.
"But our lads are good boys. They'll fight if we get to them to lead them; every man Jack would go to —— for the lass! And if we can bust out on deck, there's capstan bars and belaying-pins to fight with. It's a long chance, Martin, but a better one than your plan would give us, tryin' to break into the cabin from 'ere, just us two, and gettin' knocked on the 'ead, or shot, soon as we started through the 'atch!"
Better than his plan! Why, it was a definite campaign. A flame of hope kindled in Martin's breast. He was for immediate action.
"Come on—let's start!" he exclaimed, and he started to scramble to his feet.
"'Ere—'old on!" exclaimed the boatswain, pulling him back on his haunches. "Swiggle me, don't fly up like that, lad! Keep your 'ead cool. We got to wait a bit. We don't want them comin' down 'ere to find we've did the wanishin' stunt. We got to pull this off as a surprise. We ought to wait till night when 'alf o' them, at least, would be asleep; but, blimme, I can't wait till then, nor can you. But we'll wait a little while an' see if they bring us grub; if they do, we can be pretty sure they won't visit us again for several hours. That'll give us time. Hist, Marty, 'ere comes some one now! Quick, slip on your 'andcuff and play 'alf dead!"