"I believe that under the circumstances, I an oath can be administered to your father in a perfectly legal manner. You know the position of the wreck. With your father's story as a basis for action you can go to work in a proper manner with the authorities; whatever charges your father lays against Pontifex can be sworn to; your own signature to the agreement with Pontifex was obtained by fraud and deceit.
"You understand? Do nothing in a hurry. Give us a clear two weeks in which to get this ship loaded with the salvaged stuff. Then get sharp quick action, file a libel, or whatever the term is to denote an attachment of the ship. Sue Pontifex heavily in both your father's name and in ours, and claim whatever he has salvaged in your own name. We'll grab his ship and his salvaged stuff at one swoop, see? While that's going through the courts, we will gut theJohn Simpsonof all that's left in her. There's a newspaper man in Vancouver named Margate; I'll give you cables to send off to him. He'll doubtless be able to get backing and to charter some kind of an old tub—and while Pontifex is in the courts with us, Margate will be looting theSimpson, before the general public gets wise to where theJohn Simpsonis lying. See?"
The eyes of the girl were large with wonder-admiration, and delight. Then fear struck into their depths.
"The plan is wonderful, Tom! But you—in the meantime?"
Dennis grinned. "Me? I'll be jollying old Pontifex along; never fear!"
Unalaska—at last!
The tortuous, narrow and even precipitous passage, winding nearly two miles amid the rocks, lay behind, and now the good shipPelicanwas swinging to her anchor in front of the little town hardly more than a village. In the little bight was no other large craft, although several fishing boats were rocking to their moorings.
The Arctic summer, intense and vivid as though to make up for its brief duration, was at an end. None the less, the breeze from the shore carried a sweet fragrance of flowers, the little town was still radiant with blossoming gardens, and all over the hills which lay banked around the town there were patches of gay flowers and the deep lush green of rank grasses.
With great care Miles Hathaway and his wheeled chair were lowered into a boat. Tom Dennis and Florence followed, together with Captain Pontifex, who had proffered his services in securing a place of abode for Florence and her father. Once upon the dock, Dennis took charge of the chair, and all three started up-town, Pontifex carrying Dennis' big suitcase.
"Feels good to have the solid earth underfoot again," said Dennis. "How long do you expect to lay up here, Skipper?"
"We'll go out with the tide to-night," returned Pontifex. "I expect to pick up a cook here, who was to reach Unalaska by one of the island steamers, and I want to get our mail and papers. If we can get Mrs. Dennis comfortably berthed this afternoon, there'll be nothing to detain us, beyond standing off her trunk."
"Besides," he added in a lowered voice, "I'm anxious not to let the news slip out of what we're after. Before we could get clear of the island we'd have schooners dogging us. In case Mrs. Dennis would like any ready money——"
"Thank you, Captain, I need nothing," said Florence quietly.
Little Jerry had not been allowed to come ashore, much to the disappointment of Florence, who had been bent upon rescuing the lad. Dennis, however, had already formulated a plan of action, largely because he considered that the boy's testimony would be of tremendous weight in backing up Florence when she interviewed the authorities.
An hour later, with the afternoon half gone, Florence and Captain Hathaway were snugly ensconced as paying guests in a cottage not far behind the ancient Greek church. Captain Pontifex had departed on his own business.
"Dear, are yousure?" In the security of her hired room, with the immobile Miles Hathaway watching them from his chair, Florence sought the gaze of Tom Dennis. To him it seemed that her eye held a glowing probe of fire, searching his very soul.
"Remember, Tom dear, that I mustn't lose you. You're my one sure strong anchor in the world; your love and you are necessary to me," she said steadily. "So are you sure? Are you sure that the best plan would not be to stop here ashore and have Pontifex placed under restraint—here and now?
"Are you sure that we had not best let the thought of money and salvage go for the present, placing our own lives and safety first of all? Are you sure you can come back to me, my dear?"
Despite the brave soul of her, at those last words her voice faltered.
"Dear wife, I am sure," said Dennis simply. "I shall play the game safely, letting them suspect nothing of what I know, and before any crisis occurs you will have acted. Two weeks—remember!"
"And you think Pontifex will suspect nothing if Jerry disappears to-night?"
"He would not consent to leave you and your father here together, knowing that you can communicate, if he suspected anything. He will think that Jerry has run away, and will doubtless figure on picking up the boy when he returns—he'll be too anxious to reach theJohn Simpsonto bother about suspicions. It has not occurred to him that you would ask your father any questions out of the ordinary, and certainly your father cannot tell anything of what has happened unless asked. You have the phonograph and records in that valise, so go ahead and don't worry about me, dear. I'll play my part."
"Agreed, dear." She leaned forward and held up her face to his. "Then let's leave father here, and go out to see the town; we'll spend our last hours together, before you go, and you can arrange about poor little Jerry."
An hour afterward, a grizzled old fisherman was listening to Tom Dennis and shaking his head in stubborn negation.
"Not me, sir!" he affirmed with emphasis. "I dassn't run around the harbour without no light——"
"But your lantern might go out for five minutes!"
"Not mine, sir. Besides, helpin' a feller escape from a whaler ain't no jokin' matter! Fact it ain't. I'd like to earn the money all right, but I dassn't buck up ag'in the law."
Florence gave her husband a meaning glance.
"Tom, please let me speak to him in private a moment!"
Shrugging his shoulders, Dennis walked away. As he strode up and down, he saw that Florence was speaking very earnestly, and that the grizzled fisherman seemed very uneasy. But presently the fisherman grinned and nodded, shaking hands with Florence. He had agreed.
"What on earth did you say to him?" demanded Dennis, as they were walking away.
"Oh, I made it clear that he'd be doing a good deed—that's all." A ripple of laughter danced like sunlight across her face. "Why, from what you said, the poor man thought he would be compounding a felony!"
Dennis chuckled. "I guess a man would be willing to compound anything, if you'd smile at him and beg him to do it! Well, you're right about the good-deed part of it, and I'm glad it's settled. Let's look up some supper ashore; then I'll go aboard ship."
The skipper had promised to send a boat ashore for Dennis; so, when darkness was beginning to fall, he hailed the brigantine from the dock, Florence at his side. Five minutes later a whaleboat was pulling in, with Ericksen in the stern.
"Good-bye, my dear, and God bring you back safely," said Florence softly, as she kissed him good-bye.
Dennis answered with a reassuring smile. "You've got my little flash-light, haven't you?"
"Everything as planned, my heart. Good-bye!"
Dennis climbed down into the boat which swept around and headed back to the brig. Florence stood on the dock, watching. She exchanged a final wave of the hand before the boat swept out of sight under the counter of thePelican; then she turned and slowly walked in to the shore.
There, however, she remained, in the shadow of the long warehouses already piled high with bone from other whaling ships. Darkness closed down upon the bay, and the lights of the little town began to glimmer and gleam under the hills. Out on the water the lamps of thePelicanshowed red and white in the gloom.
Had the cook, Frenchy, come aboard? Florence did not know. She knew that Tom Dennis was there, among men who indubitably meant him no good; whether his would-be assassin had reached Unalaska in time to join the ship, she knew not. She waited, shivering a little, until by degrees the red side-light vanished. Presently the lights showed green and white—and she knew that the tide was on the ebb, that the ship had swung about to her cable. There was a light breeze, but strong enough to carry the brig to sea.
Suddenly a flare lighted up the forward deck of the whaler. The voice of Bo'sun Joe drifted over the water with strange sweetness, joined by the voices of other men and interjected by the guttural utterances of Kanakas trying to keep tune; while the clicking pawls and the slowly shifting lights betrayed that the anchor was coming up:
"We cracked it on, on a big skiute,To me hoodah, to me hoodah!We cracked it on, on a big skiute,Hurrah for the Black Ball line!Blow, my bullies, blow,For California oh!There's plenty of goldAs I've been told,On the banks of the Sacramento-o!"
Meantime, the capstan chantey was being drowned by other voices—the steely ring of Pontifex, the roar of Manuel Mendez, the shriller tones of Corny and others as orders were repeated and the topsails were set. The confusion of voices became more pronounced.
"Hurry up with that royal!" came the voice of Pontifex. "Leggo that lee-brace and trim—hurry up!"
"Aye, sir!"
"Head-sails and spanker ready sir," came the voice of Leman. "Anchor a-trip!"
Then a confused medley of orders:
"Brace round them head-yards! Cat your hook and shake out those courses! ... Aft with that sheet, now. Shake a leg! ... Bo'sun, haul out that bowline!"
"Aye, sir! Haul out the bowline!"
Haul upon the bowline, Kitty lives at Liverpool,Haul on the bowline, the bowline haul!Haul upon the bowline, Kitty lives at Liverpool,Haul on the bowline, the bowline haul!
Breathless, Florence watched and listened. Would Tom succeed without trouble? Would the plan, dangerous at best, succeed in getting little Jerry safe ashore? The ship's lights were slowly moving now, moving toward the entrance of that winding, precipitous passage. Captain Pontifex was in charge himself, for the passage demanded sharp tacking and skilful handling; his steely voice carried back across the light wind, across the silence of the northern night. Florence strained her eyes into the darkness. The time was at hand, now.
"Ready about! Down your helm, there! Hard-a-lee!" Florence could picture the big spanker-boom hauled in, the head-sheets slackening off; the lights showed that the brig was coming up into the wind, "Tacks and sheets! Maintops'l haul! Round with them after-yards, there! Fore-bowline, let go an' haul!"
Not ten minutes were consumed in the manoeuvre, for thePelicanwas smartly handled. To the watching Florence, however, that ten minutes seemed an eternity. The voices lessened in the distance; the whaler's lights became tiny glimmering points as she slowly slid away and was gone.
Suddenly, down on the surface of the water, appeared a tiny pin-point—a flash of light that was gone instantly. It flashed again, and again vanished. From the watching girl came a deep breath—a sigh of almost agonized relief, as the tension which was holding her was swiftly relaxed.
After this, nothing. ThePelicanwas gone in the winding channel, although snatches of song drifted back as Bo'sun Joe led the chanteys that fetched her about on new tacks. Over the water lay darkness and silence; from somewhere back in the town a tiny phonograph lifted a tinkling piece of band music into the night.
Florence walked out upon the dock, still trembling beneath the nervous strain of those moments. Five minutes passed—five intolerable dragging minutes. Then from the water she caught the drip and splash of muffled oars, and she called out softly.
"All right, ma'am!" came the hoarse response. A dim shadow loomed up, and the voice of the grizzled fisherman continued: "Thought better not to show no light at all, ma'am. Ain't so likely to get questions asked——"
"You got him?"
"Aye. Can you give him a hand, ma'am? The lad's mortal cold——"
Florence leaned down and gripped an icy hand.
"Golly, I sure thought my legs was froze!" came the chattering voice of Jerry. With all her surprising strength, the girl heaved; and he came up beside her. "Scared stiff, I was!"
"They've gone." Florence turned and took the horny hand of the fisherman. "Thank you," she said simply. "I think Mr. Dennis wanted me to give you this——"
"Sho', ma'am, I don't want no money for that!" protested the other. But Florence forced the money upon him, and, with a last handshake, urged Jerry away toward warmth and dry clothes.
By this time the boy's teeth were chattering so that talk was impossible. Upon reaching her own cottage, where Florence had already engaged a room for Jerry, she gave him a spare suit of old clothes which Dennis had left for him, and left him to change.
"Be quick!" she exclaimed, as she departed. "I want to know all about it!"
"Y-y-yes, ma'am," chattered Jerry.
Ten minutes later, partially warmed and clad in dry clothes, Jerry, moon-faced and sheepish, stumbled into the room where Florence sat beside her immobile father. The eyes of Captain Miles Hathaway dwelt upon Jerry.
"Come here by the fire." Florence set him in a chair beside the oil-stove that warmed the room. "Now, tell me! Did everything go all right?"
"Yes'm, I guess so." Jerry grinned. "That is, far's I know it did, forme. You see, Mr. Dennis, he told me what to do. So just 'fore they called all hands, I messed things up in the galley consid'able, and the new cook——"
"The new cook came, then?" interjected Florence, a little pale.
"Yes'm. Frenchy, they called him. So him and the steward tailed on the lines, with the rest, and the Missus, she was mad as an ol' cat about the galley bein' messed up, and so she come to 'tend to it, and I slipped down into the cabins and met Mr. Dennis. He had the stern window open, and he give me that electric lamp and a life-buoy what he'd snaked down from the stern-rail after dark.
"So I got the life-belt 'round me an' clumb out the window and hung on the line that Mr. Dennis had made fast, and waited till he give me the word. Golly, I was scared! The skipper, he was right up there over my head, and he was talkin' with Frenchy, and he says: 'There's no call for you to get mad, Dumont. You get rid of her husband first like you'd ought to of done back in Chicago.' And Frenchy, he says, 'Where is he?' The skipper, he says, 'Down below I guess, but don't do nothin' now because I figger on sending him down in a divin'-suit when we get started to work.' Then they both laughed, and just then Mr. Dennis, he give me the word to swing off——"
"Had he heard them talking?" demanded Florence, white-lipped.
"Naw. He didn't know they was talking up there at all; he'd been standin' back from the window a piece, I guess. I was scared they'd hear him give me the word, but they didn't. So I slid down into the water and the ol' ship walked right away and nobody seen me. Tell you what, it was cold! I flashed the light a couple o' times, then the old guy give me a hail and come alongside and took me in. Golly, but I was glad!"
Florence sat motionless, a deathly pallor upon her face. In the boy's report she glimpsed utter and horrible destruction of all the plans which she and Tom Dennis had built up. The whole ghastly truth had flashed upon her, through the words of Pontifex which Jerry had overheard—and which Dennis had not overheard.
They would send Tom down in a diving-suit; and no one could tell what had happened under the sea in the green depths! Florence knew that she would not dare to put through her share of the scheme, after this. She might succeed, but only after Tom Dennis had perished.
"Go along to bed, Jerry," she muttered, her lips white. The boy looked at her, and with fear upon his face, rose. He stumbled away and was gone.
Florence met the motionless dead gaze of her father.
"You know what it means, father?" she said, her voice lifeless. "It means that they'll murder him! If I stop here, he'll be lost! We can't get the revenue cutter here before another week, because the wireless station is closed down—the operator's sick. We found that out this afternoon. And, father, Tom matters more to me than—than anything else!"
The eyes of her father slowly moved. "Yes!"
"No time for the phonograph now; I'll have to give up our whole scheme of action." Florence drew a deep breath. "I'll have to warn Tom, father; the only way to warn him will be to follow thePelicanand—and do it openly. I know where the wreck lies.
"That fisherman who brought in Jerry—I know where he lives. His boat has a motor, and he says he often cruises among the islands. I think he'll take me. Anyway, there's no larger boat here than his. I must see him to-night, at once, and arrange to get off in the morning. I'll see the authorities, explain about the phonograph, and you can tell them all about it while I'm gone. Perhaps they can get help to us. If that fisherman will take me, maybe we can get Tom away before——"
She broke into low sobs. She could see only disaster ahead—and duty to the man whom she loved. Suddenly she leaned forward, caught her father's lifeless hand.
"Father! You know all about this place, and everything! Tell me! Is there anything else I can do? If there is, I'll get out the phonograph now. Is there?"
Slowly the lids of Miles Hathaway moved twice. "No."
"And you think I'm right to go? It's the only thing to do? We'll lose everything, for Pontifex will loot the wreck and be gone before we could get back here and have the cutter after him. But isn't it the only thing to do?"
"Yes," said the eyes of Miles Hathaway.
From Unalaska to the position indicated upon the chart as the resting-place of theJohn Simpsonwas, in the rough, six hundred knots—nearly seven hundred miles.
When Tom Dennis wakened, the morning after thePelicantacked out of the Unalaska channel, he found that she had, with the audacity of all whaling ships, run through Unimak Pass in the dark and was now tearing across the North Pacific at an eight-knot clip, with a stiff south-easter rolling her along bravely.
Dennis realized full well that he must avoid all appearance of suspicions having been awakened in him. When at breakfast Mrs. Pontifex remarked upon the blessed relief of having the cook aboard, Dennis quite ignored the subject therefore, conscious that Ericksen was watching him with keen and predatory gaze.
"And when shall we make that position, Skipper?" he asked.
Pontifex shrugged. "If this breeze holds, it's a three-day run for us. Barring a dead calm, we'll be on the spot—let's see, this is Saturday; we'll be on the spot Tuesday morning without fail. Eh, Mr. Leman?"
"Easy, sir. Had we better overhaul that diving-tackle, sir?"
"Yes. Break it out to-day. Bo'sun Joe, rig up a derrick for'ard to-day; chances are we'll be able to lay close enough to the wreck to swing the stuff directly aboard, and we'll not want to waste time. A south-easter might lay us up on those islands. Ever been diving, Mr. Dennis?"
Dennis nodded. "Twice. Never at sea, but in Lake Michigan."
"Then we'll have a new sensation for you, if you like." Pontifex smiled cruelly.
"Bo'sun Joe and I are the only ones aboard with any experience, and if you care to take a shift with us, we'll be glad."
"I'm in for anything that'll make me useful," said Dennis. "You think the wreck is still on the rocks where we can reach it, then?"
"We're gambling on it," returned Pontifex curtly.
The wind held, and the old whaler blew down the miles of westering with every stitch of canvas taut as a drumhead. That afternoon Tom Dennis got a good straight look at the new cook—a most disreputable little man, dirty and slouchy in the extreme. Gone were the trim mustachios, gone was all the natty air; but the man was the same who had spilled a vial of chloroform in the Chicago room of Tom Dennis. There was no doubt about it.
Dennis, however, said nothing; later, when Corny introduced the cook as Frenchy, he shook hands and was very pleasant, and if Dumont suspected anything, his suspicions were set at rest by Dennis' air of careless non-interest.
Upon the following day the brigantine was still tearing along with a swirl of water hissing under her counter. Off to the north the islands showed their mountain-tips against the sky, blue and continuous as some distant mainland. Talking with the mates and boat-steerers and Kanakas, Tom Dennis was entertained with many stories of those islands: how fox- and seal-farmers were scattered through the group; how small launches cruised the entire length of the island chain with impunity; how in time to come there would be a thriving island population where now were empty stretches of land or scattered communities of miserable natives.
And there were other and more ominous tales: tales of Boguslav and Katmai, of islands that came and went overnight, of oil-soaked whalers caught under descending showers of hot ash and burned to the water's edge. There were tales of seal-poaching, of poachers who fought each other, of Yankees who fought Japs; and these tales verged upon the personal. Nods and winks were interchanged when Bo'sun Joe told about "men he had known", or when black Manuel Mendez related exploits of which "he had heard". Tom Dennis gained some fine material for feature-stories—but it worried him. He began to realize that these men among whom he had fallen were, so far as their natures were concerned, no better than pirates.
Then, upon the evening of the second day, came the affair which proved that all restraint was now loosed.
Darkness was falling, and having no particular longing for the society of the Missus and Pontifex, in the stern cabin, Dennis was in the waist near the try-works, listening while Corny spun a whaling yarn to the watch. The yarn was broken into by a sudden choking cry, followed by an excited call in Portuguese. The voice was that of Manuel Mendez who would take the deck from Mr. Leman in a few moments.
At sound of the cry, Corny whipped out his knife and was gone like a shadow. Dennis was the first to follow, darting after the black boat-steerer toward the windward side of the deck, whence the voice had come.
An instant later, Dennis had turned the corner of the try-works. What had happened he could not tell; but he saw the huge figure of Manuel Mendez hanging to the mizzen-shrouds, groaning faintly. Close by, the insignificant little cook was facing the glittering knife of Corny—facing it with bare hands.
Corny, growling savage Cape Verde oaths, leaped. Swift as light was Frenchy, darting in and out again, sweeping the knife aside, striking catlike. Corny staggered back.
At that instant Mr. Leman swept upon the scene, his grey wisps of hair flying, his long arms flailing. Frenchy, not hearing him, was knocked headlong into the galley and fell with a tremendous crashing of pots and pans.
"He keel Manuel!" cried out Corny, retreating from the second mate and putting up his knife. "He mos' get my eyes—ah, de poor Manuel!"
The giant figure of the bearded black fell limply. Dennis retreated, feeling sick; for Manuel Mendez had been stabbed with his own knife—after his eyes had been gouged away. Even for sea-fighting, there was something horrible about it.
Later, Dennis came upon the steward and two of the miserable white sailors talking near the forecastle scuttle. The steward was describing what had happened.
"Joked 'im, the mate did; chaffed 'im abaht some woman. Bli' me! Frenchy was hup and at 'im like this." And the Cockney held the two first fingers of his right hand forked and aloft. "Tried to jerk at 'is knife, 'e did, but Frenchy hup an' took if first—ugh! 'Orrible it was. And now the Capting, 'e'll 'ang Frenchy."
Somebody guffawed in the darkness.
"Hang Frenchy? Not him! Frenchy an' the Skipper have sailed together for years, they tell me. Hey, mates?"
"You bet," came a response. "Skipper don' dast hanghim, I guess."
To Dennis it was rankly incredible; but it was true. In the morning Manuel Mendez, who would smile no more his white-toothed hungry smile, was sent overside with a chunk of coal sewed at his feet; and as the body was committed to the deep, Frenchy leaped to the rail and sent a bucket of slush over the canvas. An old whaling custom, this, to keep the dead man's ghost from following the ship. But Frenchy remained untouched for his crime. If there were any inquiry or punishment, Dennis never heard of it. The ship's routine pursued its usual course, Ericksen being advanced to the position of second mate, Leman to that of first mate.
One man aboard, however, did not forget the happening; and this was Corny, the compatriot of the murdered mate. More than once, Dennis saw Corny's eyes follow Frenchy about the deck with a black, murderous look.
These things, however, swiftly were forgotten in the rumoured vicinity of the wreck; and since everyone aboard either knew, or had guessed, the import of this strange cruise, the ship hummed like a beehive with speculation and gossip. At noon, with the remarkable keenness which distinguishes whaling skippers, Captain Pontifex completed his observations and then laid out a new course, stating that it would bring them under the lee of the island at four bells in the morning watch, at which time the brigantine was to be hove to and await daylight.
Tom Dennis was the only one aboard, except Captain Pontifex and the Missus who did not sleep by watches. At dinner that night the skipper broached a bottle of wine, and sent forward a tot of grog for all hands; suppressed excitement ruled the ship, even the gentle Kanakas breaking into wild native songs until suppressed by the Skipper's order. After an evening of much talk, mainly about the various methods of raising sunken treasure, Dennis turned in.
With the morning came disenchantment. Dennis had dreamed of gold-mad sailors, of wild haste, of everything forgotten save the proximity of sudden riches. But once on deck he found things very different. ThePelicanwas standing across the end of a barren rocky island; just beyond and ahead of her was a long scooped-out depression in the rocky shore, and in the centre of this depression lay the wreck of theSimpson. The seamen were attending strictly to their positions and duties; there was no hilarious ring of voices, and everything was about as romantic as a visit to a coaling-station.
But theJohn Simpsonwas there—no doubt about it!
Her stern, apparently wedged in among a nest of rocks, stood up at a sharp angle, the deck not quite awash but running down into the water swiftly. The aftermast stood a broken stump. At some distance showed the foremast, likewise broken. Dennis turned to Pontifex and the Missus who stood beside him.
"That foremast seems a long distance away," he said. "Doesn't look natural."
"Broke in two," vouchsafed the Missus curtly. Pontifex nodded.
"That's it," he stated with conviction. "Fore part lays in deep water—eight or ten fathom, probably. Look at her stern. See the water a-drip? She's well covered at high tide: just now the tide's out. No wonder she broke!"
"Looks as if we'd anchor right close to her fore-hatch," said the Missus.
Ericksen, with a whaleboat and hand-line, was engaged in taking soundings of the position. Suddenly a savage exclamation escaped Pontifex who had been scrutinizing the visible stern of the wreck through a pair of binoculars.
"Take charge, Mr. Leman," snapped the skipper, then lifted his voice. "Corny! Lower away—four hands will be enough to row us in. Come on, Mr. Dennis!"
As Corny's crew leaped to the falls of a forward boat, Pontifex strode forward, his thin face murderous. Dennis followed him in amazement.
"What's the trouble, Skipper?"
"Come on," responded Pontifex snarlingly. "I'm not sure yet—but if it's true——"
Seeing that the Skipper was in no mood for questions, Dennis said nothing further but followed into the whaleboat. Four Kanakas gave way at the long oars, and the boat began to slide landward. Pontifex studied the wreck through his binoculars a moment, then handed the glasses to Dennis.
"Look at it—on the mainmast!"
Puzzled, Dennis focused on the stump of the mainmast. High up, so high as to be well beyond reach, he discerned a small object; it looked like a bit of board nailed to the mast.
"Is that writing on it?" he exclaimed, lowering the glasses.
Pontifex nodded sourly. "Probably. We'll soon see."
Boatswain Joe's boat, which had finished its survey and was heading for the ship, passed within hail. Pontifex transmitted word to Mr. Leman by Ericksen, ordering thePelicanlaid as close alongside the fore-hatch of the wreck as the depth would allow. Bo'sun Joe reported that the fore-part of theSimpsonlay in nine fathoms, with fair holding-ground for the anchors, and that the whaler could crowd alongside her easily.
As their boat drew in, Tom Dennis could see that the stern of the wreck must indeed be completely submerged at low tide; this was attested by the barnacles and weedy growths covering the rails and decking. But it was the square bit of plank nailed to the mast which drew his gaze and that of the Skipper.
"Ah!" cried Pontifex, with a furious oath. "Look at that, Dennis! A painted sign!"
Taking the glasses, Dennis could indeed make out that the board appeared to bear words or characters—and to his eye they were Japanese. At this query, the skipper swore again.
"Aye, the yellow scum! They swarm around the islands, raiding fox-farms and poaching or trading according as they dare. One of their boats happened along here, blast the luck, and saw the wreck; posted a sign to warn off their own countrymen, and went for help. They came at high water and didn't wait for ebb tide. Notice where that sign is, up there? Way enough, Corny; we don't want to board her."
The boat swung around on idle oars, twenty feet from the rocks that held the stern of theSimpson. Dennis scrutinized the board carefully, then handed the glasses to Pontifex.
"It's tough luck, Skipper," he said quietly. "To think that she lay here undiscovered for over two years, then was found only a week or so before we came!"
"A week?" Pontifex stared at him with flaming eyes. "How d'ye know that?"
"Focus up on those nail-heads in that board. They're rusty, of course, but the rust hasn't gone into the wood around them—see? And the black paint on the board looks pretty glossy when the sunlight catches it right."
"Right you are!" commented the Skipper with a growl.
"What are you going to do about it?"
"Doabout it!" Pontifex looked venomous. "Fight, by the lord Harry! This is salvage. Whoever can hold hardest, gets. Let me get the old brig anchored in here, and I'd like to see any dirty yellow poachers pry my fingers loose!"
Dennis remembered the big gun-rack in the cabin, and said no more. Rifles can be used for other purposes than killing seals and bears.
"We'll be all snug by breakfast-time," added Pontifex, watching thePelicancome slowly in as her top canvas fluttered down. "Then we'll set to workpronto. We don't want a gale to catch us here, either. More likely to catch fog, anyway."
And the skipper made good his words. Before seven bells were struck at 7.20 that morning* thePelicanwas berthed alongside the fore half of theSimpsonand all was made snug below and aloft. Captain Pontifex called all hands and made an address.
* Usually struck at this time so the relieving watch may breakfast first.
"The Japs have been here, and they'll be back," he said curtly. "There's salvage money ahead of everybody, men, so we're going to pitch in and work day and night, watch and watch. The day watches will devote themselves to getting the stuff aboard, because a diver can't remain down very long in this water: all hands will have a chance at going down. The night watches will stow the stuff below and make a clear deck before morning.
"While we're lying here, we'll redistribute the watches. Mr. Leman and Mr. Ericksen will take the port watch, I'll take the starboard watch with Mr. Dennis and Corny. One man from each watch will be set ashore—that high point of rock makes a better lookout perch than the crosstrees—to watch for the approach of any craft whatever. And mark this, men! If you don't report back to the beach when the watches are changed, I'll come ashore and hunt you down with a shotgun! That's all. The starboard watch will keep the deck."
Did the port watch go below? Not yet! Breakfast was a formality, a hurriedly bolted affair; ten minutes later one of the four white seamen was set ashore as lookout, and the Skipper fell to work.
"You'll mind the pumps my watch, my dear," said Pontifex to the Missus. "When I'm down, I'll trust nobody else to watch my air supply. Do you want to go down, Mr. Dennis?"
"You bet," and Dennis laughed. "I'd like nothing better!"
A complete double set of diving apparatus was already awaiting them.
The water was cold—cold and clear and biting as ice. To Dennis, inside the rubber suit, it seemed as though he had been plunged bodily into liquid ice. Through the thick glass of the helmet he could see the green translucence all around him, clear and empty and shimmering with the sunlight from above. For himself, as for the other green hands at the work, he knew that a long submersion would be impossible.
Darker grew the water underfoot as the light from above was diffused to the greater depths. Dennis had gone down from the quarter-deck of thePelican; this, according to the soundings, would bring him to the sea-floor at the after end of the front half of the wreck. He could thus see whether the contents of theSimpson'smain-hold, aft of which she had broken in two, lay piled upon the sea-floor between the two sections of the wreck. If so, the work of salvage would be greatly hastened. Pontifex, in the meantime, was exploring the bows and fore hatch of the wreck.
Down went Tom Dennis into the depths, in a seemingly interminable descent. Suddenly a huge shadowy black mass seemed rushing at him from below, and swift terror sent his heart throbbing; for he felt very helpless. Then he remembered—the wreck, of course! The regular "click-click" of the pumps, sounding down through his air-valves, reassured and heartened him. An instant later he stood upon the bottom.
He wondered that there was very little growth or algae to obstruct him, until he realized that what little algae he could see were bending far over in the grip of a fairly strong sub-surface current, which, combined with the intense coldness of the water, had a discouraging effect upon marine growths. The bottom was not smooth, however, being extremely rocky and uneven.
TheSimpsonhad apparently broken just abaft the engine-room, and the fore half lay with her sloping deck toward the shore. Dennis had come to the bottom close to her keel, and he was no long time in discovering that spilled over the sea bottom lay almost enough cargo to fill up thePelican.
Having brought a line ready prepared, Dennis got the bight around a packing-case plastered with barnacles. As he was drawing it taut, came a jerk upon his lifeline—the signal that his agreed "stint" was up. Having no wish to be crippled or laid on the sick list, Dennis responded, and at once was hauled off the bottom.
His ascent was very slow, and of necessity; for a quick jerk up from the depths would ruin any man alive. The progression had to be gradual and halting.
On the way up, it occurred to him for the first time that he was literally in the hands of his enemies!
The moment he was in the morning sunlight again, Tom Dennis forgot his uneasiness and laughed at the terror which had seized upon him in the depths. It was absurd.
He did not go down again that morning, however.
Dennis was nearly clear of his diving-suit before the Skipper's copper helmet broke the water amidships. Pontifex reported that the bow plates of the wreck were torn out, and he had lined two cases; these were brought in, together with that which Dennis had secured, and were at once smashed open. The two cases from the fore hold proved to contain ammunition; that from the main hold, two excellently packed machine-guns.
This was enough for Pontifex, who at once conjectured that the main and after holds of theSimpsonhad contained the bulk of the machine-guns, the most valuable part of her cargo. Corny at once broke out a kedge, lowered it to the stern of his boat and hung it there by a stop to the ring, then started off to the stern of theSimpson. Once laid among the rocks in the shallower water there, the crew tramped around the capstan while Bo's'n Joe lifted "Windy weather! Stormy weather!" into a resounding chorus.
At last it was done. ThePelican, all reconnaissance over, lay snugly ensconced between the two sections of theJohn Simpson. The off watch went below, curiosity appeased by the barnacled unromantic packing-cases; and Captain Pontifex fell to hard work, going down again almost at once.
Dennis took charge of the after pumps, while the Missus herself took the wheel of those in the waist. The Kanakas, only prevented from diving naked by the depth and the icy coldness of the water, were eager to try the diving-suits. As each man went down in turn, he carried four lines, making them fast to as many cases. Thus, despite the brief diving spells, in no long time the cases began to come aboard as fast as they could be handled.
When the watch knocked off at eight bells, noon, Dennis was amazed by the number of cases which had come aboard. He was dead tired, also; the constant strain of watching the pump gauges and keeping the air at exactly the right pressure was no light one, and at odd moments he had tailed on to the lines with the other men.
"I see you're no greenhorn," commented Pontifex at dinner, with a sharp glance at the hands of Dennis. "Where'd you learn to keep your thumb clear while hauling a line?"
"Oh, I've knocked around ships a little," Dennis laughed. "Are you going to stay in this position?"
"Yes. If the Japs come, we're fixed to keep 'em off both ends of the wreck. Well, think you can go down again this afternoon?"
Dennis nodded. "Sure! I'm supposed to have a bad heart, but I haven't noticed it."
As it chanced, however, he did not go down again that day, for during Mr. Leman's watch the after airhose developed a leak which had to be fixed, and the second apparatus was consequently out of business until the following morning. Pontifex, who took the first dog-watch, kept the one suit hard at work, and all aboard were well satisfied with results.
That night, by the light of a huge flare set atop the try-works, the cargo was stowed. Shears had to be run up over the hatchways to handle the heavy cases, and the deck was not washed down until just before the morning watch. When Dennis came on deck at 4 a.m. the ship was incased in so heavy a fog that the lookout was withdrawn from the island.
"Dis fog, maybe she keep up a week," grumbled Corny, overhauling the diving lines. "If de Jap sheep come, den look out!"
The stern of the wreck, which had been hidden at high tide, was again being uncovered. So thick was the fog that Dennis doubted the possibility of diving, but his doubts were soon set at rest. Corny and the skipper, each carrying lines, made a descent, and Corny returned with word that it was a "cinch".
Pontifex was still down, and Dennis was preparing to get into the suit as Corny vacated it, when of a sudden the voice of the Missus bit out from the waist.
"Keep quiet, all hands! Listen!"
Astonished, Dennis obeyed. Corny, beside him, stood with hand cupped to ear, slowly shaking his head. Nothing was to be heard, The fog was impenetrable.
"What did she hear?" murmured Dennis. The Cape Verde man shook his head.
"No telling. But nobody don't foolher—ah! Listen, queek!"
Dennis heard it then—an indistinct and muffled vibration, too slight to be called a noise, which was felt rather than heard. It came again and again, an irregular sound.
"It's de sail," said Corny. "De sail flap-flap in de wind—and dere's somet'ing else goin', too——"
"A boat's engine!" exclaimed Dennis softly.
"Yeou, Corny!" The Missus gave swift command aft. "Call all hands aft an' tell Mr. Leman to fetch the rifles. Lively yeou!"
Meantime, she was bringing Pontifex aboard, manifestly against his will, as the signal-line testified. Dennis kicked out of the rubber suit, getting clear just as Bo's'n Joe came up the companion way. A moment later both Leman and Corny appeared, each with an armload of rifles interspersed with shot-guns.
"Strike me blind!" exclaimed Ericksen, pausing beside Dennis, and listening intently. "If it ain't them Japs—a schooner, likely, beatin' up for the island under power, and all hands too lazy to take in sail! Aye, that's them."
"But it may be someone else," said Dennis. "A fisherman, perhaps."
Bo's'n Joe gave him a look of pitying scorn from his uptwisted eye. "You wait an' see!"
Rifles were served out to all aboard, Dennis among the rest, and by the time Captain Pontifex was up and out of his suit, the ship was ready for defence. Pontifex heard the news without comment; a rifle under his arm, he dispatched Corny to the crosstrees to keep watch from there, and ordered Mr. Leman to stand by with a megaphone.
"Growin' closer, sir," volunteered Ericksen. "Takin' soundings, she is."
The skipper nodded. The fog-muffled thrum of an engine was now distinctly perceptible, while the slatting of sails told that the approaching craft was not far off. The fog was thick and steady without a breath of wind to thin it out.
"All right, Mr. Leman," said Pontifex suddenly. "Let 'em have it."
Instantly the stentorian tones of Mr. Leman, intensified a thousandfold by the megaphone, blared out upon the fog.
"Stand off or ye'll run us down, ye lubbers! Keep away!"
From the mist came a shrill thin yell of surprise, followed by an excited jabbering of many tongues. Clearly the visitors were of foreign origin. Then a shrill voice lifted in English amid sudden silence as the thrumming motor ceased its noise.
"'Ello! Oo are you?"
"Very good, Bo's'n Joe," said the skipper calmly. "She'll be in the centre of the fairway, most likely—about two points abaft our beam."
Ericksen lifted to his shoulder the shotgun with which he had armed himself, and two smashing reports blasted into the fog as he fired both barrels. A shrill clamour of voices made answer, followed by instantaneous and blanket-like silence. Then came a single sullen plunge, as of some heavy object striking the water.
"Ah!" remarked Pontifex, staring into into the fog as though he could see through it. "Very good, Bo's'n—you reached 'em. They've anchored, and they'll lie doggo until the fog lifts. They know we'll waste no bullets if we can't see them."
"Reached them?" repeated Dennis. "You don't mean that Ericksen tried to hit them?"
Bo's'n Joe guffawed, and Pontifex gave Dennis a peculiar smiling look—a very diabolical look.
"My dear Mr. Dennis, that's exactly what he did. And some yellow beggar caught the pellets in his hide—in other words, got the hint! They'll try no games until they can see what they're up against."
"But where are they?" demanded Dennis, giving up any expostulation.
"About six fathoms away, I should say—not more than fifty feet, certainly." The skipper glanced at Mr. Leman, who nodded confirmation. "They might be less than that, and we couldn't see them, nor they us. After the fog lifts—well, then there'll be fun!"
"They'll fight?"
Pontifex caressed his moustache and smiled softly.
"More or less—they'll try some deviltry on us first. Lay out some harpoons and shoulder-guns, Mr. Leman; we'll have a few tonite bombs ready. Corny, bring in those cases that I lined before I came up. We'll get back to work directly."
Dennis saw no good in making protests. There was no law here save that of the strongest, and Pontifex was dead right in carrying the fight to the enemy, aggression being nine points of fighting law. Besides, Pontifex was manifestly enjoying the prospect, and just at present Dennis was playing a waiting game and had no desire to bring about any crisis.
There being no time for more workman-like methods, an anvil and a cold-chisel were brought aft, with half a dozen harpoons, and two of the hands were set to work cutting through the iron harpoon hafts, just behind the spear-points. Now, modern whaling is carried out almost exactly as the New Bedford whalers did it a century ago, except for a small brass cylinder fastened to the haft of the harpoon. In this cylinder is carried a tonite bomb. Whether the harpoon be flung by hand or be fired from a shoulder-gun, it carries the bomb into the whale—and that ends the whale.
The points off the six harpoons, Mr. Leman made ready a couple of shoulder-guns and loaded the cylinders of the harpoons with bombs. As he observed, they might or they might not do much damage, but they would make a big noise when they hit; and with this intent the weapons were laid aside to be used in case of any aggressiveness on the part of the enemy. For the present, at least, the Japs seemed to be maintaining a careful silence.
"Well, Mr. Dennis," said Pontifex at length, "I'm going to resume my interrupted job; I guess I can lay a few more lines before quitting. Who's going down on your lines?"
"Why, I will—if you think it's safe," returned Dennis. "You're not going to knock off work, then?"
"On account of that yellow scum? I should say not!" exclaimed Pontifex. "Mr. Leman will do any fighting that's necessary while I'm down; and the Missus will see to it that nothing fouls our lines. But send someone else if you don't like the idea."
"Oh, it suits me," answered Dennis, knocking out his pipe. "I dare say there's no great risk, but it would feel sweet if the ship left us prowling on the bottom, eh?"
Pontifex grunted and went forward, being swallowed up in the fog that cloaked everything.
Having learned from Corny that the bottom was pretty dark, but by no means unsuited to working, Dennis called the steward. Although the little Cockney was a viperous criminal ashore, he was a faithful soul at sea, and Dennis had learned that he entertained a strong feeling of responsibility while watching the pumps.
"Hi, steward!" he called. "Come and give me a hand with this suit—and bring a couple of Kanakas to run these pumps, too. Corny's busy with the lines."
"Comin' sir," said the steward's voice, and the Cockney appeared a moment later.
Meantime, in the waist, Captain Pontifex was engaged in talk with the cook, while the Missus listened.
"Now's the time, Dumont," said Pontifex, fondling his curled mustache. "Work right along aft until you get on his line, savvy?"
"Mais oui!" returned Frenchy, his black eyes glittering. "But me, I like not thisdiableof a fog! It will be dark under the water."
"So much the better." And Pontifex smiled his cruel smile. "So much the better! He thinks I'm going down. Let the steward attend to his pumps—and we'll blame the steward for what happens. In this murky water he'll not see you coming down there—you can get on top of him and cut his lines and be off in a shot. Are you ready or not?"
"Yes!" exclaimed Frenchy, reaching for the diving-suit.
"And watch out for the tide," cautioned the skipper. "It's ebbing strong and you might lose your bearings if you don't look sharp."
Frenchy grinned, and unstrapped his sheath-knife.
As the steward helped pull up the rubber dress about the body of Dennis, he spoke in a low voice.
"Beg pardon, sir, but hit looks like you 'ad lost your knife."
Dennis glanced down at the deck where his paraphernalia lay. The belt and sheath were there; but the large knife, a regular part of every diver's equipment, was missing.
"That's queer!" he said slowly. "Hm! Probably Corny lost the knife and didn't notice it. Better get me one from the galley, steward: it'll take a carving knife to fit that big sheath."
"Yes, sir." The steward slipped off into the mist. The two Kanakas stood at the pump-wheels, shivering in the mist and talking together.
A moment later the steward reappeared, carrying a long, keenly edged carving knife. He tried it in the sheath, and it fitted well enough.
"Werry good, sir. All set!"
Dennis liked the little Cockney—he liked the man's thorough responsibility in his job of watching the pumps. But now, as he helped adjust the back and breast-pieces, and buckled the belt about his waist, he felt once more that in this work he was putting himself in the power of his enemies.
He forced a laugh at the idea; yet it took a supreme effort to conquer his imagination. They did not want to kill him, of course—but if they did, how easy in this fog! But that was all nonsense. There was no question of murdering. The very notion was folly!
Dennis helped the steward adjust the big copper helmet, and the Cockney screwed it fast into the neck-plate. A moment later, Dennis was climbing over the rail. The usual diver's shot-line would carry him straight down, and besides this, a ladder had been slung over the stern to assist in the ascent. The steward gave him the four lines, attached to the rail at intervals which would prevent their fouling after being attached to the cases, and Dennis slipped down into the depths.
As always, the steady and regular clicking of the pumps sounded through his air valves with reassuring effect. Captain Pontifex had not provided very up-to-date outfits, with telephones and electric lights and other frills—for this reason no diving work could be done at night. The suits were good and dependable, however, lacking only gloves to make them well adapted to this icy water.
Dennis resolutely dismissed all thoughts of possible danger, and concentrated his attention upon the work in hand.
As Corny had reported, the water down below was clear enough for work, but the lack of filtering sunlight made it gloomy, grey, and obscure in details. When at last Dennis felt his feet touch the bottom, he was forced to stand for a moment and adjust his eyesight to the altered conditions. Presently he was enabled to descry objects, and he moved toward the scattered and far-strewn heaps of boxes which lay between the two sections of theJohn Simpson.
Dennis could see nothing of Pontifex at work below, but in the present obscurity that was not strange. Besides, the divers, from waist and stern of thePelican, kept as far apart as possible for fear of the lines fouling.
Now, as he advanced, Dennis thought that he perceived a dimly moving shape off to his left to seaward; but it vanished almost instantly. It might have been some fish, he concluded, or a bunch of drifting algae. It was now hard upon noon, and the tide was fast on the ebb.
With the strange buoyancy which comes to the diver on the bottom, Dennis took leaps, one after the other, with a boyish delight. He cleared no ground this way, however, and soon returned to the slow progress afoot; there was too much danger of losing his balance and burying his helmet in the ooze as he came down.
Presently he came to an upright crowbar in a heap of boxes, which Corny had been using to pry loose each case in order to pass the bight of a line around it. Dennis found two loose boxes and made fast two of his lines; but without tying himself to the pile, he could not use the crowbar—his own buoyancy was too great. So, to save time, he passed on to some scattered cases ahead.
At this juncture, his remaining two lines fouled about his dragging air hose. When at length he got them extricated and clear, he had great difficulty in maintaining his balance against the set of the tide. But at length he got the first line fast to a box, and with the second line he secured another.
As he straightened up and grasped his safety-line to signal the steward that he was ready to ascend, he observed a great shadowy mass in the water ahead. Accustomed to the gloom by this time, he perceived that the mass was the after-end of theJohn Simpson, reaching up through the water on a sharp incline.
He tugged at his line. To his amazement he felt no resistance whatever. He tugged harder, more sharply—and the line coiled snakily toward him. At the same instant he heard a sharp click behind his ear; the safety valve in his helmet had snapped shut. His air-tight hose and his line had been parted!
In this supreme moment, when he faced inescapable death, Tom Dennis felt none of his previous fear. His brain worked like a clock.
He knew that either from the stern above, or from the water beneath he had been cut off and left to die. He had been too slow—he had failed to heed his inward premonitions. And the sheer horror of it was that he would not die for a comparatively long time. There was sufficient air in his helmet and in the bellying folds of his rubber suit to sustain life for several minutes!
What good would this do him? None! What good would it do him to reach the line he had made fast to boxes? None. This was no accident. The ends of his lines told him that they had been cut clean, severed. Those above would disregard any possible signals, would let him perish miserably. He could depend upon no one. He was trapped, helpless, murdered!
Then suddenly, Dennis perceived something in the water behind him. He turned.
Not a dozen feet distant, another diver stood there, helmet turned toward him watching. Through the thick glass Dennis glimpsed keen dark eyes, a gleam of white teeth; this was not Pontifex at all. Recognition came to him, and a thin cry escaped his lips—Dumont! Here was the murderer!
Dennis gripped his knife, half-minded to retaliate upon this assassin who had cut his lines; for in the man's hand he dimly caught the glitter of steel. But, as Dennis tensed himself for the leap, he checked the movement—another dim figure had appeared!
Amazement held Dennis spellbound, incredulous. There had been but two diving-suits aboard thePelican; of this he was quite certain. Yet here upon the sea floor stood three divers!
Dumont—for the second figure was manifestly that of the cook—stood staring at Dennis as though inviting any hostile movement. But the third figure suddenly rose in the water with a great leap—rose and threw itself forward, and went caroming down upon Frenchy, Then the answer came to Dennis—a diver from the Jap boat! Under shelter of the fog, knowing themselves unseen, the little brown men had gone to work!
And as he realized this, Dennis saw the figures of the two other divers, plunging together upon the bottom, abruptly obscured from his sight by a red mist uprising through the water. With horrified comprehension, Dennis realized that the murderer, Dumont, had been taken unawares, had been caught in his own trap—had cut the lines of one man only to have an unseen enemy spring upon him and stab him to death!
Dennis turned, and with a wild leap left the red-smeared scene behind.
The whole affair, from the moment he had heard his helmet valve click, had not taken twenty seconds, Already there had sprung into Dennis's brain the comprehension that he had but one bare slim hope of salvation—almost subconsciously he was aware of it, and almost upon intuition he leaped upward through the water. He leaped not toward thePelican, where he knew well that no help awaited him, but away from her; he leaped toward the shattered and sundered afterpart of theJohn Simpson.
Speed now meant life. He could not reach the shore in time, already—was it fact or imagination?—he fancied that his breathing was getting more difficult, the air in his lungs hot and vitiated. There came to him the horrible thought of a diver leaping about the bottom of the sea, leaping in huge bounds of twenty feet upward, leaping like a mad crazed animal until the air in his suit gave out and he dropped head-foremost in the ooze. It was a frantic thought. Upon the heels of it something tugged at the trailing lifeline and jerked Dennis down head first.
Knife in hand, he recovered his balance, thinking that the Jap diver had pursued him. But the trailing end of his line had caught in some obstruction—nothing more. With a sobbing breath of relief, Dennis slashed away the line and bore onward with a high leap.
That bound gained the crushed decking of theJohn Simpson. The afterpart of the wreck lay upon a sharply inclined plane, its broken forward end upon the bottom, the stern high in its nest of rocks. Up that sharp steep slope crawled Tom Dennis.
To maintain his balance and to keep any foothold upon the slimy decking was difficult. He clung to the rail with his left hand, slowly working himself upward. He dared try no leaping here, lest like a rubber ball he fly over the rail with the seaward current and drop; and if a diver drops thirty feet he is apt to be crushed all at once into his helmet by the pressure—and it would not be nice.
"Can't take chances!" thought Dennis, then laughed inwardly at the notion. Take chances! Why, he was basing his entire hope of salvation upon chances of which he was totally uncertain! It had swiftly come to him that by gaining the after end of the wreck, by crawling up her sloping deck to the stern, he would be out of the water. But would he? How far had the tide ebbed? He did not know. He could not remember what time the tide had turned—whether the wreck would be now uncovered or not.
Then there was the fog; another chance. If the fog had only slightly lessened, so those aboard thePelicancould see stern of the wreck, they would finish their work with rifles should Dennis emerge. Thus there was a double chance against him. Should he find himself out of water at the stern of the wreck, his only hope then would be that the fog still held thick as ever.
His ears were roaring now, and paining with an ache that thrummed at each pulse-beat. The air was steadily growing worse; Dennis paused to press more air up from his billowing suit, and gained momentary relief.
It occurred to him that he still had one friend aboard thePelican—the steward. His knife had been removed purposely; the steward had noticed its absence; therefore, the little Cockney was not in on the murder-scheme. Dennis laughed slightly and turned again to his task of climbing.
Dragging himself up that slimy steep decking was hard work, and he cursed the tremendous weights that held him down; the buoyancy seemed gone out of him with his weariness. Then, suddenly, he came to a dead halt, straining his eyes to look upward and ahead, and keen despair went through him like a knife.
He had gained the after hatchway which was uncovered and yawned in a black hole to his right. Directly in front of him was the overhang of the poop—an eight-foot wall which, owing to the position of the wreck, deserved its name so far as Dennis was concerned. It overhung him; in order to go up the ladder in front of him, Dennis would have to do it hand over hand, or not at all!
For a moment he paused. Pains had seized and were racking him. His throat and lungs felt afire. He knew that he could not last much longer, and with a frightful effort he flung himself forward; the knife, his sole means of escape from the diving-suit, he thrust down into the sheath of his belt, trusting that it would remain there.
Gripping the stairs of the ladder, Dennis hauled himself up. He dared spare nothing of energy or effort now; he was staking all upon one effort. If he failed to reach the poop he was gone.
Strangling, gasping spasmodically for the air that burned out his lungs, he came at last to the end of the ladder. He got his head about it; he could see the poop-deck there before him, and he writhed desperately over the edge of the ladder. With all his lightness in the water, he nearly failed at that moment. For one sickening instant he felt himself going backward and down—then, heaving upward convulsively, he somehow made it safely. For a moment he lay weak and helpless.
A spasm of strangulation forced him on. He groped behind him for his knife, found it, and pressed forward. The water was lighter now—he was near the top. How near? Unless the stern were clear of the water, he would be lost. There was blood in his throat; his nose and ears were bleeding. To his terror, he lost his balance and plunged against the rail, nearly going over. He gripped the rail and hauled himself onward.
A frightful madness seized him, a convulsive gasping for relief, and he was near to ripping asunder his diving-suit. His frantic efforts had exhausted what little oxygen remained; he could press up no more good air from his suit. Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, he found that some horrible, deadly, agonizing weight was pressing him down. He could see only the grey dimness around him; red specks were dancing before his eyes; that awful weight was oppressing him, and what caused it, he did not know, unless it were death. He came up against the rounded bulge of the stern-rail. It was the end. He could go no farther.
"That ends it!" he thought despairingly. "The tide hasn't ebbed enough."
He fell forward, unable to lift the weight of that copper helmet, for the oppression was crushing him down. He could not make out what that frightful weight could be, nor did he care. He reached up with his knife, as he lay there, and determined to end things swiftly. He refused to be longer tortured.
With a swift, reckless motion he ripped asunder the breast of his diving-suit.
To his amazement, nothing happened. No water entered. Instead, came a breath of cold sweet air that literally brought life into his lungs!
Two minutes later he was sitting up, sobbing the good clean air into his body! He saw then what had happened—what that awful weight had been! It had been only the weight of his own body and equipment. Unknown to himself, he had emerged from the water into the dense thickness of the fog.
He had won clear!