At Tom’s astounding announcement Frank sank limply onto a thwart. But the next instant he was up, and seizing the resonance coil, hastily connected it to the set in place of the aerial.
“Now signal or tell me when you get them,” he said, as, holding the coil horizontally, he commenced moving it in a wide circle. For a time Tom was silent, motionless, listening with every sense and nerve taut; then, as the coil pointed to the right, he raised his hand.
“There!” he whispered.
Presently he took off his phones. “It’s no use listening,” he declared “we can’t tell what they’re saying. Oh, thunder, why isn’t Smernoff here?”
“Well, we can call to the folks and tell them and they can let Smernoff listen,” said Frank.
“Silly!” cried Tom petulantly. “If we called them, these Russians would hear and either clear out or shut up. And, besides, I don’t believe they could hear them on the submarine. I’ll bet that’s been the trouble all along. They’ve been too far off.”
“Well, what can we do then?” demanded Frank. “If we call for help to get back, these fellows will hear us too. We’re in a nice fix just from chasing that confounded old manatee. First we get lost and then we hear this talking and can’t even tell about it.”
“We might row along until we lose these fellows and then call the sub,” suggested Tom, “if we get so far away we can’t hear them the chances are they can’t hear us. Come on.”
There seemed nothing else to do and so, choosing a channel that led away from the direction whence the sounds had come, the boys rowed steadily for some time. Then they ceased rowing and picking up the coil Frank held it while Tom listened at the set.
For a space no sounds came to his ears and then he started so violently that Frank was almost upset.
“Gosh all crickety, Frank!” he exclaimed. “Something’s wrong. They sound nearer than ever.”
Puzzled and not knowing what to do, the boys sat motionless and speechless. They seemed to be surrounded by the voices coming from both directions.
“Hello,” ejaculated Frank presently, “We’re moving. Look at those trees!”
Tom glanced up. It was perfectly true, the trees were slowly but steadily slipping past them. They were drifting with the current.
“It must be the tide,” declared Tom. “If ’tis we’ll be out of here soon and if we reach the bay——”
“Hurrah, there’s the bay now!” cried Frank.
A few hundred yards ahead they saw the sheet of open water through the trees and with light hearts grasped the oars and started to row forwards, but before they had taken a stroke Tom uttered a smothered cry, grasped Frank’s arm and pointed a trembling finger at the open water visible through a space between the mangroves.
“Look, Frank! Look!” he whispered
Less than two hundred yards distant, plainly visible and moored close to the edge of the swamp was a big submarine! No second glance was needed to verify Tom’s first suspicions; the shattered conning tower left no doubt as to the craft’s identity.
Frank was too surprised and dumbfounded to speak and stood gazing with unbelieving eyes at the submarine so near to them and so totally unexpected.
“Quick!” whispered Tom. “If we don’t watch out we’ll be drifting in sight on that open water. Grab a root or a branch while I push the boat in.”
Seizing his oars, Tom pushed and pulled, forcing the boat close to the trees until Frank could grasp one of the swaying, descending roots and made the boat’s painter fast to it.
“No wonder we heard ’em,” remarked Tom when the boat was secured. “That creek must turn around a corner and we didn’t notice it. Say, what are we going to do now? We can’t wait here all night and we don’t know where to go and we can’t call our folks without those fellows on this sub hearing us.”
“And if we could call your father or Mr. Rawlins we couldn’t tell them where this submarine is because we don’t know ourselves,” replied Frank.
“It’s awful funny we should find it by getting lost after they’ve been hunting for it night after night,” said Tom, “and now what good does it do? I don’t see but what we’ll have to go back the way we came and trust to luck.”
“Huh!” snorted Frank, “and get lost worse than ever. If this sub came in here there must be deep water leading to sea and if we could sneak out we’d be sure to find the entrance to the bay and then we could call our people or hunt along the shore till we found that beach with the coconut grove.”
“Yes, and a swell chance we have of sneaking out!” Tom reminded him. “Just as soon as we went out of here they’d spot us, sure.”
“Well we’ll have to wait until dark, that’s all,” said Frank resignedly. “Of course they’ll worry, but like as not they’ll call for us and we may hear ’em. Then if these chaps hear, it wont be our fault. I know your father said not to hesitate to use radio if we had to, but he didn’t think we’d be alongside this submarine when we needed to. It’s not going to hurt us to wait here a while and we may see something.”
Tom’s sharp “Hisst!” caused Frank to wheel about. A small boat was now beside the submarine and several men were climbing into it. Presently they pushed off, the men took to the oars and to the boys’ horror and amazement the boat headed directly toward their hiding place.
“Gosh now it’s all up!” whispered Tom in terrified tones, “if they spot us or our boat it’ll be good night for us!”
Breathlessly the boys crouched in their craft, shaking with fright, while nearer and nearer came the boat from the submarine. Then, when the two trembling boys felt that their hour had come, that in another instant they must be seen, the other boat swung to one side and disappeared in a narrow channel among the mangroves not fifty feet from where the boys were concealed. In a few moments the sound of the oars and the voices of the men grew faint in the distance and the boys raised themselves and with relieved, fast-beating hearts exchanged glances.
“Did you see them?” exclaimed Tom. “My, weren’t they a tough looking lot!”
“Regular pirates!” agreed Frank. “Did you see that big fellow with the red beard?”
“You bet, and that thin one with the upturned blonde mustache! Gosh, he looked like the Crown Prince of Germany!”
“That dark man was the worst,” declared Frank. “That Indian or nigger or whatever he was—the one with the earrings. Gee, I’d hate to have them get us.”
“I never knew Russians were such ugly looking people,” said Tom, “and I thought they were all light. That fellow with the earrings was almost as black as Sam.”
“They’re not all Russians,” Frank reminded him. “Don’t you remember Mr. Henderson and your father saying they were ‘reds’ from every point of the world and that the big chief of the lot isn’t even a German although he worked for Germany. And there was that man that died in New York, he was Irish.”
“Yes, that’s so,” agreed Tom, “but say, let’s get out of here now. They’re gone and maybe we can sneak away. I don’t believe any one’s aboard the sub.”
“Well, I do,” replied Frank, “I vote we turn back and see if we can’t find another channel that leads out below here. We can tell the right way to go by the tide flowing.”
“Golly, that’s so,” assented Tom. “All right, but we’ve got to be careful.”
Unfastening the boat, the two boys pulled slowly up the creek against the current, searching the mangroves on either side for an opening through which the tide was flowing. At last they sighted one and with elated minds turned into it. As they pulled along, Tom noticed that the mangroves were giving place to other trees, that the soft mud banks had changed to sand and that the shores were getting higher.
“We must be getting out of the swamp,” declared Tom. “See! the banks are high and there are trees. We’ll soon be out.”
The stream they were following was now running with quite a swift current and the boys noticed several side branches or smaller creeks flowing into it. They had just passed one of these and were about to turn a bend when with one accord they stopped rowing, their eyes grew wide with fright and they sat listening breathlessly. From ahead had come the sounds of human voices! Just around the bend were men!
To go on meant certain discovery. What should they do? For a brief instant they had thought it might be some of their own party, but the next second they knew better, for the words that came to them were in a harsh guttural tongue—the same tongue they had so often heard through their receivers.
Then, a sudden desire, an overwhelming curiosity to see the speakers, to learn where they were and what they were doing swept over Tom. With signs he motioned to Frank and an instant later they had run their boat into the side creek, had beached it noiselessly upon a narrow strip of soft earth and like snakes were wiggling silently up the bank among the trees. For some strange psychological reason they were no longer afraid; no longer did thoughts of the risk they ran enter their heads. Their entire thoughts were centered on seeing these men, on learning what they could, for they realized instinctively that they had stumbled upon the secret of the gang’s hiding place, that they had found what their friends had been searching for night after night and that, did they ever regain their own submarine, their knowledge would be invaluable.
But they were cautious. They had no intention of being either seen or heard and before they reached the summit of the bank they carefully raised their heads and peered between the bases of the trees beyond. They had no means of knowing what lay beyond that bank. It might be open land, it might be brush or woods or it might be water. They knew, however, that the men must be close at hand and yet, when they peered through, they could scarcely repress surprised exclamations at what they saw.
Within a dozen yards, a boat was lying beside the bank of the stream and just beyond, beneath a wide-spreading tree, two men stood talking.
One was the big, red-bearded fellow the boys had seen in the boat as it left the submarine. The other, who half leaned upon a repeating rifle and who wore an immense automatic pistol at his belt, was tall, well-built and most striking in appearance. He was dressed in light, neat clothes and leather puttees; a broad-brimmed Panama hat was on his head, his face was tanned but clean shaven, except for a small, sharply upturned, iron-gray mustache, and in one eye he wore a monocle.
So totally unlike his companions was he that the boys almost gasped in astonishment. There was nothing about him, nothing in his appearance, that spoke of lawlessness, of a thug or a criminal. Indeed, he was a most distinguished-looking gentleman, such a figure as one might expect to see at a meeting of scientists, at some state function, at a directors’ meeting in some bank or business house.
But when he spoke the disillusionment was complete. His voice had the strangest sound the boys had ever heard. It was cold, grating, inexpressibly cruel and sent shivers down the boys’ backs as they listened. What he was saying they could not grasp, but that he was angry, that he was reprimanding the giant before him, the boys could tell by his tones, the hard reptilian glitter of his light gray eyes and by the expression of the red-bearded fellow.
The latter, with hat in hand, fairly cowered before the other. His head was bent, his eyes downcast, his face and neck were flushed scarlet and his replies came in a low, humble, apologetic tone.
Those in the waiting boat were silent, only the two uttered a single word. For a space the boys watched, fascinated, and then it occurred to Tom that they must get away, that somehow they had taken the wrong channel and that if they were to escape unseen they must leave at once, retrace their way to where they had seen the submarine and from there try to reach the entrance to the bay.
Touching Frank’s arm, Tom signaled for him to withdraw and as silently as they had come the two boys slipped down the bank, shoved their boat noiselessly into the water and crept into it.
With fast beating hearts they paddled towards the larger stream and had almost reached it, when, without warning, a flock of white ibis flapped up before them and with harsh croaks of alarm perched upon the topmost branches of the trees.
The boys’ blood seemed to freeze in their veins and their hearts to cease beating. Would the men suspect something or somebody was near? Would they sweep down on the boys?
Instantly, at the hoarse cries of the birds, the voices beyond the point had ceased and the boys knew the men were listening, straining their ears for a suspicious sound. To go on would be to court disaster. The least rattle of oars or squeal of rowlocks would be heard and even if no sound issued from the boat the slightest movement would again arouse the ibis overhead. There was nothing to do but wait, wait with panting, throbbing lungs and heart-racking fears for what might happen next.
But the boys did not have long to wait. From beyond the intervening bank came the rattle of an oar, a sharp, gruff order, the splash of water. The men were coming! To remain where they were meant capture! There was but one thing to be done and that was to turn and pull as fast as they were able into the small creek in the one faint hope that the others might pass it by and look for the cause of the birds’ fright upon the main stream. Quickly the boat was swung round and with deadly terror lending strength to their arms, the boys pulled frantically into the trees that formed an archway over the tiny waterway. But their ruse was in vain. The noise of the splashing oars had been heard. The disturbed water of the stream told the story of their flight to their enemies. Scarcely a score of yards had been covered when the boys heard the other boat following, heard the rough Slavic voices, and the frightened cries of the ibis. Madly they pulled and then, so close that the boys could not avoid it had they wished, the creek came to an abrupt end in a mass of foliage.
Before the boys knew it was there they had bumped into it. Frank’s hat was swept off by a branch, sharp twigs and thorns tore their flesh, the boat rocked and grated, and realizing they were trapped the boys screamed in terror. Then, ere they grasped what had happened, their boat had shot through the screen of branches, they were in open water and looking back they saw the fallen trees which had spanned the creek. Before them the stream turned sharply to one side. Only a dozen strokes of the oars would bring them to the bend. They had almost reached it when shouts and curses came from beyond the fallen trees, they heard a crashing of the branches, the sharp reports of revolvers rang out and bullets whistled past the boys’ heads.
The next moment the boat shot around the point and, driven to desperation, thinking only of outdistancing their pursuers, the boys rowed like mad, giving no heed to direction, no attention to their surroundings. Then they suddenly realized that the sounds of their pursuers had ceased, that there were no shouts, no splashing of oars, no rattle of wood on wood. What had happened? Why had the others abandoned the chase?
And then it dawned upon Frank.
“Gee Christopher!” he exclaimed under his breath, “that fallen tree saved us, Tom! Their big boat couldn’t get through. We’re safe!”
“Gosh, I guess you’re right!” whispered Tom while the two still continued to row. “But I’m not sure we’re safe. There may be another way in here and perhaps they’ve gone around to cut us off. Say, we’ve got to row like the dickens and try to get so far they won’t find us!”
“Yes, but we’re lost!” declared Frank. “We haven’t any idea where we are!”
“I know it,” admitted Tom, “but we can’t help that now. After we’ve gone farther we’ll stop and call our folks. Those chaps back there can’t hear us and if their sub does, it won’t make any difference now. They know we’re here and we’ve got to get out.”
For fully half an hour they toiled on. Their breath came in gasps, their arms ached, their hands were blistered and raw, but they dared not stop. Then, when they felt they could go no farther, their boat shot out from the mangroves and they found themselves floating on a broad lagoon.
“Hurrah!” cried Frank, “we’re back where we saw the manatee!”
“Golly, so we are!” agreed Tom. “Well, I’m going to use the radio now and see if we can get our people.”
But all attempts to get their submarine proved fruitless. Over and over again they called. Hopefully and patiently Tom listened while Frank moved the resonance coil about, but not a sound came through the receivers.
“It’s no use,” declared Tom at last. “We can’t get them. What on earth will we do?”
“All we can do is to go on,” replied Frank in dejected tones. “It’s almost dark, we may find our way by luck.”
“I can’t row another stroke,” declared Tom. “I’m all in. We might just as well lie here and rest, at least until the moon comes up. We can’t go on in the dark through these creeks.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” agreed Frank who, now the excitement was over, felt utterly exhausted. “We’re as safe here as anywhere.”
Drawing in their oars the two lonely, tired and hungry boys threw themselves in the bottom of the boat and too weary even to talk lay gazing up at the stars. The boat rocked gently to the tiny ripples on the lagoon; from the swamps came the droning chant of frogs and insects; fireflies flitted by like tiny meteors; the water lapped soothingly against the boat’s planks and lulled by the sounds and the soft night air the boys slept.
Tom was the first to awake. For an instant he lay still, dazed, not remembering where he was and dimly aware of a strange, monotonous, resonant sound that somehow seemed to vibrate and throb through his brain, the boat and the night air.
He nudged Frank. “Wake up!” he half whispered, “wake up! The moon’s out and we’ve got to be going on.”
Then, as Frank sleepily opened his eyes and yawned, Tom spoke again.
“Hear that noise?” he asked. “What is it?”
Frank, now wide awake, sat up. He too heard the sound, a noise so unlike anything else he had ever heard that he felt cold shivers chasing up and down his spine.
“I—I don’t know!” he stammered. “It’s uncanny—perhaps it’s a frog or a night bird or something. Say, where are we?”
Then, for the first time, Tom noticed their surroundings. No longer were they on the lagoon. On either side, rose tall trees looming black and gigantic against the moonlit sky and by the glint of the light upon the ripples the boys could see that the narrow waterway ran swiftly.
“Crickey, we’ve drifted while we were asleep!” cried Frank. “Now wearelost.”
“Well, we’re drifting with the tide anyway,” said Tom, trying bravely to be cheerful. “And it’s bound to take us out somewhere to open water.”
“Yes, only it may be coming in and not going out,” said Frank. “What time is it? My watch stopped when I fell overboard.”
Tom pulled out his watch and examined it’s luminous dial. “Gosh, it’s after eleven!” he exclaimed. “Say, we must have slept four or five hours.”
“There’s that noise again!” cried Frank. “What on earth is it? It seems to come from all around and say—— Gee, look there, Tom! What’s that?”
Startled, Tom glanced about. Far ahead between the trees he could see a ruddy glow.
“Golly, it’s a fire!” he exclaimed in frightened tones. “Let’s get out. It may be those Russians again. Perhaps it’s their camp.”
“And the noise comes from there!” stammered Frank. “It’s dreadful!”
Hurriedly grasping their oars the boys pulled, trying their utmost to swing the boat’s bow around, but it was of no use. The current was running like a millrace and despite their utmost endeavors they were being swept irresistibly towards the fire and that weird, uncanny, hair-raising sound.
Nearer and nearer they swept. Now they could see the ruddy light upon the water ahead. They could even see the flames dancing among the trees and the resonant, throbbing boom rose and fell in terrifying cadence through the night. Then, between the throbbing beats, the boys heard voices; but not the harsh guttural voices of the “reds.” It was even worse, for the sounds borne to the boys—frightened, terror-stricken and helpless in their drifting boat—savored of savages. They were high-pitched, yet musical, rising and falling; one moment dying to a low murmur, the next rising to a blood-curdling wail.
Absolutely paralyzed, the boys sat and stared at the light and the fire they were approaching. What was it? Through their minds flashed stories of cannibals, visions of savage Indians, and yet Rawlins had assured them there were no Indians upon the island. But surely these could be nothing else. Those sounds—dimly, to Tom’s mind came memories of a similar sound he had once heard—yes—that was it—an Indian tom-tom at a Wild West show. Theymustbe savages! Yes, now he could see them, wild, naked, dancing, leaping figures; whirling, gyrating about the fire now less than two hundred yards ahead and within fifty feet of the Lank. Frank had seen them also. He too knew they must be savages. Would they be seen? Would the dancing, prancing fiends detect them as they swept through that circle of light upon the water or were they too busy with their dancing to notice them? Now the drum roared in deafening, booming notes, filling the surrounding forest with its echoes and the savage chant of the prancing figures sent chills over the cowering boys. Just ahead was the expanse of water illuminated by the red glare. In a moment they would be in it. Close to the bank the boys saw canoes drawn ashore, big dug-outs, crude primitive craft. Yes, therewereIndians in Santo Domingo, Rawlins must have been mistaken. Now they were in the firelight. They held their breaths and then a moaning hopeless groan issued from the boys’ lips. Their boat slowed down; before they realized what had happened they were caught in an eddy and the next instant their craft bumped with a resounding thud against one of the canoes.
The boys’ senses reeled. They were wedged fast between the dugouts in the brilliant light from the fire and before a cry could escape them, before they could move, two half-naked, awful creatures, hideously painted and with threatening, waving clubs came dashing down the bank.
The boys knew their last minute had come. The savages had seen them. Resistance would be hopeless. They were too frightened, too frozen with mortal terror to move or even scream.
The next second the naked fiends were upon them. Powerful hands seized legs and feet and unresisting, limp, almost unconscious with dread thoughts of their fate, they were borne triumphantly towards the fire and the ring of terrifying figures.
As the sun dipped towards, the mountains to the west and the boys did not return, Mr. Pauling became worried.
“I was a fool to permit them to go off alone,” he declared to Mr. Henderson. “Even with a compass they might go astray in the swamp. Boys are always careless and they do not realize the danger of getting lost.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry yet,” replied the other. “They have their radio sets along and would call us if they had any difficulties. Bancroft has been listening for the past hour and nothing’s come in.”
“Yes, I know,” rejoined Tom’s father, “but if they don’t turn up soon I shall start after them.”
Rawlins, who had returned from his scouting trip and had reported that he had been unsuccessful in seeing a sign of smoke across the bay, now approached.
“I hardly think they’re in trouble,” he said, “I I’d suggest calling them before starting a search, provided they don’t arrive. They can hear much farther than they can send and I don’t believe our messages could be heard by the gang in the sub. We’ve been several miles around the bay and know those rascals are not near.”
“Yes, we can do that,” agreed Mr. Pauling. “Even if they should hear, it is of little consequence in comparison with getting word to the boys. I’m about ready to abandon the attempt to locate the men anyway. Our information is too indefinite to rely upon.”
As time slipped by and still there was no sign of the missing boys and no word came by radio, Mr. Pauling became terribly worried and even Rawlins’ optimism became shaken.
Finally, as the afternoon shadows lengthened, Tom’s father could stand it no longer and he told Bancroft to call their names and see if he could get in touch with them. But when, after fifteen minutes, the operator reported that no response had been received Mr. Pauling grew frantic.
“Something’s happened,” he declared. “They’ve either gone too far to hear or to reply or they’ve been drowned or have met with some accident. We must set out on a search at once.”
Accordingly, the boat was manned, a radio set was placed in it and Mr. Pauling, Rawlins and Bancroft embarked, leaving Mr. Henderson, who was the only remaining member of the party who understood radio, in charge of the submarine. Sam also went along, for, as Rawlins explained, he had eyes like a cat and at Mr. Henderson’s suggestion Smernoff was included.
“You may hear those rascals talking,” he said, “and if you do you’ll need him.”
Rawlins remembered hearing the boys speak of the island they wished to explore and knew more or less the direction they had gone. It was no easy matter to find an island in the swamp largely by guesswork, but luck favored and just before dark they sighted the higher trees and firm land of the island where the boys had lunched. Calling frequently, both by voice and by radio, the searching party pulled around the island and came to the beach. Something white upon the sand attracted Rawlins’ attention and landing they found the paper wrappings of the boys’ lunch.
“They stopped here to eat,” announced the diver. “Now the question is in which direction they went. They might have gone up any one of these creeks or they might have started for the mainland. It’s all guesswork.”
It was now dusk and the swamp was black with impenetrable shadows, but as they circled around the swamp in vague hopes of finding some clue or of hearing the boys by the radio instruments, Sam’s sharp eyes caught sight of a bunch of water plants.
“Tha’ boat parsed by here, Chief,” he announced, pointing to the bruised and bent stems. “Ah’m sure of that, Chief.”
Rawlins examined the plants carefully. “Yes, either their boat or some other,” he agreed. “We’ll follow up this channel.”
By the time they reached the open lagoon it was pitch dark and their only hope lay in getting in touch with the boys by radio.
“If we don’t look out we’ll get lost ourselves,” announced Rawlins. “You watch the compass, Quartermaster, and keep track of our course and the bearings.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” replied the old sailor, and once more the boat proceeded through the black swamp, Rawlins peering ahead and occasionally shouting, Bancroft constantly speaking into the instruments and listening at the receivers and Mr. Pauling, nearly mad with worry, fears and regrets.
For hour after hour they continued, following waterway after waterway, traversing lagoon after lagoon, forcing their way through the dense swamps to the mainland of the island and even emerging on the broad calm bay.
“If they’re lost and unable to get back they’ll probably camp,” said Rawlins. “They have matches and can make a fire. In fact they’ve sense enough to think of making a fire for a signal. I believe it will be a good plan to go ashore; I’ll ascend a hill, and Sam can climb a tree and look about. If there’s a fire anywhere in sight we should see it.”
All agreed this was a good plan and accordingly the boat was headed towards the nearest point and at last grated upon the rocks. With Sam, Rawlins pushed into the brush, stumbling over roots, bumping into trees in the darkness, barking shins and tearing clothes, but steadfastly clambering up the steep slope until they reached the summit. Selecting a tall palm, Sam proceeded to “walk” up the trunk in the native Indian fashion and soon reached the huge leafy top.
Straddling the base of an immense frond, he slowly and carefully swept the horizon with his eyes. From his lofty perch, nearly one hundred feet above the earth and fully two hundred feet above the water, the entire swamp, the numerous lagoons and even the broad bay lay spread before him like a map. Although the moon would not rise until midnight, yet the sky was bright with myriads of stars which cast a faint glow upon the water and served to distinguish; it from the darker masses of mangroves and land. At first he could see nothing that resembled the glow of a fire, but after several minutes his eyes detected a faint light among the trees several miles away and apparently on the mainland across the bay.
As he watched, the spot grew brighter, it took on a pinkish tint and seemed to spread, until at last, it was a distinct ruddy light which he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt was a fire. Carefully taking bearings by the stars and the dark masses of the swamp, he slid to the ground.
“Tha’s a fire yonder, Chief,” he announced. “Ah’ seed it plain an’ clear, an’ it’s just started, Chief. Ah seed it fla’in’ up an’ a-makin’ brighter all the time. Ah reckon tha’ young gentlemens ’s a-makin’ it fo’ a signal, Chief.”
“That’s blamed good news!” exclaimed Rawlins. “You say it’s over on the other side of the bay and you’ve got its bearings. All right, we’ll get over there, but how the deuce those kids got across the bay without knowing it, stumps me.”
Reaching the boat, Rawlins reported their success and with all possible speed the boat was pulled through the winding channels of the swamp in the direction Sam indicated. But it is one thing to take a sight and bearings from a tree top on a hillside and quite another matter to follow those bearings and directions through a mangrove swamp filled with twisting, devious channels. How Sam could manage to keep the general course at all was little short of marvelous, but as the boat turned bend after bend, doubled on its track, found its way blocked and made detours, the Bahaman never missed his general sense of direction, and at last the searching party emerged from the swamp and on the broad expanse of the bay.
Sam glanced about, squinted at the stars and indicated the course to follow. As they rowed swiftly across the bay towards the opposite shores, Rawlins spoke.
“Say!” he exclaimed. “It may not be the boys after all. I’ve been puzzling all along how they could get over there and I’m beginning to think it’s those chaps we’re after and not the boys.”
“Jove! you’re right,” cried Mr. Pauling, “and, good Lord! perhaps they’ve found the boys and taken them prisoners! If the boys used their radio to call us the others may have heard it and located them. What an addle-headed fool I’ve been to take such risks! No wonder we haven’t heard them or got them. Probably they’re helpless—bound and gagged and those devils are chuckling to themselves as they hear our calls and are luring us into a trap.”
“Well, if they’ve touched those kids I’ll say there’ll be some rough-house work when we step into that trap,” declared Rawlins, “and they’ll find they’ve bitten off a darned sight bigger hunk than they can swallow without choking. We’ve got arms, I slipped ’em in the boat, and we’re no crew of tenderfeet. Sam’s some little scrapper and the quartermaster was champion middle-weight of the Atlantic squadron, old Smernoff’s itching for a fight with those whiskered friends of his, and I guess you and Bancroft can take care of yourselves and I’m no quitter myself.”
“Yes, yes, Rawlins,” replied Mr. Pauling, “but you forget that if they have the boys they can protect themselves by threatening harm to Tom and Frank. They can make their own terms and they are ruthless beasts.”
“Well, Mr. Pauling, don’t let’s cross our rivers till we get to ’em,” said the diver. “We don’t know if the boys are prisoners yet. We’ll go easy and find out how the land lays first. Remember we can see their fire and what’s going on a long time before they can spot us. That’s the worst of a fire. The other fellow can see you, but you can’t see the other fellow.”
“Yes, but the great trouble is, if we call for the boys by radio we’ll warn our enemies instead,” Mr. Pauling reminded him.
“If theyareprisoners it won’t be any use hollering for them,” replied Rawlins sagely. “I guess the best plan is just to lie low, keep quiet and sneak in. If the boys are alone and it’s their fire we’ll find them just as well without calling and if it’s the ‘reds’ fire and the boys are not there we’ll spring a surprise.”
A few minutes later the boat had gained the shelter of the trees beyond the bay and, still guided by Sam’s almost uncanny instinct or skill, they pushed into the nearest channel among the mangroves. On this side of the bay, however, there was much more open water; the trees were more scattered, and, instead of being made up of innumerable creeks flowing through dense masses of mangroves, the swamp consisted of large lake-like expanses dotted and interrupted by narrow belts and isolated clumps of trees.
They had proceeded for an hour or more and felt that they must be approaching the spot where Sam had seen the fire when they noticed that the darkness was less dense, that there was a subdued light upon the water, and that the clumps of trees were sharper and clearer.
“Hanged if the moon isn’t rising!” exclaimed Rawlins. “Crickey, it must be near midnight.”
Mr. Pauling looked at his watch. “It’s after eleven,” he announced. “We’ve been searching for five hours.”
“I’ll say those kids are some little travelers!” declared Rawlins. “They must have thought they were rowing for a bet to get clean over here.”
“Ah 'spec’ tha’ tide made to help them, Chief,” remarked Sam. “It makes right strong an’ po’ful up these creeks.”
“Yep, that must have been it,” agreed Rawlins. “Hadn’t thought of it before, I’ll bet they got caught in a strong current and couldn’t pull against it. Hello! What the——”
Instantly the men stopped rowing. From far away, as if from the air itself, came a low throbbing vibration, a sound felt rather than heard, and those in the boat stared at one another questioningly.
“Thunder!” suggested Mr. Pauling, in a low tone.
Rawlins shook his head. “Nix,” he replied crisply. “Thunder doesn’t keep up like that and it doesn’t throb that way. Sounds to me more like a ship’s screw half out of water.”
“Some bird then,” suggested Mr. Pauling. “Bittern or owl, perhaps.”
“I’ll say it’ssomebird—if ’tis a bird!” exclaimed Rawlins. “What is it, Sam?”
The quartermaster spat into the water and before the Bahaman could reply he remarked: “’Course 'taint possible, Sir; but if I was a-hearin’ o’ that 'ere soun’ an’ was in the South Seas 'stead o’ here in the West Injies—I’d say as how ’twas a tom-tom, Sir—you knows what I means, Sir—savage drum such as they uses for a-havin’ of a cannibal feast, Sir.”
“Well we’re not in the South Seas,” returned Rawlins, “and there aren’t any cannibals here. Say, what the devil’s the matter with you, Sam?”
It was no wonder Rawlins asked. The Bahaman was staring open-mouthed across the water, his eyes rolling, his face drawn and awful fear depicted upon his black features.
“Here, wake up! Seen a ghost?” cried Rawlins, shaking the negro roughly. Sam’s jaws came together, he licked his dry lips and in terror-striken, shaking tones murmured, “Voodoo!”
Something in his tones, in the way he pronounced the one word, sent shivers down his hearers’ backs.
“Voodoo?” repeated Rawlins, recovering himself. “What in thunder are you talking about?”
“Ah knows it!” replied the negro, in a hoarse whisper. “Tha’s the devil dance! Yaas, Sir, tha’s Voodoo goin’ on!”
“Well, I’ll be sunk!” ejaculated the diver. “A Voodoo dance! By glory! I didn’t think they had ’em over here. I’ve heard of 'em in Martinique and Haiti, but I never took much stock in the yarns. Are you sure, Sam?”
The cowering negro had sunk to his knees in the boat. All the long-dormant superstition of his race, the soul-racking fear of the occult and supernatural which was the heritage of his African ancestors had been stirred into being by the throbbing pulsations borne through the night, and he was an abject, terror-stricken creature.
Rawlins jerked him to athwart. “Brace up, you fool nigger!” he commanded. “No one’s hurting you yet! You’re a blamed coward, Sam! What if ’tis Voodoo? What in thunder are you scared of?”
Slowly the negro came back to his senses; shaking like a leaf, sickly ashen with fright, he steadied himself. “Ah aint 'fraid,” he stuttered, his tones belying his words. “Ah was jus’ flustrated, Chief. But Ah don’t mek to meddle with Voodoo, Chief. Better go back, Chief.”
“You bet your boots we’ll go back—not!” declared Rawlins. “I’d like right well to see a Voodoo as you call it. And if there’s any folks around here—black or white, tame or savage, we’re out to find ’em and have a pow-wow with ’em. Maybe the boys saw their fire and made for it, and maybe the fire’s nothing to do with the tom-tom, and more likely than all it’s not a devil dance at all but just those blamed Bolsheviks having a vodka spree all on their own—celebrating the boys’ capture or something. Come on, men, let’s get a move on.”
“Perhaps we’d better try to call the boys,” suggested Mr. Pauling. “Your hint that they may have seen the fire, or that they may have heard the drum is reasonable, but they are cautious and might be near, hesitating to approach the fire or the sound. The noise of that drum—supposing it should be the ‘reds’ and not from a negro dance—would prevent others from hearing us.”
“Sure, that’s a good idea,” agreed Rawlins. “Maybe they’re near, right now.”
As Rawlins spoke, Bancroft was adjusting his instruments and the next instant gave an exultant cry.
“I hear ’em!” he announced.
Then: “Tom! Frank!” he called into the microphone. “Can you hear me? It’s Bancroft! We’re near! We can hear a drum and are making for a fire! Where are you? Can you see the fire or hear the noise?”
Faint and thin, but clearly distinguishable, now the throbbing rumble of the drum had ceased, Bancroft heard Tom’s voice.
“We hear!” it said. “Come quick! We don’t know where we are, but we’re here by the fire—we’re prisoners—a lot of savages have us!”
Bancroft, in a strained voice, repeated the words.
“Good Lord!” cried Mr. Pauling, “they’re captives of those crazy devil-worshipers.”
“Attaboy!” yelled Rawlins. “Lift her, boys! Pull for your lives!”
Perhaps the two terrified boys swooned, perhaps they were literally frightened out of their wits. Neither could ever be sure, but whichever it was, everything was a blank from the moment when they felt the hands of the savage figures grasp them until they found themselves surrounded on every side by a ring of half-naked men and women in the full glare of a huge fire under immense trees.
But they were unharmed, not even bound, and as they realized this their courage in a measure returned and they glanced about, still terribly frightened, shaking as if with ague, and marveling that they were still alive.
Then for the first time they realized that their captors were not Indians. They were hideously daubed with paint to be sure, they were nearly nude, but they were not bedecked with feathers and their black skins and wooly heads left no doubt as to their identity. They were negroes, mostly coal black, but a few were brown or even yellow and the dazed, scared boys looked upon them with uncomprehending amazement. To them, negroes were civilized, harmless, good-natured people and why these blacks should be acting in this savage manner was past all understanding.
And still more puzzling was the fact that they were talking together in a strange, unintelligible jargon. To the boys’ minds, all colored people spoke English—either with the broad soft accent of the American negro or the slurring, drawling dialect of the West Indians, and yet here were blacks chattering shrilly in some totally different tongue.
The boys felt as if they had been bereft of their senses, as if, by some magic, they had been transported to the middle of darkest Africa and they wondered vaguely if their fears and worries had driven them mad and the whole thing was a hallucination.
But at this moment four more blacks arrived and to the boys’ further amazement deposited their radio sets upon the smooth, hard-beaten earth beside them. These were real; they seemed somehow to link the boys with the outside world, with civilization, and at sight of them the boys knew they were not dreaming, were not mad.
And the little cases with their black fiber panels and shining nickel-plated knobs and connections had a strange effect upon the circle of negroes also. With low murmurs and sharp ejaculations they drew a step farther from the boys and looked furtively at the instruments, while the men who had brought them from the boat leaped nimbly away the instant they had set them down as if afraid the harmless things might bite them.
“Gosh!” murmured Tom, finding his voice at last. “They’re afraid of us!”
“I believe they are,” responded Frank, who, finding that the savage-looking crowd seemed of no mind to harm them, had regained confidence.
Scarcely knowing why he did so, Tom reached forward, connected the batteries and turned the rheostat. The result was astounding. As the tiny filament in the bulb glowed at his touch an awed “Wahii!” arose from the negroes, and with one accord they retreated several yards.
“Say, we’ve got ’em going!” exclaimed Tom jubilantly. “They’re as much afraid of us as we are of them. It all gets me, Frank. I wonder——”
What Tom wondered Frank never knew, for at this moment the surrounding blacks uttered a weird wailing cry and flung themselves upon the ground.
“Gee!” ejaculated Frank, “look there.”
Over the prostrated blacks, approaching through a lane between their bodies, came an amazing, fantastic, awful figure. Naked, save for a loin cloth, painted to resemble a skeleton, with great horns bound to his head and with a cow’s tail dragging behind him, he came prancing and leaping towards the fire and the boys, shaking a rattle in one hand and waving a horse-tail in the other.
Speechless with wonder, the boys gazed at him. They realized that he was the leader of the crowd, a chief probably, and in his fantastic garb they recognized a faint resemblance to pictures they had seen of wild African tribesmen, but that such a being should be here—here in an island in the West Indies and only a few miles from railways, cities, great sugar mills, wireless stations and even their own submarine, seemed incredible, monstrous, absolutely unbelievable—as dream-like and amazing as the savage-looking figures who had captured them.
But they had little time to think. Suddenly the tom-tom burst forth in thunderous sounds, deep, sonorous, blood-curdling, savage, wild, and to the deafening “turn—turn, turn, turn—turn—turn, turn, turn,” the huge horned figure pranced and danced about the two boys, chanting a wailing song, keeping time to his steps with his gourd-rattle and shaking and waving his horse-tail.
Nearer and nearer he circled, stooping low, leaping high, working himself into a frenzy; twisting, swaying, contorting, while, fascinated, almost hypnotized, the two boys watched speechless and rooted to the spot. Then, so abruptly that the boys jumped, the drum ceased, the dancing figure halted as if arrested in mid-air, with one foot still raised, and then, with a wild yell, he darted towards the boys.
With a startled cry they cowered away. Surely, they thought, he was about to seize them, to kill them. But the next instant the man stooped, and grasping the shining copper resonance coil whirled it about, facing the ring of negroes and waving the coil about his head, while, upon the copper wire, the firelight gleamed and scintillated as though living flames were darting from it.
And then a marvelous, a miraculous thing happened. As the gigantic negro slowly swung the coil, a great hush fell upon the others and clear and distinct in the silence a voice seemed to issue from the black box upon the ground.
“Tom! Frank!” came the words.
At the sounds, pandemonium broke loose. With a wild, terrified scream the horned man flung down the coil and with a tremendous bound burst through the circle of onlookers who, screaming and yelling, turned and fled in every direction. In a breath, the boys were alone. Alone by the fire and their instruments while, crouching behind trees, flat on the ground, wailing like lost souls, the negroes watched from a distance with wildly rolling eyes and terror-stricken faces.
But the boys at the time gave little heed to this. At the sound of their names from the receiver they had been galvanized to life and action. Their friends were near, they were calling them! They were saved! Leaping to the coil, Frank grabbed it up and moved it slowly, until again to Tom’s anxious ears came the sound of a human voice. “It’s Bancroft!” came the words. “We’re near! We can hear a drum and are making for a fire. Where are you? Can you see the fire or hear the noise?”
“Can we?” muttered Tom, his sense of humor coming to him even in his excitement. “I’ll say we can, as Rawlins says.”
Then, scarcely daring to hope that he could send his voice through space by the coil, he adjusted the sending instruments and called into the transmitter.
“We hear!” he cried. “Come quick! We don’t know where we are, but we’re here by the fire—we’re prisoners—a lot of savages have us!”
Breathlessly Tom listened. Had they heard? Would the resonance coil—that marvelous instrument which had worked the miracle—act as a sending antenna? Tom wondered why they had never tried it, why they had been so stupid, why it had never occurred to them. Had Bancroft heard? Would they come? All this flashed through his mind with the speed of light. And then came another thought. Of course they’d come. Even if they had not heard they would come. Bancroft had said they were making for the fire. They would be there anyway and as Tom realized this a tremendous load lifted from his mind. Whether or not their coil had served to send the waves speeding through the ether, they were sure of being rescued. But the next instant a still greater joy thrilled him. Again from the receiver came Bancroft’s voice. “Hold fast!” it said, “we’re coming! We hear you!” Even Frank had heard.
The boys’ tensed strained nerves gave way. The coil dropped from Frank’s hand, he staggered to Tom’s side and, throwing their arms around each other, the two burst into wild hysterical laughter. Suddenly they were aware of some one speaking near them. In their wild delight, the terrific reaction, they had forgotten their captors, had forgotten the weird dancer whose act had saved them. But at the low moaning voice close to them they came back to earth with a start and wheeled about. Within a few paces, his head bobbing up and down against the ground, flat on his stomach, was the giant negro, and from his lips, muffled by their contact with the earth, came the pleading wail which had roused the boys.
“What on earth does he want?” asked Tom, who could make nothing of the words.
“I don’t know, but he’s scared to death like all the others,” replied Frank, “and I don’t wonder. That voice from the phones was enough to scare any savage. I think he’s begging forgiveness or something.”
“Gosh! I wish he understood English,” said Tom, and then, in a louder voice, “Here, get up!” he ordered. “Can you speak English?”
Slowly and hesitatingly the man raised his wooly head and with wildly rolling eyes gazed fearfully at the boys. His lips moved, his tongue strove to form words, but no sound came from him. So abject, so thoroughly terror-stricken was his appearance that the boys really pitied him, but now, at last, he had found his voice again.
“Messieu’s!” he pleaded. “Messieu’s! Moi pas save. Moi ami, Beke. Ah! Ai! Beke no un’stan’. Moi spik Eenglees liddle. Moi mo’ sorry! Moi fren’ yes! Moi no mek harm Messieu’s! Ai, Ai! Moi mek dance, moi people mek fo’ Voodoo! No mek fo’ harm Beke! Pa’donez Moi, Messieu’s!”
“Gosh, I can’t get it!” exclaimed Tom. “He’s asking us to forgive him and wants to be friends, but what he means by ‘Beke’ and ‘Voodoo’ and those other words I don’t know. But I’m willing to be friends.” Then, addressing the still groveling negro, “All right!” he said. “Get up. You’re forgiven. We’ll be friends. But stop bumping your head on the ground and take off those horns. You give me the shivers.”
Whether the devil-dancer understood more than half of Tom’s words is doubtful, but he grasped the meaning and with unutterable relief upon his black face he grinned and tearing off his fantastic headdress cast it into the flames and rose slowly to his feet.
As he did so, his watching companions also rose and edged cautiously from their hiding places, but still keeping a respectful distance and eyeing the black radio sets with furtive, frightened glances. Very evidently, to their minds, these white boys were powerful Obeah men, they possessed magic of a sort not to be despised or molested, and with the primitive man’s simple reasoning they felt that to propitiate such powerful witch doctors was the only way to insure their own safety. Although, to the boys, they had appeared savages yet, had Tom and Frank happened upon them at any other time, they would have found nothing at all savage about them. Indeed, they would never have had reason to think them other than happy-go-lucky, good-natured colored folk, harmless and as civilized as any of the West Indian peasantry, for they were merely French West Indian negroes, and aside from the fact that they spoke only their native Creole patois were indistinguishable from others of their race. But like the majority of the French negroes they were at heart firm believers in Voodoo and Obeah and when worked into a fanatical frenzy at one of these African serpent-worshiping orgies they became temporarily transformed to fiendish savages, reverting to all the wild customs and ways of their ancestors and drawing the line only at actual cannibalism.
But of all this the boys knew nothing. They did not dream that such people or such customs existed, and they could not fathom the reasons or understand what to them were the mysterious and almost incredible sights they had witnessed.
And of a far more important matter the boys were equally ignorant. Had they but known, they would have thanked their lucky stars that they had stumbled upon the Voodoo dancers and, had they been able to understand and speak Creole and thus been able to converse with the negroes, they would have made a discovery which, would have amazed them even more than the savage dance and the remarkable results brought about by their radio instruments.
But being unable to carry on any but the most limited conversation, the boys sat there by the fire waiting for the sound of the expected boat and surrounded by the colored folk who now had discarded their paint and fantastic garb and were clothed in calico and dungaree. Even the chief, or rather the Obeah man, was now so altered in appearance that the boys could scarcely believe he was the same being who had pranced and danced with waving horse-tail and rattlebox before them and when, timidly and half apologetically, he brought them a tray loaded with fruit and crisp fried fish with tiny rolls of bread wrapped in banana leaves, they decided that it must all have been some sort of a masquerade and that their imaginations had filled them with unwarranted and ridiculous fears.
They were terribly hungry and never had food been more welcome; both boys ate ravenously.
“He’s a good old skate after all!” declared Tom, nodding towards the big negro who sat near. “I guess they were just trying to scare us.”
“Well, they succeeded all right,” replied Frank. “Say, I thought we were going to be roasted and eaten when they grabbed us.”
“Yes, but our radio scared them a lot worse,” said Tom. “Gosh! thatwaswonderful, the way the old boy grabbed up the coil and those words came in just right. I’ll bet Dad’s worried though. We ought to call them and tell them we’re all right.”
“Golly, that’s so!” agreed Frank. “I’d forgotten we hadn’t.”
Still munching a mouthful of food, Frank rose to pick up the coil, but at that instant several of the negroes jumped up, their voices rose in excited tones and they turned wondering faces toward the waterside. At the same instant the boys distinctly heard the splash of oars.
“They’re here!” yelled Tom, and with one accord the two rushed towards the landing place.
Before they had reached it a boat shot from the shadows, its keel grated on the beach and Mr. Pauling and Rawlins leaped out, each with a rifle in his hands, while behind them, armed and ready for battle, came Sam, Bancroft, the quartermaster and Smernoff.
But as the shouting, laughing boys dashed toward them, free and unharmed, the gun dropped from Mr. Pauling’s hand and clattered on the pebbles and the next instant he was clasping the boys in an embrace like a bear’s.
Behind the boys, gathered in little knots and chattering excitedly like a flock of parrots, the surprised negroes had gathered at the edge of the forest and as Rawlins stared at them and then at the boys a puzzled expression was on his face.
“Say, what’s the big idea?” he demanded, as the boys capered and danced about, talking and laughing. “You said you were the prisoners of savages and here you are free as birds and no sign of a savage. Just a bunch of ordinary niggers. It gets me!”
“But we thought they were savages,” Tom tried to explain. “And wewereprisoners.”
Then in hurried, disjointed sentences the two boys related the gist of their story while the others listened in amazement.
“Hello!” cried Rawlins. “Is this the old Bally-hoo coming?”
As Rawlins spoke, the big negro was approaching and with a rather sickly grin on his face he spoke to the new arrivals in his odd jargon of Creole and broken English.
“Yep, I guess so!” grinned Rawlins. “Here you, Sam. You’ve lived in the French Islands. Can you understand this bird?”
Sam, still suspicious and with the memory of Voodoo and devil dancers’ tom-toms in his mind, stepped forward.
“Yas, sir, Chief,” he replied, “Ah can talk Creole, Chief.”
“Well, get busy and spiel then,” Rawlins ordered him. “Ask him what he says first and then we’ll give him the third degree for a time.”
Rapidly Sam spoke to the other in Martinique patois and at the sounds of his native tongue the other’s face brightened.
“He says he’s sorry,” Sam informed the waiting men and boys. “He says he’s a mos’ good friend an’ tha’ young gentlemen were safe from molestation, Chief. He says he an’ his people were makin’ to have a spree, Chief, an’ thought as how the young gentlemen were enemies, at the first, Sir. He mos’ humbly arsks yo’ pardon an’ forgiveness, Chief.”
“All right,” said Rawlins. “He’s forgiven. Ask him if we can stop here for the night and if he has anything to eat. I’m famished and I’ll bet the others are. It’s nearly morning.”
In reply to Sam’s queries the negro, who Sam now informed them was named Jules, assured them that everything was at their disposal and with quick orders in patois he sent a number of the women scurrying off to prepare food. Leading the way, he guided the party to a cluster of neat, wattled huts in a small clearing and told them to make themselves at home.
Then, the first excitement of their meeting over, the boys began to give an intelligible and sane account of their adventures.
As they told of the submarine and their spying on the men Mr. Pauling uttered a sharp exclamation and Rawlins made his characteristic comment.
“I’ll say you had nerve!” he cried. “Too bad they saw you though. Now they know we’re here.”
“Not necessarily,” declared Mr. Pauling. “They may have seen that the boat contained merely two boys and they may have thought them natives or from some vessel. They probably know where the destroyer is and they imagine our submarine is lying at the bottom of the Caribbean. In that case they would hardly connect Tom and Frank with members of the Service. Unless they have heard our calls tonight I doubt if the boys’ presence alarmed them.”
“That may be so,” admitted Rawlins, “and by the same token if they heard us to-night it wouldn’t scare ’em. They’d think ’twas some of the boys’ friends searching for ’em, same as ’twas. We didn’t say anything that would give them a hint and radio’s too common nowadays to mean much—as long as it’s not under-sea stuff. By glory! Perhaps we can get ’em yet. Can you find that place again, boys?”
“I don’t see how we can,” replied Tom. “We were too scared to notice where we went and we haven’t any idea where we drifted with the tide while we slept.”
“That’s dead rotten luck,” commented Rawlins. “But by the Great Horn Spoon we can find ’em if they’re here! This swamp’s not so everlastingly big and a sub can’t hide in a mud puddle. I’ll bet my hat to a hole in a doughnut we find ’em!”
“But who do you suppose that man on the bank was?” asked Tom. “He didn’t look like a ‘red’ or a Russian or a crook. He looked like a real gentleman.”
Mr. Pauling hesitated a moment. “Boys,” he said, lowering his voice, “that was the man that of all men we want. That was the head, the brains, the power of the whole vast organization. The man who has schemed to overturn nations and carry a rave of fire and blood around the world! He is the arch fiend, the greatest criminal, the most coldly cruel and unscrupulous being alive! He is the incarnation of Satan himself!”
The boys’ eyes were round with wonder. “Gosh!” exclaimed Tom. “Gosh!”
“Jehoshaphat!” cried Frank.
While the boys had been relating the story of their astonishing experience, Sam had been talking with Jules and other members of the village. Now, as some of the women approached bearing trays of food for the strangers, he rose and, accompanied by Jules, walked over to the hut where the boys and the others were seated.
“Ah been havin’ a extended conversationin’ with Mr. Jules,” the Bahaman announced, in his odd stilted manner which invariably amused the boys, “an’ Ah’s fo’med the opinion that th’ info’mation he’s imparted is mos’ highly important an’ wo’thy o’ consideration, Chief.”
“Yes, well, what is it, Sam?” inquired Mr. Pauling as he helped himself to the smoking viands.
But at Sam’s first words Mr. Pauling, and even the famished Rawlins, forgot all about their hunger and the appetizing food before them, for the Bahaman’s story was to the effect that Jules and his fellow French West Indians were just as keen on getting the “reds” as were Mr. Pauling and his party. According to Jules’ tale, a number of their friends and members of their families had settled on Trade Wind Cay and had been living a peaceful happy life, raising goats, fishing and cultivating tiny garden plots, when a party of white men had arrived and without warning or reason had butchered the West Indians and burned their homes, exactly as Smernoff had described when questioned in New York.
It was not this story of cold-blooded massacre which was of such intense interest to the Americans, but the Fact that Jules calmly informed them that he not only knew where the “devil boat” was hidden, but that he could actually lead them to the cave where the murderers lived.
“Phew!” whistled Rawlins. “I’ll say you tumbled into the right camp, boys! So old Frenchy here’s into their hangout! If that isn’t the all-firedest piece of luck! Lead us to ’em, old sport, lead us to ’em!”
“By Jove! if it’s true everything is coming our way,” declared Mr. Pauling, “but let’s be absolutely sure first. Ask him how he knows his friends were killed, Sam. And why he has not complained to the authorities and demanded justice. Ask him why, if it is true and he knows where these men live, he has not tried to avenge his friends’ death. Ask him what they look like, tell him to describe some of them and the ‘devil boat’ as he calls it.”
Sam turned and began talking to Jules and the others in patois.
“Well, true or not I’m going to have grub,” declared Rawlins. “I don’t eat with my ears, though; I’m almost sorry I can’t, I’m that hungry.”
For several minutes the negroes chattered and gesticulated, their voices often rising excitedly and vehemently. Then, at last, Sam seemed to be satisfied and addressing Mr. Pauling explained that Jules said that two men had escaped from the Cay. They had been fishing and when returning, saw the massacre and realizing resistance was hopeless got away from the place in their boats unseen. He then went on to state that Jules had complained to the Dominican authorities, but had been laughed at; strange negro squatters—in the minds of the Dominicans—were of too little consequence to bother with and had no legal standing; and moreover, Trade Wind Cay did not belong to Santo Domingo. In fact, it was a port of No Man’s Land claimed by Haiti, Santo Domingo, the Dutch and a British corporation and its real ownership had never been settled. Jules and his followers had never avenged their friends merely because they feared to injure any white man knowing that summary arrest, a farcical trial and death would follow and so, as the next best thing, they had worked spells, had placed Obeah and had danced Voodoo in the vain hope of bringing disaster on their enemies. Indeed, Jules declared that their dance of that night had been for this purpose and that when the boys had first arrived the negroes had felt sure that their heathen gods had delivered their enemies into their hands, but that the “devil box” had spoken in English and they knew their enemies used another tongue.
Jules’ description of the submarine was too accurate to leave room for doubt that he had seen it and the boys, at least, were convinced that he had seen the “reds” when Sam repeated Jules’ description of the red-bearded giant, the dark man with the earrings, the thin fellow with the Kaiser-like mustache, and several others.
“I’ll say he’s got a line on ’em, all right!” declared Rawlins, as Sam finished his translation of Jules’ description and statements, “and by glory! I’d hate to be in their shoes if these buckos ever get their hands on ’em. Say, did you notice that one of the bunch he described would be Smernoff to a ‘T.’ Wonder if any of ’em recognized him?”
“By Jove!” ejaculated Mr. Pauling. “I hope not, I’d forgotten he was one of the murderers. If they see him and recognize him we’ll be looked upon as spies and enemies. Better run down and warn him, Rawlins. He’s in the boat, asleep probably. Tell him to keep his face hidden or to daub it with mud; or anything and tell the quartermaster to see that he does it.”
Rising slowly and stretching himself as if nothing unusual had occurred, Rawlins strolled off towards; the landing place while Mr. Pauling kept Jules and his friends busy with questions and suggesting plans by which they could aid the Americans.
When the negroes discovered that Mr. Pauling and his friends were looking for the murderers and would make them prisoners if found, they were highly delighted, and Jules assented instantly to guiding the Americans to the cave and the submarine and offered to bring a number of his men along to help.
They were still discussing these plans and Rawlins had almost reached the edge of the clearing when a shot rang out, there was a savage yell, and the next moment Smernoff appeared at the edge of the trees, waving a pistol in his hand and backing away as if from an unseen assailant.
The next instant, he leveled his pistol, there was a flash, another report and then, before the wondering onlookers could move, before they could utter a cry, a figure hurled itself from behind a tree. There was a flash of descending steel, a dull thud, and the Russian plunged forward on the ground. Standing over him, whirling his bloodstained machete about his head and yelling in fiendish glee was a huge gaunt negro.
With two bounds Rawlins was upon the man from behind; before another blow could fall he had pinioned his arms in a vise-like grip and as the others raced towards the scene of the tragedy Rawlins struggled and strained to wrest the deadly machete from the negro’s grasp.
Mr. Pauling was the first to reach Smernoff’s side. That the fellow was mortally wounded was evident at a glance. Across neck and shoulder extended a deep, gaping gash that had almost severed the head, but the man was still breathing and Mr. Pauling bent over him.
Suddenly the Russian’s piglike eyes opened and into them flashed a look of such malignant, unspeakable hatred that Mr. Pauling drew back. As he did so, the gasping, dying man hissed a curse between his blood-covered lips, and with a last superhuman effort drew up his arm, aimed the pistol at Mr. Pauling’s head and pulling the trigger dropped back dead. So close to Mr. Pauling’s face was the weapon that the blast of blazing powder singed his hair and filled his eyes with acrid, smarting smoke and burnt powder and with a hoarse, choking cry he reeled backward. But before the horror-stricken boys could cry out he was upon his feet, wiping his eyes, coughing, shaken, but unhurt. Death had missed him by the fraction of an inch, by a split second. Smernoff had waited a thousandth of a second too long to wreak his treachery; death had robbed him of his vengeance; life had flown from him at the very instant he had pressed the trigger and he had paid his debt without adding another to his long list of crimes.
It had all happened in the twinkling of an eye. From the moment when Smernoff’s first shot had startled them until he had breathed his last, not half a minute had elapsed and now all was over. The negro who had settled his score with the murderer of his family no longer resisted Rawlins, but stood regarding the mutilated body of the Russian with much the same expression that a hunter might wear when he has brought down a tiger or a lion. Sam was trying to convince Jules that Smernoff was a prisoner who had escaped; Bancroft and the boys were hovering about Mr. Pauling striving to make sure that he was not even scratched; and Rawlins was explaining matters to the quartermaster who had come from the boat on the run at sound of the shots.
“I’ll say he was a dirty skunk!” declared Rawlins, “And I thought he was straight and reformed. Guess once a ‘red’ always a ‘red.’ Blamed if I ain’t sorry I didn’t let him drift. By glory! for all we know he’s been tipping his friends off by radio or something. Well, that’s that for him.”
Then, turning towards the negro executioner, he gave that individual the surprise of his life by slapping him heartily on the back.
“Guess you saved us the trouble!” he cried to the amazed man who had expected nothing short of being summarily killed for taking a white man’s life. “Here, shake!”
Although the negro understood not a single word, yet Rawlins’ tones and gestures were unmistakable and with a surprised grin he seized the diver’s outstretched hand and pressed it firmly.
“I guess he’ll be a good boy to have along with us,” Rawlins commented, as he picked up Smernoff’s pistol and pocketed it.
“Rum lot, them Russians,” remarked the quartermaster as he spat contemptuously into the bushes and regarded Smernoff’s body impartially. “I never trusted of him, Sir, and I kept me weather eye on him. I’m thinkin’ he no more than got his reward, Sir.”
The boys, now that they were convinced that Mr. Pauling was unharmed, glanced at the dead Russian and turned away with a shudder.
“Just the same I’m rather sorry for him,” declared Frank. “Of course he was a beast and tried to kill you, Mr. Pauling, but somehow it seems terrible to see a man cut down that way!”
“Death’s a terrible thing in any form,” said Mr. Pauling as he led the boys away. “But don’t waste pity on him, Frank. He was a murderer many times over and would have ended on the gallows or in the electric chair if he had not met death here. He richly deserved his fate and you cannot blame the negro for killing him. I thank God that his dying effort to murder me was frustrated by his own violence.”