Sleep was out of the question after the exciting events and the final tragedy of the night, and now the first faint light of dawn was showing in the east.
“We’ll start as soon as it’s light enough,” announced Mr. Pauling. “Jules and a few of his men will go along. He’d like to send a crowd, but they’re of no use. They have no arms and I have no intention of taking any chances or undue risks. I wish to locate the submarine and the hiding place of these men. There is a remote possibility that we may take them unawares or find but a few there, but I trust mainly to locating them, then sending for Disbrow and his bluejackets and attacking the rascals’ lair with an overwhelming force.”
“Well, of course you know best,” assented Rawlins. “But personally, I’d like to take along this bunch of wild men and sail into those ‘reds.’ I’d back these bush niggers with machetes against any sneaking, bomb-throwing Bolsheviks that ever grew whiskers.”
“Undoubtedly,” smiled Mr. Pauling, “but I’m not leading any party into peril with the boys along.”
“Yes, you’re dead right there,” agreed Rawlins earnestly. “Some one would most likely get hurt and we can’t risk the boys. Well, any time you say the word, I’m ready.”
Half an hour later, the party set forth. Jules with four men—among them the powerful negro who had cut down Smernoff—led the way in a narrow dugout and Rawlins chuckled as he noticed that every man carried a naked, razor-edged machete beside him and that two were armed with old muzzle-loading guns. Unknown to Mr. Pauling, he had slipped Jules the Russian’s pistol and he felt confident that, should occasion arise, the Martinicans would, as he put it, “give the ‘reds’ some jolt.”
Silently as ghosts, the West Indians paddled through the waterways of the vast swamp, following, with unerring instinct, the channels and leads they knew, but leaving the white men hopelessly confused as to the direction in which they were traveling.
They had proceeded steadily for more than two hours, the sun was high in the heavens and the boys were wondering how on earth they could have drifted so far while they slept, when Jules’ canoe swung sharply to the left, his men ceased paddling and an instant later it grated upon a low clay bank with the boat close behind it.
With a signal for silence and caution, Jules stepped ashore, gave a few whispered orders to his men, and led the way up a narrow, almost invisible trail.
Close at his heels followed Rawlins, Mr. Pauling, the two boys and Sam, while the quartermaster and Bancroft remained in the boat beside the canoe in which Jules had left two of his men.
“Guess there won’t be any fighting just yet,” Rawlins remarked to himself. “Just a bit of scouting likely.”
Noiselessly as shadows the negroes slipped along the trail with the leather-shod white men striving to make as little sound as possible and ever climbing higher and higher up the steep hillside. Finally, after ten minutes’ steady walking, Jules halted, crouched down and crawled forward on all fours, signaling for the others to do the same.
As they reached his side they found themselves at the summit of a high hill with a precipitous side facing the swamp and thus leaving an unobstructed view of all below and before them, while they were effectually hidden among the dense growth of ferns and broad-leaved plants.
Jules pointed and in a low whisper muttered “devil boat!” Hemmed in by the labyrinth of mangroves and winding channels, and apparently completely surrounded by the swamps, was a large lagoon and towards the side nearest them a large dark object loomed above the placid water.
All this they took in at a single glance. Before them, there upon this hidden lagoon within the fastnesses of the mangrove swamps, was the long-sought submarine.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” exclaimed Rawlins under his breath. “Blamed if the darned sub isn’t sunk!”
“Sunk?” repeated Mr. Pauling inquiringly. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t you see?” muttered the diver. “She’s wrecked, sunk, on the bottom. Look how she’s keeled over. Must be full of water! Look at that smashed conning tower; the hatch is open and the water’s half over it. Say, I’ll bet that shot of mine bumped ’em more than I thought. Must have ripped things loose. How the dickens they got in’s a puzzle to me. Must have had emergency hatches or bulkheads or something. Whatever ’twas the old sub’s done for now. Say, they’re trapped! They can’t get away! I’ll say that’s luck! By glory, we’ve got ’em right by the neck!”
“You’re right,” affirmed Mr. Pauling, after carefully scrutinizing the submarine. “She’s evidently deserted and useless. Yes, they’re certainly trapped—that is, unless they clear out overland. As soon as we locate them we can summon Disbrow and make the raid. They certainly cannot escape by water.”
Elated at the thought that luck was with them, that the “reds” were marooned, and that within a short time they would be on their way home with their prisoners, the party followed Jules down the hill to the boats.
“Now for the big secret!” remarked Rawlins as they embarked. “If old Uncle Tom here’s got the right dope we’ll be there in time to look in on ’em at breakfast. Hope they’ll be at home.”
Jules grinned, chuckled, and significantly patted his keen-edged machete. Only now and then could he grasp the meaning of an English word, but he knew, with the African’s primitive instinct, what the diver was talking about. He had proved the accuracy of his statements by showing them the “devil boat” and he rejoiced to think that he would soon see the murderers of his friends led away as captives to meet their just punishment.
“You bet!” nodded Rawlins as he noted Jules’ gesture, “I’ll say you’d like to use that pig-sticker, old boy; but hold your horses. Don’t go losing your head and rushing in where angels fear to tread and spilling the beans before they’re ready to serve. Just make him savvy that, Sam!”
“He say he understand, Chief,” replied the Bahaman when he had, after some difficulty, translated Rawlins’ speech into the limited vocabulary of Martinique Creole. “He say he mos’ careful an’ circum-spec’, Chief. He quite assimilate the importance of carry in’ out yo’ comman’s mos’ precisely, Chief. Ah’ve impressed it upon he an’ he nex’ fr’ens. Yaas, Sir, Ah’ni sure he quite comprehen’s, Chief.” Tom chuckled. “Youarefunny, Sam!” he exclaimed. “If you use as big words in patois as you do in English I’ll bet he didn’t comprehen’ a bit.”
But whether or not Jules understood the importance of being cool-headed and obeying orders, it was certain that he had assimilated the necessity of proceeding with caution and in silence and his upraised hand and low “Psst!” warned the boys that even whispers must cease. Very slowly and carefully, avoiding the least splashing of paddles, bending low as they passed beneath overhanging branches, the negroes crept along the narrow channel—a slender ribbon of water scarcely wide enough to accommodate the boats—until, when it seemed as if they could go no farther, the canoe slipped into a mass of lily pads and reeds and Jules, stepping into the shallow water, drew it silently upon a shelving bank. When all had disembarked, he turned, crouched low, squirmed through the fringe of underbrush and with the others at his heels came out into fairly open forest. Once more he led them along a game trail, but this time the way led up a gently sloping ridge and in a few moments he came to a halt.
Creeping forward, he beckoned to the Americans, while his negro companions melted into the shadows. Before them was a narrow valley with a small stream flowing through the center and directly across from where they lay among the bushes was a conical hill, its farther side lapped by the waters of a small semicircular bay or estuary that cut deeply into the land. Along the banks of the stream were cultivated lands; plots of banner-leaved plantains and bananas, small gardens of cassava, beans, yams and corn; numerous fruit trees and the dark foliage of coffee; while upon the sides of the hill were groves of coppery-tinted cacao trees with here and there lofty coconut palms towering over all. Half-hidden in the greenery, the roofs fallen in and evidently deserted, were the remains of once large buildings; a stone bridge spanned the stream, and at the edge of the bay were the tumble-down remnants of a dock.
Evidently, at some former time, the place had been a well-kept and prosperous plantation, but now everything appeared abandoned and deserted, although the gardens were carefully cultivated and attended to.
“Humph!” muttered Rawlins. “Don’t look as if our friends lived there.”
Jules whispered a few words to Sam.
“He says as how tha’ men mek they abidin’ place in the hill yonder, Chief,” interpreted the Bahaman.
“In the hill?” murmured Mr. Pauling. “Ah, of course, in a cave! But whereisthe cave?”
Sam put the question to Jules.
“Tha’s the entrance, Chief, tha’ dark spot beyon’ tha’ clump of cabbage pa’m, Chief,” announced Sam in whispers.
“Well, I’d like to have a closer squint at it,” declared Rawlins. “I vote we go over and say ‘howdy’ to ’em.”
“Odd that there’s no sign of life or smoke,” commented Mr. Pauling. “I don’t see a soul. Surely they must have a boat.”
“He says as how tha’ boat goes out an’ in tha’ cave by water, Chief,” explained Sam. “Tha’s a’ openin’ on tha’ water side also, Sir.”
“Foxy old guys, eh?” muttered the diver. “Don’t intend to be caught in there like rats in a trap. Well, I won’t rest easy till I know they’re there. I’ve a hunch our birds have flown.”
“You’ll never get there without being seen—that is, if there are any men about,” declared Mr. Pauling.
“Not down this way, I admit,” replied Rawlins. “But we can sneak down around the head of the valley, keep back of those thick rose-apple trees that make that hedge above the yam field and work around the base of the hill until—— Thunderation! What’s that?”
From just beyond the brow of the hill, cutting through the clear water, leaving a tiny trail of bubbles behind it, a small object was moving swiftly from the land across the bay. The next instant it was gone.
“Shark!” declared Mr. Pauling.
“Shark nothing!” cried Rawlins leaping up. “It’s another sub! I’ll be jiggered if they haven’t cleared out! Given us the slip! Come on, who’s afraid! Atta boy! I’m going to that cave!”
Before any one could stop him, the diver had burst through the foliage and was tearing down the hillside and so contagious is excitement that, without stopping to think, Mr. Pauling dashed after him with the boys close behind, while Jules and his men, thinking apparently that the signal for an attack had been given, sprang from their hiding places, and with waving, flashing machetes and blood-curdling shouts bounded down the slope with the quartermaster, blowing like a porpoise and crashing through the brush like a herd of elephants, bringing up the rear.
The sudden appearance of the company, the flashing blades, the savage yells, the glint of sun on rifle and pistol would have proved most disconcerting to any one lurking in the valley or the caves, while the noise made by the two-hundred-pound sailor lumbering through the dense undergrowth must have sounded like the onslaught of a score of men. In fact, it was the sudden rush, the surprise, the reckless charge which Rawlins had counted on to win the day, for he had seen the value of such tactics on the Flanders battle front and on one occasion, with but two companions, had captured a German machine gun and crew without a scratch, by just such methods.
To reach the bottom of the hill, dash across the valley, cross the bridge and rush up the short slope to the mouth of the cave took less time than to tell of it, but before the bridge was gained Jules and his men were beside Rawlins, Mr. Pauling was at his heels, and the boys were but a few paces in the rear. Heedless of shots that might come from the cave at any instant, Rawlins and the half-crazed negroes tore up the slope, dodged back of the palms, and with a yell leaped into the cavern with upraised blades and cocked weapons. But not a shot echoed through the rocky chamber, not a blow was struck, not a voice answered Rawlins’ demand for surrender. The cave was empty, deserted, silent as the tomb!
For an instant Rawlins stood gaping about, while the negroes lowered their weapons, drew back a step as though afraid, and jabbered excitedly among themselves. Then the diver grabbed off his hat, hurled it on the floor of the cave and swore volubly and vehemently.
“Of all the rotten luck!” he cried as Mr. Pauling and the others reached the cave panting and out of breath. “They’ve gone! Vamoosed! Cleared out! Given us the slip! Thatwasa sub we saw. Another one. They were wise to us.”
As he spoke, he strode into the cave and the next instant gave a shout. “Look here!” he yelled. “Regular hang-out! Electric lights, beds, billiard tables, and by Jiminy! even a phonograph and a piano!”
It was perfectly true. Just within the entrance of the cavern, a heavy curtain was hung across and beyond this the great, vaulted, subterranean chamber was furnished with every luxury and convenience. There were no partitions—merely draperies and curtains of rich tapestry, satin and plush, but no palace on earth could boast such a ceiling with its vast arches, its thousands of gleaming, snow-white and cream-tinted stalactites and no millionaire’s mansion ever had such walls of scintillating, multicolored dripstone that gleamed and sparkled like myriads of jewels in the light of the clusters of incandescent lamps.
The floor, covered with upjutting stalagmites, had been chiseled and chipped smooth, leaving the shorter columns as supports for tables, stands for rare vases and beautiful statuary, while the great columns where stalactites and stalagmites joined were surrounded by luxurious cushioned seats and hung with pictures. At one side was a grand piano, in a corner was a Victrola, and in two smaller chambers were brass beds and luxurious bedroom furnishings. At every step the boys and their elders exclaimed in wonder and admiration at the luxury and richness of the furnishings of the great cavern. Beyond the first hall was a smaller, narrower chamber, equipped with a huge range and the latest cooking and kitchen devices; beyond this was a small connecting cave where a dynamo and gasoline motor were installed, while far overhead, in the most remote corner, was a tiny aperture in the roof. Presently Rawlins, who had been nervously and hurriedly searching everywhere in the hopes of routing out at least one member of the gang, gave a ringing cry which instantly brought the others to his side.
“There’s the secret to the place!” he announced triumphantly, pointing down from a ledge of rock whereon he stood. “There’s their get-away. I’ll say, they’re clever!”
At this spot, the floor of the cabin came to an abrupt end, dropping in a sheer precipice some fifty feet to a huge pool of dark blue water. But from the verge of the wall a slender ladder led down, its foot resting on a narrow ledge of rock in which several large ringbolts were set. Scattered upon the ledge were coils of rope, tackle blocks, a broken oar, some wire cables and other boat-gear, while beyond, and so perfectly reflected in the glass-like pool that it appeared like a complete circle, was an arched opening with a sunlit strip of water visible through it.
“Get the idea?” asked Rawlins, as the others gazed about. “There’s their dock and there’s where they came in and went out with their sub. But not with that big one that’s knocked galley west out in the lagoon. No, this old boy lived in some style I’ll say—didn’t practice all the socialist Bolshevist stuff he preached, I guess—and had his own private sub, instead of a limousine, tied up handy at his back door. Hello! There’s a paper down there! By crickey! perhaps they dropped something!”
Hurrying nimbly down the ladder, Rawlins stooped, picked up the bit of paper which had caught his eyes and a mystified, puzzled look spread over his face. Slowly and with an odd expression he climbed the ladder.
“Hanged if that don’t beat all!” he declared, as he gained the top and extended the paper towards Mr. Pauling. “It’s a letter, and I’ll be swizzled if it isn’t addressed to you!”
“What?” exclaimed Mr. Pauling as he took the envelope. “By Jove! Thisisamazing!”
Ripping open the envelope Mr. Pauling drew forth a single sheet of paper. One glance sufficed to read all that was upon it, for there was but a single line.
“Good luck in your search. Sorry not home to receive you. Remember Mercedes.”
“Good luck in your search. Sorry not home to receive you. Remember Mercedes.”
There was no signature, but none was needed. The words were typewritten and the machine which had printed them was the one which had typed the inflammatory, revolutionary Bolshevist propaganda which had flooded the States.
Once more the arch criminal had slipped through their fingers. But it had been a close shave.
“Looks as if the game’s up,” commented Rawlins, when he too had read the brief message. “Guess they held the last trump. Well, I suppose we might as well be getting back to our folks—they’ll begin to think we’re lost as well as the boys.”
“Yes,” agreed Mr. Pauling. “There’s nothing more we can do until we get some hint or clue to where they’ve flown. But we’ll have to destroy this lair before we leave. It seems a terrible waste and a shame to do it, but I don’t intend having them come back after we go. We can bring some explosives from the submarine and blow the place up.”
“No need to do that,” declared Rawlins. “Just tell Jules and his gang here to help themselves and there won’t be much left for the Bolsheviks, if they do come back. When they get through looting they can build a rattling big fire in here and that’ll finish it. It’s limestone and after it’s heated it’ll crumble to bits.”
“Good idea!” replied the other. “Sam, tell Jules that he and his men are welcome to anything they want in the cave. But make him promise to build a huge fire inside after they’ve taken what they want.”
As Sam interpreted this to Jules, the latter’s eyes fairly bulged with wonder and a wide grin spread across his countenance as it gradually dawned upon him that the white man had made him a present of all these treasures. Already, in his mind’s eye, he could picture the dusky belles of his village strutting about in gowns of silk and satin brocades, he could see their earthen jars and battered iron pots giving way to those shiny cooking utensils, he could imagine how dressed up his huts would be with those deeply cushioned chairs, the pictures and the statues.
“I’ll say he’ll’ be heap big chief now,” chuckled Rawlins, as he saw Jules’ eyes roaming greedily over the furnishings as if at a loss what to seize first. “And say, won’t it be a scream when some chap comes along and finds a bunch of French West Indian niggers all dolled out with billiard tables, grand pianos and marble Venuses!”
Then, a sudden whimsical idea seized him, and grasping Jules’ arm, he exclaimed, “Here, old sport, come along and see what you think about this for a devil box.”
As he spoke, he led the negro towards the Victrola, but at the words “devil box” the black’s eyes took on a frightened look and he drew back.
“Oh, it’s all right!” Rawlins assured him, “it won’t bite.”
Still hesitating, but somewhat reassured by the diver’s tones, and putting on a brave front, Jules accompanied Rawlins and stood silently watching as the latter wound up the machine, placed a record under the needle and set it in motion. But as the first sounds of a singer’s voice burst from the horn, Jules uttered a frightened yell and leaped away.
Every one burst into a hearty roar of laughter and the negro, with a hasty terrified glance about, halted in his precipitate retreat, ashamed to exhibit his fear before the white men. Then, with the odd, quizzical, half-puzzled, half-frightened and wholly wondering expression of an ape, he leaned forward, turning his head first to one side and then the other as he listened to the song, peering at the mahogany cabinet as if expecting to see the hidden singer step out at any moment. But finding that nothing happened and that the others seemed in no dread of the affair, he drew nearer and nearer, absolutely fascinated by this new form of witchcraft. Never in his life had he beheld a phonograph, and while he realized that the “Bekes,” as he called the whites, were capable of performing almost any miracle or of making most marvelous and incomprehensible things, yet this, he was sure, was something quite beyond their power and must be some most powerful form of Obeah. But evidently the “devil” or whatever it contained was most securely imprisoned and compelled to serve the white men, and when he saw that Sam was not in the least afraid, and even picked up and examined the flat, round objects that Rawlins drew from the cabinet, he decided that this particular devil was even harmless to men of his own color. Here indeed was a treasure. With this he would be truly a king and he could imagine what a sensation he would create when, in the light of the Voodoo fire, he ordered the devil in the box to sing and talk and produce music.
His fears had now completely vanished and, drawing close to the instrument, he stood absolutely fascinated as Rawlins placed record after record in the machine.
“Tell him to try it himself, Sam,” said Rawlins, and very reluctantly and gingerly Jules obeyed Sam’s instructions, wound the crank, placed a record, and uttered a yell of mingled triumph and delight as he found the imprisoned devil obeyed him as readily as it did the American.
“Well, he’s all set up for life,” laughed Rawlins. “All the rest of the whole shooting match can go to blazes as far as he’s concerned. He’ll wear the blamed thing out making it work overtime. But let’s be going. Sam, tell Jules he and his bunch’ll have to show us the way out of here. I’m all twisted and couldn’t find the bay in a month of Sundays.”
But Jules absolutely refused to leave. He had no intention of giving his new acquisition any opportunity of getting away and, as the Americans departed, following the other negroes whom Jules had ordered to guide them to the bay, the old fellow was squatting on his haunches at the mouth of the cavern, a broad grin on his wrinkled black face while, from within, came the strains of the overture from Faust.
“Pretty good ringer for old Mephisto himself!” chuckled Rawlins, as they scrambled down the hill towards the boats.
Pushing through the water plants and into the narrow channel, the canoe, followed by the boat, moved rapidly among the mangroves. Soon a wider waterway was reached, and for a time this was followed, then they slipped into a small lagoon completely encircled by an apparently impenetrable barrier of trees, but, without hesitation, the negroes headed their craft across the little lake. With swinging strokes of their paddles they urged their craft forwards with redoubled speed and then, with a sharp cry of warning to the white men behind them, they crouched low in their dug-out. Straight for the dense foliage shot the canoe, there was a swaying of low-growing branches, the negroes’ craft disappeared from sight and the next instant the boat had slipped through the screen of leaves and was floating on open water in a dark, tunnel-like passage through the trees. Just ahead was the canoe, with the negroes again paddling forward.
“Well I’ll be hanged!” cried Rawlins, “so this is their front gate, eh? Wonder how the dickens they ever found it!”
Straight as a canal, the channel led and five minutes later a second wall of foliage blocked the way. But, as before, the canoe was urged ahead and crashed through the barrier followed by the boat. As the last branches swayed back into place behind them, the boys and their companions glanced about in surprise. They were floating upon the broad waters of the bay; an unbroken line of close-growing trees without a trace of opening stretched in their rear and far ahead they could see the row of palms upon the bar which marked the hiding place of their submarine.
“Well, I’ll be shot!” cried Rawlins, as he swept his eyes about. “We’ve passed this place a dozen times and never knew it. No wonder we couldn’t find their hang-out. Why, I thought that was all solid land!”
A moment later they were pulling, across the open bay. The Martinicans had vanished as if by magic in the dark green foliage and two miles away were their waiting friends.
Half an hour afterwards they were clambering aboard their sub-sea craft and regaling the amazed and wondering Henderson with the story of their adventures, their discoveries and the escape of the men, while below, the quartermaster, surrounded by his mates, was relating a yarn which put the Arabian Nights to shame.
“All gold an’ jools b’ cripes!” he declared. “With a gran’ pianner an’ a funnygraf an’ electric lights. Aw, I ain’t yarnin’, ye can ask Mr. Rawlins—an’ statooary like them youse sees up to the art muse’ms, an’ velvet curtains. Soak me if 'twan’t a reg’lar joint! Fit fer a king that’s what ’twas, an’ I’ll be blowed if Mr. Pauling didn’t up an’ give the whole bloomin’ outfit to a bunch o’ wild Frenchy niggers! Struck me fair 'tween wind and water to hear him a-doin’ of it! Blow me if it didn’t, an’ then up an’ tol’ ’em to burn the blessed place after they was done lootin’ of it! But say! You’d ’a’ bust your-sel’s laffin to a-seen that old gazooks of a nigger a-squattin’ on his black hams in his ragged dungarees a-grinnin’ like a bloomin gorilla an’ a-listenin’ to gran’ opery!”
“Aw, stow it, Bill!” yawned one of the engineers. “Tell that gaff to the marines. Why didn’t ye cop some o’ them things if they was there?”
The quartermaster snorted. “I aint no bloody thief o’ a greasy wiper!” he replied contemptuously. “Think I’d a-got myself in Dutch by a-swipin’ stuff under Mr. Pauling’s nose? But jes’ the same I did bring along a bit o’ a sooveeneer. Look a-here, you sons o’ sea cooks!” Fumbling in his blouse, the quartermaster drew forth a glittering object and placed it on the mess table triumphantly.
“Holy mackerel! Stow me if 'taint a ring!” exclaimed one of the men. “An’ a reg’lar shiner in it! What youse goin’ to do with it, mate? Give it to your best girl?”
“None o’ your business,” retorted the quartermaster pocketing the ring. “An’ mind youse don’ go blowin’ the gaff neither. I picked her up ’longside o’ one o’ the beds an’ none the wiser. Might as well be a havin’ it as one o’ them black monkeys.”
While Bill was thus entertaining the crew, the boys and their friends on deck were still talking, retelling their stories, putting and answering innumerable questions and gradually imparting a coherent account of all that had transpired to Mr. Henderson.
Presently Rawlins grasped Tom’s arm and pointed towards the hills across the bay.
“Look there!” he exclaimed. “There goes the last of the Panjandrum’s palace!”
The others turned at the diver’s words and saw a thick column of smoke rising in curling blue clouds against the green jungle.
“Guess old Jules made quick work of looting it.” continued Rawlins. “Say, I can just see the old boy and his mates dancing and prancing around to the music of that phonograph and watching the place go up in smoke. Must do their hearts good! Wonder if they’ll learn to play billiards or hammer jazz music out of that piano!”
“Well, let’s get down to business,” suggested Mr. Pauling, when the laughter over Rawlins’ quaint conceit had subsided. “I suppose we’d better notify Disbrow and leave here. No use of delaying longer. The trail is blind now.”
“I vote we all turn in early and light out to-morrow morning,” suggested the diver. “I’m dead tired myself and the boys must be all in. They haven’t slept since night before last, you know, and it’s pretty near sundown now. How about grub, too?”
This seemed the wisest plan, and as Bancroft sat at his instruments rapidly sending a cipher message to the destroyer the steward served a belated but hearty meal.
“He’s received the message, Sir,” announced the operator as he joined the others. “Here’s his reply.”
“H-m-m!” said Mr. Pauling, as he glanced over the apparently meaningless figures and letters. “He’ll stand in and wait for us in the morning. Hasn’t seen any signs of a sub, or anything suspicious.”
Now that their appetites were satisfied and the excitement was over all realized how tired, exhausted and sleepy they were and gladly sought their bunks at an early hour.
It seemed to Rawlins that he had scarcely closed his eyes when he awoke with a start, the sound of a shout still ringing in his ears. For a brief instant he thought he had been dreaming and then, as the cry again echoed through the night, he realized it was no dream, that something was amiss, and wide awake leaped to the floor.
The next instant he uttered a yell of shock and surprise. Instead of landing on the rubber mat his feet had plunged into cold water!
“Get up! Wake! Hustle!” he screamed at Bancroft who occupied the other bunk. “The boat’s full of water!”
Without waiting, he dashed from the room, shouting and yelling, switching on lights and starting the alarm gong as he plunged, splashing, through the water that covered the steel plates of the floors.
Instantly all was in an uproar. Hoarse shouts and cries came from the crews’ quarters. The boys, with frightened faces and still rubbing dazed and sleep-filled eyes, rushed from their cabin with Mr. Pauling and Mr. Henderson at their heels and through the din of the clanging gong, the excited questions and warning shouts, Rawlins, with the quartermaster by his side, hustled the men and boys up the ladder to the deck, checking them off one by one as they passed.
“All up?” demanded Rawlins as a drowsy oiler stumbled through the fast-rising water to the foot of the ladder.
“Aye, aye, Sir!” responded the old sailor. “Better be gettin’ aloft, Sir.”
The water was now up to the men’s hips and as they reached the outer air Rawlins and the quartermaster found the waves lapping the edges of the deck. But perfect order prevailed. The two boats were manned and ready and as Rawlins and the sailor sprang into them the men bent to the oars and a few moments later the boats’ keels grated on the sand beach under the ghostly palms.
“I’ll say we’re lucky!” were Rawlins first words. “Wonder what in blazes burst loose!”
But no one could offer an explanation. The man who had been on watch and whose cry had roused Rawlins declared that the first thing he had noticed had been that the submarine was settling. The engineers insisted that no sea-cock or valve had been left open. There had been no blow, shock or explosion and, huddled together on the beach, shivering and shaken, the men and the boys waited for the dawn. Presently a fire was started and the survivors, glad of its warmth in the chill night air, gathered close about it, discussing the disaster, surmising as to its cause and thanking their stars that they had all escaped and that help was not far away.
“If we don’t turn up, Disbrow will suspect something is wrong and send a boat in,” declared Mr. Pauling. “We won’t have to wait here many hours.”
“Perhaps we could call him,” suggested Mr. Henderson. “Are those radio instruments still in the boats?”
“One is.” replied Rawlins. “I noticed it as we came ashore.”
“But we haven’t any aerial,” said Tom. “The resonance coil was on board the submarine.”
“I don’t think it matters,” his father assured him. “Disbrow’s sure to investigate.”
“For that matter, we can row out and meet them,” suggested Rawlins. “We’ve got perfectly good boats.”
“Of course,” agreed Mr. Henderson, “although it would be more risky than waiting here. Disbrow might not sight us and then we’d be worse off.”
“Yes, we’ll wait here a reasonable time at any rate,” declared Mr. Pauling, “Ah, I believe it’s getting lighter.”
Very soon the eastern sky grew bright and presently there was enough light to distinguish surrounding objects clearly.
“There she is!” exclaimed Rawlins, pointing towards the spot where their submarine had been moored. “Didn’t go clear under. Too shallow for her.”
Above the water, the top of the submarine’s conning tower was visible with the slender aerial wires faintly discernible in the soft morning light.
“We’re all right!” declared the diver. “We can get that aerial off the sub, rig it up between a couple of these palms and get the destroyer here in double quick time. But Iwouldlike to know what sunk the old tub.”
Acting on Rawlins’ suggestion, the boats rowed over to the wreck and the men busied themselves stripping the aerial from the submarine. By the time this was accomplished it was broad daylight and the warm sun was shining brightly upon the water and beach.
“Sam,” said Rawlins, turning to the Bahaman who, up to his waist in water on the submarine’s deck, was unfastening a wire. “What do you think of diving down and having a look around. I’m blamed anxious to know how the old sub got full of water.”
“All right, Chief,” grinned the negro, dropping the wire and stripping off his scanty garments. “Ah’ll mos’ surely ascertain, Chief.”
The next instant he had plunged off the deck and all waited expectantly for his reappearance. After what seemed a tremendously long interval his wooly head bobbed up close to the stern and shaking the water from his eyes he swam easily to the submerged deck and pulled himself up.
“Tha’s nothin’ wrong this side, Chief,” he announced as he recovered his breath. “Ah’ll go down tha’ other side an’ have a look.”
Presently he rose, felt his way along the deck with the water to his armpits and reaching a point near the bow again dove.
Again he reappeared near the stern and the satisfied grin upon his face assured Rawlins that he had news.
“Yaas, Sir!” he announced as he drew himself onto the boat. “Ah foun’ it, Chief. Tha’ a big hole aft, Chief. Looks like it been bored in tha’ plates, Chief.”
“Well, what in thunder!” cried Rawlins. “Come on, Sam, I’m going to have a look. Show me where ’tis. I’m no fish like you, but I can stay down long enough for that.”
Poising himself on the boat’s thwart with Sam beside him, Rawlins waited for the word and together the two figures, one white, one black, plunged into the sea.
Presently the two heads bobbed up side by side and breathing hard Rawlins scrambled into the boat.
“I’ll say it’s bored!” he exclaimed. “Burned! Cut clean through with an acetylene torch!”
The others fairly gasped with amazement.
“But howcouldany one burn a hole through steel,—under water?” cried Tom.
“Easy!” retorted Rawlins. “A good torch’ll burn as well under water as in air. Used right along by divers. It’s those blasted, dumbfoozled ‘reds’! I can see it all now. They sneaked down here in that little sub of theirs, laid on the bottom, sent a diver out with a torch and burned the hole. Thought they’d drown us like rats in a trap—blame their dirty hides!”
“By jove! it doesn’t seem possible,” declared Mr. Pauling. “I’m surprised, they——”
His words were cut short by a shout from Rawlins. “Look there!” he fairly screamed, leaping up, and pointing towards the bay. “Look at ’em! The low down, sneaking swine!”
All turned instantly towards the bay and at the sight which greeted them jaws gaped, eyes grew round with wonder and hoarse exclamations of anger, amazement and chagrin arose from a dozen throats.
Traveling swiftly seaward through the calm water was a small submarine, her deck just awash, and standing upon her superstructure and waving their hands in derisive farewell were two men. One was heavily built with a huge red beard, the other slender, immaculate in white flannels and with a stiffly upturned, iron-gray mustache.
The next moment they disappeared in the hatch. An instant later only the conning tower showed above the water and ere the amazed onlookers could recover from their astonishment the placid bay stretched unbroken even by a ripple to the distant shores.
Mr. Pauling and Mr. Henderson exchanged rapid glances.
“It was!” muttered Mr. Pauling in a low voice.
The other nodded. “Absolutely!” he rejoined.
Rawlins, who for once had been rendered absolutely speechless with surprise, anger and chagrin now found his voice.
“Lively, men!” he shouted. “Get that aerial up quick! We’ll nab those devils yet! Get a message to Disbrow to go for ’em! Drop depth bombs or anything else! He can’t be far off.”
At his bidding, thoroughly aroused to the necessity for action, the men fell to work. Hastily the antennae from the submarine was rushed ashore. Up the palms scrambled Sam and a sailor and in an incredibly short space of time the slender wires were stretched between the lopped-off tops of the lofty trees and the boys adjusted their instruments. Excitedly they called the destroyer and presently sharp, and clear, came back the answering call.
“Tell him to watch for a sub,” ordered Mr. Pauling. “Don’t bother over cipher. Give it to them in English. Tell him she’s just slipped out. If he sights her sink her, disable her, anything! Drop depth bombs if necessary!”
Then, as the boys hurriedly and excitedly flashed these orders to the destroyer and the “dee dee dee dah dee” (“we understand”) came back, Mr. Pauling continued. “Now tell him our sub has sunk. Have him send a cutter for us and tell him to hustle.”
Slowly the minutes slipped by. Breathlessly, filled with excitement, those upon the beach beneath the palms listened, expecting each moment to hear the distant boom of a gun, the low rumbling roar of an exploding depth bomb. But no sound broke the low swish of the palm fronds and the soft lapping of the waves upon the sand.
An hour went by and then, from the direction of the bay, came the faint staccato beat of a motor’s exhaust and a moment later a trim navy cutter came into view. Shouting and waving their hands, those upon the beach attracted the cutter’s attention, it spun around, came swiftly towards them and ten minutes later was headed seaward leaving the sunken submarine deserted and alone.
A mile or two offshore, steaming in great circles, was the lean, gray destroyer and as those in the cutter ran up the gangway and gained the decks Disbrow met them.
“Seen anything of that sub!” demanded Mr. Pauling, ignoring the officer’s cheery greeting.
“Not a sign,” declared the commander. “Had men aloft and been swinging in circles ever since we got your message. Haven’t sighted a craft of any sort since daylight. Only thing we’ve seen was an old Dutch tramp over by Trade Wind Cay.”
Rawlins, who had just reached the deck, sprang forward.
“Dutch tramp!” he cried. “What did she look like? Did you board her?”
“Of course not!” replied Disbrow icily. “Why should we? Ordinary tramp painted pea-soup color with bands two blue and one yellow, on her funnel.”
“I’ll say she’s not an ordinary tramp!” exclaimed the diver. “If she is, what the blazes is she hangin’ around there for? She was there a week ago—we saw her—and Dutch tramps or any other tramps don’t hang around Trade Wind Cay for a week! Rotten luck you didn’t board her!”
“Humph!” snorted Disbrow. “I’d get myself in a pretty mess if I boarded every steamer I saw. It’s none of my business if a Dutchman wants to kill time cruising about here. The sea’s free.”
“Yes, and I’m beginning to think some naval men are blamed idiots!” cried Rawlins, overcome with excitement. “I know one that boarded a square-head fishing smack and didn’t think ’twas any of his business because she was a Bahaman schooner. Darned near finished us on account of it, too!”
The commander flushed scarlet. “If you’re going to insult me!” he began; but Mr. Pauling interposed.
“Here, here, boys!” he exclaimed. “Don’t get excited. We all make mistakes and we’re dealing with most elusive and resourceful scoundrels. Rawlins has a hunch of some sort, Disbrow, and his hunches are usually, right. Now what it is, Rawlins? The sooner we get to an understanding the quicker we can act.”
“Sorry, old man!” apologized the diver, extending his hand to Disbrow who instantly grasped it. “Was a bit jumpy, I guess. But that tramp’s got to be overhauled. I’ve an all-fired hunch she’s part of the game. They deserted a sub once and took to a schooner and I’ll bet my last dollar to a plugged cent that that tramp’s just waiting for ’em now.”
Disbrow wheeled and gave a crisp order and the next moment the destroyer, throbbing and shaking like a leaf, a huge wave rising high above her sharp bows, was tearing like an express train towards Trade Wind Cay.
As they neared the little islet and rounded its jutting point, Rawlins gave a cheer. Wallowing slowly along, her rust-streaked sides rising and falling to the ocean swell, was the tramp, with the flag of the Netherlands fluttering at her stern and the blue and yellow stripes plainly visible on her funnels.
Up to the destroyer’s mast fluttered a string of bunting, but the Dutchman paid not the slightest heed, continuing placidly on his course.
“Confound him!” exploded Rawlins. “Doesn’t mean to stop, eh?”
“Run alongside and hail him,” quietly ordered Mr. Pauling. “I’ll take all responsibility if there’s any trouble. But we’ll board that chap if we have to fire on him.”
There was no need of any such drastic measures, however. As the destroyer came near and Disbrow’s hail through the megaphone reached those upon the tramp, a huge, burly figure appeared upon the bridge, waved an arm in assent and a moment later the ill-kept vessel lay motionless, as the cutter from the destroyer bobbed alongside. Over the tramp’s wall-like sides dangled a rope ladder and followed by Rawlins and Mr. Pauling a white clad ensign ran nimbly up and leaped over the battered iron rails.
At the break of the bridge-deck the ponderous man lounged upon the rail awaiting them, a big pipe projecting from an enormous yellow mustache, a weather-beaten cap upon his tow-colored hair and greasy, faded blue garments hanging loosely on his immensely fat figure. Placidly, with pale, expressionless blue eyes, he watched the officer and the civilians approach and as they drew near slowly withdrew the pipe from his mouth.
“Vat you vellers vant?” he demanded in thick greasy tones. “Vat vor you sthob mine shib?”
The boyish ensign touched his cap. “Compliments of Commander Disbrow, Sir,” he announced. “His orders are to have a look at your papers and search the ship if we think necessary. Are you the captain?”
The Dutchman drew himself up in what was a ludicrous attempt at dignity. “Yah, me der gapdain!” he rumbled. “But vat de deffil you vellers link? Dondt you know dot der var vas over? Vat vor you vant to see mine babers, eh?”
“Just as a matter of form, Captain,” replied the ensign crisply. “Won’t take a minute.”
For a space, the fat skipper eyed the other suspiciously. “Ach! All right,” he exclaimed at last. “Gum on! Dis vay an’ pe tarn qvick apout id!”
Rolling like a barge in a gale, the Dutchman led the way across the deck and into his disorderly cabin under the bridge. Then, rummaging among papers and letters, he drew out a package snapped together with rubber bands and handed it to the ensign.
“Seem to be all right,” commented Mr. Pauling, as he glanced over the officer’s shoulder with Rawlins beside him. “‘SteamshipVan Doerck, 11,345 tons, general cargo, Rotterdam for St. Thomas, Hirschfelt, master and owner.’ Don’t see anything suspicious there, Rawlins. Last cleared from Curacao. Health and port papers O. K. Guess your hunch was wrong this time.”
Rawlins scratched his head and looked sheepish, but there was still a questioning, puzzled expression in his eyes. “Maybe,” he admitted, “but I’d like to have a look at his crew. Just ask him to line ’em up on deck, Ensign.”
At first, the Dutchman vehemently objected, but finally, with a muttered curse in his native tongue at the pigheadedness of the Yankees, he ordered his second officer to summon all hands on deck.
Carefully Rawlins, Mr. Pauling and the ensign went along the line of dirty faces, checking them off by name in accordance with the ship’s papers, but they were all there, no more, no less.
“No use looking under hatches,” declared the ensign who began to feel that he had made a fool of himself. “They haven’t been up for a week, I’ll swear.” Then, as an afterthought, he added sarcastically, “Don’t suppose you’d care to search the engine room and bunkers?”
“I’ll say I will!” exclaimed Rawlins, and without another word hurried aft.
A few minutes later he reappeared, grimy, perspiring and greasy.
“Nothing doing there!” he announced. “Say, ask the old boy what he’s been hanging around here a week for.”
Reluctantly the ensign put the question.
“None of your tamt pizness!” replied the skipper. “Put id’s no segret. Ve drobt a sbar offerboard in der night an ve been hunding vor id. Ve vasn’t here vor a veek—id vas night before ladst ve gum pack.”
Rawlins raised his eyebrows. “All right, Ensign,” he said. “Guess it’s a false alarm. Might as well be going.”
“Sorry to have troubled you, Captain,” said the ensign, touching his cap. “Expect you’re not the ship we were looking for.”
The skipper’s only reply was a low, rumbling bellow from his chest and stumping up the ladder to the bridge he jerked the bell for “stand by.”
No sooner were the boarding party again on the destroyer than Rawlins beckoned Mr. Pauling aside.
“You may think I’m an ass, Mr. Pauling,” remarked the diver. “But there’s something crooked about that Dutchman. He’s a blamed liar in the first place, because you know as well as I do he was here six days ago. In the second place, can you imagine wasting even two days steaming along and hunting for a lost spar, and how the blazes could he lose a spar? The sea’s been like glass.”
Mr. Pauling smiled. “You’re unduly suspicious, Rawlins,” he declared. “I admit the tramp was here a week ago and we saw her, but he may have gone on and then come back two days ago searching for a spar or he may have lied just because he wouldn’t give us the satisfaction of telling us his business. No, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with him. If you suspect every ship we see we’ll have our hands full and every nation in the world will be after our scalps.”
“Well, Mr. Pauling,” replied Rawlins, “I hope you won’t be insulted if I say so and I don’t mean it that way; but you’re no seaman and you may be a mighty good detective on land, but you’re not when aboard ship. That old whale of a Dutchy has been anchored there and hasn’t been hunting for a blamed thing! And what’s more, he hasn’t been in Curacao for a year!”
“What?” exclaimed Mr. Pauling. “How do you know? Explain yourself, Rawlins.”
“If that cockey little ensign hadn’t been so stuck on himself, he’d have noticed it,” declared the diver. “Why, the anchor chains were thick with wet mud, the steam winch was still hot, there was mud and water on deck and some of the crew had fresh mud on their jumpers. What’s more, the fires in her furnaces hadn’t been going an hour. They’d been banked and the ashes were still on the plates where they’d been raked out. That old hooker hadn’t been under way half an hour when we came up. And now how do I know she hadn’t been at Curacao? I’ll tell you. The papers looked all right, I’ll admit—Curacao stamps and signatures and everything O. K. But they were dead crooked, I’ll say! They were a whole year old!”
“Jove!” ejaculated Mr. Pauling, beginning to be convinced that Rawlins had grounds for his suspicions. “How do you know? I saw nothing wrong.”
Rawlins chuckled. “No, and the old guy didn’t expect you would. He or his friends are darned clever birds, but they slipped up on those papers. They’d changed the date under the signatures, but they forgot about the stamps—they were canceled with a rubber stamp and the date was ’21 not ’22!”
“Rawlins!” cried Mr. Pauling. “I’ll take it all back! You’re a wonder—told you you should be in the Service. What’s your idea?”
“Well, I don’t know just where the Dutchy comes in with those reds,” admitted Rawlins, “but I’ll bet they’re cahoots somehow. I think we’d better follow the boys’ motto—hear everything, see everything and say nothing and keep the other fellow guessing—I’d suggest we trail the old porpoise and see if hedoesgo to St. Thomas. If he does, we’ll bob up there too. I’m ready to follow along his wake if he wallows round the world, but St. Thomas is an American port and we can do pretty near anything we like there. If we hang around we may get a line on something. We’ve had pretty good luck all together and I’ve got a hunch we’re ‘hot’, as they used to say when we played hunt the thimble.”
A few moments later Mr. Pauling was speaking to the commander in the privacy of the latter’s cabin.
“You’ll make for St. Thomas, Disbrow,” he said. “Keep that tramp within sight, but don’t let her think we’re following her. No, don’t ask questions, I don’t really know myself. Rawlins has a hunch, and so far his hunches have come mighty near being right. I’m backing them to the limit.”
THE END
By A. HYATT VERRILL