"One week's grub left?" asked Forsythe. "Sure o' that, Daniels?"
"Surest thing you know. Plenty o' beans and hard-tack; but who wants beans and hard-tack?"
"Have you spoken to Jenkins about it?"
"No, but we meant to. Something's got to be done. Where is he now?"
"Down aft," said Forsythe, reflectively. "What's keeping him?"
Riley sank into the engine room, and Daniels went forward to the forecastle, reappearing before Forsythe had reached a conclusion.
"Come aft with me, Daniels," he said. "Let's find out what's doing."
Together they crept aft, and peered down the wardroom skylight. They saw Denman and Jenkins locked in furious embrace, and watched while Jenkins sank down, helpless and impotent. They saw Denmanbind him, disappear from sight, and reappear with the irons, then they listened to his parting lecture to Jenkins.
"Come," said Forsythe, "down below with us, quick."
They descended the galley companion, from which a passage led aft to the petty officers' quarters, which included the armroom, and thence to the forward door of the wardroom. Here they halted, and listened to Denman's movements while he armed himself and climbed the companion stairs. They could also see through the keyhole.
"He's heeled!" cried Forsythe. "Where did he get the guns?"
"Where's the armroom? Hereabouts somewhere. Where is it?"
They hurriedly searched, and found the armroom; it contained cumbersome rifles, cutlasses, and war heads, but no pistols.
"He's removed them all. Can we break in that door?" asked Forsythe, rushing toward the bulkhead.
"No, hold on," said Daniels. "We'll watch from the companion, and when he's forward we'll sneak down the other, and heel ourselves."
"Good."
So, while Denman crept up and walked forward, glancing right and left, the two watched him from the galley hatch, and, after he had bound the two engineers and the helmsman, they slipped aft and descended the wardroom stairs. Here they looked at Jenkins, vainly trying to speak, but ignored him for the present.
They hurried through the quarters, and finally found Denman's room with its arsenal of loaded revolvers. They belted and armed themselves, and carefully climbed the steps just in time to see Denmandrive the forecastle contingent to the deck. Then Forsythe, taking careful aim, sent the bullet which knocked Denman unconscious to the deck.
Forsytheand Daniels ran forward, while Billings, the cook off watch, followed from the galley hatch, and Casey came up from the wireless room. Each asked questions, but nobody answered at once. There were eight bound men lying upon the deck, and these must first be released, which was soon done.
Denman, lying prone with a small pool of blood near his head, was next examined, and pronounced alive—he was breathing, but dazed and shocked; for a large-caliber bullet glancing upon the skull has somewhat the same effect as the blow of a cudgel. He opened his eyes as the men examined them, and dimly heard what they said.
"Now," said Forsythe, when these preliminaries were concluded, "here we are, miles at sea, with short store of oil, according to Riley, and a short store of grub, according to Daniels. What's to be done? Hey? The man who has bossed us so far hasn't seen this, and is now down in the wardroom—knocked out by this brass-buttoned dudeling. What are you going to do, hey?"
Forsythe flourished his pistols dramatically, and glared unspeakable things at the "dudeling" on the deck.
"Well, Forsythe," said old Kelly, the gunner's mate, "you've pretended to be a navigator. What do you say?"
"I say this," declared Forsythe: "I'm not a navigator, but I can be. But I want it understood.There has got to be a leader—a commander. If you fellows agree, I'll master the navigation and take this boat to the African coast. But I want no half-way work; I want my orders to go, just as I give them. Do you agree? You've gone wrong under Jenkins. Take your choice."
"You're right, Forsythe," said Casey, the wireless man of the starboard watch. "Jenkins is too easy—too careless. Take the job, I say."
"Do you all agree?" yelled Forsythe wildly in his excitement.
"Yes, yes," they acclaimed. "Take charge, and get us out o' these seas. Who wants to be locked up?"
"All right," said Forsythe. "Then I'm the commander. Lift that baby down to the skipper's room with the sick woman, and let them nurse each other. Lift Jenkins out of the wardroom, and stow him in a forecastle bunk. Riley, nurse your engines and save oil, but keep the dynamo going for the wireless; and you, Casey, have you got that message cooked up?"
"I have. All I want is the latitude and longitude to send it from."
"I'll give it to you soon. Get busy, now, and do your share. I must study a little."
The meeting adjourned. Denman, still dazed and with a splitting headache, was assisted aft and below to the spare berth in the captain's quarters, where he sank into unconsciousness with the moaning of the stricken woman in his ears.
Casey went down to his partner and his instruments; Riley and King, with theirconfrèresof the other watch, went down to the engines to "nurse them"; and Forsythe, after Jenkins had been lifted out of the wardroom and forward to a forecastle bunk, searched the bookshelves and the desks of theofficers, and, finding what he wanted, went forward to study.
He was apt; he was a high-school graduate who only needed to apply himself to produce results. And Forsythe produced them. As he had promised, he took a meridian observation that day, and in half an hour announced the latitude—thirty-five degrees forty minutes north.
"Now, Casey," he called, after he had looked at a track chart. "Got your fake message ready?"
"Only this," answered Casey, scanning a piece of paper. "Listen:
"Stolen destroyer bound north. Latitude so and so, longitude so and so."
"Stolen destroyer bound north. Latitude so and so, longitude so and so."
"That'll do, or anything like it. Send it from latitude forty north, fifty-five west. That's up close to the corner of the Lanes, and if it's caught up it'll keep 'em busy up there for a while."
"What's our longitude?"
"Don't know, and won't until I learn the method. But just north of us is the west-to-east track of outbound low-power steamers, which, I take it, means tramps and tankers. Well, we'll have good use for a tanker."
"You mean we're to hold up one for oil?"
"Of course, and for grub if we need it."
"Piracy, Forsythe."
"Have pirates got anything on us, now?" asked Forsythe. "What are we? Mutineers, convicts, strong-arm men, thieves—or just simply pirates. Off the deck with you, Casey, and keep your wires hot. Forty north, forty-five west for a while, then we'll have it farther north."
Casey jotted down the figures, and departed to the wireless room, where, at intervals through the day he sent out into the ether the radiating waves, which, ifpicked up within fifty miles by a craft beyond the horizon, might be relayed on.
The success of the scheme could not be learned by any tangible signs, but for the next few days, while the boat lay with quiet engines and Forsythe studied navigation, they remarked that they were not pursued or noticed by passing craft.
And as the boat, with dead engines, rolled lazily in the long Atlantic swell, while the men—all but Forsythe, the two cooks, and the two wireless experts—lolled lazily about the deck, the three invalids of the ship's company were convalescing in different degrees.
Jenkins, dumb and wheezy, lay prone in a forecastle bunk, trying to wonder how it happened. His mental faculties, though apprising him that he was alive, would hardly carry him to the point of wonder; for wonder predicates imagination, and what little Jenkins was born with had been shocked out of him.
Still he struggled, and puzzled and guessed, weakly, as to what had happened to him, and when a committee from the loungers above visited him, and asked what struck him, he could only point suggestively to his throat, and wag his head. He could not even whisper; and so they left him, pondering upon the profanely expressed opinion of old Kelly that it was a "visitation from God."
The committee went aft to the skipper's quarters, and here loud talk and profanity ceased; for there was a woman below, and, while these fellows were not gentlemen—as the term is understood—they were men—bad men, but men.
On the way down the stairs, Kelly struck, bare-handed, his watch mate Hawkes for expressing an interest in the good looks of the woman; and Sampson, a giant, like his namesake, smote old Kelly, hip and thigh, for qualifying his strictures on the comment of Hawkes.
Thus corrected and enjoined, with caps in hand, they approached the open door of the starboard room, where lay the injured woman in a berth, fully clothed in her now dried garments, and her face still hidden in Denman's bandage.
"Excuse me, madam," said Sampson, the present chairman of the committee, "can we do anything for you?"
"I cannot see you," she answered, faintly. "I do not know where I am, nor what will happen to me. But I am in need of attention. One man was kind to me, but he has not returned. Who are you—you men?"
"We're the crew of the boat," answered Sampson, awkwardly. "The skipper's forward, and I guess the man that was kind to you is our prisoner. He's not on the job now, but—what can we do?"
"Tell me where I am, and where I am going. What boat is this? Who are you?"
"Well, madam," broke in old Kelly, "we're a crowd o' jail-breakers that stole a torpedo-boat destroyer, and put to sea. We got you off a burned and sinking yacht, and you're here with us; but I'm blessed if I know what we'll do with you. Our necks are in the halter, so to speak—or rather, our hands and ankles are in irons for life, if we're caught. You've got to make the best of it until we get caught, and if we don't, you've got to make the best of it, too. Lots o' young men among us, and you're no spring chicken, by the looks o' you."
Old Kelly went down before a fist blow from Hawkes, who thus strove to rehabilitate himself in the good opinion of his mates, and Hawkes went backward from a blow from Sampson, who, as yet unsullied from unworthy thought, held his position as peacemaker and moralist. And while they were recovering from the excitement, Denman, with bloodon his face from the wound in his scalp, appeared among them.
"Are you fellows utterly devoid of manhood and self-respect," he said, sternly, "that you appear before the door of a sickroom and bait a woman who cannot defend herself even by speech? Shame upon you! You have crippled me, but I am recovering. If you cannot aid this woman, leave her to me. She is burned, scalded, disfigured—she hardly knows her name, or where she came from. You have saved her from the wreck, and have since neglected her. Men, you are jailbirds as you say, but you are American seamen. If you cannot help her, leave her. Do not insult her. I am helpless; if I had power I would decree further relief from the medicine-chest. But I am a prisoner—restricted."
Sampson squared his big shoulders. "On deck with you fellows—all of you. Git—quick!"
They filed up the companion, leaving Sampson looking at Denman.
"Lieutenant," he said, "you take care o' this poor woman, and if any one interferes, notify me. I'm as big a man as Jenkins, who's knocked out, and a bigger man than Forsythe, who's now in command. But we're fair—understand? We're fair—the most of us."
"Yes, yes," answered Denman, as he staggered back to a transom seat.
"Want anything yourself?" asked Sampson, as he noted the supine figure of Denman. "You're still Lieutenant Denman, of the navy—understand?"
"No, I do not. Leave me alone."
Sampson followed his mates.
Denman sat a few moments, nursing his aching head and trying to adjust himself to conditions. And as he sat there, he felt a hand on his shoulder and heard a weak voice saying:
"Are you Lieutenant Denman—Billie Denman?"
He looked up. The bandaged face of the woman was above him. Out of the folds of the bandage looked two serious, gray eyes; and he knew them.
"Florrie!" he said, in a choke. "Is this you—grown up? Florrie Fleming! How—why—what brings you here?"
"I started on the trip, Billie," she said, calmly, "with father on a friend's yacht bound for the Bermudas. We caught fire, and I was the only one saved, it seems; but how are you here, subordinate to these men? And you are injured, Billie—you are bleeding! What has happened?"
"The finger of Fate, Florrie, or the act of God," answered Denman, with a painful smile. "We must have the conceit taken out of us on occasions, you know. Forsythe, my schoolmate, is in command of this crowd of jail-breakers and pirates."
"Forsythe—your conqueror?" She receded a step. "I had— Do you know, Mr. Denman, that you were my hero when I was a child, and that I never forgave Jack Forsythe? I had hoped to hear—"
"Oh, I know," he interrupted, hotly, while his head throbbed anew with the surge of emotion. "I know what you and the whole town expected. But—well, I knocked him down on deck a short time back, and the knockdown stands; but they would not allow a finish. Then he shot me when I was not looking."
"I am glad," she answered, simply, "for your sake, and perhaps for my own, for I, too, it seems, am in his power."
He answered her as he could, incoherently and meaninglessly, but she went to her room and closed the door.
Downthe wardroom companion came Forsythe, followed by Sampson, who edged alongside of him as he peered into the after compartment, where Denman sat on the transom.
"What do you want down here with me?" asked Forsythe, in a snarl, as he looked sidewise at Sampson.
"To see that you act like a man," answered the big machinist. "There's a sick woman here."
"And a more or less sick man," answered Forsythe, "that if I hadn't made sick would ha' had you in irons. Get up on deck. All I want is a chronometer."
"Under the circumstances," rejoined Sampson, coolly, "though I acknowledge your authority as far as governing this crew is concerned, when it comes to a sick woman defended only by a wounded officer, I shift to the jurisdiction of the officer. If Lieutenant Denman asks that I go on deck, I will go. Otherwise, I remain."
"Wait," said Denman, weakly, for he had lost much blood. "Perhaps Forsythe need not be antagonized or coerced. Forsythe, do you remember a little girl at home named Florrie Fleming? Well, that woman is she. I appeal to whatever is left of your boyhood ideals to protect this woman, and care for her."
"Yes, I remember her," answered Forsythe, with a bitter smile. "She thought you were a little tin god on wheels, and told me after you'd gone that you'd come back and thrash me. You didn't, did you?" His speech ended in a sneer.
"No, but I will when the time comes," answered Denman; but the mental transition from pity to anger overcame him, and he sank back.
"Now, this is neither here nor there, Forsythe," said Sampson, sternly. "You want a chronometer. When you get it, you've no more business here than I have, and I think you'd better use your authority like a man, or I'll call a meeting of the boys."
"Of course," answered Forsythe, looking at the big shoulders of Sampson. "But, inasmuch as I knew this fellow from boyhood, and knew this little girl when a child, the best care I can give her is to remove this chap from her vicinity. We'll put him down the fore peak, and let one o' the cooks feed her and nurse her."
"We'll see about that on deck," said Sampson, indignantly. "I'll talk—"
"Yes," broke in Denman, standing up. "Forsythe is right. It is not fitting that I should be here alone with her. Put me anywhere you like, but take care of her, as you are men and Americans."
Forsythe made no answer, but Sampson gave Denman a troubled, doubtful look, then nodded, and followed Forsythe to the various rooms until he had secured what he wanted; then they went on deck together.
But in an hour they were back; and, though Denman had heard nothing of a conclave on deck, he judged by their faces that there had been one, and that Forsythe had been overruled by the influence of Sampson. For Sampson smiled and Forsythe scowled, as they led Denman into the wardroom to his own berth, and locked him in with the assurance that the cooks would feed him and attend to the wants of himself and the woman.
Billings soon came with arnica, plaster, and bandages, and roughly dressed his wound; but he gave him no information of their plans. However, Denman could still look out through a deadlight.
A few hours after the boat's engines had started,he could see a steamer on the horizon, steering a course that would soon intercept that of the destroyer.
She was a one-funneled, two-masted craft, a tramp, possibly, a working boat surely; but he only learned when her striped funnel came to view that she belonged to a regular line. She made no effort to avoid them, but held on until within hailing distance, when he heard Forsythe's voice from the bridge.
"Steamer ahoy!" he shouted. "What's your cargo?"
"Oil," answered a man on the steamer's bridge. "What are you holding me up for?"
"Oil," answered Forsythe. "How is it stowed—in cases, or in bulk?"
"In bulk, you doggoned fool."
"Very good. We want some of that oil."
"You do, hey? Who are you? You look like that runaway destroyer I've heard so much about. Who's going to recompense the company for the oil you want? Hey? Where do I come in? Who pays the bill?"
"Send it to the United States Government, or send it to the devil. Pass a hose over the side, and dip your end into the tank."
"Suppose I say no?"
"Then we'll send a few shells into your water line."
"Is that straight? Are you pirates that would sink a working craft?"
"As far as you are concerned we are. Pass over your hose, and stop talking about it. All we want is a little oil."
"Will you give me a written receipt?"
"Of course. Name your bill. We'll toss it up on a drift bolt. Pass over the hose."
"All right. Hook on your own reducer and suck it full with your pump; then it will siphon down."
"Got reducers, Sampson?"
"Got several. Guess we can start the flow."
The two craft drew close together, a hose was flung from the tanker to the destroyer, and the four machinists worked for a while with wrenches and pump fittings until the connection was made; then they started the pump, filled the hose, and, disconnecting, dropped their end into the tanks.
The oil, by the force of gravity, flowed from one craft to the other until the gauges showed a full supply. Then a written receipt for one hundred and twenty-five tons of oil was signed by the leaders, tied to a piece of iron, and tossed aboard the tanker, and the two craft separated, the pirate heading south, as Denman could see by the telltale.
Denman, his wounded scalp easier, lay down in his berth and smoked while he thought out his plans. Obviously the men were pirates, fully committed; they would probably repeat the performance; and as obviously they would surely be caught in time. There was nothing that he could do, except to heal his wound and wait.
He could not even assist Miss Florrie, no matter what peril might menace her; then, as he remembered a bunch of duplicate keys given him when he joined as executive officer, he thought that perhaps he might. They were in his desk, and, rolling out, he secured them.
He tried them in turn on his door lock, and finally found the one that fitted. This he took off the ring and secured with his own bunch of keys, placing the others—which he easily surmised belonged to all the locking doors in the boat—in another pocket. Then he lay back to finish his smoke. But Sampson opened his door, and interrupted.
"You'll excuse me, sir," he began, while Denman peered critically at him through the smoke. "But I suppose you know what we've just done?"
"Yes," he answered. "I could see a little and hear more. You've held up and robbed an oil steamer."
"And is it piracy, sir, in the old sense—a hanging matter if we're caught?"
"Hardly know," said Denman, after a moment's reflection. "Laws are repealed every now and then. Did you kill any one?"
"No, sir."
"Well, I judge that a pirate at sea is about on the same plane as a burglar on shore. If he kills any one while committing a felony, he is guilty of murder in the first degree. Better not kill any fellow men, then you'll only get a long term—perhaps for life—when you're nabbed."
"Thank you, Mr. Denman. They're talking big things on deck, but—there'll be no killing. Forsythe is something of a devil and will stop at nothing, but I'll—"
"Pardon me," said Denman, lazily, "he'll stop at me if you release me."
"Not yet, sir. It may be necessary, but at present we're thinking of ourselves."
"All right. But, tell me, how did you get a key to my door? How many keys are there?"
"Oh, from Billings, sir. Not with Forsythe's knowledge, however. Billings, and some others, think no more of him than I do."
"That's right," responded Denman. "I knew him at school. Look out for him. By the way, is the lady aft being attended to?"
"Yes, sir. Daniels, the other cook, brings her what she needs. She is not locked up, though."
"That's good. Give her the run of the deck, and take care of her."
"Yes, sir, we will," answered Sampson, as respectfully as though it were a legitimate order—for force of habit is strong. Then he left the room, locking the door behind him.
Denman smoked until he had finished the cigar, and, after he had eaten a supper brought by Billings, he smoked again until darkness closed down. And with the closing down of darkness came a plan.
Tossinghis cigar through the opened deadlight, Denman arose and unlocked his door, passing into the small and empty wardroom. First, he tried the forward door leading into the petty officers' quarters and to the armroom, and, finding it locked, sought for the key which opened it, and passed through, closing the door softly behind him.
Farther forward he could hear the voice of Billings, singing cheerfully to himself in the galley; and, filtering through the galley hatch and open deadlights, the voice of Forsythe, uttering angry commands to some one on deck.
He had no personal design upon Billings, nor at present upon Forsythe, so he searched the armroom. As Forsythe and Daniels had found, there was nothing there more formidable than cutlasses, rifles, and torpedo heads; the pistols had been removed to some other place. So Denman went back and searched the wardroom, delving into closets and receptacles looking for arms; but he found none, and sat down on a chair to think. Presently he arose and tapped on the glazed glass door of the captain's apartment.
"Florrie," he said, in a half whisper. "Florrie, are you awake?"
There was no answer for a moment; then he saw a shadow move across the door.
"Florrie," he repeated, "are you awake?"
"Who is this?" came an answering whisper through the door.
"Denman—Billie Denman," he answered. "If you are awake and clothed, let me in. I have a key, and I want to talk with you."
"All right—yes. Come in. But—I have no key, and the door is locked."
Denman quickly found the key and opened the door. She stood there, with her face still tied up in cloths, and only her gray eyes showing in the light from the electric bulbs of the room.
"Florrie," he said, "will you do your part toward helping us out of our present trouble?"
"I'll do what I can, Billie; but I cannot do much."
"You can do a lot," he responded. "Just get up on deck, with your face tied up, and walk around. Speak to any man you meet, and go forward to the bridge. Ask any one you see, any question you like, as to where we are going, or what is to be done with us—anything at all which will justify your presence on deck. Just let them see that you are on deck, and will be on deck again. Will you, Florrie?"
"My face is still very bad, Billie; and the wind cuts like a knife. Why must I go up among those men?"
"I'll tell you afterward. Go along, Florrie. Just show yourself, and come down."
"I am in the dark. Why do you not tell me what is ahead? I would rather stay here and go to bed."
"You can go to bed in ten minutes," said Denman. "But go up first and show yourself, and come down. I will do the rest."
"Well, Billie, I will. I do not like to, but you seem to have some plan which you do not tell me of, so—well, all right. I will go up."
She put on a cloak and ascended the companion stairs, and Denman sat down to wait. He heard nothing, not even a voice of congratulation, and after a few moments Florrie came down.
"I met them all," she said, "and they were civil and polite. What more do you want of me, Billie?"
"Your cloak, your hat, and your skirt. I will furnish the bandage."
"What?"
"Exactly. I will go up, dressed like you, and catch them unawares, one by one."
"But, Billie, they will kill you, or—hurt you. Don't do it, Billie."
"Now, here, Florrie girl," he answered firmly. "I'll go into the wardroom, and you toss in the materials for my disguise. Then you go to bed. If I get into trouble they will return the clothes."
"But suppose they kill you! I will be at their mercy. Billie, I am alone here without you."
"Florrie, they are sailors; that means that they are men. If I win, you are all right, of course. Now let me have the things. I want to get command of this boat."
"Take them, Billie; but return to me and tell me. Don't leave me in suspense."
"I won't. I'll report, Florrie. Just wait and be patient."
He passed into the wardroom, and soon the skirt, hat, and cloak were thrown to him. He had some trouble in donning the garments; for, while the length of the skirt did not matter, the width certainly did, and he must needs piece out the waistband with a length of string, ruthlessly punching holes to receive it. The cloak was a tight squeeze for hisbroader shoulders, but he managed it; and, after he had thoroughly masked his face with bandages, he tried the hat. There were hatpins sticking to it, which he knew the utility of; but, as she had furnished him nothing of her thick crown of hair, he jabbed these through the bandage, and surveyed himself in the skipper's large mirror.
"Most ladylike," he muttered, squinting through the bandages. Then he went on deck.
His plan had progressed no further than this—to be able to reach the deck unrecognized, so that he could watch, listen to the talk, and decide what he might do later on.
Billings still sang cheeringly in the galley, and the voices forward were more articulate; chiefly concerned, it seemed, with the replenishing of the water and food supply, and the necessity of Forsythe's pursuing his studies so that they could know where they were. The talk ended by their driving their commander below; and, when the watches were set, Denman himself went down. He descended as he had come up, by the captain's companion, reported his safety to Florrie through the partly opened stateroom door, and also requested that, each night as she retired, she should toss the hat, cloak, and skirt into the wardroom. To this she agreed, and he discarded the uncomfortable rig and went to his room, locking the captain's door behind him, also his own.
His plan had not progressed. He had only found a way to see things from the deck instead of through a deadlight; and he went to sleep with the troubled thought that, even though he should master them all, as he had once nearly succeeded in doing, he would need to release them in order that they should "work ship." To put them on parole was out of the question.
The sudden stopping of the turbines woke him inthe morning, and the sun shining into his deadlight apprised him that he had slept late. He looked out and ahead, and saw a large, white steam yacht resting quietly on the rolling ground swell, apparently waiting for the destroyer to creep up to her.
"Another holdup," he said; "and for grub and water this time, I suppose."
Wishing to see this from the deck, he rushed aft to the captain's room and tapped on the door, meanwhile fumbling for his keys. There was no answer, and, tapping again, he opened the door and entered.
"Florrie," he called, in a whisper, "are you awake?"
She did not reply, but he heard Sampson's voice from the deck.
"This is your chance, miss," he said. "We're going to get stores from that yacht; but no doubt she'll take you on board."
"Is she bound to New York, or some port where I may reach friends?" asked the girl.
"No; bound to the Mediterranean."
"Will you release Mr. Denman as well?"
"No. I'm pretty sure the boys will not. He knows our plans, and is a naval officer, you see, with a strong interest in landing us. Once on shore, he would have every warship in the world after us."
"Then I stay here with Mr. Denman. He is wounded, and is my friend."
Denman was on the point of calling up—to insist that she leave the yacht; but he thought, in time, that it would reveal his position, and leave him more helpless, while, perhaps, she might still refuse to go. He heard Sampson's footsteps going forward, and called to her softly; but she, too, had moved forward, and he went back to his deadlight.
It was a repetition of the scene with the oil steamer. Forsythe, loudly and profanely announcing theirwants, and calling the yacht's attention to two twelve-pounders aimed at her water line. She was of the standard type, clipper-bowed, square-sterned, with one funnel and two masts; and from the trucks of these masts stretched the three-wire grid of a wireless outfit.
Forward was a crowd of blue-clad sailors, on the bridge an officer and a helmsman, and aft, on the fantail, a number of guests; while amidships, conversing earnestly, were two men, whose dress indicated that they were the owner and sailing master.
In the door of a small deck house near them stood another man in uniform, and to this man the owner turned and spoke a few words. The man disappeared inside, and Denman, straining his ears, heard the rasping sound of a wireless "sender," and simultaneously Casey's warning shout to Forsythe:
"He's calling for help, Forsythe. Stop him."
Then came Forsythe's vibrant voice.
"Call that man out of the wireless room," he yelled, "or we'll send a shell into it. Train that gun, Kelly, and stand by for the word. Call him out," he continued. "Stop that message."
The rasping sound ceased, and the operator appeared; then, with their eyes distended, the three ran forward.
"Any one else in that deck house?" called Forsythe.
"No," answered the sailing master. "What are you going to do?"
"Kelly," said Forsythe, "aim low, and send a shell into the house. Aim low, so as to smash the instruments."
Kelly's reply was inarticulate, but in a moment the gun barked, and the deck house disintegrated into a tangle of kindling from which oozed a cloud of smoke. Women screamed, and, forward and aft,the yacht's people crowded toward the ends of the craft.
"What in thunder are you trying to do?" roared the sailing master, shaking his fist. "Are you going to sink us?"
"Not unless necessary," replied Forsythe; "but we want grub—good grub, too—and water. We want water through your own hose, because ours is full of oil. Do you agree?"
There was a short confab between the owner and the sailing master, ending with the latter's calling out: "We'll give you water and grub, but don't shoot any more hardware at us. Come closer and throw a heaving line, and send your boat, if you like, for the grub. Our boats are all lashed down."
"That's reasonable," answered Forsythe. "Hawkes, Davis, Daniels, Billings—you fellows clear away that boat of ours, and stand by to go for the grub."
The two craft drew together, and for the rest it was like the other holdup. The hose was passed, and, while the tanks were filling, the boat passed back and forth, making three trips, heavily laden with barrels, packages, and boxes. Then, when Forsythe gave the word, the hose was drawn back, the boat hoisted and secured, and the two craft separated without another word of threat or protest.
"Fullycommitted," muttered Denman, as he drew back from the deadlight. "They'll stop at nothing now."
He was about to open his door to visit Florrie, if she had descended, when it was opened from without by Billings, who had brought his breakfast.
"We'll have better grub for a while, sir," he said, as he deposited the tray on the desk. "Suppose you know what happened?"
"Yes, and I see life imprisonment for all of you, unless you are killed in the catching."
"Can't help it, sir," answered Billings, with a deprecatory grin. "We're not going back to jail, nor will we starve on the high seas. All we're waiting for is the course to the African coast—unless—" He paused.
"Unless what?" demanded Denman, leaning over his breakfast.
"Well—unless the vote is to stay at sea. We've got a good, fast boat under us."
"What do you mean? Continued piracy?"
"I can't tell you any more, sir," answered Billings, and he went off, after carefully locking the door behind him.
When Denman had finished his breakfast, he quietly let himself out. Tapping on the after door, he saw Florrie's shadow on the translucent glass, and opened it.
She stood before him with the bandages removed, and he saw her features for the first time since she had come aboard. They were pink, and here and there was a blister that had not yet disappeared; but, even so handicapped, her face shone with a beauty that he had never seen in a woman nor imagined in the grown-up child that he remembered. The large, serious, gray eyes were the same; but the short, dark ringlets had developed to a wealth of hair that would have suitably crowned a queen.
Denman stood transfixed for a moment, then found his tongue.
"Florrie," he said, softly, so as not to be heard from above, "is this really you? I wouldn't have known you."
"Yes, I know," she answered, with a smile, which immediately changed to a little grimace of pain. "I was badly scalded, but I had to take off the cloth to eat my breakfast."
"No," he said. "I didn't mean that. I mean you've improved so. Why, Florrie, you've grown up to be a beauty. I never imagined you—you—looking so fine."
"Don't talk like that, Billie Denman. I'm disfigured for life, I know. I can never show my face again."
"Nonsense, Florrie. The redness will go away. But, tell me, why didn't you go aboard that yacht? I overheard you talking to Sampson. Why didn't you go, and get away from this bunch?"
"I have just told you," she answered, while a tint overspread her pink face that did not come of the scalding. "There were women on that yacht. Do you think I want to be stared at, and pitied, and laughed at?"
"I never thought of that," said Denman; "but I suppose it is a very vital reason for a woman. Yet, it's too bad. This boat is sure to be captured, and there may be gun fire. It's a bad place for you. But, Florrie—let me tell you. Did you see what came on board from the yacht?"
"Boxes, and barrels, and the water."
"Yes, and some of those boxes contained whisky and brandy. Whisky and brandy make men forget that they are men. Have you a key for your door?"
"No; I never saw one."
Denman tried his bunch of keys on the stateroom door until he found the right one. This he took off the ring and inserted in the lock.
"Lock your door every time you go in there," he said, impressively; "and, Florrie, another thing—keep that pretty face of yours out of sight of thesemen. Go right in there now and replace the bandages. Then, after a while, about nine o'clock, go on deck for a walk around, and then let me have your rig. I want a daylight look at things."
She acquiesced, and he went back to his room, locking himself in, just in time to escape the notice of Billings, who had come for the tray.
"Are you fellows going to deprive me of all exercise?" he demanded. "Even a man in irons is allowed to walk the deck a little."
"Don't know, sir," answered Billings. "Forsythe is the man to talk to."
"I'll do more than talk to him," growled Denman between his teeth. "Carry my request for exercise to him. Say that I demand the privileges of a convict."
"Very good, sir," answered Billings as he went out.
In a few moments he was back with the news that Forsythe had profanely denied the request. Whereat Denman's heart hardened the more.
He remained quiet until two bells—nine o'clock—had struck, then went out and approached the after door, just in time to see Florrie's shadow pass across the glass as she mounted the stairs. He waited, and in about five minutes she came down, and, no doubt seeing his shadow on the door, tapped gently. He promptly opened it, and she said:
"Leave the door open and I will throw you my things in a minute. They are drinking up there."
"Drinking!" he mused, as he waited. "Well, perhaps I can get a gun if they drink to stupidity."
Soon Florrie's hand opened the door, and the garments came through. Denman had little trouble now in donning them, and, with his head tied up as before, he passed through the captain's apartment to the deck. It was a mild, sunshiny morning, withlittle wind, and that from the northeast. White globes of cloud showed here and there, and Denman knew them for the unmistakable sign of the trade winds. But he was more interested in matters on deck. All hands except Billings, who was singing in the galley, and Munson, one of the wireless men, were clustered around the forward funnel; and there were several bottles circulating around. Forsythe, with a sextant in his hand, was berating them.
"Go slow, you infernal ginks," he snarled at them, "or you'll be so drunk in an hour that you won't know your names. Ready—in there, Munson?"
"Yes," answered Munson from the pilot-house.
Forsythe put the sextant to his eye, and swept it back and forth for a few moments.
"Time," he called suddenly, and, lowering the sextant, looked in on Munson.
"Got it?" asked Munson.
"Yes; and have it down in black and white." Forsythe made a notation from the sextant on a piece of paper.
"Now, again," said Forsythe, and again he took a sight, shouted, "Time," and made another notation.
Then he went into the pilot-house and Munson came out and made the shortest cut to the nearest bottle.
"He's taken chronometer sights," mused Denman, as he leaned against the companion hood. "Well, he's progressing fast, but there never was a doubt that he is a scholar."
He went down, and through a crack of the door obtained Miss Florrie's permission to keep the cloak and skirt for the morning, as he wanted to see later how the drinking was progressing. Florrie consented, and he went to his room to wait.
As he waited, the sounds above grew ominous. Oaths and loud laughter, shouts, whoops, and grumblings, mingled with Forsythe's angry voice of command, came down to him through the open deadlight. Soon he heard the thumping of human bodies on deck, and knew there was a fight going on.
A fight always appealed to him; and, yielding to this unworthy curiosity, Denman again passed through the captain's quarters, making sure on the way that Florrie was locked in, and reached the deck.
There were two fights in progress, one a stand-up-and-knock-down affair near the pilot-house; the other a wrestling match amidships. He could not recognize the contestants, and, with the thought that perhaps Forsythe was one of them, stepped forward a few feet to observe.
At this moment Billings—the cheerful Billings—came up the galley hatch, no longer cheerful, but morose of face and menacing of gait, as is usual with this type of man when drunk. He spied Denman in his skirt, cloak, hat, and bandage, and, with a clucking chuckle in his throat and a leering grin on his face, made for him.
"Say, old girl," he said, thickly. "Let's have a kiss."
Denman, anxious about his position and peculiar privilege, backed away; but the unabashed pursuer still pursued, and caught him at the companion. He attempted to pass his arm around Denman, but did not succeed. Denman pushed him back a few feet; then, with the whole weight of his body behind it, launched forth his fist, and struck the suitor squarely between the eyes.
Billings was lifted off his feet and hurled backward his whole length before he reached the deck; then he lay still for a moment, and as he showed signs of life, Denman darted down to the wardroom, wherehe shed his disguise as quickly as possible. Then he roused Florrie, passed the garments in to her, warned her to keep her door locked, and went to his own room, locking the doors behind him.
He waited and listened, while the shouts and oaths above grew less, and finally silent, though at times he recognized Forsythe's threatening voice. He supposed that by now all of them except Forsythe were stupidly drunk, and was much surprised when, at eight bells, Billings opened the door with his dinner, well cooked and savory. He was not quite sober, but as sober as a drunken man may become who has had every nerve, sinew, and internal organ shocked as by the kick of a mule.
"Bad times on deck, sir," he said. "This drinkin's all to the bad." He leered comically through his closed and blackened eyelids, and tried to smile; but it was too painful, and his face straightened.
"Why, what has happened?" inquired Denman. "I heard the row, but couldn't see."
"Nothin' serious, sir," answered Billings, "except to me. Say, sir—that woman aft. Keep away from her. Take it from me, sir, she's a bad un. Got a punch like a battering-ram. Did you ever get the big end of a handspike jammed into your face by a big man, sir? Well, that's the kind of a punch she has."
Billings departed, and Denman grinned maliciously while he ate his dinner; and, after Billings had taken away the dishes—with more comments on the woman's terrible punch—Denman went out into the wardroom, intending to visit Miss Florrie. A glance overhead stopped him, and sent him back. The lubber's point on the telltale marked due west northwest.
Hesat down to think it out. Sampson had hinted at big things talked about. Billings had spoken of a vote—to stay at sea or not. However, there could have been no vote since Billings' last visit because of their condition. But Forsythe had indubitably taken chronometer sights in the morning, and, being most certainly sober, had doubtless worked them out and ascertained the longitude, which, with a meridian observation at noon, would give him the position of the yacht.
The "big things" requiring a vote were all in Forsythe's head, and he had merely anticipated the vote. Not knowing their position himself, except as indicated by the trade-wind clouds, Denman could only surmise that a west northwest course would hit the American coast somewhere between Boston and Charleston. But what they wanted there was beyond his comprehension.
He gave up the puzzle at last, and visited Florrie, finding her dressed, swathed in the bandage, and sitting in the outer apartment, reading. Briefly he explained the occurrences on deck, and, as all was quiet now, asked her to step up and investigate. She did so, and returned.
"Forsythe is steering," she said, "and two or three are awake, but staggering around, and several others are asleep on the deck."
"Well," he said, hopefully, "Forsythe evidently can control himself, but not the others. If they remain drunk, or get drunker, I mean to do something to-night. No use trying now."
"What will you do, Billie?" she asked, with concern in her voice.
"I don't know. I'll only know when I get at it.I hope that Forsythe will load up, too. Hello! What's up? Run up, Florrie, and look."
The engine had stopped, and Forsythe's furious invective could be heard. Florrie ran up the steps, peeped out, and returned.
"He is swearing at some one," she said.
"So it seems," said Denman. "Let me have a look."
He ascended, and carefully peeped over the companion hood. Forsythe was looking down the engine-room hatch, and his voice came clear and distinct as he anathematized the engineers below.
"Shut off your oil, you drunken mutts," he vociferated. "If the whole four of you can't keep steam on the steering-gear, shut it off—all of it, I say. Shut off every burner and get into your bunks till you're sober."
Then Sampson's deep voice arose from the hatch. "You'll stop talking like that to me, my lad, before long," he said, "or I'll break some o' your bones."
"Shut off the oil—every burner," reiterated Forsythe. "We'll drift for a while."
"Right you are," sang out another voice, which Denman recognized as Dwyer's. "And here, you blooming crank, take a drink and get into a good humor."
"Pass it up, then. I need a drink by this time.But shut off that oil."
Denman saw Forsythe reach down and bring up a bottle, from which he took a deep draught. The electric lights slowly dimmed in the cabin, indicating the slowing down of the dynamo engine; then they went out.
Denman descended, uneasy in mind, into the half darkness of the cabin. He knew, from what he had learned of Forsythe, that the first drink would lead to the second, and the third, and that his examplewould influence the rest to further drinking; but he gave none of his fears to Florrie. He simply bade her to go into her room and lock the door. Then he went to his own room against the possible advent of Billings at supper-time.
But there was no supper for any that evening. Long before the time for it pandemonium raged above; and the loudest, angriest voice was that of Forsythe, until, toward the last, Sampson's voice rose above it, and, as a dull thud on the deck came to Denman's ears, he knew that his fist had silenced it. Evidently the sleeping men had wakened to further potations; and at last the stumbling feet of some of them approached the stern. Then again came Sampson's voice.
"Come back here," he roared. "Keep away from that companion, the lot of you, or I'll give you what I gave Forsythe."
A burst of invective and malediction answered him, and then there were the sounds of conflict, even the crashing of fists as well as the thuds on the deck, coming to Denman through the deadlight.
"Forrard wi' you all," continued Sampson between the sounds of impact; and soon the shuffling of feet indicated a retreat. Denman, who had opened his door, ready for a rush to Florrie's defense, now went aft to reassure her. She opened the door at his tap and his voice through the keyhole.
"It's all right for the present, Florrie," he said. "While Sampson is sober they won't come aft again."
"Oh, Billie," she gasped. "I hope so. Don't desert me, Billie."
"Don't worry," he said, reassuringly. "They'll all be stupid before long, and then—to-night—there will be something doing on our side. Now, I must be in my room when Billings comes, or until I'm surehe will not come. And you stay here. I'll be on hand if anything happens."
He went back to his room, but Billings did not come with his supper. And one by one the voices above grew silent, and the shuffling footsteps ended in thuds, as their owners dropped to the deck; and when darkness had closed down and all above was still, Denman crept out to reconnoiter. He reached the door leading to the captain's room, and was just about to open it when a scream came to his ears.
"Billie! Billie—come—come quick! Help!"
Then a tense voice:
"Shut up your noise in there and open the door. I only want to have a talk with you."
Denman was into the room before the voice had ceased, and in the darkness barely made out the figure of a man fumbling at the knob of the stateroom door. He knew, as much by intuition as by recognition of the voice, that it was Forsythe, and, without a word of warning, sprang at his throat.
With an oath Forsythe gripped him, and they swayed back and forth in the small cabin, locked together in an embrace that strained muscles and sinews to the utmost. Forsythe expended breath and energy in curses.
Denman said nothing until Florrie screamed again, then he found voice to call out:
"All right, Florrie, I've got him."
She remained silent while the battle continued. At first it was a wrestling match, each with a right arm around the body of the other, and with Denman's left hand gripping Forsythe's left wrist. Their left hands swayed about, above their heads, to the right, to the left, and down between the close pressure of their chests.
Denman soon found that he was the stronger of arm, for he twisted his enemy's arm around as hepleased; but he also found that he was not stronger of fingers, for suddenly Forsythe broke away from his grip and seized tightly the wrist of Denman.
Thus reversed, the battle continued, and as they reeled about, chairs, table, and desk were overturned, making a racket as the combatants stumbled around over and among them that would have aroused all hands had they been but normally asleep.
As it was, there was no interruption, and the two battled on in the darkness to an end. It came soon. Forsythe suddenly released his clasp on Denman's wrist and gripped his throat, then as suddenly he brought his right hand up, and Denman felt the pressure of his thumb on his right eyeball. He was being choked and gouged; and, strangely enough, in this exigency there came to him no thought of the trick by which he had mastered Jenkins. But instead, he mustered his strength, pushed Forsythe from him, and struck out blindly.
It was a lucky blow, for his eyes were filled with lights of various hue, and he could not see; yet his fist caught Forsythe on the chin, and Denman heard him crash back over the upturned table.
Forsythe uttered no sound, and when the light had gone out of his eyes, Denman groped for him, and found him, just beginning to move. He groaned and sat up.
"No, you don't," said Denman, grimly. "Fair play is wasted on you, so back you go to the Land of Nod."
He drew back his right fist, and again sent it crashing on the chin of his victim, whom he could just see in the starlight from the companion, and Forsythe rolled back.
Like Jenkins, he had arrayed himself in an officer's uniform, and there was no convenient neckerchief with which to bind him; but Denman took his own, and securely tied his hands behind his back, and with another string tie from his room tied his ankles together. Then only did he think of Florrie, and called to her. She answered hysterically.
"It's all right, Florrie girl," he said. "It was Forsythe, but I've knocked him silly and have him tied hand and foot. Go to sleep now."
"I can't go to sleep, Billie," she wailed. "I can't. Don't leave me alone any more."
"I must, Florrie," he answered. "I'm going on deck to get them all. I'll never have a better chance. Keep quiet and don't come out, no matter what you hear."
"But come back soon, Billie," she pleaded.
"I will, soon as I can. But stay quiet in there until I do."
He stole softly up the stairs and looked forward. The stars illuminated the deck sufficiently for him to see the prostrate forms scattered about, but not enough for him to distinguish one from another until he had crept close. The big machinist, Sampson, he found nearest to the companion, as though he had picked this spot to guard, even in drunken sleep, the sacred after cabin. Denman's heart felt a little twinge of pain as he softly untied and withdrew the big fellow's neckerchief and bound his hands behind him. Sampson snored on through the process.
The same with the others. Kelly, Daniels, and Billings lay near the after funnel; Munson, Casey, Dwyer, and King were in the scuppers amidships; Riley, Davis, and Hawkes were huddled close to the pilot-house; and not a man moved in protest as Denman bound them, one and all, with their own neckerchiefs. There was one more, the stricken Jenkinsin the forecastle; and Denman descended and examined him by the light of a match. He was awake, and blinked and grimaced at Denman, striving to speak.
"Sorry for you, Jenkins," said Billie. "You'll get well in time, but you'll have to wait. You're harmless enough now, however."
There was more to do before he felt secure of his victory. He must tie their ankles; and, as neckerchiefs had run out, he sought, by the light of matches, the "bos'n's locker" in the fore peak. Here he found spun yarn, and, cutting enough lengths of it, he came up and finished the job, tying knots so hard and seamanly that the strongest fingers of a fellow prisoner could not untie them. Then he went aft.
Forsythe was still unconscious. But he regained his senses while Denman dragged him up the steps and forward beside his enemy, Sampson; and he emitted various sulphurous comments on the situation that cannot be recorded here.
Denman wanted the weapons; but, with engines dead, there was no light save from his very small supply of matches, and for the simple, and perhaps very natural, desire to save these for his cigar lights, he forbore a search for them beyond an examination of each man's pockets. He found nothing, however. It seemed that they must have agreed upon disarmament before the drinking began. But from Forsythe he secured a bunch of keys, which he was to find useful later on.
All else was well. Each man was bound hand and foot, Jenkins was still a living corpse; and Forsythe, the soberest of the lot, had apparently succumbed to the hard knocks of the day, and gone to sleep again. So Denman went down, held a jubilant conversation with Florrie through the keyhole, and returnedto the deck, where, with a short spanner in his hand—replevined from the engine room for use in case of an emergency—he spent the night on watch; for, with all lights out, a watch was necessary.
But nothing happened. The men snored away their drunkenness, and at daylight most of them were awake and aware of their plight. Denman paid no attention to their questions; but, when the light permitted, went on a search for the arms and irons, which he found in the forecastle, carefully stowed in a bunk.
He counted the pistols, and satisfied himself that all were there; then he carried them aft to his room, belted himself with one of them, and returned for the cutlasses, which he hid in another room.
But the irons he spread along the deck, and, while they cursed and maligned him, he replaced the silk and spun-yarn fetters with manacles of steel. Next he dragged the protesting prisoners from forward and aft until he had them bunched amidships, and then, walking back and forth before them, delivered a short, comprehensive lecture on the unwisdom of stealing torpedo-boat destroyers and getting drunk.
Like all lecturers, he allowed his audience to answer, and when he had refuted the last argument, he unlocked the irons of Billings and Daniels and sternly ordered them to cook breakfast.
They meekly arose and went to the galley, from which, before long, savory odors arose. And, while waiting for breakfast, Denman aroused Miss Florrie and brought her on deck, clothed and bandaged, to show her his catch.
"And what will you do now, Billie?" she asked, as she looked at the unhappy men amidships.
"Haven't the slightest idea. I've got to think it out. I'll have to release some of them to work theboat, and I'll have to shut down and iron them while I sleep, I suppose. I've already freed the two cooks, and we'll have breakfast soon."
"I'm glad of that," she answered. "There was no supper last night."
"And I'm hungry as a wolf myself. Well, they are hungry, too. We'll have our breakfast on deck before they get theirs. Perhaps the sight will bring them to terms."
"Why cannot I help, Billie?" asked the girl. "I could watch while you were asleep, and wake you if anything happened."
"Oh, no, Florrie girl. Of course I'll throw the stuff overboard, but I wouldn't trust some of them, drunk or sober."
Billings soon reported breakfast ready, and asked how he should serve the captives.
"Do not serve them at all," said Denman, sharply. "Bring the cabin table on deck, and place it on the starboard quarter. Serve breakfast for two, and you and Daniels eat your own in the galley."
"Very good, sir," answered the subdued Billings, with a glance at the long, blue revolver at Denman's waist. He departed, and with Daniels' help arranged the breakfast as ordered.
Florrie was forced to remove her bandage; but as she faced aft at the table her face was visible to Denman only. He faced forward, and while he ate he watched the men, who squirmed as the appetizing odors of broiled ham, corn bread, and coffee assailed their nostrils. On each countenance, besides the puffed, bloated appearance coming of heavy and unaccustomed drinking, was a look of anxiety and disquiet. But they were far from being conquered—in spirit, at least.
Breakfast over, Denman sent Florrie below, ordered the dishes and table below, and again put theirons on Billings and Daniels. Then he went among them.
"What do you mean to do?" asked Forsythe, surlily, as Denman looked down on him. "Keep us here and starve us?"
"I will keep you in irons while I have the power," answered Denman, "no matter what I may do with the others. Sampson," he said to the big machinist, "you played a man's part last night, and I feel strongly in favor of releasing you on parole. You understand the nature of parole, do you not?"
"I do, sir," answered the big fellow, thickly, "and if I give it, I would stick to it. What are the conditions, sir?"
"That you stand watch and watch with me while we take this boat back to Boston; that you aid me in keeping this crowd in subjection; that you do your part in protecting the lady aft from annoyance. In return, I promise you my influence at Washington. I have some, and can arouse more. You will, in all probability, be pardoned."
"No, sir," answered Sampson, promptly. "I am one of this crowd—you are not one of us. I wouldn't deserve a pardon if I went back on my mates—even this dog alongside of me. He's one of us, too; and, while I have smashed him, and will smash him again, I will not accept my liberty while he, or any of the others, is in irons."
Denman bowed low to him, and went on. He questioned only a few—those who seemed trustworthy—but met with the same response, and he left them, troubled in mind.