by Don Wilcox
We hit the surface just in time to save the Gregory eardrums.
The explosion came with a bang and a rattle and a terrific smack of water coming together where four men and a boat had been.
Old Man Gregory might have had a heart attack or a stroke if he hadn’t been so busy saving himself. An awfully decent fellow, Gregory. As I freed him I expected him to swim straight for his yacht. He didn’t do it until he saw that he couldn’t do the life-saving act for any of his erstwhile captors.
The explosion had got them. They were past being helped. But his gesture of forgiveness was something to think about. What a soft lot we Americans have become!
Gregory’s anger and fear toward me had been exactly what I expected. But I’ll bet he had some curious afterthoughts when he arrived safe and soaked on the deck of his ship. He had missed death by thirty seconds! Only a surprise visit from a big, tough, ugly devilfish had saved his life. Wouldn’t that be a story to tell his grandchildren?
As for myself, I hadn’t done so well. Within the first few seconds after I grabbed Gregory, a few wild bullets flew in my direction. One of them cut a pinhole through one of my most useful arms. To be precise, my sixth arm as numbered clockwise. Soon after the excitement of the explosion I was painfully aware of this injury. A strip of two feet from the end of the tentacle was paralyzed and therefore worse than useless.
When I got back to the island a few minutes after sunset, I crawled through the water tunnels into my lake, intending to turn in and nurse my wound.
But there was a show going on that I couldn’t afford to miss. It was Captain Kuntz, pacing in front of everyone, cursing the air blue.
I expected him to be just plain mad over what had happened. He was a lot madder than that. He was roaring like a lion with a thorn in every paw.
Two explosions! They couldn’t be accidents. Nine of his men lost in one day. It was an unholy outrage. Those men were the cream of his band. They were highly trained, highly experienced. They had helped trample Poland underfoot, and Holland, and Greece.
I missed the worst of this demonstration, however. For which I’m glad, for it was something I wouldn’t care to see.
It had happened while I was swimming back under water. As soon as the captain had been sure, viewing through his binoculars, that the one and only survivor from the rowboat blast was Gregory, he had ordered four Americans shot.
Now he gloated over the quick act of justice.
“I’ll have it understood that my men are going out to that yacht if they have to ride on a long raft. They’re going over and take possession. Do I hear any complaints?”
No echoes but the quiet lisping of waves.
“They’re going, I repeat,” the captain said, lowering his voice to a hard, solid, grindstone whine. Then he let go with ranting fury. “And if any mysterious explosion occurs this time, two of you Americans will die for every man of mine.”
The Americans, huddled like sheep, only stared in mingled fear and contempt.
“What’s more,” Kuntz went on, “ten of you will die to pay for those first five.”
This went on until dark. The Americans then were herded back to their camp, in and around the Japanese huts, and guards were set over them for the night.
It should have been a less quiet night. Unfortunately, the wind and waves fell asleep for the night. There was nothing to drown out the low hum of the little white launch as it swung away from the Silver Relle.
It took a wide course. That meant that Old Man Gregory was coming back and he didn’t want the guards to know it.
My heart quickened. Obviously it was his hope that he might smuggle the Americans back to their ship before morning and anchors aweigh.
As bad luck would have it, a German scouting party had him spotted. They slipped along the shore and I followed after them. When the launch started to pull in to a deeply shadowed cove, I was right under the prow, tugging with all my strength to turn it back to sea.
I was no match for the power of that launch, and I got my wounded arm smashed in the bargain.
Gregory nosed the little craft into a bank, jumped ashore and started to tie up.
Out of the blackness the hidden scouts came with a flashlight and pistols. They pounced upon Gregory mercilessly. Two of them jumped into the launch and motored around to the captain’s headquarters on the east beach.
The other four dragged Old Man Gregory off into the darkness.
CHAPTER XIII
Council Ends at Midnight
“It’s ten o’clock,” said Captain Kuntz to one of the guards reporting from the American camp. “Can’t you get those sobbing people to shut up? I can’t stand all that blubbering.”
“That’s vat I say,” Blagg echoed. “Ve can’t think. Tell ’em no more sniffles and nose-blowing.”
“They’re scared,” said the guard. “They’re so scared they can’t sleep.”
“They’ll have to get used to us,” said Captain Kuntz. “In time they’ll learn to like us.” He bore down on this point with a guttural laugh. Then he snapped savagely. “They’ve got nothing to bawl about. They’re ahead of us. They’ve only buried four men. Puny ones at that. You noticed that I was careful not to shoot any young huskies?”
Ernest said, “I observed that fact, Captain. An excellent selection.”
“Just der vay I vould haf done it,” said Blagg. “How soon do ve load up our slaves?”
The captain turned the question back to his massive mate in the form of a challenge.
“Their launch is at your service, Blagg,” Kuntz said. “How long will it take you to do the job.
“Me?” asked Blagg.
“Certainly you,” said Ernest. “I haf to round up der supplies.”
“So you’re scared,” said the captain. It was a silent gang that sat around him. Someone kicked the low-burning camp-fire, and the light flared up to reveal the hard faces, the bulky frames of this murderous band. Everyone was watching the cocky little captain.
What he had said was a slap at every one of them. Of course they were scared. So was he. After the two mysterious disasters how could anyone be fool enough to start across that stretch of water? And so they stalled. The big mate snarled back at Kuntz. “Damn you, vy don’t you ride out and git your head blown off?”
Ernest rolled his owlish eyes. “That calls for an answer, Captain.”
“Hell, get away and let me think,” Kuntz barked. “I’ll get to the bottom of this myself. I’ll lay a plan. There’s a way to whip this undertow ghost. That’s what it is—a ghost that’s haunting us from under the water. Did you see what happened to Gregory out there? Well, I saw, through the glasses. It was uncanny.”
“What was it, Captain?” Ernest asked. Others joined in the question.
“Come back in an hour,” said Kuntz. He looked at his watch. “We’ll gather at the Sutter’s Lake sign at eleven thirty. Council ends at twelve.”
The captain marched on around the beach by himself and was soon lost in the darkness. Some of the others lighted their way along the lava paths up the slope of the cone a short distance, where they could catch the slight breeze and still avoid the crater’s sluggish smoke.
I went to my cave.
It elated me, I must admit, to know that I had succeeded thus far in baffling Kuntz and his cutthroats. But I felt as if my time and powers were nearing a rope’s end. The captain had seen me through his binoculars.
He knew, then, that I had grabbed Gregory in the nick of time. He knew, too, that both of these explosions had come, not from any gun, not out of the air, and certainly not from any mischief on the part of his own men, but rather from some trap planted beneath the water.
Would he attribute any meaning to Gregory’s rescue, or put it down in his mind as pure chance? My fate, as well as my hopes for doing more good, were tied up in that question.
Come eleven thirty o’clock, I was directly beneath the gathering council at Camel Point.
“Here it comes,�
� I said to myself. “The captain is going to set the party wild with a calm announcement that all the trouble has come from an American-turned-devilfish with a cave full of time-bombs. And if he does they’ll open fire tomorrow on every dark shadow in the water.”
What the captain had hatched up to tell his men was much less explicit. However, as a plan for smoking me out I’ll say it was rather ingenious. They listened intently.
“This damned undertow ghost may be Gregory himself. It may be someone from the Silver Belle who has kept out of sight. Whoever or whatever it is, he’ll be trapped tomorrow by noon.” The captain paused. He flipped a burning cigarette butt into the air. I ducked under silently as it descended to the water. The captain went on talking.
“We’ll let the Americans know exactly what we intend to do. At noon we intend to turn our ship’s gun on the Silver Belle and blow it to hell—unless it lifts anchor and comes over to Die Welt and surrenders before that hour.”
“Can we do it?” Blagg asked.
“We still have a few men on board Die Welt. We’ll wigwag the order to them to make ready to fire at noon.”
“So the Americans will deliver the goods to save their craft and their six men on board,” said Ernest.
“Exactly,” said Kuntz. “And I’ll bet my Iron Cross that no mine will blow up that yacht as she steams over to tie up to Die Welt.”
“A fine plan,” said Blagg heartily. “It’s der very idea I vould have suggested. . . but var does it git us?” Ernest asked.
“Next we start sending the American prisoners out by launch.”
“To get exploded on der vay?”
“That’s the very point,” said the captain. “I’m convinced that those explosions won’t occur if the launch is loaded with Americans. This undertow ghost is too careful in selecting his victims.”
There was a brief discussion at this point. In general the men agreed it was a workable plan, as far as the Americans were concerned.
“But how do ve git across?” someone wanted to know. “Our two ships vill be topheavy with American prisoners and ve’ll still be stuck on this island. Ven we start across,‘blooie!”
“It’s about time some of you stupid idiots asked that question,” said the captain testily. “Here’s the idea. In the first launch load we’ll sandwich in one of us. In the second load, two. In the third, three. And so on, until we’re sure we’ve established a safe path.”
“Der first man vill get across,” someone said. “And maybe der next two.”
“We’ll draw lots for places,” said the captain. “It’s all we can do. If this launch blows up, there’s nothing left for us but to swim for it—”
“Und git blowed up!”
These men were so scared, contemplating that stretch of water, that you could hear their shivers in their voices.
“If we have to swim for it,” said Kuntz, “We’ll keep spread out for safety. In the meantime our ship’s guns will be ready to blast any undersea ghost that shows his head.”
There I had it in the palm of my hand. This scheme was all sliced and ready for serving. Just to make sure that all the sluggish wits in his band were clear on it, he started to review it, step by step. That was when I went into action.
I crept into my cave, groped through the blackness to a sloping wall of pliable clay. My deft tentacles sliced through the surface with the aid of the chef’s butcher-knife. I laid back the flap of clay-covered burlap.
Three of my arms I filled with time-bombs. A fourth arm, burning like fire from its wounds, rebelled. Unfortunately, one of the bombs slipped and fell to the muddy floor with a plop!
I froze my arms and listened. Did that warning sound carry to those cutthroats above my cave?
Cutthroats! There in the intense darkness I smiled an evil octopus smile at this irony. I could damn them as murderers in the same moment that I was preparing bombs to kill the whole outfit of them without warning. But I knew them for what they were. What’s more, I hadn’t had my share of winning the war. And they had thus far escaped their deserved defeat.
“Vot vas dot?” someone was saying.
“I heard it too!” Captain Kuntz said. Then he cried out with terror. “Run, men. We’re in for it! It’s coming, sure as hell!”
How did they know I was loaded with bombs?
My error. It wasn’t me they were running from. It was the volcano! That restless crater had decided to go mad again. I could hear the whoosh!
Then the roar! The floors and walls of stone vibrated against my tentacles.
Out of the cave I slid just as the great tongue of red light flashed over the water.
Of all the absent-minded tricks! My arms were still loaded. I reached the shelf where I had once stored biscuits for the alligator gar before I disposed of them.
And how I wished for that gar just then!
The volcano was blowing off in earnest. In split seconds of its red flashes I glimpsed figures racing thither and hither along the beach. An immense wave raced out toward the two tossing ships. Then blackness again.
My way led out of the lake. My arms working in rhythm carried me forward; my funnel pumped water now as never before.
Now I was passing through the water tunnels that connected my lake with the ocean.
Suddenly the rocks around me bulged upward with a thunderous roar. The water fell away from me. The weight of shattering stones crushed in around me from all sides.
I was trapped. I drew my tentacles in close to try to protect my highly vulnerable body. But those sturdy, faithful tentacles weren’t equal to the emergency. They couldn’t even save themselves.
The last thing I remember seeing was a blaze of red light burning in my eyes, fading like a volcano Whose fury is spent.
CHAPTER XIV
The Ghost of Marcia’s Sleep
It’s curious the way a person sometimes wakes up with a compulsion to finish some unfinished task at once. Before my eyes opened—before I was more than twenty percent awake—this long neglected duty began to disturb me.
“I must manicure my fingernails.”
How long it had been, I thought, since I had done so. The nails had grown so long that they made a scratching noise as I brushed my hand over the rocks.
And my whiskers! When had I ever gone so long without a shave? My beard felt like a whiskbroom against my bare shoulder.
I tried to open my eyes. The red sun was glaring on the closed lids. A fresh sea breeze was in my nostrils. I took a deep breath and tried to rise up on my elbows.
Sharp pains struck through my left arm, the lower end of which began to writhe in a coiling motion.
Suddenly I was wide awake, eyes open, staring. The volcano had done it again! I had changed, somehow, back to my original human form.
I could have leaped for joy if there hadn’t been a ceiling of rock right over my head. I was encased in what resembled a huge calcareous chunk of taffy candy.
This was one of my water tunnels. The earth’s shake-up of last midnight had lifted it a couple of feet above the surface, and had compressed it and its contents—me.
The alligator gar hadn’t been caught. He was the first living thing I saw as I started to take inventory. He was doing a little exploring himself, apparently, and seemed relieved to find that he could still swim through into the lake. The volcano hadn’t cut off his supply of biscuits.
He looked at my dangling left arm—still the tentacle grafted onto what remained of my real arm—as if it might be a familiar object. Did he know me? I wondered.
As soon as I could wriggle out I swam over to the cave, under water, and the alligator gar followed, watching me very intently. He seemed to be saying, “Octopus or man, you’re still very awkward in the water. Too bad you aren’t a good swimmer like me.”
I fed him some biscuits and then I’m sure there was no longer any doubt. He was my willing servant, as before.
Gathering together what odds and ends of equipment I could pick up, I ,made a simple harn
ess for him, with a saddle that would give me some security.
The volcanic eruption had shaken part of the ceiling down. Some of the treasures of my cave, much to my regret, were sealed back of a slab of rock that I could never hope to move. My time-bombs! I would miss them.
The diving helmets and oxygen tanks, however, had escaped unscathed. I fitted myself into a diving bell, mounted to the saddle of the alligator gar, wrapped my octopus arm around his generous waist, and off we went.
We skimmed along just beneath the surface, so that I could keep an eye on the short line. Traveling around the island in this fashion I was able to make a swift survey of the activities in all quarters.
Rocks and rushes afforded enough hiding places that I would often stop and come to the surface, taking my chances against the sharp-eyed German scouts. To be caught would be very embarrassing. Whiskers like a hermit, the near-nakedness of a savage, an American name well known in these parts, and a freak arm for which there was no comparison in all the world. It behooved me to lie low and save my talk for the fishes.
The first exciting discovery I made was that all the captain’s well laid plans had been derailed by the eruption. The high waves had pushed the German pirate ship several miles out to sea. She was now limping back slowly. A party of scouts kept wigwagging to her from an old lava mound high on the mountainside.
“Hurry back and make ready for action!” was the substance of their German messages.
The Silver Belle stood at anchor, having weathered the storm with no visible effects. No German party had attempted to ride or swim out to her, for the respect for the “undertow ghost” was running stronger than ever.
The “undertow ghost” had become a byword among the Americans working along the banks below the Japanese huts. They spoke of it in guarded tones.
“Even Marcia Gregory believes in it,” I heard one of a group of elderly ladies say. “But I never could believe in ghosts myself.”
“No one thinks it’s really a ghost,” said another. “I would prefer to call it a power—a manifestation of unseen power.”
