The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales

by Robert E. Howard

  “I suppose it’s possible.”

  Newton hesitated, flushed. “I didn’t mean to be offensive, Lyman. The point is that this chap doesn’t fit with the crowd. And he’s stuck on a widow who hates sailing.”

  “Owns the Seamew?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “We’ve seen her, agreed to charter her.” Newton did not take the news exactly as Jim had expected. He was interested enough, but he whistled softly rather than make the exclamation Jim expected.

  “You’re quick workers,” he said. “That’s news. I’ll have to wire the old man. He’s more worked up over this trip than he lets on. I wired him already that we had arrived safely. When do you figure we can get away?”

  “That’s hard to tell. We have men to get; supplies; get our clearance; supply a satisfactory bond of cash or securities.”

  “How much?”

  “Twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  “I’ve got that in Telephone stock. I imagine he’ll take that. Could we get away in a week?”

  “With luck.”

  “And Honolulu’ll be our first port of call?”

  “Yes.” The questions were natural enough and now Newton was all eagerness. But Jim wondered if this supplementary message was also going on a cable form. No one had said anything of Stephen Foster’s being away from the United States. It seemed a small matter as he turned it over in his mind, and young Foster had offered to take over the matter of the bond willingly enough, but Jim had not yet shaken off the idea that Newton was on the trip as his father’s representative despite Stephen’s assertion that he washed his hands of the affair. And he was not at all sure that the elder Foster wanted the trip to be made. Jim mentally shrugged off all complexities. The main fact was that they were going. It was up to him to see that they duly arrived. He had full confidence in himself to accomplish that.

  The eighth day saw the Seamew passing out of the Golden Gate under her own power, heading south and west for her first leg of twenty-one hundred miles. The call at Honolulu Jim determined upon for several varying reasons. For the first, the diary log with the position of the Golden Dolphin island had been mailed there care of the Young Hotel, a precautionary measure that, to Jim, showed the ingenious wit of Kitty. While he had the figures well in his mind, it was vital that they should somewhere be set down in case of accident. They had been posted at Foxfield, and were now waiting in the island capital, carried by the mail steamer that had left the day they arrived in San Francisco.

  They would take the opportunity to get fresh meats, ice for a day or two, fruit, water, gasoline, and sundry supplies. The stopover would take about twenty-four hours and there would be scant time for sightseeing if anyone wanted to do so. The important thing was to keep going, to clear up the dual mystery of Captain Whiting and his pearls as soon as possible. Probably the two women would want to do a little shopping; there would be letters to be mailed; perhaps Newton might have another cablegram to send.

  The crew of the Seamew was made up as follows: James Lyman, captain; Joseph Baker, mate, a capable man of middle age whose chief lack seemed imagination, anxious for the job, with a family ashore, painstaking, reliable, a good navigator and familiar with South Seas work, discharged from a sugar bark from illness and since unable to gain a footing; Jared Sanders, engineer, a sandy-haired Scot who was a queer mixture of caution and desire for adventure, taking the trip purely for the latter reason, careful as to the quality and economic as to the price of his supplies, willing to act in general capacities when the engine was not needed; Emil Wiltz, steward, once assistant on a trans-Pacific liner, ousted from his job by the war, sick of being a waiter in cheaper restaurants, unable to get into the Waiters’ Union and secure a better position, a handy, willing man; Olaf Neilson, Henrik Hamsun, Carl Vogt, three Norwegian sailors, stolid men with small initiative but powerful and willing, the first two recruited from Rickard, the third picked up on the water-front with two other sailors, out of work, out of money, out of tobacco, out of luck until Jim happened along, sized them up and offered them the job. These two were a Yankee named Henry Wood and a Britisher named William Walker, both undersized, underfed, inclined to cringe, the type that under a weak skipper and mate prove malingerers, yet seamen understanding their business, with Walker able to relieve Sanders at the engine upon occasion. These five, with the third original member of the Seamew crew, a redheaded Sinn Feiner, his name Douglas Moore, made up the six sailors Jim deemed necessary.

  The cook proved a more difficult matter. Jim would have been content with ordinary cabin fare, but he wanted something better for the ladies. He interviewed a dozen possibilities and passed them up on the grounds of dirt, incompetence, and lack of sea-service. A seasick cook could not be contemplated. Disappointed at the last moment, he shipped a Greek who had come up from Honolulu as second cook on a steamship and was anxious to return. But he assured Jim there would be no difficulty in getting one at the latter port, and Jim, with the idea of a Chinaman in his head, was inclined to agree with him. Newton Foster, confessedly a novice, was more passenger than anything else, though avowing determination to acquire knowledge and ability.

  The trade, that blows north instead of northeast down the California coast, struck them abeam as they laid their southwesterly course across the blue waters that seethed about the bows of the Seamew. Lyman was glad of every chance to save gasoline and the schooner justified the praise bestowed upon it by Rickard, reeling off ten knots hour after hour with a run of two hundred and twenty miles logged for the first day.

  The weather was more kindly than obstructive. They used the engine less than fourteen hours on the entire trip. For two days only the wind was fitful. The twelfth morning, Jim on deck by sunrise, Baker in charge of the deck, Hamsun at the wheel, picked up the loom of Molokai. By mid-afternoon they had passed inspection and were anchored off Honolulu. While they were still gazing at the town, with its big modern buildings, substantial wharves, naval slips and green-lawned station, its old palace amid the palms with the chocolate colored cone of Punchbowl immediately behind, backed by the blue green splendors of Mount Tantalus, a reporter came alongside in a launch.

  He got little from them save their names and the information that they were on a pleasure trip through the South Seas. Such voyages were nothing out of the ordinary these latter days; the reporter was polite but not particularly impressed and they escaped undue publicity. But a smart yawl which followed the reporter with the commodore of the Hawaii Yacht Club in the stern-sheets, his rowers two island yachtsmen, was not so easily dismissed. The commodore was intent upon doing the honors, anxious to save them trouble, eager to make things comfortable for the ladies. Almost by force the courteous Corinthian secured their promise to dinner at the Moana Hotel, promising to call for them in ample time, to take them to Waikiki in motors and to have his wife and other ladies present.

  “You are making a trip we all envy you,” he said, “You must allow us to give you bon voyage. Perhaps we can persuade you to stay over a while.”

  “When we come back,” temporized Kitty. “We have our schedule all laid out to reserve some of the best for the way home.” Jim did not go with them. He watched Newton array himself in dinner jacket and white flannels, in silk shirt and hose, in yachting cap and buckskin shoes, and he did not care to display his own rough serge and ducks and coarser shoes—less as a matter of self-pride than from a feeling that he would be a dull patch on a bright party. A dinner at the Moana, with the hints the commodore had thrown out of a Hawaiian orchestra and dancing to follow, was not in his line. Of one-steps and fox-trots Jim knew as little as he did of small talk or playing the ukulele. But he appreciated the look in Kitty’s eyes when she heard he was not going. It was distinctly a look of disappointment.

  “I wouldn’t have accepted if I had known our skipper was not going,” she said.

  “The skipper has got plenty to do aboard if we are going to get away tomorrow,” answered Jim.

  Then
the commodore arrived, in a launch this time, with ladies aboard who mounted to the deck of the Seamew, chatting and laughing with Kitty and Lynda and Newton. Jim was presented—and received as a superior sort of hired man, he told himself with a touch of bitterness for which he was duly ashamed, though the matter had been aggravated by hearing the gay laugh of Kitty coming back from the launch as it sped shorewards.

  He went ashore himself, later on. There was really nothing for him to do aboard. He gave general shore leave, Walker volunteering to remain as ship-keeper.

  “’Onolulu mykes me sick the w’y it is now,” he said. “Hused to be a live plyce. You Hamericans ’ave fair spoiled it. Wot’s the good of a bloomin’ seaport wivout wine, wimmen an’ song? W’ot charnce ’as a pore sailor got to get any of that ’ere? The Japs ’ave chivvied the natives out; the Hamericans ’ave took orl their money aw’y from them. Prohibishun ’as bloody well finished it. I’ll stay aboard an’ look at old Punchbowl. Bet they’ll change the nyme of that to Teacup, afore they get through.”

  It was not Jim’s first visit to the island. He walked to a square where the band was playing, taking a seat in the shadows under the palms. The bandstand alone was illuminated; the square was dusky, save where splotches of brilliant moonlight broke through the plumy foliage and laced the turf that was thickly set with clumps of hibiscus and crotons, here and there touching with silver a gown or the white drill of an escort.

  The band played jazz and dreamy waltzes and at last crashed into Hawaii Ponoi. Jim started to stroll off, a lonely mood upon him. As he passed along a path close to the rail of the park, screened off by double hedges, broken now and then by spaces in which were seats facing toward the bandstand, he paused to light his pipe. With the burning match in his cupped hands, poised above the unlit tobacco, he forgot his smoke. Four men occupied a seat perhaps twelve feet away from him. They were talking earnestly in low tones, oblivious of the music and the crowd, intent upon their own purposes. Their backs were toward him. The arm of one lay along the back of the seat as its owner leaned forward emphasizing some point to his comrades. There was something about his bulk that was vaguely familiar to Lyman. A splash of moonlight lay along the cuff of the coat, exposing thick wrist and hand. The two last were hairy, with reddish, spidery furring. On the back of the hand was a tattoo mark of some kind, plain in the brilliant spot of the moonbeam. Jim’s keen eyes were aided by sudden memory. The device, in indigo a little faded but visible enough, was a fouled anchor, with the rope continued to make a circle and frame to the design. It was the hand of Hellfire Swenson. Hellfire, whom Jim had last seen firing at him as he swam into the fog off Cuttyhunk, thousands of miles away!

  It might have been the striking of his match—it all happened so swiftly—but a man’s face turned toward him, the third man on the seat, not Swenson, whose arm remained in the same position. Out of the shadow Jim could see no more than an impression of a face with black moustaches and beard trimmed to a point. The blob of light on Swenson’s hand was the only highlight and that vanished as the breeze swayed the long palm fronds above. But Jim, blowing out his match, realized that his own features had been clearly shown. When the dab of moonlight returned the tattooed hand had been removed, and the four men were talking together as if Jim was of no moment. For a pulse beat or two he paused, then walked on, lighting another match. He was quite sure this was Swenson. Who the others were he did not know. It would do him no good to confront him. If Swenson thought Jim had not recognized him it was just as well. It was possible that the black-bearded chap had not known who Jim was.

  Jim turned and strolled back. The quartet were gone, vanished in the crowd breaking up after the concert, leaving only romantic couples.

  Swenson’s presence meant what? That he was still after the pearls? That Jim’s dive from the rail had convinced him he had been given the wrong figures? He might have been so advised. Somehow Jim connected his appearance with the cablegram sent from San Francisco. Was Swenson trailing the Seamew in his own schooner, foiled through Kitty Whiting’s cleverness at having kept the diary in her safe and later mailing it ahead to Honolulu? There was no schooner in Honolulu Harbor that answered to Swenson’s vessel.

  For Jim to attempt to interfere with Swenson on account of what happened at Buzzards Bay was, as Stephen Foster had pointed out, only provocative of unwanted publicity. The authorities of Hawaii might well excuse themselves from jurisdiction. Probably would. But Hellfire had some schemes on hand that must be blocked. That was certain. He would hardly attempt more kidnapping, or appear openly in any endeavor to obtain the figures. Back on the mainland he appeared to have affiliations and some power, wide reaching and effective, doubtless tied up with his illicit liquor enterprises. On the island of Oahu he could not carry out his plans with such ease. That Hellfire, given the opportunity, would not stop short of piracy in the hope of a fortune, Jim was very sure. Nor would piracy stop him.

  At present the pearls were doubly guarded, by the position of the island and by the lack of knowledge of the secret hiding-place aboard the stranded ship. Kitty Whiting alone held that key. Jim doubted whether even Lynda Warner knew where the hiding-place was. Kitty’s pretty head held wisdom and caution. So long as she was protected, all was well. After this, Jim resolved to play bodyguard no matter how awkward he might feel in certain situations.

  He decided to say nothing about Swenson. He could make inquiry as to whether a power schooner had lately entered the port. He did not know the name, but it was not likely that more than one of her type would have come in within the past three weeks, though it was likely that Swenson, if appearing as her captain, would have changed his name.

  As he walked back toward the waterfront Jim began to wonder if he might have been mistaken. He had seen such devices before. The ordinary tattooer at such ports as Honolulu, San Francisco or Shanghai had stock devices from which his customers chose. Duplication was frequent. Jim had not actually seen Swenson’s face. Perhaps he was developing nerves—on the girl’s account.

  The men had orders not to spend the night ashore. Some of them were back when Jim returned to the Seamew at five bells. All were aboard by seven bells. Neilson and Wood had the anchor watch; the rest had turned in. Jim, smoking, pacing the deck, waited. Midnight sounded, the sharp strokes of ships’ bells in a mingled chime all about the harbor. One bell at last, and then a launch put off from shore. Jim ordered Neilson and Wood to stand by the ladder and effaced himself in the shadow. He saw the figures of the two women come overside and go below after laughing good-nights. There was no sign of Newton. Jim went to the rail and saw him in the light that came from the cabin of the launch. He was in the cockpit aft with another man both smoking cigarettes. His face was flushed and boyishly eager. Jim called down to him.

  “I’m not coming aboard, Skipper. Pst!” he answered, standing up while a man in the launch held on to the companion side-ladder of the Seamew. “Better come along. There’s a native hula on out Diamond Head way. Given for a special blowout. Some old-time chief’s birthday. Wouldn’t miss it for worlds. Not for ladies, of course, but you don’t often see one nowadays. Come along, Skipper. My bid extends to him, eh, chaps?”

  One of the local yachtsmen heartily extended the invitation. The ladies of the commodore’s party were in the launch’s cabin out of hearing. The affair was evidently considered notable. Jim did not feel in the mood for it, but he could understand Newton’s eagerness. He’d be no use the next day for anything but sleep, but that would not affect the work aboard. As a sailor, Newton Foster was so far more of a nuisance than an aid. His main asset was spasmodic willingness.

  “Don’t get lost in the jungle,” Jim returned. “I’m obliged, but I’ve got a lot on hand. Hope to get out of here close to noon. Good night.”

  The launch backed off, turned and sped for shore. Jim descended to find the main cabin empty, and he turned in. At five he was on deck again. Baker, the conscientious mate, was up and the men were swashing and swabbing deck.
Neilson and Wood were in their bunks. The smell of early coffee was in the air. Davos, the Greek, was cooking his last meal aboard. Jim had tried the door of Newton’s cabin as he passed. It was unlocked, the bunk empty. He gave an order to preserve quiet on deck. He would let the women sleep until later, though he wanted to get them ashore as early as possible to clear up their errands. He had determined on one thing during the night. To have a talk with Lynda Warner concerning his own suspicions, past and present, of the Fosters, the matter of the cablegram and of Swenson’s appearance. He was sure of her commonsense and judgment and her friendly feeling toward him. He would put the question up to her as how much should be told Kitty Whiting. As the head of the enterprise, the one vitally interested, Jim felt that perhaps she should be informed of matters that he doubted whether it would be politic for him to mention.

  He went aft to the galley and got a cup of coffee. The tide was flooding, the stern of the Seamew had swung toward the land. Jim saw a shore boat approaching, propelled by an ancient Hawaiian, gray-headed, his shoulders covered with flower leis. In the stern were three figures, intertwined, wearing black coats and white trousers, all jovial, friendly to all the wide world, singing a quasi-native song with more spirit than harmony. Here came Newton Foster with two of his companions of the night before! Jim called through the hollow of his hands.

  “Tone down a bit there. Ladies asleep!” The trio stared at him half stupidly as the boat came alongside, but they stopped singing. Newton arose, swaying uncertainly while the others supported him none too efficiently.

  “’S all ri’, Skip. Trifle hilarious as effect of circum-circumventing the Eighteenth ’mendment. Yesh, sir. Native juice of the vine, squeezed from the root of the ti plant. Am I ri’, fellers? Sounds mixed but the stuff is prime. Maiti nui. Thash Hawaiian for heap good, Skip! I learned a lot las’ ni’. Wouldn’t have missed it for worldsh. No, shir. Wonnerful hos—hos—hoshpitality. Glorioush time. Goo’ ni’. I mean goo’ mornin’.”