“Well, that’s all I can do with her,” he turned to Bowker. “The tide will fall a couple feet and that may show up the leak. If it don’t you’ll have to break out the cargo whether you want to or not.”
“Those hatch covers are not going to move,” the trader growled. “Drag out that old spar Stovall was talking about and put somebody to work squarin’ off the stump of that mast there on the Wasp.”
“Why do that?” Ugly was surprised.
“Why? Because I said so. I’m not going to step it. I’m going to splice it.”
Such a thing was possible, but it was unnecessary and very apt to prove unsatisfactory. It suddenly struck Ugly that there was something more to the unloading of that cargo than Bowker’s stubbornness. Kamaka had said he had come from the east, and Ugly could not help wondering.
“Shell an’ what else?” he asked, staring straight into the small, close-set eyes of the trader. “Rum or feathers?”
Bowker’s face grew red beneath his ragged beard, and his short, blunt fingers opened and closed menacingly. “Shell!” he hissed, “and mind your own damn business!”
Ugly shrugged his skinny shoulders, as was his habit on such occasions, and walked away. He knew, however, that he had come mighty near the truth about the cargo.
The stump of a mast was trimmed off during the afternoon, and the new one was hauled on board. Work ceased then, that the hull might be examined as the tide reached low ebb. Ugly and Kamaka circled the vessel several times in a dinghy, Bowker following them in the long boat, but they found no sign of the leak. When the tide began to rise again, Ugly turned to the trader with an amused grin.
“Now what?” he inquired.
Bowker muttered an unintelligible answer and climbed aboard his schooner. He called his crew into the cabin a few minutes later, four nondescript blacks, and when they did not come out again, Ugly dismissed his own gang and went back to the bungalow with Kamaka.
“What he got in that boat?” the Maori asked.
Ugly eyed him sharply. “What do you think?”
“I no know. He say he come Bundaberg way—I think he come Caledonia. He say shell—I think he make ’nother lie, too.”
“Well, since you’ve asked me, I’d say you were about right. It’s none of our business, though; you’d better forget about it.”
“Maybe not our business—maybe plenty our business.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I no know—little more we see.”
* * * *
Night, soft and quiet, settled down over the lagoon after a glorious sunset and the few lights on shore threw their reflections out over the still water. Ugly’s home was aboard the Lalanai and strolling aft to the schooner’s stern he lit a pipe and gazed shoreward to where another light glowed in the cabin of the Wasp. The occasional sound of a voice drifted across to him but there was no other disturbance so he stretched out in a hammock that swung beneath the boom and puffed contentedly. The pipe went out after a few minutes, slipped from his mouth, and he slept.
Had Ugly been of a malicious nature himself he would have thought twice before giving in to the drowsiness that crept over him. He awakened once, as a faint splash stirred the water, but the play of a fish was the only thought that came to him, and he dozed off again.
When next he awoke there was the muzzle of a gun pressed against his ribs and Bowker stood over him.
“Get up!” the man whispered hoarsely, “and if you make a sound I’ll drill you through.”
Ugly swung out of the hammock and found himself surrounded by Bowker’s four natives. He glanced quickly about, wondering what had become of Kamaka, but the big Maori was not in sight.
“Lash him up!” Bowker ordered, “an’ damn your hides, don’t bungle it!”
Ugly was helpless. In an instant the four men had thrown him to the deck and bound him hand and foot.
“That cursed black, now,” the bully ordered, “he’s aboard here somewhere! Cut his greasy throat!”
Ugly listened to the slap of bare feet as the natives darted about the vessel, expecting each moment to hear the cries of struggle, but the search was unsuccessful. He had been afraid at first that they had surprised Kamaka, also, but now he knew better. In some way the native had eluded them, and the thought was a comforting one.
“Where is that damn black of yours?” Bowker demanded with a kick at his ribs that made him grunt.
“How do I know?” Ugly answered, and then in hopes of aiding Kamaka he declared that the Maori slept on shore.
“That’s a lie. He came out here with you, and nobody has seen him leave.”
“Been watching us, have you? Just what is your game, anyway?”
“That’s my business. Where’s that black?” Bowker repeated his brutal kick.
“I don’t know,” Ugly retorted. “And I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”
“You wouldn’t, eh? You do a lot of talking for a shrimp of your size. We’ll see.”
Bowker took a dirty rag from his pocket and tossed it to one of the men. “Gag him,” he growled, “then take him up on the fo’c’stle.”
Ugly clamped his jaw, determined to resist the gag, but it was no use. The native seized his head, a thumb just below each ear, and began to squeeze. The torture was too great. Ugly’s mouth fell open and the rag was crammed into it.
“Forward with him!” Bowker snapped. “Tie him to the anchor chain and slip the anchor. No noise while you’re at it, either.”
Ugly was seized with horror. He was no coward; he had slipped through the devil’s clutches more than once, but on those occasions he had at least had a foothold in the land of living—a fighting chance. He struggled frantically at his bonds but they held fast and the realization that there was nothing he could do all but drove him mad. By sheer strength the four natives lashed him to the anchor chain and let it slip over the side.
He hung there, half out of water, half in, waiting for the few remaining feet of chain to be dropped overboard, a thousand insane thoughts racing through his brain. He saw the long boat drift around the bow; saw a line handed down to it, then heard the heavy chain scraping across the deck. The next moment it let go and down he plunged to the bottom of the lagoon.
Even then Ugly did not cease to struggle. A broken wrist or even a dismembered hand would have been nothing could he have torn it loose. It seemed ages instead of seconds that he fought against breathing. His lungs were on the point of bursting; his brain was a mad jumble of terror. And then something brushed against him and he felt a hand at his back. It seized his arms, and the next moment his hands were free. The chain fell away from him and with all his strength he kicked against the bottom of the lagoon and shot to the surface.
At first Ugly thought of nothing but air for his straining lungs, then he made out the black, woolly head of Kamaka.
“Here, you cut rope on feet,” the Maori ordered, and held out a knife that had been gripped in his teeth.
Ugly took the blade and when his feet were free he placed a hand on the big fellow’s shoulder that he might rest and regain his senses. “I won’t forget that, Kamaka,” he said weakly. “Never—”
“Too bad I no come more quick,” the native replied. “I think this way more better. That devil have gun and four men with knives. I think more better this way.”
“Then you saw it all? You knew what he was doing?”
“Sure, I tell you I watch that devil. I see many things. First I hear noise on beach and go for look see. I say before him got no shell. He got feathers, you savvy? Him bird poacher an’ thievin’ devil. I see.”
“So, that’s it. I had a pretty good hunch.”
“Yeh, I see him men pile many bags on deck, then he take long boat and come out here very quiet. I know then he mean to steal Mr. Stovall’s schooner—maybe kill you for keep still, so I swim back.”
“Good Lord, Kamaka, the Lalanai! I’d forgotten!”
“No trouble. You can swim now. We catch ’em befo
re he take schooner. First he unload feathers from his own boat.”
* * * *
The white hull of the Lalanai was just visible over by the shore, and striking out quietly they swam toward her. Bowker was bringing the vessel alongside his own grounded craft when they caught up with it and they saw the natives climb aboard and throw a section of hatch cover across the two bulwarks. Almost immediately they began passing across the bags filled with contraband feathers, the breasts of thousands of slaughtered birds.
“You go for Stovall and some of the men,” Ugly spoke in a whisper. “I’ll stay here. We’ll trap ’em red-handed.”
“This not Mr. Stovall’s business any more,” Kamaka replied. “Before, all right—now my business.”
“Don’t be a fool! That devil has got a gun!”
“I no afraid gun, my friend, now you all right. You stay here. I look see.”
“Nothing doing. I’ll have a look see myself. Whatever you do, I’m with you.”
Kamaka grunted but he did not argue further. He began working his way around between the two hulls. The natives were outlined against the starlit sky, as they crossed back and forth over the hatch covers, and Bowker could be heard urging them to hurry from somewhere on deck.
Paddling softly back to the Lalanai’s bow, the Maori took hold of a bobstay and pulled himself up. Ugly followed him and together they worked their way aft, clinging to the outside of the bulwarks. Opposite the forward shrouds Kamaka reached over and secured a belaying pin from the rail.
“You see him there?” he pointed to Bowker. “When hatch cover fall, you throw. You no hit him, more better you dive back into water.”
Ugly’s nod was not seen in the dark but the big black seemed to know that his friend had understood. He crept forward then, and Ugly waited for the boards to fall. He had no idea of how Kamaka intended to accomplish the task from his uncertain footing but he knew the strength in those powerful shoulders and he did not doubt that he would succeed.
Minutes passed while the men worked steadily with the bags, then a scream from one of them and an oath from Bowker suddenly broke the stillness of the lagoon. The cry, followed by the splash of water, told Ugly that a native had gone down along with the hatch cover. He knew then that Kamaka had been waiting for just the right moment.
Clutching the pin at the small end, Ugly leaped over the bulwark and crouched down in the shadow. Bowker was in plain view, peering into the water between the two schooners, and Ugly hurled his pin. A grunt and a string of oaths followed, then Kamaka landed on deck and seized the enraged poacher before he could recover his wits.
The suddenness of the attack, added to the blow from the heavy pin, had thrown him off guard. Ugly saw him reach for his gun and dashed forward to snatch it away. Kamaka, however, was quicker. He flung the man against the bulwark, twisted his arm behind him, and held it there until the weapon dropped into the water.
“Kill him! Kill him, you damn blacks!” Bowker yelled to his men, but there was no response. Only one of them was on board the Lalanai and he stood paralyzed with fright.
Ugly watched the struggling pair, wondering what the Maori would do, then he saw Bowker’s feet slowly leave the deck. His thrashing arms and legs seemed suspended in midair a brief moment, then he disappeared over the side.
“Good work, Kamaka!” Ugly declared, but the Maori paid no attention. He climbed to the bulwarks, poised there a minute peering down, then he dove.
Down there in the dark water between the two hulls there was a brief struggle, then all was quiet. One, two, three minutes Ugly waited, then the black, dripping head of Kamaka appeared above the rail.
“You all right now, my friend?” he inquired. “Yes, I’m all right,” Ugly answered quietly. “Other men, they no make trouble?”
“No, they never raised a hand.”
“They be good now,” the big fellow nodded. “That white devil, he make ’em too bad. Funny ’bout him, he no good that devil. He like drown you all same rat but he no like die himself. He fight like hell.”
Ugly did not answer. He knew it was the Maori’s idea of justice, and a good turn for a wrong done a friend, but somehow the thought made him shudder.
JAVELIN OF DEATH, by Captain A.E. Dingle
“Want any more?”
“No, damn your eyes! You’ve got me now, but I’ll take my time and get you for this!”
The fight had been looming up all the cruise, and it came off at last after a weary day when the Narwhal had cut-in three whales. Tired and hungry men gladly allowed a smoking supper of doughnuts fried in whale oil to grow cold in order to watch that battle of giants; and now that the second mate, Radley, lay in a crumpled heap at the feet of Peters, the harpooner, the crowd moved regretfully toward the forecastle scuttle, sorry it was so soon over.
The harpooner stepped aside and walked aft, bent upon his own supper. The fight over, he was not the man to nurse the cause of it any further.
He had barely passed the try-works when a boy’s shout of warning rang in his ears. He turned swiftly, glimpsed running figures and vaguely saw his late antagonist fumbling at the fife-rail. Then a crushing blow on the head felled him, and he pitched headlong to the deck as an iron belaying-pin clattered against the brick base of the try-pots.
When Peters sat up, his head ringing like a released spiral spring, a mob of men surged around him, and in the middle they bustled and thumped Radley until he faced his victim.
Something of the fear of death clouded the second mate’s scowling visage. He looked anxiously toward the poop as if he hoped for help to come from that direction. It was his own watch on deck; the other officers, harpooners, carpenter, and the rest of the afterguard were at supper. The poop was deserted except for the lone figure at the wheel. A growing rumble of anger among the men sent a shiver down his spine. Peters got up stiffly.
“Let him go, fellows,” he said, looking hard into the eyes of Radley. “He’ll remember what he’s done after a bit, and he won’t enjoy the smell of himself.”
Both excellent whalemen, it was more professional jealousy than anything else that had set Radley and Peters by the ears. Nantucket had bred them both, and they had held high records in the whalingest of whaling communities while sailing in separate ships.
There was, too, a reason for Peters’ refusal to exact penance for the second mate’s treacherous attempt on him. To complain to the skipper about that unseamanlike end to a sailorly scrap might mean that Radley would be disrated, for the Narwhal’s skipper had his own downright ideas on man’s dealings with man. He was in the whaling business to make a quick competence, and a warring, simmering crew was a serious obstacle in his way.
There was no doubt that he would punish Radley’s action by disrating him, and that must inevitably finish the rivalry that already had the ship divided into hot factions. There would be no chance of Peters losing his place at the head of the Narwhal’s expert whalemen; nobody else was anywhere near Radley; no man could hope to overtake the big harpooner’s lead.
And that was the great reason which prompted Peters to heap coals of fire on the second mate’s head. He would not accept an advantage won by reason of another man’s blind anger. He had made no mistake, either, when he said that Radley would not admire himself when he cooled off and remembered what he had done.
* * * *
The harpooner came on deck after supper, lighted his pipe at the galley and took his customary seat on the spare topmast in the port waterways. Here he always sat when neither on watch nor asleep. For one thing it was immediately beneath the davits of his own boat; for another thing it was also the resting place—when rest was possible—of his son, the youngster whose shout had warned him of the belaying-pin too late to dodge.
Here Peters strove daily to make a sailor and a whaleman of the boy, and success was coming. Already the young sapling promised to outgrow the parent tree. Wiry, whalebone and whipcord like his father, young Eph Peters already pulled number two oar in the second
mate’s boat, and, but for the close rivalry between them and the mate’s boat of which his father was harpooner, would have before now had his chance with the “iron.”
“Yer head hurt much, dad?” asked Eph, sitting in his accustomed place.
“Don’t hurt, son. My head’s too blame tough to crack as easy as that. But you hollered too late. Might have missed me if I hadn’t turned ’round. Forget it. How fur have ye got with them hitches an’ knots?”
“I ain’t done no hitches ner no knots this watch. What d’ye think I am? Think I kin fool with pieces o’ rattlin’ stuff an’ whale-line while I’m thinkin’ of that Radley dog? Just wait till we’re fast to a whale. I’ll let a hole through him wi’ the spare harpoon!”
“If you do, son, I’ll hang you up myself!” said Peters very slowly and very quietly. “You’ll do your bit the same as always, and never forget that Mr. Radley’s second mate o’ this ship, an’ officer in charge o’ your boat. And you ain’t going to forget that Mr. Radley and me’s nip an’ tuck fer high boat this cruise, an’ I ain’t going to have it said that my son helped me to beat his own boat by playin’ the dog. Git on with your larnin’, son, and likely you’ll be a harpooner yet afore the cruise’s up.”
To a sailor composed of bone and red blood, humiliation hurts more than a score of husky physical wallopings, and Mr. Radley was a man of that kind. He took his supper alone, undergoing all the bitterness of self-reproach. It was not in him to immediately realize the true sportsmanship underlying Peters’ refusal to make capital out of the flying belaying-pin; rather it seemed to him a deliberate assertion of superiority on the part of an inferior. The idea obsessed him, until long before a wakeful watch below was up he had taken to himself the role of the aggrieved party, and his mood was one of surly, smoldering anger, wholly foreign to him in his normal condition.
The Adventure Megapack Page 29
