The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  “Talk about piracy!” exclaimed Captain Canaughan, watching the destruction of the mattress. “What’s goin’ on, anyhow? You aiming to burn my own ship under me?”

  Desmond did not reply for a moment. He finished ripping the ticking, and from the mattress produced a huge double-armful of straw, which he placed in a heap beneath the window.

  “What’s that woman doing on that junk?” he said, straightening up. “She’s a white woman, and she’s in trouble, eh?”

  “We’re in a sight more trouble,” said the skipper. “If you’re so much worried about her, why don’t you go ask her?”

  “That’s what I’m going to do,” said Desmond calmly. “Michael Terence, will you be finding that bucket o’ lard and grease this automatic o’ mine good and heavy?”

  “What!” cried Juliana, her gray eyes widening at him. “You’re not going to swim?”

  “If you give me a chance to slip overboard in decency, I am,” and Desmond grinned.

  There was a moment’s silence, while they stared at him amazedly. Then Desmond turned and, lifting the straw, dropped it out of the window in a mass.

  “Oh, you can’t mean to swim over there!” exclaimed Doña Juliana. “Think what it will mean—either the Chinese will see you, or our own crew; they may even shoot at you!”

  “I don’t doubt they would if they saw me,” commented Desmond lightly, “but they’ll not see me. Now, Miss Juliana, will you have the kindness to step into the other cabin for a minute? I’m wearin’ the skipper’s clothes, you understand, and I’m sure it’ll warm his blood to know that I’m not going to take ’em all with me, eh; skipper? Get that gun ready, Michael Terence, for I’ll be needing it.”

  “They’ll see you drop over,” said the skipper sourly.

  “That’s the chance,” was Desmond’s cheerful response. “Here’s the rope we brought in the other night; pass it out and I’ll slide down to avoid a splash. The odds are even that Arevalo’s bunch is working by one of the main hatchways, and those chinks may not notice me.”

  “You’re running your head into a net, ye big fool,” said Canaughan, picking up the line. “Ye see a pretty face—and bang goes all sense!”

  Desmond looked at him a moment, his eyes cold.

  “I’ll put some sense into you when we step ashore, my bucko,” he said quietly.

  “You’ll be welcome to try,” returned the skipper. “My only fear is that ye’ll not live to see the day, you and your wild ways! So take care of yourself for the sake of the trimming I’ll give ye.”

  Desmond, stripped to his underwear, buckled around his waist his belt with the automatic which the fiddler had larded.

  “I’m off,” he said. “If they’ve seen the straw floating they’ll have grown used to it by this time. Be good to yourself, Michael Terence!”

  The fiddler, his pinched features flushed with excitement, hung to Desmond’s hand.

  “Wait a minute now! When are ye coming back, sir? The cap’n here was sayin’ we’d catch that storm back on us again, and divil knows what we’d do if you didn’t show up—”

  “I’ll go aboard that junk if I get a chance,” said Desmond. “If I do, and you hear any shooting, then climb out and kick Arevalo into the sea. We might as well take the junk home with us and make a clean sweep of it, eh? Thunder o’ Finn, that’s an idea, skipper! I’ll do it anyhow. Remember, now—when ye hear the shooting boot Arevalo and boot him hard! Good-by and good luck to ye.”

  “Heaven help ye!” returned the skipper dourly. “Ye have need of the help.”

  CHAPTER VII

  DESMOND ADVENTURES

  Rosemonde Burley was totally unable to understand the queer spectacle at the stern of the schooner. She saw the faces in the window, just over the painted words, “San Gregorio,” and she comprehended that those faces were staring at the junk in obvious amazement. Then, just as she had decided to send a call for help, Desmond had brought Doña Juliana to the opening, and there had come that signal for caution.

  On the schooner’s deck above Rosemonde could see a yellow man shouting through a megaphone and could hear Prince Chan replying; but the schooner seemed to be manned by whites or half-castes. Arevalo, in command with Balderson, seemed some sort of native, but Balderson was manifestly white, as were the others. And then Desmond, at the cabin window, had flung out a great heap of straw, which clung against the ship’s stern.

  Rosemonde was not starved, but most of her provisions were used up, and all her water was gone. Her door was effectually blocked from the outside. As she watched the schooner’s stern window she saw a rope flung out, and shortly afterward appeared Desmond. He slid down swiftly into the water—and did not come up.

  The girl watched, wide-eyed, perplexed, and alarmed. No one seemed to have observed Desmond; yet where had he gone? Then she saw the straw jerk slightly as it floated, and she understood. Presently the straw began to move toward the junk, the whole heap of it, until, as it drew closer, it was lost to her range of vision. She sat breathless, waiting for a voice from below, but no voice came.

  Rosemonde had not deluded herself with hopes of succor from the schooner, which could carry only accomplices of the Manchu prince, until she had glimpsed the face of Doña Juliana. Then, after seeing Desmond descend into the sea, she realized that something similar to her own position must obtain aboard the other craft. But where had the man gone? In agonized suspense she sat listening, waiting, not knowing what to expect or hope or fear. She knew very well that, despite the arguments of law and order, queer things did happen at sea even in these prosaic days. She knew that, despite scoffers, actual piracy of the old school still turned up from time to time. She knew that in such a combination of circumstances as now obtained anything was possible. So she waited, listening. Nothing happened. At the stern window of the schooner she saw anxious faces appear and vanish quickly, as though fearful of being noted. The rope had been drawn up. From the swashing waves below came no hail, no voice. The minutes dragged fearfully. Up above there was some hitch in the work; the Manchus were breaking out some of their cargo, preparing to transship the opium. Some had already gone to the schooner. Rosemonde waited, her nerves pricking; then suddenly came a sound at her door. Her pistol wavered up, only to halt.

  “Who’s there?” she called softly. “Speak quickly!”

  She had spoken in French, and now the answer came back to her—a cautious flood of abominable soldier brogue, mixed with English ejaculations and asides.

  “Une moment, s’iou plait—mille polochons! What the divil is this rope doin’ on the door now? A moment, madame; have no fear, and I shall be with you—damnation light on the yellow divils, for if they catch me here I’m gone—rien à craindre, bel ange—who in hell did be layin’ the stuff here—ne vous effrayez donc—”

  Rosemonde unlocked the door. A moment afterward it burst open as Desmond concluded his removal of the barricade. The two stood there, gazing at each other.

  “Oh!” murmured Desmond, thinking that she spoke only French. “And to think o’ me in me underwear, poor divil!”

  A ripple of laughter crossed the features of Rosemonde; to his dismay Desmond realized that she spoke not French alone, but English.

  “There’s a Burberry in the cabin to the right,” she said demurely.

  Desmond turned and vanished. For the moment he had forgotten the dangerous features of the situation. Meeting this amazing woman whom he had never before seen was like a flash of lightning in the night. He was back in a moment with the long rainproof cloaking him. As he entered her cabin and closed the door he bowed to her with his fine courtesy.

  “My name is Desmond, madame; Gerald Desmond, late of the Royal Air Corps. I came over thinking I might be of service to you. If so, pray consider me at your command.”

  “How did you get aboard here?” she demanded, remembering that agonized wait.

  “Faith, I floated around to the stern, came up the misbegotten rudder post and in an open window, and star
ted to find you,” Desmond smiled. “It was takin’ a bit for granted maybe, but that’s a habit I have—”

  “Oh, miséricorde!” gasped the girl suddenly, as remembrance flooded upon her. “I—I—monsieur, I am very silly to—”

  Desmond caught her as she swayed; he thought she would faint, but she recovered herself with a word of protest. The reaction had seized her violently.

  Leaving her for the moment, Desmond cautiously placed himself at the port. Overhead, the work was on full swing, and he saw a huge bale being hauled aboard the San Gregorio. At the stern window of the schooner he had a glimpse of O’Sullivan’s face and waved his hand. Then he withdrew, fearful lest he be seen; and turned again to Rosemonde.

  “I don’t know what’s troubling you, madame,” he said gravely, “but from the bullet holes in the door yonder, and various indications of activity, there seems to have been a ruction. If ye have no objections to outlining the general action, it might be a good thing to speak up, for there’s the storm comin’ back on us and work to be done.”

  Rosemonde looked at him, smiling bravely, yet with misty eyes.

  “Oh!” she said. “I am so glad to meet a man like you!”

  “I hope ye’ll never be sorry for it,” said Desmond gallantly. “You’re French, I take it?”

  “I am an American!” she said. “At least—”

  Thus she told him her story and the story of the Chang Yan.

  Desmond listened without comment, his eyes hardening a little as she came to the final threat of Prince Chan, and when she had finished, after sketching very briefly her own part in the adventure, Desmond gave her a rapid survey of the situation aboard the schooner.

  “And now,” he added with a wry smile, “I’ve put me foot in it. When I left yonder I told ’em to be out on deck and start fighting if they heard any shooting over here, and it was a fool order. Sixteen of those Chinamen, eh? To say nothin’ of Arevalo and his gang. Poor O’Sullivan and the skipper would be wiped out o’ sight without me there to guide ’em!”

  “But if you were there?” queried Rosemonde, breathless.

  “Ah, now it’s talkin’ you are, sweet jewel!” Desmond started up. “Can you swim?”

  “A little, yes; but I cannot swim back to your ship!”

  “Ye don’t have to!” Desmond’s eyes were blazing now, alight with inspiration. “I’ll be gone a few minutes. Get ready any little things ye may want to take along, and I’ll see to the rest. Thunder o’ Finn! Why didn’t I think of it before? All this time wasted, and opium pourin’ into the schooner like water! Keep away from the window, like a good girl, and trust me to do the rest.”

  Thus speaking, Desmond paused not for questions, but vanished into the passage outside.

  Rosemonde, still gasping over his suddenness, got together a few personal effects. She realized that Desmond had come aboard unseen by any, that his presence here was quite unsuspected by the Manchus; he therefore possessed an advantage in whatever scheme he might attempt. But she could see no hope for them both to get aboard the schooner.

  She was ready and now waited at the doorway, listening for some alarm. She had determined not to let this man do battle by himself. At the first shot she would sally forth to aid him, and yet he had said that there must be no shooting! What could he be doing? She could hear nothing except a trampling of feet on the deck above and the chattering voices of the men at work. By this time she realized there must have gone aboard the Sun Gregorio a huge amount of opium—huge in value, that is. Its bulk would not be great.

  A step in the passage, and she looked out, her automatic lifting. But it was Desmond, whistling under his breath and seeming quite unimpressed by his situation. He laughed gaily as she stepped aside to let him enter, and picked up one of the coils of rope that had barricaded the door from the outside.

  “We’ll have need of this, likely,” he observed, flinging it into the cabin with an effort. “Now there’s nothing to do except to lock the door and await events. Luckily we’re on the starboard side; it’ll bring us close under the stern o’ the schooner.”

  “What will?” demanded Rosemonde, staring at him. “What have you done? How can we get to the schooner?”

  Desmond, of a sudden, was aware of a great beauty in her brown eyes—not what other men might call beauty perhaps, but the true symmetry of all relation between physical and spiritual and mental. He felt abashed and put to confusion before her grave gaze, as though he were less than the dust below her feet. It came upon him that she held within her something very far and high, something untouched and unhurt by the world—

  “A Mhuire!” he muttered, confused by his own dazed sensation. “What did ye say your name was—Rosemonde? Ah, it’s a leanhaunshee ye are, a fairy mistress? It’s the inspiration of a poet that looks out of your eyes, Rosemonde! But what was it you were askin’ me?”

  She gazed at him curiously, half smiling at his words, yet wondering at him.

  “How can we get aboard the schooner, Dream Man?” she said. “For you are a man out of a dream, if there ever was one!”

  Desmond laughed aloud at her mood. “Throw the rope out of the window and slide down. We’ll be alongside the schooner presently. My friends yonder will pick us up.”

  “Oh! And how shall we be alongside the schooner?”

  “When these Chinese divils wake up to what’s below they’ll get aboard to save their lives, won’t they?”

  She frowned, puzzled by his words.

  “Please tell me what you’ve done. How—”

  “Oh, I forgot I hadn’t explained to ye,” said Desmond hastily. “Well, it’s very simple. I noticed there was only one small boat aboard this elegant ship, and that boat was stowed plumb in the stern. So I found me way aft, everybody bein’ up on deck and built an excellent little fire where the wind will fan it up—”

  She started. “A fire? You set fire to the ship?”

  “Of course. Haven’t I been trying to tell you about it all this while?”

  “This ship is afire—now?”

  Desmond waved his hand gaily. “The sweetest fire you ever saw, Rosemonde! They’ll not discover it for another five minutes, and then it’ll be over the stern and sweepin’ the lee side—which is not this side—and the yellow boys will shout for help. The schooner will drop back to take ’em aboard, and we’ll go aboard likewise, only the other way. There now! It’s put me out o’ breath talkin’ so much—”

  Rosemonde sank on her berth, facing him, an excited laugher shaking her.

  “Mon Dieu, what a man!” she murmured. “But what if we do not get alongside the schooner.”

  “Then,” retorted Desmond coolly, “we’re out of luck, that’s all. But I’ve never been out o’ luck in me life, no, not even in Manila! I can see plainly now that my getting shanghaied was the biggest stroke of luck ever happened to me.”

  “Why?” she ventured incautiously.

  “Because I’ve met you, fairy mistress!”

  “Bah! Do you talk this way to all women?”

  “I’m afraid I do, Rosemonde,” said Desmond, but now unsmiling. “Yet this time it’s from me heart.”

  She met his gaze steadily. There was a moment of silence.

  An absurd situation—this man clad in underwear and a raincoat, talking thus to such a woman at their first meeting! Yet something in Desmond’s personality lifted his words into earnest conviction, dispelled all thought of the situation. Rosemonde read strange deep things in those blue eyes of his, and a slow tide of color rose into her face. When she spoke it was in abrupt reversion to the prior subject.

  “What if they put out the fire?”

  “They can’t put out two at once; they’ve not men enough.”

  “Two? You have—”

  “Yes. I started another one as far forward as I could get. It’s blazin’ merrily by this time, let’s pray. They’ll discover it soon enough—”

  A sudden yelping of voices answered him, held him tense. Feet pounded the
deck above. Through the open window came the sound of shrill cries, a babel of shouts and orders. Aboard the steamer Desmond could see the crew rushing from their work into the stern. He lifted his automatic toward Arevalo, then slowly lowered it, shaking his head regretfully. One shot might spoil all his scheme.

  “They are coming—for me,” said Rosemonde quietly.

  Desmond swung about to the door, which was now locked. A trampling of feet was in the passage outside, the door shivered and banged to the urge of hands, and the voice of Prince Chan shrilled excitedly.

  “Madame! The ship is on fire—come quickly!”

  To the inquiring eyes of Rosemonde, Desmond shook his head, and she kept silent. The Manchu flung himself against the door, and again, but he could not prevail. A burst of wild chatterings summoned him away, and at the same instant a curl of smoke came in beneath the door.

  “He’s gone,” said Desmond. “They need him up above, and the smoke is thick outside. Now for the schooner, fairy mistress—”

  An exclamation of delight broke from him as he gained the window. At the stern of the schooner were clustered her crew, hauling in on the cables; her lines had been slacked off, and with flapping canvas she was falling back while the junk surged ahead. At the stern windows appeared Canaughan and O’Sullivan, staring at the junk. Desmond made them a sign and tossed out the end of the line which he had prepared. They would understand soon enough.

  Already the roar of flames had drowned everything from hearing. Desmond swept an eye at the sky and was not reassured; sea and heavens were dead and dull to the sight, and the waves were heaving with an ominous, glassy smoothness.

  “Be careful!” cried Rosemonde, catching Desmond’s arm. “The ships are coming together!”

  He nodded. As he had figured, Arevalo, or, rather, Balderson, who was in practical command of the schooner, was about to take off Prince Chan and the Manchus. Hope of saving the Chang Yan had been abandoned, but the San Gregorio could be laid athwart her bows long enough for the Chinese to get aboard the schooner.