The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  “Into the water with you, Rosemonde,” said Desmond at the right instant. “They’ll never notice us now; Arevalo and his crowd are too concerned about getting the yellow men safely off. I’ll be right after you.”

  Rosemonde asked no questions, but came to the window. Smoke was drifting past now, a cloud of yellowish-gray fumes, choking and obscuring everything. Almost blindly the girl forced herself outward and plunged.

  Desmond followed her to the window, seeing as he did so that Canaughan was lowering the line from the stern window of the schooner. But at that instant the scream of a man came from outside the cabin. Desmond remembered the man whom he had wounded, the man who must burn to death.

  Without hesitation he turned about, unlocked the door, and staggered into the smoke reek. He found his man, still wildly screaming, and dragged him back to safety. The Manchu had been shot through the shoulder; Desmond heaved him through the window bodily, then followed him as quickly as might be. When he plunged into the water and came up to the surface the yellow man was frenziedly shouting and flurrying a dozen feet distant.

  Desmond struck out for the schooner’s stern, where he saw Rosemonde at the rope. Before he reached her side, Canaughan and O’Sullivan were hauling her up. He had a glimpse, too, of Juliana aiding them. Then he was under the stern, and the line dropped down over his hand.

  Twenty minutes later a foaming line of hissing water struck the schooner, and the blazing pyre that had been the Chang Yan was swallowed up in the vague horizon of the hurricane which had circled back upon its prey. The schooner drove, staggering into the west.

  CHAPTER VIII

  ASHORE

  Paracel Island is one of many forgotten shoals that dot the China Sea between the Philippines and the mainland. Uninhabited, far from the steamer lanes, Paracel Island lies in the azure sea neglected of men, visited only by the occasional beche-de-mer fishers who probe the long reefs and shoals for the sea slugs.

  There was no azure sea around Paracel, however, when the San Gregorio struck. There was but a wild swelter of foam in the night, and the huge seas lifted the schooner over the outer reef, dropped her in the lagoon, and drove her on the inner reef before the men aboard her realized their danger.

  This came in the night following the meeting with the junk. Desmond and his friends, securely battened below, had been unable either to reach the deck or to attempt the recovery of the ship. This latter, indeed, Desmond admitted to be impossible for the present, for Arevalo had been reinforced by the Manchus and the chance had been.

  Juliana and Rosemonde had retired to the former’s cabin, and Captain Canaughan was growling at Desmond when the crash came. The two were flung on top of O’Sullivan, in the corner. The ship struck again, and this time remained steady, although with a sharp list to port.

  What followed was tragically brief and sudden. The second shock had hurled Desmond headlong against a stanchion, dazing and stunning him; the lamp, slung in gimbals, had been shattered, fortunately without the oil catching fire. In the darkness there came a rending smash at the door, and at the same time Juliana and Rosemonde had come hastily from their cabin.

  Desmond was roused by a scream from Juliana, followed by the bursting crash of a shot, the trampling of feet, and a roar of voices. He recognized that the instant the ship had struck, Arevalo must have led his forces below to find Juliana. There came another shot, a bellow in the voice of Canaughan, and a rushing whirl of bodies. The cabin was in blind confusion. An uproar of oaths and screams filled the place.

  Finding a match, Desmond scratched it. Before the flame flared up a mass of bodies swirled into him, extinguished the light. Fingers groped at his throat; then, to his great satisfaction. Desmond found himself at grips with a tangible antagonist. From somewhere rang out a third shot. By the quick explosion, Desmond recognized the snarling features of Arevalo pressed close upon him.

  “Thunder o’ Finn!” he cried out, his voice lost amid the din. “Now, me bucko—”

  Merciless, he drew the murderer to him, heard Arevalo shriek in his ear, sank his hands in the man’s neck cords. Over the uproar pierced the great voice of Balderson, but Desmond heeded nothing of what was passing around him. A groaning man fell against the two, knocked them against the wall.

  Arevalo screamed again, the scream ending suddenly as Desmond lifted and dashed him into the wall of the ship. The half-breed’s grip tightened convulsively; again Desmond sent him crashing against a stanchion. This time the clutching hands were loosened in death. Arevalo relaxed, shuddering, and was dead before Desmond could drop him.

  The schooner seemed suddenly quiet. No seas were beating against her broken hull—the lagoon protected her. The tumult in the cabin had hushed, but from the deck above was sounding a rush of feet and storm of voices. Desmond, fishing in his pocket for a match, realized that the men had departed.

  “Mr. Desmond!” came a voice.

  “That you, Rosemonde?” he returned. “Ah, here’s a match—”

  The light flared up. He saw Rosemonde standing in the doorway of the inner cabin, a pistol in her hand. O’Sullivan was staggering to his feet. The match died suddenly.

  “Divil take it! Rosemonde, will you get me the lamp from your cabin? Thanks.”

  He found another match and lighted it. Rosemonde joined him a moment later with the lamp. Lighting this, Desmond gave it to her to hold, then turned.

  “Come here!” cried out the fiddler, bending over a dark shape. Besides Arevalo there were two other bodies twisted in death. Rosemonde had shot well. But it was not above these that O’Sullivan knelt.

  “Canaughan!” exclaimed Desmond sharply, lifting the head of the skipper. The latter opened his eyes and smiled grimly.

  “Desmond—I take back what I said about—Papists—aye, man! ’Twas but said to—plague ye a bit—look out for—Miss Juliana—”

  The skipper sighed and relaxed. Mute, O’Sullivan pointed to a ragged knife wound below the throat, through which the sturdy Ulsterman’s life had fled. Desmond leaped up.

  “Juliana! Where is she, Rosemonde?”

  The hazel eyes, black in the lamplight, dilated. “Ah! They must have taken—”

  Whirling, Desmond ran for the deck, curses on his lips. As he ran he gripped out his automatic, which all this while had lain under his arm. The hatchway was open.

  He realized now that Arevalo, seeing the ship lost, had left the Chinese to get out the boats while he flung his men below in an effort to take Juliana from her haven in the cabins. Arevalo had paid for this work—but Juliana was gone.

  Desmond darted up the ladder and threw himself out into the gusty blackness of the night. The deck slanted sharply to port, but the ship seemed secure enough. Unable to see any details of what was around him, Desmond ran forward. He met no one, but an instant later he saw a dark shape whirled away from the bows, vanishing in the night. The last boat had gone.

  Putting his weapon away, Desmond went the rounds of the deck, marveling that despite the ferocity of the wind there was little spray flying. From the absence of seas, however, he deduced that the ship must lie within some reef circle. The surrounding darkness was quite impenetrable, and he knew that he must wait until morning to define the position. The foremast had gone when the ship struck and had smashed one of the boats to flinders. The remaining boats were gone.

  Desmond, whistling between his teeth, returned to the after hatchway. There O’Sullivan encountered him.

  “Gone? Well, praise be ye got Arevalo, sir! Are we sinkin’?”

  “No, we seem safe enough, Michael Terence. Hurt?”

  “We’re all right, sir. Poor Canaughan! It’s gone he is—”

  “None o’ that, me lad,” said Desmond. “We’ll have more grieving to do before we’re out o’ this, I’m thinking. In the lee o’ the deck I could hear breakers, so we’re ashore somewhere. You and I must stand watch an’ watch this night and spend the time gettin’ Canaughan sewed up for decent burial in the morning. Let the lady s
leep.”

  He passed below and rejoined Rosemonde, shaking his head in response to her glance of inquiry.

  “She’s gone, Rosemonde, but she’s in no danger. When they find that Arevalo hasn’t come ashore they’ll have no object in keeping Juliana a prisoner. Where we are I don’t know, but we’ve run smack ashore and are safe for the present. Since we’re apt to be busy in the mornin’, you’d better take ray advice and get some sleep.”

  “Sleep!” repeated Rosemonde, staring at him. “After what has just happened—”

  Desmond shrugged his shoulders. “What’s done is done, Rosemonde. You must make yourself sleep, me lady; things are goin’ to happen tomorrow, and we’ll need the benefit o’ your brain when Prince Chan and Balderson come back.”

  “You think they’ll come back?”

  “Yes. Isn’t there a million dollars’ forth of opium, more or less, aboard here? You wait and see. Tomorrow we’ll need our heads!”

  Rosemonde indicated the bodies on the cabin floor. “And—these?”

  “We’ll take care of them.”

  She said no more, but turned about and closed the door Desmond looked at O’Sullivan and grimaced.

  “There’s a woman for ye, Michael Terence! Now turn in an’ get a bit o’ sleep.”

  The fiddler, his long black hair flying about his pinched features, directed a long look at the body of the skipper, then without a word flung himself into a bunk.

  Desmond was saddened more than he cared to admit by the death of the skipper. In the short time he had known Captain Canaughan he had found deep store of sturdy character in the Ulsterman and much to admire. The man’s death was untimely. It formed one of those strangely uncompleted things which go to make up life—a race half run, a skein left all at loose ends.

  There must be a new alignment now that Arevalo was gone, reflected Desmond. Of the schooner’s original complement, three men were left with Balderson; the yellow cook would have joined the Manchus, placing about nineteen men under Prince Chan—fifteen yellow, four white. And the prince would command them; of course Balderson would defer to him.

  “The two of us and Rosemonde against ’em,” thought Desmond. “That is, if they elect to fight. We’ll have to wait and see what’ll turn up, eh? There are chances for anything with that gang.”

  * * * *

  Morning broke a gray, storm-filled morning, with shreds of misty scud carrying across the wreck from the outer reef. Desmond had relieved O’Sullivan an hour previously. He now stood in the bows, regarding the situation with no great delight.

  The schooner had been lifted across the outer barrier reef, after striking first, and had been driven across the lagoon upon a second shoal but a hundred yards from the shore. There, upon the white sand beach, Desmond saw the two boats of the schooner. No men were in sight, but the island was thickly grown with brush and trees almost to the shore. From his position Desmond could form little idea of its size.

  He went below, wakened O’Sullivan, and between them they got the body of Canaughan on deck. The other bodies had been thrown overboard during the night. Finding that Rosemonde was awake and dressing, Desmond waited until she joined them above, and then proceeded with the funeral.

  The entire ship now being in their possession, Desmond took charge of the galley and soon had a steaming breakfast ready. They ate the meal in the lee of the deck house. To his secret admiration, Desmond found that Rosemonde faced their unpleasant position almost with unconcern, seeming anxious about Juliana rather than herself.

  “You think Doña Juliana is in no danger, then?” she inquired.

  “Not a bit,” said Desmond cheerfully. “Arevalo was her chief peril. Prince Chan made threats against you, yes, but he’s the type to realize at this juncture that if he stops to amuse himself with the ladies he loses everything. He’ll want to get clear with the opium, that’s all. You and Juliana have little to hear from him—as things stand now.”

  “Ah! Then there’s something to fear?” queried Rosemonde calmly.

  “There may be. Thunder o’ Finn! If I was a Mohammedan now I’d carry off the both o’ you ladies!” and Desmond laughed gaily. “Upon me soul, Rosemonde, where would ever a man again find two such women?”

  She looked at him, no warmth in her eyes. “Juliana spoke a good deal of you last night.”

  “I’m glad o’ that,” returned Desmond complacently. “Did she increase your good opinion of me, fairy mistress?”

  “Naturally she did. You are to be congratulated on your conquest. She is a fine girl.”

  “Ah!” Desmond looked quickly at her. “What’s that again? Conquest, did you say?”

  Rosemonde met his gaze very steadily. “My dear Mr. Desmond—”

  “Thunder o’ Finn, don’t be using that tone o’ voice to me!” exclaimed Desmond. “Look here, now! It’s true as I’m a living man that I’ve never said a word of love to any woman but yourself, Rosemonde, and never will!”

  A flush, as it were of anger, flooded into her cheeks, but her hazel eyes did not waver from his. In their depths Desmond read strange things, and sudden fear came upon him. What the devil had he said to Juliana, after all? Nothing extremely personal, he was sure of that much; nothing very serious or meant to be taken seriously. Nonetheless, he suddenly perceived shoals and dangers ahead.

  “Boat comin’ out!” cried O’Sullivan at this juncture.

  Desmond leaped up, glad of the intervention.

  One of the boats was being shoved out by half a dozen men; Desmond recognized them for Manchus. The second boat was likewise being rolled down the sand, but this one by four only—Balderson and his three mates.

  “That is Prince Chan jumping into the stern,” said Rosemonde.

  Desmond nodded and turned to the fiddler.

  “Michael Terence, me lad, will you be getting up into the stern with your gun now? Don’t fire until ye get the word from me, however.”

  “Fight them off?” asked Rosemonde without alarm.

  “I hope not.” Desmond squinted at the two boats, now leaving the shore, with a perplexed twinkle in his eye. “There’ll be no fighting, I hope. Still, ye can never tell. And it looks queer how they’re coming separate that way. Ahoy, there! What d’ye want?”

  Balderson, rowing an oar with his mates, turned and glanced over his shoulder. Even his great voice could not be distinguished against the wind, however, and Desmond made a gesture beckoning on the boats. They drew closer, converging to within fifty feet of the schooner, when Prince Chan stood up and lifted his hands to his mouth.

  “We are unarmed. May I come aboard?”

  “Come ahead,” responded Desmond. Then Balderson likewise shouted:

  “Me, too, Desmond! Huh? Don’t trust the chink!”

  “Come ahead,” and Desmond smiled. Rosemonde touched his arm, frowning a little.

  “What does it mean, then?”

  “It means there’s trouble in their camp,” and Desmond laughed into her eyes. “Praise be, we’ll manage things yet! Keep your gun on the Manchus; I’ll watch the white men.”

  “If you’re willing to trust them, all right.”

  Weapon in hand, Desmond watched the two boats as they drew in toward the lowered port rail of the schooner. By the glances exchanged between the two craft he was convinced that trouble had arisen; what that trouble could be he was not aware.

  “Balderson and Prince Chan, come aboard,” he said when the two boats were below. “If another man moves in either boat, we shoot.”

  There was plenty of water over the reef to float the boats, and as they swung in the prince and Balderson stood up and clambered over the rail. Beyond making fast with hooks, the other men obeyed Desmond’s mandate.

  “Good morning, Madame Burley,” said the prince in French, with a bow to Rosemonde. “This is Mr. Desmond? I am glad to meet you, sir.”

  Balderson flung him a suspicious glance. The giant, his tangle of hair and beard floating over his shoulders in the wind, bit from a
plug of tobacco and expectorated over the side.

  “None o’ that chatter now,” he remarked. “Cards on the table, all hands!”

  Desmond glanced from one to the other, his eyes twinkling.

  “Come, gentlemen!” he exclaimed. “May I ask the reason for this friendly visit? You first, Prince Chan. I would suggest that ye speak in English also.”

  The Manchu smiled blandly, scornfully.

  “Very well. As you are aware, there is a lady ashore with us. I propose to return her to you unharmed. She has informed us of your activities yesterday. You see, Mr. Desmond, I do not underrate your ability, and not only shall I cancel the debt I owe you, but you shall be at liberty to depart wherever you desire.”

  “Oh!” said Desmond. “You want us to vacate the schooner, no doubt?”

  The prince bowed in silent assent. Desmond turned to Balderson.

  “Well? What’s your proposition, Mr. Mutineer?”

  Balderson’s eyes were like blue ice.

  “Is Arevalo dead?”

  “Dead and buried,” returned Desmond cheerfully.

  “Then the chest belongs to us, ’cause we were partners with Arevalo in buyin’ the dope.”

  “What chest?” queried Desmond.

  “The chest o’ money that these yellow boys took ashore. Arevalo fetched it along to buy the dope, savvy? Let the chinks have the dope—we want the coin, huh!”

  “Oh!” said Desmond. He leaned back and fumbled for his pipe. “A chest of money, eh?”

  CHAPTER IX

  ON THE BEACH

  Prince Chan, still wearing his black coat, although his linen was alarmingly soiled, looked blandly at Balderson; he gave no sign of emotion. The big Viking folded his arms and stared at Desmond.

  “Oh!” said the latter, getting his pipe filled and lighted. “Now we can chat. Well, Balderson, why don’t you take the money if you want it?”

  “With only one gun among the four of us, huh?” snapped Balderson. “Hand over some guns, throw in with us white men—and we’ll pull clear!”

  “Thanks for your confidence,” and Desmond smiled slightly. “Why not hand over the money to Balderson, Prince Chan?”