He reached the forepeak and waited tensely. Aft, on the bridge, he heard Dussel roaring.
“Go ahead, you fools! He’s not armed!”
It was only a matter of minutes. He was trapped. The forepeak was a hole without exit. Behind him was the bow, dipping slightly with the roll of the ship.
He crept close to the rail. He heard two men reach the forecastle head on the port side, not twenty feet away. Someone else was just stepping from the companionway, even closer.
Ponga Jim knew he could hesitate no longer. He crawled through the rail and lowered himself over the side of the ship. The bow dipped. For an instant he felt a wave of panic.
Clinging desperately, he grabbed through the hole of the bow chock. A slip meant a plunge into the dark waters below. He shifted his other hand to the chock and then lowered himself into the flukes of the anchor.
It was a wild gamble, but his only chance. He thanked all the fates that the Semiramis was blunt bowed. A light flashed on, off, and then on again.
“Chief!” Dormie shouted, his voice incredulous. “He’s gone. He’s disappeared!”
“Search the forepeak, you damned numbskull!” Dussel roared. “If that devil gets away, I’ll kill you. Search the forecastle, too.”
Crouching on the flukes of the anchor, Ponga Jim waited tensely. The old barge would soon be dipping her bows under. After that his time would be short. Feet pounded on the deck. He heard the men cursing.
“Maybe he slipped past,” Dormie grumbled. “It’s dark enough. He couldn’t hide here.”
A WAVE SPLASHED over Ponga Jim’s feet. The bow dipped and black water swept over him. He clung to the anchor, shivering.
Minutes passed. Feet mounted the ladder again. He heard a man muttering. Then the fellow walked across the deck and stood by the bulwark overhead.
Another sea drenched Jim to the skin. He clung to the flukes, trying to keep his teeth still. The ship gave a sickening lunge. His feet fell clear, and for a moment he hung clear as the bow lifted. Then lightning flashed.
As he pulled himself up, he saw a man leaning over the bulwark. It was Longboy, one of his own crew.
With a roar, a huge sea swept over Jim. The Semiramis lifted her bow.
“Psst!” he hissed sharply. Longboy looked down, startled. “Get a line,” Jim whispered. “It’s the skipper.” The man wheeled around from the rail. In an instant, a line dangled in front of Jim’s face. He went up, hand over hand. Just as the bow dipped under another big one, Jim tumbled on deck.
“Lookout!” a hoarse voice shouted. “Come to the bridge.”
“Getting too rough here,” Jim commented. “They’ll have you stand watch there. Tell Brophy I’m safe, but be careful. Then you three stand by. I’m going to start something, and damned quick!”
As Longboy hurried aft, Ponga Jim went down the companionway, into the forecastle. What he wanted now was a weapon. It was dark inside.
Suddenly a cigarette glowed. It was a guard. In the faint glow of the cigarette he saw the glint of metal. The guard’s head turned.
Ponga Jim swung. He had only the mark of the glowing cigarette, but it was enough. He felt bone crunch under his fist. The man crumpled. Jim struck a match.
A frightened face peered from the curtains of a bunk, then another.
“Out of those bunks now!” Jim snapped. “I’m taking over.” He picked up the guard’s Luger and fished two clips from his pocket. He turned on the powerful lascar behind him. “Where are these fellows? You just came off watch, didn’t you?”
Abdul nodded. “Two mans in crew’s mess. Two mans below. One man on poop deck. Three on bridge. Small fat man, he sleep. Two other mans sleep. Big fat man, he talk this Dormie.”
“Right, Abdul, you get that man on the poop deck. Then you, Hassan, Mohamet, Chino, get the two men below. Chino, slip on this man’s coat and cap. Go to the ladder an’ call them. They’ll come up.”
“Yes, Tuan. We understand.” The four men slipped out on deck, their naked feet soundless in the rising storm.
Ponga Jim turned to the two men who remained. They were short and powerful men, alike as two peas. Both wore green turbans.
“Sakim, you and Selim go aft. One of you tell Millan. Then meet me by the crew’s mess.”
Dampness touched his face. He stood grasping the rail. A wave, black and glistening, rolled up and then swirled by. A storm of spray swept across the deck. He tasted salt on his lips. Rain and spray beat against his face. The green starboard light stared down at him, a solitary eye. It was going to be a bad time before morning.
HE STARTED AFT, walking fast, his knees bending to the roll of the ship. Job Dussel wanted a showdown, and he was going to get it. Jim couldn’t wait for Menado, not even for Amurang. Maybe his message would get to Li Wan Fang, maybe not. It was a chance he couldn’t afford to take. Major Arnold had said that not a British or Dutch ship would arrive for days.
What the plan was, he could only guess. One thing he knew—they had done for Cap Marlin and the Silver Lady. Now they threatened peaceful vessels that carried no munitions, no soldiers, only traded quietly among the islands. Ponga Jim’s jaw set hard, and his eyes narrowed.
Suddenly he laughed. He caught the rail of the companionway to the deck outside his cabin and swung up. His hand was on the door, the Luger ready. A light flashed across him from the bridge. The Luger snapped up and roared. The light crashed out. He heard the tinkle of falling glass and then someone moaned. There was a shout from the wheelhouse.
Ponga Jim jerked the door open.
“Get ’em up!” he roared. He stopped, amazed. The room was empty!
He sprang inside and rushed to the adjoining cabin. It was also empty. Wheeling, he raced for the door. From above came a shout, a shot. Aft, he heard sounds of confusion. He leaped to the deck outside his cabin door. A blast of wind and spray struck his face.
A guard stood in the opening of the amidships passage. Even as Jim’s eyes caught the flash of movement, the rifle roared. A shot clipped by his head. Jim fired. The man staggered and then jerked up the rifle again. Jim fired again. The man dropped the rifle and grabbed his stomach with both hands.
Jim made the bridge in two jumps. He came face to face with Brophy. The Irishman was grinning.
“Everything under control, Cap! You got one, I got one, an’ the other got away. Get Dussel, Dormie?”
Jim’s brow creased. He was staring aft. Something had slipped up somewhere.
“No. They weren’t in the cabin.”
He strode into the wheelhouse, Longboy was standing there with a rifle. The man at the wheel was grinning.
“Steady as she goes,” Jim said. He turned to Longboy. “Get in the chart room and open the port aft. Watch carefully. Shoot to kill.”
Abdul appeared around the corner of the deckhouse. Behind him were Chino and Hassan. When they reached the bridge, Ponga Jim looked quickly from one to the other.
“Two we kill. Mohamet, he die, too.”
Ponga Jim sighed wearily. “Chino, you stand by here. Brophy, keep this bridge. Don’t let anybody but our men come up.”
Jim slipped cartridges into the Luger. He started down the companionway. It was blowing a gale now. Every few minutes the sea came roaring over the bow and swept aft, gurgling in the scuppers.
Selim was standing in the door of the galley when they went aft. Sakim was just beyond. Both were watching the door of the crew’s mess.
“How many?” Ponga Jim asked.
“Two. They stay still, Tuan. Something funny.”
Ponga Jim stepped quickly to the mess room door. The two men sitting at the table were dead. One was the man he had shot in the passage. The other was probably one of those killed below. They had been propped up to delay pursuit.
FIVE MEN KILLED, and one of his own. Gunner Millan came running down the passage, gun in hand.
“Where’d they go? What the devil’s happening?”
Ponga Jim shrugged grimly. “I wish I knew. We g
ot five of them. There are five left, besides Dussel, Lucieno, and Sag Dormie. We got them outnumbered two to one, but half our boys are on duty.”
“Listen, Cap,” said Slug Brophy, running. “That guy Dussel radioed some ship. I heard him tell Lucieno they were going to meet us in Himana Bay.”
“That’s the answer,” Jim cried. “Dussel decided to hole up until help comes. He doesn’t want to waste his men.”
“But where is he?” Millan asked.
“Somewhere aft. Either the poop or below.” Ponga Jim turned to Brophy. “You better get back on that bridge. No traffic in here, but you never can tell. Swing north about thirty degrees. I’ll give those guys at Himana something to think about.”
Brophy went forward, teetering with the roll of the ship. Jim motioned to Selim.
“You and Sakim stand by with the rifles. If one of them shows his noggin, blast it off. Abdul, you and Hassan turn in and get some sleep. Gunner, radio Amurang, Gorontalo, or someplace. Get in touch with Major Arnold or Li Wan Fang. Try to get some dope on a converted merchantman.”
“You don’t think it’s a sub?” Millan asked.
“If it was, they’d never pick Himana Bay. There’s a native village, and a sub would attract too much attention. It’s only a few hours across the peninsula to Gorontalo. An armed freighter could lay there a week.”
Dawn broke, with the sun bright and the sea choppy. Ponga Jim was drinking coffee in the wheelhouse when Selim came up with a rush.
“Men gone!” he shouted. “He take boat off poop. All gone!”
“What?” Jim demanded. “Well, maybe it’s good riddance.”
He stood up and raised the binoculars.
“Selim! Get below and turn out the crew. Send Millan to me.”
Gunner Millan came running. He was minus a shirt, but had strapped on a gun. Ponga Jim turned quickly.
“Go aft and jerk the cover off number five. Then hoist out that gun you’ll find in the ’tween decks under canvas. I want it mounted aft. You know how to handle that. Lucky this damned old barge is a war veteran and still carries her gun mounting.”
“Where’d you get the gun?” Millan asked.
Jim grinned. “I knocked over a load of munitions a few weeks ago. That gun looked good, so I kept it and sold the rest. Unless I’m mistaken, we’re going to have the fight of our lives. I didn’t get the idea until Selim told me Dussel and his boys got away—”
“Got away?” Millan cried.
“Yeah, they launched that lifeboat from the after wheelhouse. It was a gamble, but they took it. The weather broke about four bells. They’ll contact that cruiser of theirs.”
“It’ll take them a couple of days to get to Himana,” Millan exclaimed. “By that time we’ll be in Amurang.”
“No,” Jim said. “There’s a radio in that boat. Himana Bay isn’t more than thirty or forty minutes from where they left us. Even if the radio wouldn’t do it, they could sail with the breeze they’ve had since they started.” He pointed with the hand that held the glasses. “There’s smoke on the horizon. Unless I miss my guess, that will be them.”
Millan clambered down, and Ponga Jim crossed to the wheel.
“Swing back to eighty degrees. At four bells, change her again to one hundred and thirty degrees.”
Longboy mumbled the course back to him, and Jim walked back to the bridge. It was going to be a tight race. Changing course was going to bring them up on him faster. But it was going to take him in close to the coast, nearer Amurang, in waters he knew and where his shallower draft would be an advantage. The other ship was doing at least fifteen knots to the Semiramis’s ten.
Slug Brophy came up, looking tough.
“This is going to be good, Cap. Ever see Millan handle one of those big guns?”
“He used to be on the Hood. I never saw him work.”
“That guy could knock the buttons off your shirt with a sixteen-inch gun.” Brophy chuckled.
Ponga Jim glanced aft. “She’s coming up fast. Looks like about forty-eight hundred tons.”
“Yeah,” Brophy muttered. “And riding fairly low. But she’s not loaded by a damn sight.”
Ponga Jim pointed to a spot on the chart.
“See that? That point is Tanjung Bangka. Right about here is a patch of reef. She lies in about a fathom and a half. Loaded the way we are, she will give us just enough clearance. You’re taking her over.”
“Maybe she’s not so deep now, Cap. What if there ain’t that much water?”
“Then it’s going to be tough. We’re going over, and I only hope that monkey back there follows us!”
Ponga Jim ran down and hurried aft. Selim, Sakim, Abdul, and Hassan were all standing by with rifles. Millan crouched at the gun with two men.
Smoke leaped from the bow of the other vessel. A shot whistled overhead. Another blasted off to starboard.
“Get that gun if you can,” Jim said quietly. He picked up a rifle. “I want that monkey in the crow’s nest.”
Whipping the rifle to his shoulder, he fired three times. The man in the crow’s nest slumped forward. His rifle slid from his hands.
Millan’s gun roared. Jim saw the shell smash into the bulkhead of the forward deckhouse. The gun crashed again. At the same instant a shell blasted open number four hatch, ripping a winch and ventilator to bits.
“There goes my profit on this trip,” Jim said. “I never did care for war.”
Millan’s gun crashed. They saw the shell shatter the enemy’s gun. Millan fired again. A shot struck the Semiramis amidships. Mayo winced.
He ran to the rail and glanced at the faint discoloration of the reef.
“A fathom and a half is right,” he said cheerfully. “I must report that to the Hydrographic Office. Get that after gun when she strikes the reef. When we swing alongside, let them board us. They will, because they’ll be sinking!”
“Are you nuts?” Millan protested.
THERE WAS A terrific crash astern, a grinding scream as the bow of the pursuing ship lifted over the reef. With a tortured rending of steel plates, the big freighter slid over the reef, canted sharply to starboard. Ponga Jim turned and raced for the bridge.
“Hard to port!” he yelled at Brophy. “Swing around and come in alongside.”
Millan’s gun banged, then again. Someone was shouting from the bridge. Rifle shots swept the deck of the Semiramis. Back aft, Millan was coolly battering the larger ship to pieces. The shells were smashing the superstructure into a mountain of twisted steel.
The Semiramis slid alongside. Ponga Jim dived for the ladder, gun in hand. A bullet slammed by his head and went whining off over the sea. He snapped an effective shot at a big German sailor.
The main deck was a pitched battle. Abandoning his gun, Millan was leading the lascars to stem the tide of men leaping from the rail of the wrecked ship. From the bridge, Slug Brophy was working two guns, firing from the hips.
Ponga Jim fired twice. Something struck him a terrific blow on the head. He pulled himself erect, feeling the warm rush of blood down his face. Something smashed into the bulkhead beside him and he found himself staring at a mushroomed bullet. With an effort, he pulled himself around.
Sag Dormie was standing on the edge of the ruined number four hatch. Just as Jim looked up, Sag’s gun blossomed fire. Miraculously, he missed. Ponga Jim’s gun swung up, roaring a stream of fire and lead.
Blank astonishment swept over Sag’s face. Still trying to lift his gun, he toppled back into the black maw of the hatch.
Shooting and slugging furiously, Ponga Jim leaped into the brawl on the main deck. Hassan was down, his body riddled. Big Abdul stabbed and ripped a heavy knife at a circle of enemies. Jim’s shot cut one of them down. Another man wheeled to face him. Mayo slammed him with the barrel of the gun. The man wilted.
But where the hell was Dussel? Blood streaming down his face, Jim stared around. He saw him, standing on the bridge of the other ship. As he looked up, Job Dussel saw him and beckone
d.
Jim cleared both rails at a leap. Job met him at the top, his white, pulpy face wrinkled in a smile. Then the big man leaped.
But this time Jim was ready. Rolling under a left, he slammed each fist into the big man’s body. Dussel crowded him back, swinging. When he tried to duck he was caught with a wicked uppercut that knocked him back against the wheelhouse. There was no chance for boxing. It was a matter of standing toe to toe on the narrow bridge and slugging.
Dussel hooked a vicious right that knocked him to his knees and then shot out a kick that Jim barely evaded. Staggering to his feet, Ponga Jim was blinded by the blood from his scalp wound. He scarcely felt the terrific driving force of those blows that rained about his head and body. Driving in, he weaved and bobbed. He felt only the killing desire to batter that gross body against the bulkhead, to drive him back, back, back!
Ponga Jim stared. The huge, hard body, seemingly so soft, was impregnable, almost beyond injury. But the face—
Jim crowded closer, swinging both hands. A blow staggered him. But he went under and whipped up a left hook that bared Dussel’s cheekbone. A terrific right knocked Dussel sprawling along the bridge.
Someone was shouting at Jim. He looked up, dazed. A slim white cutter had swept up, scarcely a half-dozen yards away. Standing on the bow was Major Arnold, immaculate in a white and gold uniform!
“Jump!” Major Arnold yelled. “That scow is sinking under your feet! Stop playing slap hands and move!”
“William,” Jim gulped. He suddenly felt relaxed and empty inside. “You look sweet enough to kiss. Am I seeing stars or are those gold buttons?”
“Just jump, damn you!” Arnold roared. “If you don’t, I’ll come after you!”
Jim stared around. The water was creeping over the decking of the bridge!
Jim sprang to the rail of the bridge and off into the water. Dripping, he was hauled aboard the cutter. He could see the sturdy old Semiramis standing off.
“Look!” Major Arnold said suddenly.
On the bridge of the sinking freighter, Job Dussel had tottered to his feet. His wide, repulsive face was horribly smashed and bloody.
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four Page 35
