Cargo of Coffins

by L. Ron Hubbard

  Lars shot from the hip.

  Tallien’s great bulk stood immobile. He took an uncertain step back. Abruptly the rifle clattered to the deck and Tallien shot out of sight, backwards down the bridge ladder.

  Lars raced to the rifle and scooped it up, darting back in time to dodge a random shot from below.

  Ralph came up on all fours and Terry stood shivering, pressed against the door to the radio room. It opened against her and the sleepy operator stuck out his head.

  “What the hell’s the shooting . . . ? Oh, beg pardon, Miss Norton, how—”

  Lars was at her side. “Get a radio to Casablanca, French Morocco. Tell them Renoir and Patou are attacking the Valiant. Tell them to get a cruiser or anything out here instantly.”

  “Where are we?”

  “About fifty miles straight west of Casablanca.” Lars turned to the bridge. “I’ll give you the position exactly in a minute.”

  Terry was swept along by Lars. He thrust her into the protection of the chart room. “Get down out of sight!”

  Ralph was digging the riot guns from beneath a transom. A bullet shattered the glass over his head and he ducked. Lars crouched and fired forward at the fo’c’s’le head.

  “This is going to be hot,” said Lars. He looked up as Johnson came in on hands and knees, and grabbed a riot gun from Ralph, shoving it into Johnson’s hands. “If you want to live, don’t be afraid to use this.”

  “What’s it all about?” quavered Johnson.

  Lars had no time to explain, going swiftly in a crouch he got to the wheel. The helmsman was lying on his stomach, afraid to reach up as high as the lowest spoke. Lars took a quick glance at the binnacle. A bullet greeted his rising, shrieking as it struck an inch from his face. But he had what he wanted. The compass still read sixty-one.

  Johnson was lying beside him.

  “You didn’t change the course?”

  “I . . . I was scared to. I thought I better put into Casablanca because you threw us off and with all these islands—”

  “Good! Ralph! Take this to Sparks!”

  Lars handed their position, as swiftly as he could figure it, to Ralph who scuttled away.

  Above the short cracks of pistol and rifle below, the whine of a dynamo began to rise. The message was on its way.

  The sniper on the fo’c’s’le head was getting close, firing at random through the dodger. Splinters plowed up beside Ralph’s hand and he quickly stuck his fingers in his mouth to suck the blood from the cuts.

  “Won’t they attack from the boat deck?” said Johnson.

  “I’m going to cover that. You keep these two forward ladders clear.”

  As Lars crawled past the chart room he saw Terry shivering against the legs of the table. But, no matter how much he wanted to speak to her before the French came, he could not stop.

  Lugging a riot gun, he crept toward the boat deck.

  He heard Terry’s scream, “Look out!”

  He spun about. Blond Jean Patou’s wild eyes were staring down the sights of a Mann-Scho. Lars fired while still in motion. The two shots roared together. Glass showered down upon Lars. Clumsy, crazy Patou knew little about rifle sights.

  Clumsy Jean Patou fell forward on the rifle.

  Lars was motionless for an instant. He had hoped it was Paco. But Paco would hardly take part in such an attack unless it was from the fo’c’s’le head.

  Shots were coming from that direction now with greater regularity. Lars glanced up at a searchlight platform over the bridge.

  Then, using Jean Patou for a barricade, he sent five shots from the riot gun toward the fo’c’s’le head. He saw Paco bob back and knew that all five had missed.

  But his object was accomplished. Quickly, Lars swarmed up the ladder to the searchlight stage. He threw himself down behind the narrow base. Three swift shots bit steel around him. He reloaded and returned them.

  Something changed about the ship and then Lars knew. The engines had stopped. Paco, in the protection of the steel bulkheads forward, also knew it.

  Paco’s voice was thin but jeering. “Now what are you going to do? We’ll starve you out! We’ll make you surrender. Don’t forget we’ve got the rest of our pets cooped up and the crew to boot!”

  “Ever hear of a radio?” shouted Lars.

  An incredulous silence followed this. For a space of minutes no shots were fired, no voice was raised.

  And then a wail came from forward. “You wouldn’t! You haven’t got the nerve to send that radio! You know what they’d do to you!”

  “A gunboat’s on its way from Casablanca!” shouted Lars. “A French gunboat!”

  “Damn you!” screamed Paco. “It’s that woman! You fool, let us have the bridge and we’ll get out of here before they come! They’ll get you too!”

  “Sure they will!” cried Lars, jubilant. “Sure they will but it’s worth the price. You and I started out from Casablanca. It’s fitting that we’ve come back. But it’s not the Penal Colony now. It’s the guillotine! The guillotine for the lot of us! If it’s the station ship, it’ll be Captain Renard. There’s no greasing out of this. He knows us. Both of us!”

  A bullet shrieked away from the searchlight stanchion. Paco and Renoir and Auberville were firing wildly now. But they knew what had happened to Tallien and Patou and they did not have the courage for another charge.

  For two sweating, grimy hours they held the bridge defenders and then, in the east, a smoke plume could be seen. The battle was over.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Reckoning

  THE station ship stood off a few yards from the Valiant and both vessels rolled gently upon the quiet sea. A boatload of French Marines and Captain Renard himself warily approached the yacht.

  But they need not have felt concern. Paco and Auberville and Renoir were no longer winning and they could no longer fight. The Marines came up a Jacob’s ladder to the deck and stood there in two rows, stiffly in command of the situation.

  Captain Renard was small and efficient and dapper. But in spite of his size, his voice could carry a good sea mile. In loud French he bawled, “Do you come out or do we come in?”

  Paco came out, head down, shuffling. He appeared punctured. Auberville and Renoir were fatalistic about it. They followed Paco with a truculent stride.

  Captain Renard saw Paco but he did not immediately recognize him. Instead he turned his attention on the bridge. Terry Norton was coming down the ladder. Although she was not dressed for such a reception, the gallant captain had no attention to spare for her clothes. He swept off his hat.

  “M’selle!” said Captain Renard, bowing. “You are Miss Norton. Oh, yes, once I have seen you in Paris! How could I ever forget so exquisite a face. Ah, so sorry you have trouble with these convicts. But, no matter, I have arrived. These, of course, are the men.”

  “Yes,” said Terry. “This is Paco Corvino.”

  Paco looked down at the deck.

  Members of the ship’s company straggled out of the hold and the companionways, ashamed of the part they, unarmed, had been forced to play.

  Lars came slowly down from the searchlight platform. His face was bleeding where chips of steel had cut him. He stopped on the bridge to look down. He wanted to watch this for a moment before he became a part of it.

  Terry and Captain Renard were still talking. She was trying to tell him what she knew about it.

  “You say Paco Corvino?” said Captain Renard. “Wait. I know that name somehow . . . Ah . . .” He faced Paco, roughly squared him around, looking at him as though he inspected some particularly slimy type of spider. “Of course! Paco! But I thought . . . There was a record of your death when you tried to escape. . . . Ah, certainly. You had to lie even about your dying. Miss Norton, I am so sorree, this fellow is the worst blackguard who ever befouled French soil. He is too low to be considered for an instant—except perhaps by the executioner who considers all things for a certain price. I could not express how badly I feel that you have had t
his trouble from such a worthless, lying miscreant, Miss Norton. I once put it away in the Penal Colony for contraband but it persists in living. Bah, we should squash such things beneath our heel.”

  He gave Paco a contemptuous thrust and sent him reeling back into the ranks of Marines. Then he carefully took out a kerchief and as carefully wiped his fingers.

  Lars watched the Frenchman and Terry come up toward the bridge. He braced himself. He had seen how Renard had treated Paco and it pleased him. But Lars knew his own turn was coming down. To be humbled before Terry Norton . . .

  “If it had not been for a captain we were fortunate enough to procure in Rio,” Terry was saying as they came up the ladder, “Paco might have succeeded. But as it was Captain Lowenskold acted so bravely that he kept them at bay. I was very foolish. I would not listen to Captain Lowenskold because Paco—”

  “I should like to meet this brave captain.”

  “He was very anxious to meet you,” said Terry. “He sent that radio as fast as Sparks could throw in a switch.”

  “So?” said Renard. “Then he knew we French were always on the alerte! A wise man to send particularly for me!”

  Lars was waiting beside the wheel when they reached the top of the ladder. He was watching Renard. Renard could not help but recognize Lars Marlin, the man he had sent up with Paco, now that Paco had been called to Renard’s mind. And besides, by this time, all French vessels knew that Lars Marlin, escaped convict, was captaining the Valiant. Delal would have traced it by now.

  “Captain Renard,” said Terry, “may I present Captain Lowenskold?”

  Renard’s smile suddenly froze on his face. His half-extended hand stayed motionless. Lars read recognition in those eyes. Renard knew him. Lars wished fervently that it did not have to come before Terry.

  Renard scowled a little and withdrew his hand. “You say, Miss Norton, that this man defended you against Paco Corvino?”

  “Of course!”

  Renard looked at Lars with a studious eye. “Captain Lowenskold?” He saw the wounded shoulder and the cut face.

  “Yes,” said Terry. “It was only his quick thinking which spared us. I doubt any of us would have thought to send for you until it was too late.”

  “You sent for me?” said Renard carefully.

  Lars neither spoke nor moved.

  Terry could feel the tension but she could not understand it.

  Renard was trying to think.

  A sergeant of marines came to the top of the ladder. “Captain, sir, that jackal Paco Corvino says Lars Marlin is up there and you better bring him down with the others.”

  “Lars Marlin,” said Renard, nodding. He looked around at the shambles of the bridge and looked back at Lars’ wounded arm and cut face. Again he looked around him. He could see the dead Tallien’s left foot sticking through one ladder. He could see Jean Patou crumpled up in the companionway, blond hair matted with blood.

  “Is anything wrong?” said Terry.

  Renard shrugged. “Wrong? Wrong? No, it is I who have been wrong. Before when . . . before I thought there might be a doubt, but now I am sure.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Terry.

  “Sir,” said the sergeant, “Paco Corvino keeps telling me that Lars Marlin is up there. I remember he was sent up with Paco.”

  “Your memory does you credit, Sergeant,” said Renard. “Go back and tell that ugly louse, Paco Corvino, to be still. Miss Norton, I am so sorry I have troubled you about this, so glad to have been of help.”

  He suddenly extended his hand to Lars. “I am so glad to have met such a brave man, Captain . . . Lowenskold.”

  Lars took the hand, too stunned to say a word.

  “But what is this about another one being up here?” said Terry as Renard moved off.

  Captain Renard smiled and shrugged. “He is talking about another convict named Marlin. And anybody with half an eye”—and here he turned dead Jean Patou over with his foot— “could see that there lies Marlin, dead as an anchovy.”

  Captain Renard, very pleased with himself and the world, trotted jauntily down the bridge ladder. He stopped and roared commands at his men, and the sergeant, kicking Paco along before him, cursed Paco all the way down into the motorboat.

  Lars Lowenskold leaned weakly against the binnacle, listening to the departing engine.

  Quickly and solicitously, Terry put her small hand on his arm.

  Story Preview

  NOW that you’ve just ventured through one of the captivating tales in the Stories from the Golden Age collection by L. Ron Hubbard, turn the page and enjoy a preview of Loot of the Shanung. Join Jimmy Vance, an ace reporter who’s hired by the beautiful Virginia Rockham to find her missing father, billionaire oil magnate George Harley Rockham, only to become the target himself of several especially vicious thugs.

  Loot of the Shanung

  THE press releases flowed across the desk in a miniature Yangtze at flood time. The office of the Oriental Press throbbed with effort and excitement.

  Jimmy Vance, both hands full and a pencil between his teeth, stared up at the copy boy. “Here y’are. Tell them to run this on the first page. I’ll hand the fills over in a few minutes. About his life and all.”

  “A lady to see you, Jimmy,” said the copy boy.

  “The devil with that. Where’d I put that Who’s Who?”

  The Who’s Who came to light when it was going down for the third time in the tan copy paper. Jimmy flipped it open, swept his very blond hair out of his eyes, and ran his finger down the column.

  “George Harley Rockham,” said the Who’s Who. “Born 1890 in Chicago, Ill. Appointed to Russian Wheat Commission, 1919. Served as Secretary of Interior, 1924–6. Held oil leases in Regular Oil Company. Developed vast holdings in South America. Created an oil monopoly in China, 1928. Known best through his hobby of travel. Married Virginia Courtney in 1908. His daughter, Miss Virginia Rockham, has long been known to Long Island Society. . . .”

  “Huh,” said Jimmy, “that’s plenty. Plenty.” He grabbed at his battered typewriter, inserted half a dozen sheets after the custom of copywriters and began to hammer the keys in an industrious hunt-and-punch system.

  The copy boy, bucktoothed and mostly grin, was at his elbow again. “Jimmy. That dame says she won’t wait. You got to see her. Here’s the card.”

  “Busy,” said Jimmy, continuing to write.

  “She’s a swell looker,” informed the copy boy. “Real class.”

  “Beat it,” said Jimmy, scowling at the Who’s Who.

  His story grew out of the roller:

  Shanghai, China, May 14, Oriental Press. As the fate of George Harley Rockham, the great oil magnate, tonight remained shrouded with mystery, his many friends over the world watched anxiously for the first news.

  Jimmy scratched his head, scowled at the sheet and then wrote:

  It is debated that he still lives. The coastal steamer Shanung has not appeared in Hong Kong, and while there are no storms recorded north of that city, it is thought that the Shanung might have foundered, run aground or met any other perils of the sea.

  Rumor is current that the Shanung was captured by the notorious pirates who range along Bias Bay, a few miles north of Hong Kong. This is only one of many conjectures that . . .

  The copy boy was there again, still grinning. “That dame gave me a five-spot to see you, Jimmy. Y’can’t let me down now. I need five Mex and if you don’t see her I’ll have to give it back.”

  “Scram,” said Jimmy, pondering anew. He was about to consult the Who’s Who for further rumors, conjectures and so on when he became aware of a pair of hands on the railing before his desk.

  He stopped, looking absently at the fingers. They were nice hands. White and graceful, with long, naturally polished nails. A diamond ring glittered, but it wasn’t on the engagement finger.

  Jimmy was suddenly interested. He looked up the arms and discovered a Cossack jacket with silver cartridge cases. He looked at the
high Russian collar and then saw the face.

  The face, decided Jimmy, was very pleasing. The girl’s eyes were dark, rather wistful and sad. Her cheekbones were high, giving an air of severity to the features. But the fullness of the good-natured mouth belied that.

  “You’re Jimmy Vance?” said the girl, very quietly.

  “Yes,” said Jimmy and then instantly recovered himself. “If you’re looking for the society editor, he’s first corridor to your right.” He turned back to his work, not meaning to be rude, but aware of the necessity of stopping the study of the girl.

  He was about to write another paragraph on the story when he saw the card the boy had laid beside his typewriter. The card was simply engraved. It said, “Virginia Rockham.”

  Jimmy’s eyes flashed up. It was one of the few times in Jimmy’s headlong career that he registered surprise. He jumped to his feet and swung the gate back.

  “Good golly, Miss Rockham. I’m sorry as the devil. I thought you must be one of these Ruskies, the way you’re dressed. I didn’t have any idea . . . Here, have a chair. Now listen, Miss Rockham, I’ve got to have some dope here before I can go on.”

  She was mildly surprised at his manner. Jimmy usually gave the impression of a meteor in full flight. He was not so very tall and he seemed utterly without color. His eyes were big and swift and frank. He had the air of hurrying even when sitting still. Restlessly, he offered her a cigarette and then lit one for himself when she refused.

  “Dope, Miss Rockham. The presses are grinding, the boys are waiting on the streets. The international cables are holding down their keys, waiting for this stuff. I’ve heard opinions, I’ve heard theories, and now, by golly, I want to hear some facts.”

  “I . . . I don’t know any more than you do, Mr. Vance.”

  “The hell you don’t!” Jimmy was plainly aghast. “Well . . . well . . . think of something, anything. I’ve written columns on it already and I’ve had to make up each and every word. Good God, Miss Rockham, a billionaire doesn’t disappear like that. Even out here in China. He has to be someplace. Even a Chinese pirate would know how much he was worth in ransom. Think, girl!”