CHAPTER XVIII
A “CUTTING OUT” EXPEDITION
FOUR bells was struck on board the “Sitka,” as the steam launch quietly shoved off from the gangway.
The launch had been stripped of its bulky canopy and lay lean and low in the water. No lights were shown, and in the darkness the little craft hoped to leave the harbor unobserved.
“What’s that for?” Sydney suddenly exclaimed in alarm.
The “Sitka” had turned on all her search-lights and was sweeping them in small arcs over the shipping and along the shore line.
Phil chuckled.
“Throwing sand in their eyes,” he said. “See that light held stationary on our ‘lookout’ hill. They can’t see us with that illumination in their faces. There’s another light playing over the Herzovinian war-ship and another on the Matafeli district where the count lives. It’s just a measure of safety. I heard Commander Tazewell give the order for it as we left the cabin a few minutes ago.”
“Those search-lights will nearly put your eyes out,” O’Neil declared. “When I was serving in a torpedo boat destroyer during the war manœuvers we used to run full speed toward a battle-ship after we had sighted her steaming along with no lights showing. Then when she saw us and turned her search-lights on us, there was nothing doing. We couldn’t see nothing, and we didn’t know how far we were away.”
The launch cleared the reefs at the entrance, and stood to the eastward. The craft was under the pilotage of Chief Tuamana, who had been delighted to aid his white friends against those he assumed to be his enemies. A course was laid from the chart to take them clear of the reef, and also far enough away so as not to be observed by natives fishing along its edge.
“Commander Tazewell especially cautioned secrecy,” Phil said, as he directed O’Neil, who was at the helm, to give the reef a wide berth. “We are to act only at night, and surprise old man Scott. The natives on shore are to know nothing of our move.”
“What’s the idea of that?” Sydney asked.
“The fear that if the count heard we had cut out the ‘Talofa’ he might use it as an excuse to precipitate matters, I suppose,” Phil replied. “He could give the episode vivid coloring and claim he had hoisted his nation’s flag to prevent the high-handed and lawless acts of the American and English naval commanders. It would sound well to those who didn’t know all the particulars. Of course,” Phil added, “another reason is that if we are seen, Scott may be informed and might resist us by force, and then the situation wouldn’t be so simple; especially if he should use natives of Kataafa’s side to resist us.”
Sydney contemplated in silence the gunner’s mate at his side who was critically examining a machine gun on its portable tripod.
“The executive seems to have supplied us with enough force to overcome resistance,” the midshipman declared quietly. “A machine gun and ten sailors with rifles should easily overpower Captain Scott and his crew.”
Stump had listened in silence. Hearing Sydney’s observation he joined in the conversation.
“You’ll need all you’ve got to get ahead of ‘Bully’ Scott,” he exclaimed wagging his head sagely, “unless you surprise him. This here ‘Bully’ Scott is a tough man to go fooling with. I seen him lay out nearly a dozen natives in the Solomon Islands. They were all trying to kill him with head knives and war clubs. He’s a dead shot with a revolver, and he usually carries two of them.”
“I reckon he will not resist us, Stump,” Phil said confidently. “We represent the law, you see, and if he hurts any one, he’ll be liable to a long term in jail.”
Stump laughed mirthlessly.
“He’s entitled to that already,” he exclaimed. “That’s why he wants to lay his hands on me. And if he should,” the mate added with an involuntary shiver, “the ‘Talofa’ would arrive at its next port and ‘Bully’ Scott with tears in his eyes would tell of the loss of his dear friend Stump, drowned at sea.”
“What’s the plan, Phil?” Sydney asked some time later.
“We go first to Fangaloa Bay. If the ‘Talofa’s’ there we simply seize her and every one on board and take her back to Ukula harbor,” Phil replied.
“That sounds simple enough,” O’Neil declared, “and, Mr. Perry, it’ll be just as easy as saying it. Only,” he added jokingly, “we’ll have to keep our eyes on Stump. He’s likely to get mixed up with his old friend and shipmate ‘Bully’ Scott.”
The night was extremely dark, but the thunder of the surf on the reef guided them in keeping beyond that peril. The land loomed dark on the starboard hand, while overhead a brilliant starry sky accentuated the blackness of the night. Ashore, bright lights sprang up from time to time, revealing the location of native villages along the beach.
Tuamana, a cape of native cloth slung picturesquely over his shoulders, stood silently beside O’Neil. The chief’s eyes were continually upon the shore line. He was for the most part silent, but would occasionally turn to Phil, pointing to a group of lights ashore or to a deeper shadow against the loom of the land and inform him shortly of their bearings.
“Saluafata,” he said as the thunder of the breaking surf grew louder and a ghastly whiteness appeared on the bow.
Phil glanced at his watch. “Eleven thirty,” he said. “We’re about half-way.”
Most of the crew had curled themselves down in the bottom of the boat and lay motionless. Phil envied them. Even with the prospect of a hand to hand fight, against what odds they could not know, their healthy minds were wrapped in sleep.
“What brought Captain Scott back, Stump?” Phil asked after an unbroken silence of some minutes. “He was supposed to have left the islands after landing the guns.”
“Klinger said Scott heard that the Herzovinians owned the government, and that he was therefore safe to come and get his copra,” Stump answered. “But I know that he’s looking for me. I know too much. I’ve seen more than one poor black boy kicked overboard when Scott was in one of his wild fits of anger.”
“Why have you stayed so long with such a brute?” Sydney asked.
“Well, sir,” Stump replied, “I reckon I was always too scared to run away. And then,” he added fearfully, “I’ve got a few things to answer for, too. I was driven to ’em, but before a court that don’t count. I hain’t got murder, though,” he declared. “’Tain’t in no way as bad as that. Captain Scott swears I shoved a black boy overboard in a gale of wind, but ’fore God, it was an accident, and I asked to lower a boat and go after him, but Scott wouldn’t let me. I’ve done with it, and am willing to take whatever medicine is coming.”
“Fangaloa,” Tuamana grunted, pointing to the dim outline of a high cone-shaped mountain looming up on the starboard hand.
The word soon spread among the sleeping forms, and presently all were keenly alert. The gunner’s mate had secured his machine gun to be prepared to rake the enemy with a withering fire in case of opposition.
The launch turned between two bold headlands and steered for the dark land. They were running into a long narrow arm of the sea—the Bay of Fangaloa, a mile wide and three miles deep.
Every eye was strained ahead, gazing for the schooner. There were but few lights on the distant beach. Most of the natives were long ago in bed.
Quietly the sailors had taken their stations. Each carried only a revolver; for night use rifles are less effective. Phil and Sydney stood side by side ready to lead their men on board the “Talofa.” The darkness was intense. The bold and densely wooded mountains rising precipitously above them cast a deep shadow over the waters of the bay.
A satisfied grunt from Tuamana was the first news that their quarry had been located. The chiefs keen eyes had perceived the ghostly outline of a sail. In a few minutes all recognized the schooner, lying near the extreme end of the bay. Her great mainsail was set and its whiteness against the land had first revealed her presence.
No one spoke. The steam launch had been slowed in speed, and all precautions taken to assure surprise. The fireman ceaselessly watched his boiler to prevent a sudden escape of steam and the machinist used oil freely to prevent the slightest machinery squeak which might reveal their presence.
In silence, except for the slight churn of the propeller and the swirl of water thrown from the bow of the launch in its progress, O’Neil steered straight for the black hull now distinctly outlined scarcely five hundred yards away. No lights were visible on the schooner—a good sign. The crew were either all asleep or ashore.
The launch, with its engine stopped, swung alongside. Ready hands made her fast, and a moment after the deserted decks were held by the Americans.
“You look out for the forward hatch,” Phil ordered Sydney. “O’Neil, take a half dozen men with Stump, and make sail. Tell the launch to take a line and tow us out of the bog.”
Phil with two sailors moved toward the cabin ladder. He gazed below into forbidding blackness.
“I wonder if Scott is down there?” he exclaimed. “If he is he will soon be up when he feels his ship under way.”
Phil heard the sound of the capstan as O’Neil and his men began to weigh the anchor. Then the squeak of gear grinding through unoiled blocks gave proof that the foresail and head-sails were being set. Soon a slight jar and the louder noise of the churning of the launch’s propeller told him the schooner was under way, and then slowly she moved through the quiet water of the bay toward the sea.
“Keep watch here,” Phil said to his two men. Then with his revolver in hand he slowly, cautiously descended the ladder. Stories told of this pirate Scott came into his mind. At the bottom the darkness was oppressive. Phil endeavored to listen for the breathing of the man he sought, but his own heart-beats deafened him. He did not know which way to turn. Where were the sleeping quarters?
He fumbled in his pockets and drew forth a box of matches. Then quickly striking one he held it above his head. He was in a small cabin containing a table and a few leathered bunks. A door opened to his right. Advancing he held the match before him. He saw the small room was a stateroom, but it was empty. Captain Scott was not on board the ship. Disappointedly he mounted the ladder and turned his steps forward.
Sydney and O’Neil had aroused the crew, six men in all, and had employed them hauling on ropes. Stump was talking with a tall native as Phil approached.
“Captain Scott isn’t in the cabin,” he informed his companions; “but we have his vessel, anyway.”
“Did you go down there alone?” Stump exclaimed incredulously.
“I certainly did,” Phil replied, laughing half nervously at the evident surprise in Stump’s voice, “and my heart’s still racing like that steam launch engine.”
“Mine would have stopped,” Stump declared. “I’m glad he ain’t on board. I never want to see the old pirate again until I see him hanged.”
“What does his crew say?” Phil asked.
“This is Maka,” Stump said indicating the tall native. “Captain Scott, he says, went ashore to meet Klinger somewhere, he doesn’t know where, and left word he’d sail in the morning.”
“Well, he won’t.” Phil chuckled. “Gee! I’d like to see his face when he arrives and sees no schooner.”
The little steam launch toiled away, dragging its huge burden toward the sea.
“It’s two o’clock,” Phil said looking at his watch by the light of a lantern. “There will be little wind before morning, and then it will probably be offshore. I think we’d better have the launch tow us well clear of the reefs before we attempt to haul aft the sheets.”
O’Neil nodded in agreement.
“We’ll have to arrange watches,” Phil said. “I’m overpowered with sleep myself, and I suppose we all are in about the same condition. We’ve four of us to stand watch. I insist on standing the first hour, then I’ll call you, Syd.”
O’Neil protested: “Excuse me, sir. You and Mr. Monroe are young and need lots of sleep. I couldn’t sleep if I tried. Stump here sometimes stays awake for days at a time. It’s all a matter of habit, this sleeping is. Now, please, you gentlemen go and turn in, and I’ll call you if anything happens that you ought to know of.”
Phil was really too sleepy to protest vigorously, so he and Sydney curled down on mattresses, brought up from Scott’s cabin, and were soon sound asleep.
When Phil woke the sun was high up and the “Talofa” was under sail. The steam launch raced along several hundred yards away. The breeze was light and the water smooth.
“There’s smoke out there on the horizon,” O’Neil said as he came aft, looking as fresh as if he had slept the whole night through. “There ain’t any steamer expected, is there, sir?”
Phil shook his head. “Not for another week, anyway,” he replied excitedly. Then he gazed toward the land. “We’re twenty miles from shore, at least,” he added.
“The wind’s offshore, but the trade wind will be stronger out here when it starts up, and we can then make Ukula in one leg,” O’Neil replied.
Phil considered for several minutes. Was the smoke a Herzovinian war-ship or was it the “Sacramento”? If it was the latter it would be of great service to the admiral on board to know the conditions in Kapua before he was sighted by the watchful sailors on Mission Hill. If it turned out to be the other war-ship no harm could be done by taking a look at it.
“Bear up, O’Neil, and run down and investigate,” Phil said quietly. “Hail the launch and tell her to proceed toward Ukula, but keep outside until we catch up, and watch us for signals.”
With the wind free the fast schooner fairly skimmed over the water, racing toward the curl of smoke barely distinguishable.
“Smoke down here means something,” O’Neil said as he returned with Stump after seeing that all the running gear was properly belayed and the sails trimmed. Then he added cheerfully, “We’ll be eating breakfast at the expense of our absent friend Captain Scott in a few minutes. Stump knows where he keeps his eatables, and we’ve got a seaman with us who can make as good coffee as you can buy in a first-class ‘Frisco’ hotel.”
It seemed ages to the anxious Americans before the small speck of a hull appeared beneath the curl of misty smoke.
“She’s painted white,” O’Neil exclaimed as he handed the binoculars to Phil. The midshipmen each took a look, then shook their heads. She was too far away. “Imagination, O’Neil,” Sydney suggested.
“Another fifteen minutes and we’ll know for sure,” Sydney said nervously. “I hope it’s the ‘Sacramento.’”
The steam launch had disappeared, swallowed up against the background of the high mountains of the island.
Slowly the speck on the horizon took shape. Anxiously the Americans watched, each eager to recognize some outline that would tell them whether the strange vessel was flying their flag or that of the power which to all intents and purposes was their rival, if not enemy.
“What will you do,” Sydney asked Phil excitedly, “if she’s not the ‘Sacramento’?”
Phil glanced aloft at the straining canvas. The wind had come out at southeast, and on the sea whitecaps of foam were here and there appearing. He knew that within the hour or even less a strong trade wind would be blowing fair for Ukula harbor.
“We’ll try to beat her in,” he replied, “and announce her coming to Commander Tazewell. But,” he added hopelessly, “what can he do? We are too weak now to oppose the count’s government, and with this reënforcement our chances will be hopeless.”
“It’s the ‘Sacramento,’ all right!” O’Neil exclaimed. “See those big bow sponsons for her guns. It’s all over but the shouting now for friend Kataafa! He’ll be doing a foot-race for his summer capital, and the count will be taking a voyage in a war-ship for his health!”
No doubt longer existed. O’Neil’s brisk summing up of the events of the future brought a smile of relief to the lips of the midshipmen. Phil gazed long and earnestly at the approaching war-ship. She had apparently altered her course and was now heading down directly for them.
A few moments later a puff of smoke was seen ejected from the high forecastle and a muffled report was heard some dozen seconds later—the universal message of the sea, announcing, “I desire to communicate.”
The big war-ship, her decks crowded with curious sailors, lay motionless in the water as the schooner “hove to” close alongside.
Phil had answered the hail and reported he had information of importance for the admiral.
A boat shot down from the “Sacramento’s” davits, and was soon alongside the “Talofa.”
O’Neil tended the boat line and good-naturedly chaffed the inquisitive boat’s crew.
“We’re doing a little buccaneering, that’s all,” he answered an eager inquiry as to their mission. “The islanders are fighting between themselves. You fellows came just at the right time. Say,” he added, “did you see anything of a Herzovinian war-ship heading this way, burning up the paint on her bottom?”
The coxswain of the whale-boat declared that the schooner was the only sail they had sighted since leaving Honolulu, nearly two weeks ago.
“It’s a big ocean, ain’t it?” O’Neil said thoughtfully.
Phil stepped down into the whale-boat and was soon being rowed across to the war-ship. The admiral wished to hear the news directly and from Phil in person.