Once clear of the harbour the Mary set out on a course which would find her some miles off the Saltern coast by ten o'clock, if she kept to it. Ben and Dare were nowise put out by this. They had expected some such tactics. With the falling of night the Mary would draw in to the land, there was no doubting that. So they sailed resolutely on the same course.
The Nancy, as Ben had prophesied, had little difficulty in keeping in sight of the Mary, partly due to the fact that Pierre's boat did not use her engine and thus the propeller acted as a drag, and partly due to the light wind which was in the Nancy's favour.
The wind was south-west and the course the Mary had taken meant she would have to beat her way back to the land, when she changed her course. Up to nightfall they had no difficulty in keeping the Mary in sight, and they did it without getting near enough to her to excite too close an inspection. When dusk deepened into night, however, their task became more difficult, for the stay lights of the Mary were not visible from behind, and they had to rely on the light in her cabin to guide them.
The wind also began to show signs of freshening, and this adding to the Mary's advantage, threatened to take her so far ahead that she would be lost sight of in the growing density of the night.
At this period of their chase Ben was in the bow and Dare at the helm, both straining their eyes in the effort to keep the light in view. They wisely carried no lights themselves.
Gradually the form of the Mary was entirely hidden from them and the will-o'-the-wisp cabin light was the only evidence they had of her existence. The night was as black as can be imagined, due to the lack of a moon, and the wind was coming off shore in increasingly bad squalls.
They managed to keep the light in view for an hour or so, then what they had dreaded happened and they lost sight of it. It was now ten o'clock.
To their great joy, however, the Mary's port light suddenly came into view and realization of what had happened dawned on them. The Mary had swung off her course and was heading for the land.
They were about to imitate her when the port light suddenly went out and left them completely lost now as to the schooner's position.
Ben came running aft to Dare.
"She's doused her lights," he shouted. "We might have known they'd do it 'fore beatin' in to the land. We're done for."
It certainly seemed as though their chase had ended for that night. The blackness was such that without some kind of beacon it was impossible even to guess where the Mary lay. When this happened the Nancy had been about half a mile or so to the windward of the Mary and about a mile behind her; for Ben had had a thought for the necessity of beating in to the land later, and had kept as much to the windward as possible.
It became necessary to decide how they should now act. Dare, frankly, was at a loss to know what to do, but Ben was not without hope that they might pick up the Mary again if they hauled in a little to the land.
The Mary was on her port tack. The Nancy was half a mile to the windward of her. By laying in on the starboard tack they might come near enough to the Mary to pick up her cabin light again.
Curiously enough, neither Ben nor Dare thought of the obvious thing—that the Mary would use her engine and head straight for the land. They kept to their course.
They showed no lights, and as there was now in their vicinity another boat without lights, both were a menace to each other. Ben recognized the risk, but as they were on the look-out for the Mary he thought it was obviated by their preparedness. And so it might have been if the Mary had been on her port tack, as they thought. Instead of that, the schooner had lowered her sails and was heading for the shore in almost complete silence under the power of her motor.
Ben, in the bow of the Nancy, kept a sharp look-out, as did Dare at the tiller. Both ears and eyes were serving them. But the rising wind was a perfect cover for the movements of the Mary. Even if she had been to the windward of them it is difficult to say if they would have heard her quiet exhaust. As it happened she was to leeward, and heading such a course that in less than twenty minutes she was to bring a swift doom to the Nancy.
It was Dare who first became aware of the impending catastrophe. He had given a glance to leeward and there saw nearly on top of them the black mass of the oncoming ship. He gave a shout of warning and thrust the tiller hard down at the same time, but neither move served his purpose. The cry was too late to be acted upon, and before the Nancy could answer to her helm the bows of the Mary cut her relentlessly in two.
Dare at the impact was flung off his feet and momentarily stupefied. He retained enough of his senses, however, to reach up a hand instinctively for support, and fortunately he found the Mary's head rigging.
He felt the Nancy sink under his feet, and drew himself up towards the Mary's trembling bowsprit. He lay there a minute or so, breathless, and dazed by the suddenness of the catastrophe, his ears filled with the rush of a great wind and the intermittent shouts of alarm voiced by the Mary's crew. Then, once more clear in his mind, he bethought him of Ben, who must have gone down with the boat. His heart sank at the thought, and considerably sobered by the tragic ending to their adventure, he began cautiously to make his way towards the Mary's deck.
The collision had almost as startling an effect on the Mary's crew as it had on Dare. At first they thought their own ship must be fatally hurt and there was a great rush on deck. Pierre, who had been below, was one of the first to reach the scene.
"What is it? What's happened?" Dare heard him shout.
"We've run down a boat," answered half a dozen voices. "We're sinking!" "Show a light!" shouted the more fearful.
"The first man that shows a light goes to the fishes!" roared Pierre. "For'ard there, confound you, and see what's the damage. We can't be hurt or we wouldn't be driving ahead like this."
Strange to say, the engine had not been stopped. There was seemingly no thought of attempting to salvage boat or men, even if it had been possible. A callous lot, thought Dare bitterly.
Pierre's voice gave the crew confidence and three or four of them went into the bows to investigate, followed by their captain. Dare, climbing cautiously along the bowsprit, could hear them although he could not see them.
As he reached the bow and put a foot on the deck he collided with a moving body. There came a burst of vigorous speech. Dare interrupted the tirade with a shout of joy. "Ben!" he cried, "is it you?"
"Aye, it's me," replied Ben, wringing Dare's hand and gasping painfully for breath. "It's me, what's left of me, and mighty glad I am to see you. I thought you'd gone down with the boat."
"And I thought you had gone."
"'Tis a great mercy."
Further conversation was interrupted by the surprised shouts of the crew.
"There's two of 'em on the bowsprit!" someone cried.
"What's that?" Pierre himself came running at the surprising information.
"They're a-comin'," said Ben in a whisper to Dare. "Keep your head and leave everything to me."
"Hello!" they heard Pierre shout, "is anyone there?"
"Aye, we're here right enough," answered Ben as though he were in a passion, "we're here right enough, what you've left of us. And what we wants to know is this—what do you mean by runnin' without lights, eh? You've lost us a boat and nearly our lives, not to mention as nice a lot of liquor and tobaccy as ever you'd wish to see in a day's walk. What're you goin' to do about it, eh? I'll have the law on you—aye, I will, you cold-blooded bunch of deep-water murderers!"
"Close his mouth, somebody," shouted Pierre, incensed, "or he'll have every boat within five miles coming to see what's the matter. Bring them aft. Hey, you, how many are there of you?"
"Two," shouted back Ben, "and it's a good job for you there ain't more."
"Bring them aft," repeated Pierre impatiently.
"We don't need to be brought," said Ben. "We'll come quick enough. We wants a word or two with you, mister."
And stumbling along in the dark as best they could, led by the crew, now thoroughly recovered from their scare, they eventually reached the cabin where Pierre had preceded them.
The scene held a certain dramatic quality. Pierre was seated on the cabin table, one foot swinging slightly, his arms folded, a scowl of disapproval on his high-boned face. Ben stood before him truculently, a bit shaken by the shock of the accident and more than a little angry in consequence.
Dare kept in the background as much as possible, as Ben had directed.
"Well?" rasped Pierre.
"No, it's not well, mister," burst out Ben, indignant at this insolent reception, for Pierre, far from expressing any regret for the accident, seemed to expect regret to come from the other side. "No, it's not well, and if that's all you've got to say there'll be trouble."
"What's your grouch, anyhow?" demanded Pierre. "I didn't run you down. You ran under my bows, didn't you, when I had the right of way?"
Ben gasped at the impudent assertion. "But you wasn't showin' no lights," he shouted. "How'll you account fer that?"
"And what about yourself?" demanded Pierre. "Where were your lights? My men didn't see them."
"That's got nothin' to do with it. I was runnin' a small punt. Expect me to have port and starboard lights on a fishin' punt? It's you, mister, who'll have to answer that question, and before a court, and right soon."
Dare, who was observing the growing blackness of Pierre's face, thought Ben was going a little too far. The moment was inopportune to interrupt, however.
"What do you mean by talking about a court?" asked Pierre, ominously quiet.
Ben did not hesitate.
"What do I mean? Well, I like that. Mean to say you think I'm not goin' to report this and get damages?"
"I wouldn't advise you to," said Pierre simply.
Dare began to get uneasy.
"Oh, aye," said Ben. "Maybe you'll tell me how to get me money back fer the boat? It warn't insured."
"I'll tell you this. You won't get any money at all if you don't drop that tone. Do you know who you're talking to?"
"No, I don't. But I'd like to know—aye, and to have the name of your boat, too."
"You'll get it—perhaps."
Ben, having sufficiently worked upon Pierre's feelings to divert any suspicion there might have been as to their real identity and their object in these waters, began to speak in a milder manner.
"Look here, cap'n. I know I'm a bit hot under the collar, but wouldn't you be if you was in my boots? That there boat had most everything I own in the world on board her, and when you sunk her you very nearly sunk us with her. I'm standin' on me rights, that's all. I'm askin' for a square deal. And I don't want to go to no court if there's a chance of settlin' outside."
"You're talking more sensibly now," said Pierre. "A minute ago I thought I'd have to throw you overboard. Don't you suppose I've got a grievance, having a clumsy idiot like you fall afoul of me on this night of all nights? Man, what's your boat to me, or you, compared to my business? Bah!"
"That's a high an' mighty tone to take, cap'n," said Ben doggedly. "But you can't help admittin' you was in the wrong, runnin' without lights."
"Wrong! Can I help it if my lights fail me at the moment you were crossing my bows?"
"Well, I ask you, could I help it, cap'n? Be fair now."
"It doesn't matter to me what you could help. I'd like to help you ashore with the toe of my boot. Falling foul of me like that! What am I going to do with you, that's what I want to know?"
"You can pay me for my boat and put me ashore, that's what you can do."
"Oh?"
"Aye, and that's fair enough, too. If I had me rights you'd pay for the brandy and tobac——"
Ben stopped suddenly as though he had said too much. Pierre eyed him closely.
"What's that about brandy and tobacco?" he demanded sharply.
"Never you mind," said Ben secretively.
"But I do mind," said Pierre, smiling maliciously. "Smuggling, eh?"
"Prove it," defied Ben.
Pierre shrugged his shoulders indifferently. Ben's hint at his feigned activities had evidently changed the current of his thoughts. His mood lightened, though annoyance still showed on his face. Dare and Ben, knowing his business, could guess at its cause.
Their appearance on board was in the nature of a dilemma, for he had neither the time nor the inclination to land them forthwith, even though they could come to an agreement over the damages due to Ben for the loss of his boat. He eyed them gloomily.
"How much was that tub of yours worth?" he asked.
"She warn't no tub, cap'n. She was a smart-lookin' fishin' boat in prime condition, and I paid sixty-five dollars fer her to Sam Stooding in Shagtown a few days ago, and five dollars fer the fo'c'sle fittings."
"I'll give you seventy-five dollars," said Pierre; "that'll cover her fully."
"Aye, it'll cover the boat."
"You're not thinking of trying to get me to pay for your liquor, are you?" sneered Pierre. "Try it in a court. Be funny, wouldn't it, to hear you explain what you were doing with the stuff in Saltern Bay?"
"I ain't sayin' nothin'. I'll take the seventy-five, cap'n."
"On this condition—that you take to my rowboat, row to land, and keep your mouths for ever shut."
"Take to a boat on a night like this!" exclaimed Ben in dismay. Now that he and Dare were on board the Mary they were not in a hurry to leave her until they had gained some idea as to her destination, and the exact location of the cache.
"Why not?"
"Why, before we knowed where we was the wind would blow us across the Bay and wreck us on Brunette."
"I'll give you a sail. By taking a straight course you can lie easy to Shagtown."
"But, cap'n," protested Ben, "that ain't no way to treat a man you've runned down."
"You can go in the boat or swim," burst out Pierre impatiently, and hurried on deck to consult his mate.
Ben and Dare, left alone in the cabin, stared at each other, not daring to speak their thoughts for fear of being overheard. They heard a brief vivid argument between Pierre and another on deck; then, before they could comment on it, Pierre returned to the cabin.
He was seriously put out now. The mate had vigorously protested against turning the two men adrift in the boat. And he had produced two good reasons why it should not be done. In the first place it was their only boat and they might need it themselves. In the second place, if the two men were turned adrift and later rowed into some harbour in a boat with the Mary Lee's name on it, there would be talk, whether the men promised to keep their mouths shut or not. Pierre could not deny the truth of this, and the mate won the day.
When Pierre returned to the cabin he ignored Ben and Dare, while he considered the problem their presence presented.
"Who are you?" he demanded at last. Ben told him. "Me name's Ben Wheeler. This is me nevvy, in a way of speakin'."
"Where do you come from?"
"Me home's wherever there's a honest penny to be turned. The Nancy was me last. I don't know where me next will be."
"Nor I," said Pierre grimly.
Up to this time Dare had been silent, but now he boldly turned on Pierre.
"Why can't you land us at the port you're making for, captain?" he asked.
"Ah, why!" said Pierre sarcastically. "Because I don't choose to."
"That's not much of a reason."
"It's all you'll get."
Pierre seemed to be talking in order to gain time to puzzle out the affair. Hesitation of any kind was foreign to his nature, but in this case he was forced to vacillate. He was completely at a loss as to how to deal with his unwanted guests. To land them on the coast in the vicinity of the Mary Lee's impending operations would be the height of folly. To turn them adrift in the boat would be far from wise. The best plan of all was to take them back to St. Pierre, but that would mean their presence on board during the landing of his illicit cargo. He did not care to decide on either course, yet could not see another way out of his difficulty.
In the end action was forced upon him. There came the subdued sound of voices on deck, the soft patter of feet overhead; then a face was thrust down the companion-way of the cabin. It was that of the mate.
"We've just picked up the shore signal, cap'n," he warned.
Pierre jumped to his feet.
"Lower the spars," he ordered. "I'll be on deck in a minute."
He turned to Ben and Dare.
"This way," he said, and led them to his own private stateroom; a box of a place with a bed, a desk, a few charts, a chair, a dory compass, and other small articles.
Dare and Ben entered the room, wondering what Pierre's intentions were. They soon found out. When they were fairly inside, Pierre slipped behind them and before they could make a move had darted out of the room and shut the door. The key turned in the lock and they were left virtually prisoners.