The Amtonia’s wireless operator heard the door at his back open and shut.
“Stand up!” ordered a harsh voice.
The man obeyed immediately, his magazine slipping to the floor. He did not turn to look at this second speaker. The shiny black object in the hand of the ominous figure outside the window held his eyes like an electric magnet.
The chair in which he had been dozing was whisked away. Strong hands gripped his wrists, brought his arms downward. With a speed and thoroughness that bespoke nautical experience, a rope lashed his arms behind his back, first at the elbows and then at the wrists.
Next, a cloth was bound over his eyes. A gag, made of a rolled-up handkerchief was stuffed in his mouth and fastened by a band of cloth tied at the back of his head. He felt wads of cotton being placed in his ears and his ankles were then strapped together. He was grasped by the shoulders, caught round the knees and lifted to a narrow couch where a cushion was slipped under his head. Deaf, dumb and blind, he nevertheless knew that he lay on the locker which ran along the farther side of the room. He also knew that locker to be little more than a narrow shelf, and at least four feet from the floor. If he moved an inch, he’d get a tumble. He therefore lay still and tried to imagine which of the passengers he had to thank for his present predicament.
“I reckon he’ll do,” said Osceola, studying the bound figure on the locker. “It’s lucky he didn’t try to put up a fight. Things might have got messy.”
“Would you have, in his place?” Bill was taking in the details of the room and spoke rather absently.
“No—can’t say I would. The poor beggar was scared stiff. That wrench stunt was a happy thought. In the darkness, I guess it passed darned well for an automatic!”
“Say, look at the map on the wall over there. These lads certainly have a system!”
“What are those colored pins stuck all over it supposed to be—ships?”
“Yes. Ships within a radius of several hundred miles that have been sending out radio messages.”
“But how does he do it?”
“Oh, I guess our little operator is clever all right. I’m no wireless expert and there are a lot of gadgets in here that I don’t understand. Undoubtedly they’re delicate instruments by which the operator is able to determine the approximate distance and direction of any ship sending out messages. You see, he keeps this map constantly before him, charted with the probable positions of ships. He changes the pins when his new readings seem to be in error. This is how the noble Baron knows exactly what is going on in his neighborhood. Just as if he were looking down on the sea from the moon with a telescope!”
“That list up there beside the chart is the key to the colored pins, I suppose.”
“Sure. There’s the Stamford.” Bill pointed to a gray pin. “Well, here’s where I get busy. The sooner that cruiser is put wise to our position, the better.”
“But how did you find out where we are?” Osceola looked his surprise. “When have you had a chance to shoot the sun? Do you keep a pocket sextant up your sleeve? Or are you just guessing?”
“Nothing like that. A sight must be taken when the sun reaches it’s highest point. I got the dope tonight from Schneider. While you were asleep, I went on the bridge and got him to give me our position this noon.”
“But that’s more than twelve hours ago!”
“Certainly. But I also found out the speed and direction we’ve been steaming this afternoon and evening. Where we are now is a simple sum in arithmetic.”
“I know, but—”
“Gee, fella, when we’re out of this mess, I’ll take a week or two off and go into detail. But right now, I’ve got to raise the Stamford!”
He sat down in the chair before the sending apparatus and adjusted the earphones. Then his left hand sought the sending key and the room was filled with the crash and snap of electric discharges.
Osceola took up a pencil and pad from the table. For a moment he scribbled, then placed the written sheet in front of Bill.
“Go easy!” the message read. “You’ll wake up the whole ship!”
Bill smiled and shook his head. He was sending call after call out for the Stamford. In his right hand he held a pencil. Presently Osceola’s note was passed back with a few lines scrawled below his own.
“Don’t worry. These fellows are continually sending out fake messages in order to gain information from other ships. I’ve heard them. If nothing was sent during this watch, somebody on the bridge would be sure to smell a rat.”
Osceola drew up a chair and sat down. Fascinated, he watched Bill’s left hand pressing the sending key, calling—calling—calling. The young Seminole’s education had been academic, not scientific, and his knowledge of radio was only rudimentary. Although the International Morse Code of dash-dot letters was as much of a mystery to him as it is to the average layman, he soon realized that his friend was sending out the same short message over and over again.
Suddenly Bill lifted his hand from the key. He smiled at Osceola, nodded and commenced to write hurriedly on the pad before him. The Seminole leaned over and watched intently.
“This is the Stamford. Who calls?” he read.
Again Bill’s supple fingers pressed out an answer—a long one this time. And for the next fifteen minutes the crash and crackle of an electric storm reverberated through the room.
Presently he stopped.
“You raised the cruiser, I take it.” Osceola only half stifled a yawn.
“I did that, old sport!” Bill was delighted with his success. “Got all the dope over in great style. Told the operator aboard her who I was and a short story of our capture. Dad probably thinks we were both lost at sea, you know. The Stamford, will relay a message, assuring him of our safety. Then I tapped out details of this ship, the Flying Fish, their crews and armament. Last of all I gave our position, course and speed. By this time, she and some other craft of Uncle Sam’s are making tracks for us.”
“You’re sure a right smart feller, Bill.”
Bill laughed. “I agree with you, Big Chief.”
“About when do you reckon they’ll catch up with us?”
“Sometime tomorrow—or, rather, this afternoon. And then—boy, oh, boy! There will be one sweet little rough house!”
“There’ll probably be one aboard this sweet little packet as you call her, before that,” prophesied the Seminole.
“How come?”
“The Herr Baron is sure to raise an awful stink when he finds that lad on the locker!”
“We should fret over that. We’ll both be sleeping the sleep of the just long before that time!”
“Well, I vote we get out of here and right now. This ain’t a healthy place for either you or me. And say, I’m dead enough to go to sleep under an ice-cold shower!”
“Wait a minute. We don’t want to leave any clues. Grab that paper I was writing on, will you?”
As he talked. Bill was busily engaged in undoing nuts and screws which he stuffed in his pockets, snapping wires and playing general havoc with the radio apparatus.
“Smash that line of glass jars on the shelf with your wrench,” he added, bringing his own down on the sending key with a crash. “There isn’t going to be any radio business aboard the Amtonia when our friends arrive, if I can help it!”
“What’s to stop the Flying Fish getting wise with their wireless?” inquired Osceola, who was systematically wrecking everything within reach.
“Oh, they haven’t much of a wireless outfit aboard the sub. This bunch of junk in here was the one that counted.”
“Bunch of junk is right—” Osceola stopped short.
He stood facing a small mirror that hung on the wall above the wet cells he had just destroyed. Reflected in the small oblong he saw the door to the deck open slowly—and Baron von Hiemskirk walked into the room.
“So!” he exclaimed harshly. “Passengers—mutiny!”
He got no further. As Osceola jumped for the switch to snap off the light, Bill dived through the air, tackling the commander just above his knees. There came a crash as the Baron’s head hit the deck—then darkness.
Osceola ran to the doorway. The Baron lay prone. Bill was bending over him.
“Nine—ten—out!” said that young gentleman rather breathlessly. “Grab his legs, big boy. We’ll move him inside. It’s a little too public out here for comfort.”
Together they carried the big man into the wireless house and deposited him on the floor.
“Here’s a bight of rope,” said Bill, switching on the light again. “Tie up his ankles—I’ll attend to his wrists.”
“Shall we gag him?”
“No, he’s breathing pretty hard. Slight concussion, probably. The back of his head hit the decking an awful crack. I don’t want him to choke to death.”
Osceola finished lashing the Baron’s legs together and stood up. “He’s a right powerful brute. Got a pair of legs like tree-trunks. Say,” he began to laugh, “I didn’t think our job would be done up as brown as all this tonight! That was a swell tackle of yours. The longer he’s out the better pleased I’ll be. That guy has never made a hit with me. I’m only sorry I didn’t get a crack at him. If you’ve got an extra wipe, pass it over. A blindfold won’t stop his breathing, and there’s no need for him to know where he is when he wakes up.”
“Okay. I’ve unhooked the collar of his blouse,” Bill said, surveying their captive critically. “He’ll do. Give me a hand with the other guy, now. I’m going to take out his gag and give him a drink.”
“Going to leave it out?”
“Sure, I’m no inquisitor!”
“But how about it when the pair of them start yelling for help?”
“With the door and window shut, this place is pretty well soundproof. Anyway, the Baron isn’t likely to kick up much of a row—not for a couple of days yet, if I know the signs. The operator couldn’t hear him if he did. I’m leaving the cotton in his ears. Make it snappy—I want to beat it while the going’s good.”
A few minutes later, two dark figures crossed the boat deck to the stairhead, ran lightly down and after climbing into their cabin by way of the open port, hurriedly undressed in the dark.
“By Jove!” Osceola paused in the act of removing a shoe. “I wonder what became of Charlie?”
“Oh, I guess he’s all right. I told him to vamoose if it looked like he’d get caught. He’s probably sound asleep in his bunk by this time.”
“Hope so. He’s a sassy brat, but I wouldn’t want him to get into trouble with the lads who run this ship. They’re likely to turn nasty when they find their beloved Baron has cracked his nut.”
“Charlie,” said Bill, “is quite capable of taking care of himself. Put away those clothes you were wearing. If anybody comes snooping round here looking for clues, those civvies would give us away. I’m pretty sure His Nibs didn’t recognize us. I ducked my head and the brim of my hat threw my face in shadow. You had your back turned. Too bad, though, we’d pocketed our masks—”
“Confound!” Osceola sprang for the door. “I’ve got to go up there again!”
“But what on earth for? Leave well enough alone, guy.”
“I’ve got to—it’s those handkerchiefs of yours, Bill.”
“The ones we used as blindfolds? By gosh, you’re right.”
“Of course I am. And we were idiots not to remember that all your wipes are initialled! Well, that was a bloomer we both made.”
Bill crawled into bed, and pulled up the sheet.
“Oh, no, we didn’t,” he retorted sleepily.
“How come?”
“Har-har! Had you goin’, didn’t I? Why, I changed the one on the wireless lad—found two in the Baron’s pockets, y’ see. The one you used on him was his own—the other’s on his little roommate!”
“Well, I’m a son-of-a-seacook! That’s a good one. I wonder if the rest of the bunch will figure that ‘they done it all themselves’? Smart work, Bill. You’re as full of ideas as Martinengo’s ship’s biscuit was of weevils!”
“Right the first and last time. Now shut up! I’m asleep.” Bill turned over, his back to the room, and buried his face in his pillow.
“Isn’t that someone pounding the door?”
“You tell ’em!” sleepily suggested the chief, covering his face with a pajamaed arm to shut out the morning light.
“Oh, Lord!” Bill groaned and crawled out of bed. He glanced at his wrist watch. It was exactly seven-thirty.
He unlocked the door and a steward clicked his heels together and stood at attention.
“Well?” growled Bill.
“Commander Geibel’s compliments, sir—and will the gentlemen be good enough to meet him at half past eight in the executive office for officers’ conference.”
“Right-o. Give Commander Geibel our compliments—and say we’ll be there.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Bill shut the door, and looked over at Osceola. The chief was fast asleep again. Bill went into the bathroom, where an ice-cold shower worked wonders. When he returned to the cabin after a strenuous rub with a rough towel, he carried a dripping sponge with which he scientifically massaged Osceola’s face.
“Hey there! Cut it out!” The chief sprang from his bed as though he had had an electric shock.
“What’s the huge idea?” he stormed.
“The Exec.” said Bill, “wants to see us at eight-thirty sharp. It is now seven-forty-four. And we both want breakfast, I expect. Get under a shower and you won’t feel so crabby.”
“Um!” Osceola was considerably subdued by this news. “Think he smells a rat?”
“Oh, not a chance, so far as we’re concerned. We’d be in the brig by this time if he did!”
“Good enough!” yawned Osceola, scowling furiously as he stretched the kinks out of his powerful arms.
“Hop to it, then. I’m nearly dressed—and I’m hungry enough to eat shoe-leather.”
“All right, all right—don’t lose your shirt over it. I’ll be with you in a jiffy.” The bathroom door slammed and again came the sound of rushing water as the shower was turned on.
At eight-thirty sharp the two lads found Commander Geibel seated at his desk in the Executive Office, and took their places among the other ship’s officers. There was none of the joviality which usually preambled these meetings. The Amtonia’s commissioned personnel seemed utterly mute this morning. Instead of the accustomed good-natured chaff, the various officers merely nodded to each other as they took their places and sat down. Bill noticed that all wore expressions of deep solemnity, yet the atmosphere of the cabin was charged with a current of tense excitement.
The nautical clock on the wall struck one bell. Commander Geibel, who had been studying papers on his desk blotter, came to life.
“Gentlemen—” he leaned forward, one hand on the papers before him, “I have here the report of first assistant wireless operator, Miller. Had I not seen Miller when he was first found with our beloved captain, I could not have believed this outrage possible. We, who have prided ourselves on the most efficient and strict discipline maintained on this ship, can no longer be proud. As a number of you gentlemen already know, at about one o’clock this morning, two passengers who were masked overpowered Miller in the wireless room and wrecked the premises. While these vandals were at work, the Herr Captain, Baron von Hiemskirk, entered the room, where these ruffians surprised him.”
“Pardon, sir,” interrupted the ship’s first lieutenant, Lieutenant-Commander Beerman. “It is rumored that the Herr Baron is seriously injured. Will you be good enough to ease our minds concerning the Herr Baron’s condition? I understand that he was knocked unconscious.”
“That is so, Herr Beerman. I regret to tell you gentlemen that he is still unconscious, and may continue in that state for a day or two. Doctor Thierfelder diagnoses his condition as concussion—a slight concussion only, I am thankful to say. The Herr Doctor, who is with him now, believes that Baron von Hiemskirk received a blow from a blunt instrument. Luckily, his service cap partially protected his head. With care, and no complications, our Captain will probably be able to get about again within a week.”
“May I ask,” inquired Bill, “what punishment has been meted out to the perpetrators of this dastardly crime?”
“I am sorry to say that they have not been apprehended, Lieutenant.”
“But I thought you spoke of two passengers, Herr Commander?”
“Miller states that the two men were dressed in civilian clothes. One of them at least had a revolver with which he menaced the operator, while the other bound him. As you know, every passenger, upon boarding this ship, was searched and his luggage thoroughly inspected for arms. Another search of their cabins has been made this morning. No weapons of any description have been found.”
Lieutenant Schneider caught the Commander’s attention. “I was on the bridge while this crime was being committed. During that time, I am certain that messages were radioed from the wireless room.”
“A very important fact, Herr Schneider, and one confirmed by Miller. Due to the cotton that had been placed in his ears, he was unable to decipher anything, but he is convinced that one or more messages were sent.”
“Could we not ascertain who among the passengers is capable of sending such messages?” It was the Chief Engineer who spoke.
The Executive Officer shook his head.
“Of course all possible suspects will be questioned,” he said. “I doubt, however, if we can learn much. Fifteen of our passengers are yacht owners. Three more are high executives of broadcasting corporations. Any of these men may understand wireless. On the other hand, all of them will probably deny it. But this is not so important. Outside of broadcasting a description of this ship, they can have sent little or no information, as they have no possible means of ascertaining the ship’s position. I must urge you all, nevertheless, to be more than ever on the alert. Now, one thing more, and we may go to our various duties.”
The Executive Officer cleared his throat and proceeded.
“Baron von Hiemskirk keeps muttering over and over in his delirium, ‘Er ist einer Footballer’—‘He is a football player—.’ These words may mean nothing; on the other hand, they may be the means of identifying his assailants. Until our beloved Captain regains his reason, nothing can be done about it. Thank you, gentlemen, for your interest and attention. I bid you all goodmorning.”
The meeting dispersed, the officers going their several ways. Bill and Osceola, having no duties to perform, strolled around the promenade deck.
“It is to be hoped that our beloved Captain does not regain his reason until this ship has been captured by the battleships on her trail,” muttered Osceola to Bill, mimicking the Executive Officer’s formal manner of address.
Bill nodded thoughtfully. “You said a mouthful, boy. I’m afraid you and I will be in for it good and plenty if he wakes up beforehand. That bunch we just left are a dumb crew. But there are no flies on the skipper. He had our histories down pat from the newspapers when we met him on the Merrymaid. He’s sure to know you play on Carlisle and that I’m on the Navy eleven. What with our previous record, so to speak, in the way of cleaning up dirty messes, that guy won’t miss any bets. We’ll be judged on suspicion if nothing else.”
“I wonder why Charlie didn’t warn us that the Baron was making for the wireless house?”
“Probably didn’t get a chance. If the kid had been caught, we’d have heard of it before this. Schneider told me that all passengers are being confined to their cabins, so we won’t see him today. Charlie and his doings don’t worry me just now—but the weather does!”
“What’s the matter with the weather?”
“See that haze over there to the northward? We’re steaming into fog.”
“You think that even if the Stamford catches up to within firing distance we might be able to elude her after all?”
“That’s the big idea. In about half an hour we won’t be able to see ten feet over the side.”
“Well, maybe we’ll run through it by this afternoon. The Stamford won’t catch up to us for some hours yet.”
“Maybe so,” replied Bill. “We’ve done all we could, anyway. From now on, the job’s up to the Navy.”
“Hello!” cried Osceola, as they swung round the end of the superstructure and into the long stretch of deck on the port side. “Look off yonder! What do you make that out to be?”
Bill shaded his eyes. The glare of the smooth ocean was dazzling in the sun. Away to the northeast a ship was nosing out of fog banks that lined the northern horizon.
“That looks to me mighty like a warship!” said the chief excitedly. “She certainly is humping it, brother. But I thought the Stamford was to the south of us—and when she came, she’d come from behind!”
“You’ve certainly got a pair of eyes—and she certainly is a warship. I can’t make her out very well at that distance, but she looks to me like a first class cruiser of the Plymouth type. Dollars to ditchwater the Stamford wirelessed her! She’s heading for us all right, all right. Oh, boy—there’s going to be something doing aboard this packet in two shakes of a lamb’s tail!”
“Thar she blows!” sang out the chief, as the gong and bugle sounded for action.
“And it’s quite time you and I beat it for our battle stations. Everything is being made ready for attack. If we’re late, it won’t look so good.”
Osceola stopped and stared at Bill. “Don’t tell me that you, a midshipman of the United States Navy, are going to help these bum pirates fight one of your own battleships!”
Bill looked at him and laughed. “Some patriotic little flagwaver, aren’t you,” he jeered. “No, Herr Junior Lieutenant, I do not intend to shoot at the Plymouth or the Reading, or whatever’s the name of that cruiser. Have you never played hare and hounds, Big Chief? Well, this time, you and I and everybody on board are hares. Those two 117-mm. guns forward, and the two on the poop are all right for scaring passenger liners and bringing unarmed merchant-men to haul down their colors. But they haven’t the caliber or the range of three-quarters of the guns aboard that cruiser. This is going to be a race—not a battle! Beat it!”
By the time Bill reached his station on the poop, the quiet routine aboard the liner had given way to activity. The Amtonia was awake to the heat and fever of desperate life.
Lieutenant Schneider, who was in command of the gun, seized Bill’s arm. “Bolton!” he cried, “look there—she’s changed her course! She’s going to head us off!”
Shading his eyes with his hand, Bill strained them toward the northern horizon. The great molten surface of the sun was already half obliterated by the spreading bank of fog that turned the sea to dull amethyst.
“I doubt it,” he replied. “If that fog keeps increasing, the visibility will soon be too poor for the cruiser to get our range.”
“There is Commander Geibel on the bridge. The ship is in good hands—that is a blessing!” Lieutenant Schneider’s tone betrayed his excitement.
“We’re sheering off to starboard—” said Bill. “That’s good news. It’s going to be a close thing, just the same.”
Schneider jumped on the rail and leaned outward in order to get a better view of the forward end of the ship.
“The Exec. has left the bridge!” he cried. “What’s happened now?”
“Calm down! He’s probably run down the steps and crossed that gangway to the foremast. Yes, there he is! See him? He’s climbed up to the lookout. Gosh, that lad’s got a voice. You can hear him bellowing orders all over the ship, I’ll bet.”
“He’s a good officer,” admitted the Lieutenant, getting off the rail. “Too bad the Herr Baron is not able to take command. He would use the Flying Fish to get us out of this mess.” He pointed to the submarine racing along off their starboard quarter. “Donner und Blitzen! I believe she is going to submerge!”
“The very best thing she could do, under the circumstances,” Bill asserted. “What would you have her do—head over yonder and let go a torpedo?”
“Wasn’t she built for that kind of thing?” Lieutenant Schneider’s tone was still nettled.
“Perhaps she was, but not in a position of this kind. That cruiser would blow her out of the water before she got near enough to make a torpedo effective!”
“If that’s the case, why don’t you go aboard her and get busy with her in the air?”
“And stop both the Flying Fish and ourselves while a boat is being lowered and I am ferried over to her? Even if the Amtonia was able to get away, the Flying Fish would be blown to pieces long before she was ready to take off. Weren’t you in the merchant service before you shipped aboard this raider?”
“I was—but why?”
“Commander Geibel was an officer in the Imperial German Navy. He fought through the war. I’ve never been in action before, but I’ve had a couple of years at the U. S. Naval Academy and I know that our Commander is doing the one thing possible to save his ships.”
“Then I suppose you think it a waste of time and effort for us to be manning the guns?”
Bill laughed good-naturedly and clapped the incensed lieutenant on the shoulder. “Let’s not fight about it. Clearing for action and manning the guns is okay. It’s splendid discipline and helps the morale of the crew. But you know just as well as I do, Schneider, that if we win out, coal will do it, not gunpowder.”
“I’m sorry,” apologized the German, and offered his hand.
Bill took it, feeling rather silly.
“Here it comes!” he cried a moment later, as a white cloud of smoke enveloped the cruiser’s forward turret.
“Missed!” exclaimed the lieutenant. “I can’t hand your compatriots much on their shooting, Bolton. That shot didn’t come within a thousand meters of the ship.”
“That was just meant as a warning,” explained Bill. “Those gunners know they aren’t yet within range of this ship. It’s the next five minutes that’s going to tell the tale.”
Lieutenant Schneider studied the battleship through his sea glasses. “She’s steaming more to the eastward,” he remarked sharply.
“And we’ve sheered off a point or two. The fog’s coming our way—and coming fast. It’s getting darker by the minute. The sun’s almost washed out. Gosh, this is better than a horse race. Doesn’t it give you a thrill, Schneider?”
The young officer grimaced. “Not the kind of thrill I enjoy, thank you. If that cruiser suddenly blew up, I shouldn’t weep. There—she’s firing again. Oh, if our guns could only carry over to her!”
This time the projectile struck the water a bare twenty yards ahead of the speeding liner. So close was it that those aboard the Amtonia felt the spray from the geyser that shot skyward.
“We’re within their range, now, that’s a cinch!” Bill said calmly.
“Do you think they’ll hull us, knowing that there are passengers aboard, Bolton?”
“They’re sure to, unless Commander Geibel puts on the brakes. It’s his responsibility, not theirs. That last shot was an order to stop. The Commander is paying no attention to it. He’s evidently decided to take the risk. You can’t blame him. Give us another minute and we’ll be in the fog. Those prisoners below-decks, or passengers, as you call them, will have to take their chance with the rest of us—”
There came a terrific crash which jarred the ship from end to end. Every man of the gun crew was thrown to the deck. For several seconds the Amtonia trembled like a live thing in agony. Her speed slackened materially. But before the dazed men could scramble to their feet, she was blanketed in a protecting cloak of fog. Bells rang, men shouted orders, and the wounded ship swung round to the northwest with a suddenness that sent her over at a sharp angle while the crew went rolling into the starboard scuppers.
There was no more firing from the cruiser. The race, for the time being, was over.
“That,” said Bill, as he picked himself up, “is what I call a direct hit.”
“Don’t I know it!” stormed Schneider. “If my knee isn’t fractured it’s no fault of this deck!” He limped over to the rail and leaned against it. “Thanks be to Neptune for this fog—that’s a blessing, if nothing else is!”
“Never mind,” chaffed Bill. “When the skipper wakes up he’ll pin an iron cross on you. First casualty, you know. Wounded in the line of duty and all that—which reminds me,” he went on more seriously, “that there are likely to be other casualties aboard. That shot struck somewhere aft, if I know anything about it.”
“Look here,” said Schneider. “I’ve got to remain with the gun crew until we’re released from this duty. Suppose you go forward. See the Commander, if you can. If he’s not on the bridge, speak to whoever is in charge, and find out what the damage is. The ship is no more than limping along now. I’m sure there is serious trouble somewhere. Tell the Commander I’m standing by with these men and if extra help is needed, they can get busy at once. There’s nothing to do here. Oh, I forgot to say—give him my compliments. My knee is paining me so, I can hardly think!”
“Don’t worry,” chuckled Bill. “I won’t disgrace you. Bye-bye. I’ll fetch some liniment from the dispensary on my way back, if I can.”
He touched his cap and ran forward.
En route he met several parties of men hurrying toward companionways, but without stopping to question them, he made his way with all possible speed to the steps which led to the bridge and raced up. There he encountered Lieutenant Commander Hoffman, the navigation officer. He came to attention three paces in front of the frowning officer and saluted him.
“Lieutenant Schneider’s compliments, sir,” he said crisply. “The lieutenant wishes to know if his gun crew can be of service to you. He knows, of course, that the ship was hit, but so far has received no further information or orders.”
“Thank Lieutenant Schneider for me,” the officer replied with all the ramrod formality of the Imperial German Navy. “Say to him that the schwein-dog cruiser shot off one of our propellers. What other damage has been done, I have not as yet ascertained, but I believe it to be of a minor character. Commander Geibel has gone below to investigate. Until he returns, it will be well for the Lieutenant to stand by with his gun crew and await orders.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Bill had been standing rigidly at attention while Herr Hoffman discoursed. His first salute had been of the type that any Navy Man would term “seagoing,” but into his parting gesture, he put all the snap that only an Annapolis Midshipman is capable of. Turning smartly on his heel, he ran lightly down the steps.
“Perhaps that will hold him for a while,” he muttered, making for a companionway. “Discipline is discipline, but that guy talks as if you were bilge under his feet, the pompous, hard-boiled egg! Dollars to ditchwater that pirate was either a C.P.O. or a Warrant when the Dutchmen had a Navy. That kind are always the snootiest when they’re sprouting gold stripes!”
Which was gross libel, as it happened, but it soothed Bill’s feelings, and he found himself whistling Yankee Doodle as he ran down to the ship’s dispensary.
“Lieutenant Schneider got a crack on the knee,” he told the mate in charge. “Got a bottle of liniment handy?”
“There’s enough stuff here to stock a hospital, sir. If the Lieutenant is willing, I’ll go with him. All I’ve done on this voyage is to hand out medicine and hold basins for seasick women. It will be a real pleasure, if my officer permits. Herman can look after the shop.”
“Your officer permits, all right,” laughed Bill. “Grab your bottle, Jack, and come along.”
“Thank you, sir,” beamed the man. He picked up a large black bag and heaving it to his shoulder, strode down the passage after Bill.
Back on the poop, Bill found Osceola talking to Lieutenant Schneider, who seemed in considerable pain. While the dispensary’s man brought out liniment and gauze and began to ease the young German’s suffering, Bill delivered Lieutenant Commander Hoffman’s message. Then the two friends moved over to the rail.
“I’ve just come up from the engine room,” said the Seminole. “There was a good deal of confusion below when the propeller was shot off, and the engines were racing and all. Things have quieted down a bit now. The chief told Geibel that the propeller was taken off clean as a whistle. He went down the shaft-tunnel and found she was leaking a little through the stuffing-box, but nothing to write home about. His men are attending to that and we’re running on the other propeller now. Nobody hurt, I’m glad to say.”
“I don’t think the Commander will try to have another fitted onto the shaft while we’re at sea,” remarked Bill.
“No. That’s why I looked you up as soon as I could. I heard him tell the chief engineer that it was his intention to make at once for their base. They didn’t go into detail, but from what they said I guess it’s an almost landlocked harbor on the Maine coast.”
“That’s news,” declared Bill. “Good news! Once we’re in touch with land our chances of escape will be a thousand percent better. Hello—” he broke off, “what are these chaps up to?”
Six seamen, armed with rifles, a Chief Petty Officer and Lieutenant Brinkerhoff, whom they both knew slightly, were advancing along the deck toward them.
“Lieutenants Bolton and Osceola,” said the officer stiffly, “you are hereby placed under arrest.”
Bill’s eyebrows shot up. “And by whose orders—may I ask?”
“By order of the Herr Baron von Hiemskirk,” thundered the officer. “You gentlemen will come with me at once, if you please!”
The seamen closed in about Bill and Osceola and they were marched off, walking side by side.
“Our noble Captain has evidently waked up,” said Bill in an undertone to his friend. “Here’s where we catch it, good and plenty!”
“You think then that he did recognize us last night?” Osceola’s voice was lowered to a whisper.
Bill nodded. “One or both of us. We can’t deny it, you know. He’d only make it the worse for those innocent suspects Geibel was talking about.”
“What do you suppose he’ll do?”
“Shoot us—very likely.”
“But, Bill—”
Lieutenant Brinkerhoff’s acid voice cut him short. “My orders are that you gentlemen will refrain from all conversation. You will be good enough to obey.”
Bill shrugged and Osceola nodded his acceptance of this dictum. They moved forward in silence.
With the ramrod form of Brinkerhoff leading the way, the little procession filed along the decks until they reached the captain’s cabin. Here the lieutenant knocked, then entered, closing the door.
Presently he reappeared and beckoned them inside. Bill noted that two of the armed seamen followed them over the threshold. Apparently the wounded captain was taking no chances of further assault.
They found Baron von Hiemskirk propped up in bed with a pile of pillows at his back. Around his head was a linen bandage. He looked pale and ill and seemed to be in some pain. Seated beside the bed Commander Geibel watched him devotedly, and at the foot stood the ship’s doctor.
At a sign from Brinkerhoff, the lads approached the sick man. He opened his eyes and looked at them with a keen, appraising glance.
“So—my young friends,” he sneered. “You couldn’t leave well enough alone, but must try to interfere with the excellent routine of my ship, eh?”
“When you captured us last Monday,” said Bill, “and we had our chat aboard the Merrymaid, I warned you that we would do our best to make things hot for you and your crew if you insisted upon our working for you. I believe you understood my warning. At that time you said that your system was perfect. And that we were at liberty to do what we could to disrupt it so long as we attended to the duties given us.”
“Ah! So you do not deny wrecking the ship’s wireless last night, and sending messages to enemy warships? Not to mention your attack upon my person—and the vast amount of trouble your disgraceful conduct has caused my officers and crew today?”
“No, we do not deny it,” Bill asserted steadily. “Chief Osceola and I did exactly what you describe. But believe me when I say that it was no part of our plan that you should be injured. You have been courteous to us on board here. We both regret your—accident.”
“Thank you. But that does not alter the rest of it.”
“No. My duty as an officer of the United States Navy is to break up your pirate organization by any means in my power.”
“And my duty, as Captain of this ship, is to have you both executed for mutiny. You are aware of that, of course?”
“I want to tell you, Baron,” Bill continued earnestly. “That I alone am to blame. It was my plan and only mine. Chief Osceola worked under my orders throughout.”
Osceola took a step forward. “Oh, cut out all this formality!” His dark eyes flashed, first on the Baron and then on Bill. “And don’t you try taking all the blame yourself. I’m just as guilty as you are. What’s more, you know right well that if I’d had my way I’d have thrown that Hun welcher over the rail instead of bothering to tie him up!”
“Be quiet, Osceola,” warned his friend. “I’m running our end of this show.”
“Not now, you’re not—by a darn sight, Bill! I’ve got a few words to say to the captain myself. Baron von Hiemskirk,” he turned to the big man on the bed, “do you realize that if you have us murdered, you put a rope around your own neck and the necks of every one of your officers and crew?”
“One has to catch his fish before eating it,” said von Hiemskirk.
“True. And every warship on the Atlantic has a description of this particular fish by now. Are you egotist enough to believe that you can buck the Naval forces of the world and get away with it? Don’t tell me that you, who have made an enemy of all society by your racketeering and piracy, spare crews and passengers of captured ships through any motive of kindness! You are afraid to send them to the bottom. Why? Because, Herr Baron von Bluff, you are afraid to kill them! You know the penalty for murder—you have funked it every time.”
“Ah! But not this time, young man. Secrets have a way of leaking out aboard ship, I admit. But in your case we shall take no chances whatever. In a day or two, you will be removed from the Amtonia and disappear completely and effectually, far from the haunts of men.”
“If,” said Bill, “you think you will be any safer in the state of Maine than you are on the high seas—”
The Baron started up in bed. “And what do you know about the state of Maine?” he thundered, visibly perturbed.
“Only what I broadcasted last night,” grinned Bill. “As you remarked just now, ‘secrets have a way of leaking out on shipboard.’ You have implicit confidence in your officers and crew of course. Did it never occur to you that there might be a traitor amongst your devoted band?”
“Away with them!” shouted the Baron, now thoroughly angry.
“Just one moment—may I say a few words?”
The Baron was the type of bully who loves to see a victim cringe. From the young Seminole’s tone, he was sure the lad was frightened, and that he would beg for his life.
“Make it short. What is it you want to say?”
“Only this, sir. With such a captain, the Jolly Roger is no longer a fitting ensign for this ship. May I, in all humility, suggest that instead of a white skull and crossed bones on a black field, you substitute a lollipop? A green one would be appropriate—and floating on a broad field of bright yellow!”
“T-take them away!” stuttered the Baron, purple with rage.
As they were hustled along the passageway, they could hear him hoarsely shouting invective after them. But as his further rantings were in German, Osceola understood not a word of it.
“What’s he saying?”
“Plenty,” murmured Bill. “It would make me blush to tell you.”
As the brawny seaman who had Osceola by the arm, reminded him of the order for silence, Osceola merely chuckled. But he continued to do so until they were far below the waterline in the very bowels of the ship.
Eventually they came to a long passage running fore and aft. Electric bulbs in the ceiling brightly lighted the corridor on either side of which doors opened into tiny cabins, evidently the quarters for stewards and the ship’s petty officers. Half way down a steel-barred gate blocked this passageway from floor to ceiling. Before it lounged an armed sentry.
The man straightened to attention as the party approached. Brinkerhoff presented a paper which he read carefully.
“Very good, sir,” he pocketed the order and saluted. “All cells are full, sir, except the first on the right. Better stick them in there.”
He unlocked the gate while the Lieutenant pushed Bill and Osceola into an empty cell. Without a word the officer slammed shut the door. The gate clanged and they were left together in their prison.
The cell boasted no illumination of its own. What light and ventilation there was came through the door, which, like the gate in the passage, was constructed of crossed bars of steel. It was no more than a cubby-hole. There were two narrow bunks, one above the other on one side; across from these, a washbowl and toilet. There was no other furniture. Both the cell and the corridor were terribly hot and stuffy.
“Well, this isn’t so bad, I’ve had worse quarters,” Bill remarked philosophically. “When the Baron took over this ship and needed a special brig for his prisoners, he slapped that gate into the passageway and put others in place of the doors to these cabins. The sidewalls are of wood. If we had some tools, it wouldn’t be such a job to get out of here.”
“Humph! but we haven’t any! And if we had, and could cut our way through into the next cabin, outside the gate, where would we go from there?”
They were speaking in whispers, for the sentry outside the gate was only a yard or so from their door.
“Well, we’ve been in worse fixes. This will take some thinking out,” answered Bill.
“Worse fixes?” Osceola’s shoulders moved impatiently. “I doubt it.” He sat down on the edge of a bunk. “Just because these bozos have been more or less polite, don’t get the idea they aren’t dangerous customers. That Baron means to put our lights out. You got him worried when you sprung that Maine story on him, and I purposely got him just as angry as I could.”
“What was your big idea?”
“Why, I figured that when he thought it over later, it would lead him to believe we really did have something up our sleeves—some certain means of rescue or escape. A big bully like he is would reason that we’d never have the nerve to bait him otherwise.”
“You think it may help to postpone the—er—evil day?”
“I am hoping so. If I size that guy up right, he’ll make watchful waiting his cue for a few days anyway. He’ll want to see if anything really happens before he puts his own head into a noose.”
“And when nothing happens, we’ll be put on the spot for that same reason!”
“Tomorrow’s always another day, Bill. Say, you’re not up to your usual form this morning. I’ll bet you got no sleep last night. You’d better turn in now and take a siesta.”
“I’ll do that soon, Osceola. But I’m interested in our fellow prisoners. You know, we’re lucky—our one consolation is that there wasn’t room in this dump to separate us.”
“You bet.” Osceola yawned and standing up, stripped down to a pair of shorts. “I’ve got the dope on those lads,” he said, as he climbed into the upper berth. “I heard Geibel telling the Chief Engineer that he’d jailed all the suspects on the wireless business. We’re down here with a bunch of multi-millionaires. Does that make you feel any better?”
“It certainly does!”
“How come?” whispered the chief from his bunk.
“Why, don’t you see? With all the gaff we gave the Baron, he’ll suspect we’re in cahoots with one or more of them—and keep them down here, where they can’t help us.”
Osceola grunted. “You’ve sure got it in for the poor money kings—what have you got against ’em?”
“Gosh, you’re thick!” snorted his friend. “So long as they fill the cells we’ll be together. It’s a heap easier for us to get out of one cell, together, than it would be to get out of two, separately!”
“Boy, you’re talking in circles. We now arrive at the fact, once more, that we have no tools with which to get out! Take my advice and snatch a nap. You need it worse than I do, and this little Indian is going shut-eye right now!”
For the next couple of days, Bill and Osceola sweated in their hot-box of a cell. What with the heat, the lack of proper ventilation, and the uncertainty of their fate, both lads sank into a state of mind that bordered on despondency.
The monotony of their existence was broken but three times a day, when meals were brought to the prisoners’ cells by a steward. The man was invariably accompanied by the armed sentry, who acted as turnkey.
There appeared to be no possible means of escape. Day and night the electric lights in the passage beyond the steel bars burned brightly. The sentry outside the gate was relieved by another seaman every four hours, with the change of watch. With nothing to read, nothing to do, the lads spent most of their time lying in the bunks or taking turns pacing the narrow confines of their cell.
Sunday night, shortly after ten o’clock the tremble of the ship’s engines stopped. The lads guessed that the Amtonia had reached her destination at last. Half an hour later they heard the sentry speaking to someone in the passage just beyond the gate. Although the conversation was carried on in German, Bill was able to get the gist of it.
“What’s the matter, Hans?” inquired the sentry. “Aren’t you going ashore with the rest of the boys?”
“Not me,” replied Hans. “I’ve got to start swabbing out bathrooms at four o’clock.”
“Well, I’m going,” the sentry declared, “just as soon as Otto relieves me at midnight. It isn’t often we have the chance to stretch our legs ashore and have a good time.”
“If your idea of a good time is to swill American homebrew in a speakeasy, it’s not mine,” the other retorted. “I’m from Munich, I am. Good brown Lionsbrew for me. I can’t stomach the stuff they sell you on this side. Anyway, I’ve been on my feet all day long. My legs get all the stretching they want aboard this ship. I’m tired—good night!”
The lads heard the door of the cabin next to them slam shut as Hans went to his well-earned rest.
“That,” laughed Bill, “is the first bit of comedy I’ve heard since we landed aboard this blooming pirate. That Heinie’s a sensible man. We might as well turn in, too. Tomorrow, I suppose, they’ll take us ashore and stand us up against a stone fence. I for one don’t want to think any more about it than I have to.”
“Keep on talking—don’t stop!” said Osceola in a low voice. “Either Hans or someone else next door is scraping on his side of the wall. I’ll try to find out what it’s all about.”
Bill nodded and immediately launched into a long account of the Army and Navy football game in which he had played the previous fall. Meanwhile Osceola climbed into the lower bunk, and lying flat, pressed his ear against the wooden partition which separated their cell from the bath-steward’s cabin.
The slight scraping continued and presently the sharp-eyed Seminole saw the point of a knife appear through a board. The slit slowly widened, and a folded piece of paper was pushed halfway through. Osceola grabbed it and scanned the writing that covered both sides. He passed it to Bill, who accomplished the difficult feat of reading it while continuing his story of the football game. The handwriting, though tiny, was unformed and he guessed at once that the message was from Charlie. It ran:
“Dear Bill—Hans is my bath stewward. He is O.K. Have promissed Dad will make him rich for life if he helps you and the cheif. He will cut through the boards to your cell. Hang your blankits down over the edge of your upper bearth so as to deden sound. He will push through another knife so you can do some cuting. I think the other one better talk or sing or something so the centry can’t here you cuting. If you get away take Hans to. His name will be mud after this on board the Amtonia.
“Yours truley,
“Charles Evans.”
Bill smiled broadly as he pocketed the boyish, misspelled note. Then, still keeping up his endless monologue anent football, he hung the blankets, forming a curtain which completely shut in the lower bunk. Osceola was already at work with a knife that Hans had passed through the opening.
Bill continued to talk for the next twenty minutes, but then he pulled aside one corner of the blanket. The bunk was like a bake oven. Osceola was sweating from every pore.
“My turn now. Come out, and don’t forget to talk.”
Osceola handed the knife to Bill, grabbed his clothes and slipped out of the bunk.
Immediately Bill climbed in and divested himself of the underclothes he wore. Because of the heat, neither of the lads had been clothed in more than their undershirts and shorts since their incarceration. As the blanket dropped back into place, he heard Osceola begin a recital of some hunting trip he had taken down in the Florida everglades. He was surprised to find how the double blankets deadened the sound of his friend’s voice.
It was pitch dark in the bunk. He was just beginning to wonder exactly where he should get to work when a light appeared through two parallel slits in the wall-boards. These, he saw, were about three feet long and perhaps a foot and a half apart. From the cabin beyond the voice of Hans came in a sibilant whisper.
“If the Herr Lieutenant will be good enough to start cutting across the boards from the bottom of one slit to the bottom of the other? I shall work on the top end. It is not necessary to tell the Lieutenant not to press too hard with his knife. The sound of splintering wood can be heard in the passage. There is no need to disturb the sentry—just yet.”
Bill heard the steward chuckle. Then, except for the very slight sound of the knives as they cut across the grain of the wood, no other came to his ears save the low mumble of Osceola’s voice beyond the blankets.
It was hard work and tedious, slicing across the grain of the boards. The heat made Bill dizzy, and he stopped frequently to wipe away the sweat that streamed down into his eyes. After what seemed an endless age, Hans spoke again.
“I have cut through to the farther slit, sir. Will the Herr Lieutenant be good enough now to place the palm of his hand against the piece that is to come out? There must be no cracking of the wood when we remove it.”
“Okay,” whispered Bill.
Less than five minutes later, he completed his job. Hans took the panel they had cut from the wall and switched off the light in his cabin.
“Stand by,” said Bill. “We’ll be with you just as soon as I can get a drink and put on my clothes.”
“Very good, sir,” returned the man, and Bill climbed out of the bunk.
He went at once to the washbasin where he rinsed out his mouth and drank a few swallows of the tepid water. A quick sluice and a rubdown followed. Then he got quickly into his white linen uniform. Osceola, who was already dressed, spent the time in taking down the blankets, folding them and tossing them onto the upper berth. Far down the passageway they heard a bell tinkle eight times.
“Midnight,” said Bill, in a low tone. “Yes, there’s Otto, relieving our weary sentry at last. We’ll give him five minutes to vamoose, then we’ll get out of here.”
That seemed the longest five minutes of their lives. They kept their eyes glued on the luminous dials of their wrist-watches.
“Time’s up!” said Bill at last.
“To the second,” was the Seminole’s sole comment. One after the other they got into the lower berth and squeezed through the opening in the wall.
“What’s the plan now, Hans?” Bill whispered in the darkness.
“With permission, sir, I will go into the passage and talk to Otto, who is on watch now. I will leave the cabin door ajar, sir, and as soon as his back is turned, it will be well if the gentlemen come out and—”
“Scrag him,” Bill supplied.
“That’s it, sir. Here are four pieces of rope and a gag. That ought to be enough to keep Otto quiet. Will the gentlemen please take me with them,” he asked somewhat diffidently, “when they leave the ship?”
“You bet we will!” said Osceola. “Only don’t be so darned polite. You make me nervous. Cut along now, we’ll attend to Otto just as soon as you get him facing the right way.”
“Very good, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Hans opened the door and went out, leaving it slightly ajar. From the shadows beside it, the lads saw him approach the sentry, who lounged on a stool by the gate.
“Too hot in there to sleep,” remarked Hans. “I’m going above to catch a breath of air.”
“Wish I could!” The sentry placed his rifle against the wall. “This ship is an oven below-decks. Practically the whole port watch has gone ashore. Just my bad luck to be stuck down here.”
“Look at the size of that rat!” exclaimed the steward, pointing down the prison corridor.
“Where?” Otto swung round toward the barred gate.
Hans immediately caught up the rifle and pressed the muzzle against the man’s side. “One peep out of you,” he muttered, “and I’ll give you a bellyful!”
Otto stared at him dazedly. Before he could decide whether or not to make a move, Bill thrust the gag in his mouth, while Osceola caught his wrists and lashed them fast behind his back.
It took only a moment longer to tie up his ankles. Otto was laid on the floor, and with Hans in the lead and carrying the rifle, the three hurried down the passage away from the gate.
Hans led them up through the galleys and pantries into the First Class Dining Saloon without encountering a single soul. They went boldly up the main staircase to the promenade deck, which seemed deserted. A small figure hiding in the shadows ran up to them, and Charlie gripped his friends’ hands.
“Never mind the thanks,” he whispered. “We’ve got to work fast. There’s an armed seaman at the gangway head. We must quiet him first. Then we’ll take the ship’s boat that’s moored below.”
“Okay, boy.”
Without another word, Bill walked up to the gangway sentry, who immediately brought his rifle to the present.
“There’s rust on that barrel,” growled Bill and held out his hand. “I can see it even in this light.”
“But—but I think,” stammered the sentry, “that my officer is mistaken!” He passed over the gun without suspicion.
Immediately afterward, he found himself in the same dilemma Otto had encountered ten minutes earlier. Tied up and gagged with a handkerchief, he was deposited behind a pile of deck chairs.
His captors wasted no further time. They ran down the gangway and piled aboard the skiff moored to the grating. Hans got out the single pair of oars, Osceola unloosed the painter, and Bill, who seated himself beside Charlie in the stern, steered their small craft away from the ship. There were men on the Amtonia’s bridge but they received no hail to return.
Bill looked about. Although there was no moon, the brilliant starlight gave ample light for him to size up his surroundings. He found that they were floating in a large cove or harbor almost landlocked. The body of water was eggshaped; perhaps a mile long by half that distance in width. The shores were rocky, with black patches of sandy beach. Beyond grew a dense forest, except at one end of the bay, where twinkling lights marked a small settlement. The outlet to the ocean was narrow, and guarded by high cliffs. It was a perfect retreat for the Baron and his pirates.
Charlie piped up in his boyish treble. “The Amtonia’s absolutely hidden by those heads from any ship passing up or down the coast. The harbor entrance makes a right-angled turn half way to the sea. I heard Lieutenant Brinkerhoff say that a warship passed the mouth, going west, about eleven-thirty. The lookout on the head signalled in. Brinkerhoff was laughing about it, I guess it made him feel good.”
“Well, his break is ours now,” declared Bill. “And there’s another one for us!”
He pointed to where the Flying Fish lay moored, with her wings spread, a few hundred yards away.
“It’ll be hot as Tophet in her hull tonight! Row on, Hans. We’re going over there to pay a visit. By the way, does anyone know exactly where we are?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the man, “this harbor is on the coast of Maine. Washington County, I think, sir—not very far from Englishman’s Bay.”
“Good enough! What are those lights yonder?”
“You might call that our private Navy Yard, sir. It’s the Baron’s shore base. He keeps a crew on duty there, while the ships are at sea. There are storehouses, a machine shop, the men’s quarters and a store. It’s ten miles back to the railroad. He owns all the shore acreage hereabouts. A high wire fence shuts in the property from all outsiders. There are one or two big estates up and down the coast, but the nearest house is a good three miles away.”
“How are the roads?”
“There’s no road along the coast, sir. The one from the base runs back to the little town on the railroad. It’s in very bad condition, sir. There is no other way out.”
“Thank you, Hans. You’re a treasure-house of local knowledge.”
“Thank you, sir. May I make a suggestion?”
“Fire away.”
“My brother, August, is deck watch aboard the Flying Fish, sir. Usually, in port, only one man is kept aboard her. August does not like this life. Like me, he was shanghaied into it. Once with this outfit, there is no getting away, unless by a miracle, like tonight, sir. August speaks no English. May I ask him to join us?”
“By all means, Hans. It will save a lot of trouble. Offer him what Mrs. Evans said she would give you. I will see that it is paid.”
“Very good, sir. Thank you, sir.”
They were close to the converted submarine now. On the narrow deck, abaft the motors a man was seated on a camp chair, smoking. He stood up as the boat approached.
Hans hailed him and for several minutes the two brothers hurled harsh gutturals at each other. Bill guessed them to be speaking a low Bavarian dialect of German. He failed to understand a single word of what they said.
“He wants me to thank you—he will come,” Hans asserted presently.
“What a polite family you are—” chuckled Bill. “Let’s get aboard.”
Fifteen minutes later those officers and men who had remained on deck aboard the anchored pirate ship were astonished to see the Flying Fish taxi down the harbor and take the air. A few seconds later her tail lights disappeared into the dark beyond the headlands. Aboard the Amtonia orders were shouted, bells clanged, and presently the whining howl of her siren awoke the echoes of the night.
Half an hour passed. Bill, at the wheel of the Flying Fish, leaned forward, his eyes focussed on a pinpoint of light far below and about ten miles ahead of the speeding airplane.
“There she is on a bet,” he said to Osceola, who was in the other pilot’s seat.
“You mean the warship Charlie told us about? What makes you so sure?”
“I’ve got a hunch, that’s all. Anyway, nothing but a fishing boat or one of the little steamers that put in at the small seaports along this part of the coast would be so close to shore. That’s a big ship out there. I think I’m right about her.”
Bill’s hunch was correct, as the two in the cockpit presently saw.
“It’s the Stamford, or her twin!” he declared. “Uncle Sam sure is on the job!”
Catching up with the cruiser, he circled her three times. Then the Flying Fish darted ahead, landed and came to rest half a mile beyond. By the time the warship hove to beside them, Bill had a sea anchor out and was waiting on the heaving deck. He held a megaphone in his hand. Beside him, staring at the big cruiser, stood Osceola, Charlie, Hans and August.
“What craft is that?” came a hail from the warship’s bridge.
“The convertible submarine-seaplane, Flying Fish, Midshipman William Bolton in command,” Bill yelled back. “She was part of von Hiemskirk’s pirate outfit. She belongs to Uncle Sam now. We captured her less than an hour ago. Are you the Stamford?”
“You’ve guessed it!” spoke a jubilant voice. “Commander Brown speaking,” it went on, “are you the chaps who sent out that wireless?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Congratulations, Mr. Bolton. Where is the Amtonia?”
“At anchor in a small harbor a few miles up the coast, sir. One of her propellers was shot off in the scrap the other day. She hasn’t got steam up, or didn’t have, when we left—so I guess she’s still there.”
“Good! Take off at once and lead us to her.”
“Aye, aye, sir. There’s plenty of water but the channel to the harbor is a narrow one between twin heads. You’ll have to be careful.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bolton. Any other suggestions?”
“Yes, sir. Please wireless to the state constabulary to guard the road from Twin Head Harbor to Clayton. That’s the only way von Hiemskirk and his crew can escape by land.”
“We’ll attend to it at once,” said the Commander. “Cut along now. We’ll follow you, so don’t get too far ahead.”
“Aye, sir,” said Bill, and sent Hans forward to haul in the sea anchor.
The first pale rays of summer dawn were brightening sea and land when the Stamford navigated the entrance between Twin Heads and pushed her wicked snout into the harbor. At the same instant, Bill landed the Flying Fish on the calm water.
Through the cockpit windows Bill saw that the Amtonia was raising her anchors.
“Von Hiemskirk was all set to run for it,” he said to the chief.
“But he wasn’t quite quick enough,” grinned Osceola. “Next stop, Atlanta, for that bunch. There’s mighty little pirating to be done in a federal prison!”
“They’re hauling down the Jolly Roger!” cried Bill. “Well, that cuts it. Somebody will be sending a boat over here after awhile. Let’s see if we can rustle some chow in the meantime. I’m starved!”
The boat came alongside shortly after the five aboard the Flying Fish had finished doing justice to a very substantial breakfast. And all five were on deck when the ensign in charge came over the side.
“Mr. Bolton?” inquired the young officer, as Bill stepped forward.
“Himself,” smiled Bill.
“I’m Pierce, of the Stamford.” The two shook hands.
“Commander Brown’s compliments,” he continued after Bill had introduced the quartet, “he wishes you to come aboard the Amtonia. We wirelessed the news, of course, and have just received a message of thanks addressed to you, signed by the President. You are to go to Washington, just as soon as this business here is cleaned up. In fact, the President wants to meet the five of you.”
“I bet Bill will get the Congressional Medal!” shrilled Charlie.
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” smiled Pierce. “Gosh!” he exploded, “this is a big thing you fellows have put over!”
“But Bill was the brains of it,” said Osceola.
“Without everybody’s help,” said Bill, “we never should have pulled it off.”
“Cut the argument,” laughed Ensign Pierce. “The skipper is waiting, and so are several hundred delighted passengers.”
“That’s just it,” protested Bill, “I’d rather be shot than face that mob!”
“Not me!” said Charlie. “Gee, it’ll be swell! Because I was the youngest on board, everybody took pleasure in jumping on me. Now I can tell them all where to shove off! Let’s go!”
THE END
Those who read and enjoyed this book and the one preceding it, (Bill Bolton—Flying Midshipman) will want to read the next of this series, Bill Bolton and The Hidden Danger.