Cargo of Coffins (10 page)

“Sure, but—”

“It’s your life and Miss Norton’s I’m thinking about, Ralph. You need do nothing if Paco fails to take over the ship.”

Ralph got up. His eyes were feverishly bright as he began to understand that there might be excitement in the offing.

“Maybe . . . maybe I’ll do it.”

Lars watched him out, heard the door lock. And then, wearily, he lay back upon his bunk.

In spite of the tension within him he knew he must have slept. A far-off shout came to him. He sat up and swung his legs down.

A shot sounded somewhere forward and Lars was on his feet, hands gripping the bars of the door. He shook them.

His every thought was concentrated upon Ralph. If the boy succeeded in getting Terry down here, if he succeeded in bringing the keys, if he had placed the riot guns on the bridge . . .

Lars knew too well what he himself was doing. How easy it would have been to swing in with Paco. But there were other elements involved besides revenge which had chosen his course for him. Terry Norton’s safety was now paramount. Since his play last night he had known that he had been fighting to choose between two paths—his own safety and that of Terry Norton. The girl had won. For Lars, now, there would only be French Guiana or Madame Guillotine, no matter if he won against Paco. He saw that clearly. Until midnight of last night, when he had swung that wheel, he had tried to preserve his hard-won freedom. But all question of doing that was gone.

Hurried footsteps were sounding in the passageway. By the blue light, Lars saw Ralph coming. And with him Ralph dragged Terry. She was protesting, glancing back, anxious about the violent sounds which came from the main deck, the repeated shots.

Ralph inserted the keys in the lock, opened the door and slapped a .45 into Lars’ big hand.

“What madness is this?” cried Terry. “I thought you said . . . It’s a trick! Ralph, you’re crazy! Can’t you . . .”

“Shut up,” said Lars roughly. “Paco is taking over the
Valiant.
We can get to the bridge from the engine room.”

Terry stared at him. Shots were more frequent now on deck.

“Are you coming?” demanded Lars.

She did not move and he scooped her up in his arms and bore her swiftly up the passageway. Ralph, panting excitedly, strove to keep up with Lars’ long, anxious strides. Terry’s negligee floated behind Lars like a ship’s wake. The back of the .45 slide was hard and bruising in Terry’s side but, staring at Lars’ face in wonder, she did not even feel it.

They reached the engine room, skirting the big Diesels and the shining rails, brushing past an astounded engineer, mounting the iron ladders which led upward.

At the top of the last stage, Lars set Terry down. “You’ll have to climb. I’ll go first.”

Lars mounted the precarious rungs up the sheer side. In a moment he reached the open fidley. He stopped there, looking toward the bridge on the same level. Dawn faintly lit the world.

Johnson was leaning over the bridge rail, shouting down at the forward deck. A bullet snapped beside his head and he drew back, almost somersaulting in his rush.

Heavy feet thundered on the bridge ladder. Lars slid out of the hatch and stepped quickly to a position commanding the forward part of the bridge.

Tallien, shaggy hair streaming like black smoke behind him, charged into sight. The light was faint but the range was short. He saw Lars and threw the Mannlicher rifle to his shoulder.

Lars shot from the hip.

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are we?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Johnson was lying beside him.

“You didn’t change the course?”

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

“Good! Ralph! Take this to
Sparks
!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He heard Terry’s scream, “Look out!”

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

Clumsy Jean Patou fell forward on the rifle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ever hear of a radio?” shouted Lars.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER TEN

The Reckoning

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paco looked down at the deck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I should like to meet this brave captain.”

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