The Pirate Story Megapack. R.M. Ballantyne

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СКАЧАТЬ account of the number of men ashore. Otherwise he had anticipated a dory, but the boat was a double-ended whaleboat into which they jumped with the celerity of saltwater men. Swenson was at the tiller with Jim beside him, and the six men took to the sweeps with a powerful stroke that, aided by the current, sent the boat dancing swiftly down the bay through the fog. They passed Butter’s Point unseen, but located by Birds Island Light and swung into the entrance of Sippican Harbor, a long narrow anchorage. Swenson steered as if it had been broad daylight, occasionally hand testing the water alongside for eddies. He brought them up to a trim-looking schooner with masthead light showing, and as they pulled forward toward the bows, the reflection of her green sidelight to starboard. Jim looked for a name, but the curve of the bows prevented that. He had seen none on the whaleboat, merely the number 4. A side ladder was rigged, up which Jim preceded Swenson, the men in the boat dropping back to the quarter falls. On deck a man met them whom Swenson called Mr. Peters. There was a crispness to his manner as well as the official handle he set to the man’s name that showed that Hellfire had taken up the reins of discipline. He did not introduce Jim but took him to the main cabin, showing him a stateroom.

      “Here’s where you bunk,” he said. “All by yourself. Plenty of room aft. She was a pleasure craft, matey, but we’ve stripped off the fancy rigging an’ made her seaworthy. She’s sweetlined as a racing yacht, but she’s stiff enough for any breeze. Seventy-two footer, with a fine engine for a kicker. Dynamo, wireless, all the rigamajigs. Take the screw off ’n her an’ she’ll sail with any fisherman ever went out o’ Gloucester.”

      “Sweet looking schooner,” said Jim. “Far as I can see. What’s her name?” Swenson looked at him quizzically.

      “Didn’t you see it on the boat? I don’t hold in stickin’ a ship’s name all over the place, buoys an’ boats an’ everything. You’ll see it in the mornin’. Not much room for cargo, but what we’re after won’t take up much room, eh, matey? And there’s the more space for stores. I’ll see you later.”

      He nodded and went out. A bolt slid outside the door. There was one on the inside also but it wouldn’t do him much good, Jim reflected. He climbed on the bunk and gazed through the porthole at the blackness. Overhead he heard the familiar scuffle of action, short commands, the inhaul of the anchor, the grunts of men as they hauled on the halyards, swaying up the sails. There was little wind in the fog, yet they had elected to use canvas rather than the engine Swenson mentioned. It made for silence. But if this craft was going down to the South Seas she must have papers of some sort for clearance, or she would find herself in trouble at foreign ports of call. The truth probably was that Sippican Harbor was not her usual anchorage, and for some reason Swenson preferred to slide out without attracting undue attention. Jim fancied that the schooner had used such tactics more than once. Hellfire Swenson, he imagined, was peddling firewater. But his own affairs concerned him more closely. If he was kept immured in the cabin until the ship gained open water it was likely that he was booked for a trip to the Panama Canal, the first stop Colon.

      Carried on the current, more than aided by the light airs, the schooner made good progress. Through the porthole Jim saw Bird Island Light. Now they were heading down Buzzards Bay toward the entrance to Long Island Sound where they would work out to the free Atlantic. The cabin clock chimed eight bells and the ship’s bell echoed the strokes of midnight. His bolt was slipped and Swenson came in. He unlocked the handcuffs.

      “Fog’s breakin’,” he said. “Hazy yet, but I wouldn’t wonder if ’t was clear outside. You’ll not take up your duty till tomorrow, Mr. Lyman, but if you want to stretch yourself a bit come on deck. I’m taking the watch. We’ll have a little touch of grog first.”

      He filled glasses in the main cabin and handed one to Jim.

      “Here’s to a successful voyage,” he toasted, and Jim drank to the toast. The whisky sent the blood surging through his veins. They went above together. Swenson kept close by Jim’s side, but it was plain that he had partially accepted him as one of his own kidney, or as a tool he could successfully use.

      The fog was thinning, shredding away, and there were holes in it here and there through which a star peeped. The beacon lights tore at it, rending paths for their warnings. They stood aft by the wheel. Suddenly the engine started to turn the screw and their speed increased. Jim calculated they were making a good eight knots. They had passed New Bedford Harbor with Clark’s Point Light flashing almost abeam. Dumpling Rock Light was the next. Then he would keep his eyes peeled for the fixed white light at Cuttyhunk, westernmost point of the Elizabeth string of islands. There, between Gooseberry Neck and Penikese Island, the inlet was at its narrowest, somewhere about five miles. And the main channel swung toward Penikese.

      Jim meant to stay on deck until they caught sight of the light at Cuttyhunk, then to take his chance over the rail. His shoes were unlaced, the ends tucked in, seemingly tied, but ready to kick off the moment he struck water. It was going to be a long swim—how long he could not gauge beforehand—and a hard one. The tide would sweep him down. If he missed Penikese he would have to fight hard to land on Cuttyhunk or be carried out into the ocean proper.

      The long odds were preferable to staying aboard the schooner, even if he had not had special reasons urging him. He could not disassociate Foster as the real master mind of Swenson’s activities, and he was fired with desire to block all Foster’s plans which doubtless were maturing back in Foxfield. He meant to be present at the conference set for the same night—now that midnight had sounded. He had a hundred-odd dollars in his pocket. Let him get away, make a landing, and however roundabout his route, he would get to where autos might be hired, and then travel on the funds of the opposition.

      Swenson did not seem to imagine that a man would dream of tackling a getaway by swimming; nevertheless he stayed closer to Jim than Jim relished. And he planned how he could avoid Hellfire’s attentions and even matters up with him a bit. So far he had been the underdog; from now on he hoped things would turn out differently.

      They chugged on through the dissipating mists which should lend a friendly cloak to Jim’s escape. The fixed ray of Cuttyhunk shone like a misplaced star, then was eclipsed by something that must be Penikese Island. He and Swenson were pacing up and down together. Jim had started the topic of rum-running in a manner that suggested that he thought such exploits highly creditable, adventurous, and profitable. Swenson rose to the bait. With a congenial soul inclined to admiration, Hellfire was not averse to boasting.

      “Good enough, when there’s nothing bigger on hand,” he said. “And it’s sure good fun to fool the raiders. They sing loud when they happen to light on a buried cargo or board a ship with contraband once in a million times, through some rotten informer telling ’em what they’d never find out for themselves. We keep ’em guessing. It’s a fine coast for hide an’ seek.”

      He went on to tell of exploits, not attempting to veil his own personality as a principal. He hinted broadly at the existence of a national ring with ramifications spreading out north to Canada, west to the Orient, east to Europe, south to the Indies, Central and South America. And Jim, with the right word now and then, led him on. Swenson stood at the port rail, elbows on it, leaning back, puffing at his cigar. Jim purposely allowed his to go out. He looked beyond Swenson to where he fancied he could see the loom of Penikese. Fortunately it was thickening up a little. He stood within easy distance of Swenson, judging the space between them.

      “Got a match?” he asked. “I’m out.”

      Swenson took his glowing cigar from between his lips. This Jim had counted on, though it was not vital. He offered it, butt first, in his right hand, the left swinging low. Jim stepped forward as if to take it and brought up his right first smash against the point of Swenson’s jaw, with all the impetus lent by the past hours of defeat and ignominy, with all the force of the pivoting weight of his body concentrated in that blow for liberty. Hellfire saw it СКАЧАТЬ