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!”
Chapter XVII
CHARLIE’S NOTE
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.
Chapter XVIII
THE FLYING FISH PLAYS ITS PART
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.
Transcriber’s Notes
- Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public domain in the country of publication.
- Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard (or amusing) spellings and dialect unchanged.
- In the text versions, delimited italics text in _underscores_ (the HTML version reproduces the font form of the printed book.)