He started to sing again at the top of the sideladder, but Jim grabbed him by the arm and he gathered himself together.
“Thash ri’. Mushn’t wake the ladiesh. Skip’, pu’ me to bed an’ lemme sleep.”
Jim got him below, got his pajamas on him and turned him into his bunk where he promptly composed himself for sleep after insisting that his wreaths be placed about his neck.
“Emblems of love an’ frenship, Skip, Everlashtin’ tokens of glorioush hoshpitality. Goo’ ni’! God bless you, Skip. You ought t’ have been along. Goo’ ni’.” Jim left him snoring stertorously.
At the eight o’clock breakfast he excused Newton, stating the bald truth that he had returned late and needed sleep.
“I heard him come aboard,” said Lynda Warner with a twinkle in her eyes, but no further remarks, confirming herself to Jim as a good sport. After the meal, while Kitty wrote a letter she had overlooked, Jim had his talk with Lynda Warner.
“You don’t think very highly of Stephen Foster, I believe,” he started.
“What makes you think so?”
He told her frankly.
“I think that he is cold-blooded and unscrupulous in business,” she said. “In many things he would take great pains to do what he considered the exactly just thing. I do not think him generous. And I have known him not entirely selfish. He thinks the world of Newton. Newton himself does not strike me as a natural conspirator.”
“H’m” said Jim. Lynda had not given him a wide opening. “Do you think Stephen Foster considers this trip a business matter?”
She looked at him with shrewd approval. “Absolutely so,” she answered.
Then he told her his news while she listened carefully.
“I do not see any good in mentioning this to Kitty,” she answered. “Much of it is suspicion, and suspicion against people who are closely connected to her. Newton is her blood relative. It might not help your standing with her. You have nothing really definite. If that was Swenson it means only that we must be doubly careful. You see, Jim—” she laid her hand on his arm as she spoke his personal name for the first time, “you see, Kitty thinks of nothing but her father. Anything else is superficial, as superficial as the affair of that dinner and dance last night. To which you should have come—clothes or no clothes.
“As for the cable, I know that Stephen Foster sometimes goes to Cuba. He has heavy interests there in sugar. So that may clear Newton up. I don’t see how anyone is going to get those figures. We sha’n’t have a chance to mail them ahead to Fiji, I understand. Swenson may be tricky and desperate in his methods, but he can hardly come aboard and take the diary by force. Just what are you most afraid of?”
“If it was Swenson, he must either hope to get hold of the figures or he will have to trail us. If he could manage to do that I have no doubt but that he would try to capture the pearls, after we had secured them from the Golden Dolphin. What we have got to do is to keep him from getting the position, and to shake him off if he attempts to follow. Once we get down there we are first going to try to find Captain Whiting, though I can’t help but be doubtful over the outcome of that. If Swenson makes an attack, providing he discovers us, then we must hold him off. Those are risks you should not be subjected to, but I suppose there is no use trying to dissuade Miss Kitty.”
“Not in the least. Nor me. We are well armed. So far we haven’t practiced with the weapons. Why not do it from now on? Here comes Kitty. I’m glad we had this talk. Are we all going ashore together? I don’t mean Newton. As I said, I heard him come aboard.”
Next to the shipping commissioner’s office on the Honolulu waterfront there is—or was—an agency for the employment of sailing men. Once it was notorious for its connection with the sailors’ boarding house of Lewis & Turk, a pair of thugs who made their living by shanghaiing beachcombers and others unfortunate enough to get into their clutches or within reach of their blackjacks and brass knuckles. Prohibition has done more than any law to do away with the crimping game. Liquor was the bait and the drug of waterfront victims. Nowadays the employment agency is conducted on a most respectable basis. There you may obtain names and get in touch with all available mariners; even mates registering. Captain, cook or cabin boy, steward, supercargo, sailor, engineer or boat-steerer, if there are any available Renny & Green, now occupying the abandoned premises of Lewis & Turk, will fill your needs.
When Jim stated his need of a cook, the clerk took him up, asking the length of voyage, number of passengers and crew, list of duties, wages, etc., marking them all down on a form.
“Chinaman?” he asked.
“Preferred.”
“One in this morning. Good man. Been a restaurant cook. A bit of a highflier, is Li Cheng. But a good cook and I imagine it’s because he has been skinned at fan-tan that he wants a job where he’ll have to save up till he’s got another stake.”
“Seasick?”
“Oh, he’s cooked aboard ship before this.”
“You know him? Character all right? We’ve got ladies aboard.”
“Know him ever since I’ve been here. They say Li Cheng was in the opium ring, but that was long ago before the U. S. took over the place and burned up all the pipes and dumped the confiscated opium into the bay.”
“I’ve heard about that,” said Jim. “Some say they dumped molasses instead of opium.” The clerk grinned.
“I guess Li Cheng’s character is good enough. You’re not going to tempt him, are you?” Both laughed. “I’ll have him in for you inside of half an hour,” said the clerk. “You can look him over.”
“He’ll have to start in right away. We sail this afternoon. Any one else in view in case he doesn’t show?”
“He’ll show. Needs a job badly, he said. ‘Too muchy bloke.’ He’ll go. And I haven’t got any one nearly as good.”
Jim did some marketing and saw the stuff carried down to the boat landing by Hamsun and Vogt, brought ashore for that purpose. He needed a little gasoline but took enough to fill up his tank. The water tender was already alongside the Seamew.
He returned to interview Li Cheng. The wisest of white men can tell but little about a yellow man until he tests him. Li Cheng was elderly. He was cueless and there were gray hairs among the black. He might have been fifty or seventy, with his comparatively unwrinkled skin and black eyes with their unfolding eyelids that seemed to open like the top of a roller desk.
“Can do,” he said. “Me topside cook. Pastly, hot blead, hot biscuit. Good chow. Make up salad, number one salad, fine coffee. Suppose I catch up fifty dolla every month, fifty dolla gold, I go.”
“That’s pretty high.”
“Maskee,” answered Li Cheng indifferently. “I like go sea becos I no spend. Make um stake. Maskee. Suppose you no pay can catch plenty job soon. Topside cook I belong.”
“Wages are up,” said the clerk, to Jim’s inquiring glance.
“I’ll sign you,” said Jim. “Come in to the commissioner’s.”
After signing on Li Cheng went uptown again for his kit, promising to be aboard within the hour and to have tiffin ready. Jim had one more errand. At the office of the Collector of the Port. That official’s records showed nothing of any vessel’s entry that remotely resembled a power schooner. Jim’s belief that Swenson had sailed by way of Panama to circumvent and follow them faded, to his relief.
He found the ladies aboard the Seamew, their shopping done, anxious to start. Newton still slept off his potations. Li Cheng came off in a shore skiff, bringing his belongings and a pet monkey.
“You no care?” he asked. “Velly fond of pets. No pilikia this kekko,” he said. “Keep him along galley. Make fun for sailor.” Kitty Whiting fell in love with the monkey and made friends with it immediately, Li Cheng looking on with a broad smile.
“Plenty akamai, that kekko,” he said. “Heap smart monkey.”
They made clearance, yanking the anchor from the stiff mud of the harbor bottom, out through the buoyed channel through the
reef, getting a farewell wave from the old keeper of the reef-lighthouse, out past the bell-buoy and then, with the northeast trade blowing fresh and free as the Seamew out-swung her booms, they headed straight out into the blue, sparkling sea. There was nothing ahead of them until they reached the equator, save Johnson Island, a barren lift of coral rock and sand that they most likely would not even sight.
The seas ran crisp, the wind blowing off their curling crests like powder. The water was a most intense blue. For all its action it held the apparent hardness of glass, or of a jewel with a myriad facets flinging back the brilliance of the sun. To the north sailed great billows of cloud out of which blew the breeze. In the southeast the other islands of the group swam in a luminous haze, darker blue than the sea, with a hint of green here and there, and on far off Hawaii shore the gleam of snow on Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa, their summits nearly fourteen thousand feet above sea level. Behind Lanari rose the high dome of Maui’s extinct crater. Sea gulls and bosun birds had escorted them out to sea. The air seemed charged with vigor; the day one of good omen. Kitty stood in the bows, cuddling Li Cheng’s monkey, gazing far ahead, a little anxious frown between her eyes. It seemed to Jim that she was striving to find some hope back of that luminous horizon, as if a little dread was beginning to dilute her confidence that she would find her father.
Baker touched Jim on the arm, pointing south and east to where, on a course parallel with their own, a white fleck showed. Jim took the powerful glass and focused it on that stiffly upstanding speck, watching it for long minutes. It was undoubtedly a schooner, well down to leeward, bound on their own course, an unusual one for vessels. It might be a South Sea trader, though not many came to the Hawaiian Group, save on some rare trip to San Francisco. The nearest group ahead was the Phoenix Islands, just below the line, nearly five hundred marine leagues away. Jim handed back the binoculars to the mate with a face he tried to make untroubled.
“Schooner. Going our way, it seems,” he said. “We’ll make a race of it.”
“We’ve got a good start to wind’ard,” remarked Baker. “She’ll have come out of Hilo, I’m thinking, through the Alenuihana Channel, likely. Been back of Kahoolawe until just now. Current setting her down. Ah, she’s tacking.”
“We’ll run off a bit and take a closer look at her,” said Jim. Baker said nothing. The maneuver would be a waste of time, but if the skipper wanted to get a nearer view of every stray sail, that was none of the mate’s business. The sheets came in as Jim gave the order and Hamsun spun the wheel. The Seamew came round like a teetotum, heeled to the breeze that sent her reaching, fast closing up the distance to the stranger, sailing now toward them on the same point, though on the opposite tack. Jim did not analyze the impulse that caused him to run out of his way, even for a few miles to leeward. He had set his mind to make all possible speed, yet he felt he could not be satisfied until he had come close enough to see the rig of the fast approaching schooner.
It was still possible that she was merely an inter-island boat making the trip from Hilo to one of the other islands. If she was bound for Kauai, northernmost of the Hawaiian group, she would not, since she had tacked as she did, be much out of her course. Somehow he believed that this was not so. Without anything definite to go on he linked up the schooner with Swenson.
Kitty came toward him, saying nothing, but sailor enough to know they had changed their course. She caught sight of the sail. The two schooners were slashing through the seas toward each other at about their best rate of speed; already on the Seamew they could see the lift of the other’s white hull as she breasted the seas, making easy work of it. Baker came up again, glass in hand.
“There’s a big launch coming like a skipjack,” he said. “Either she’s after us or out to meet this other chap. Wouldn’t be so far off land on her own hook, not a launch.”
Jim knew, without further confirmation, that Swenson was in the launch that was tearing along at a furious clip, shattering the seas she charged, half smothered in smoky spray. She was a double-ender, built for island work. As she came on she rolled like a porpoise, showing her bilge heels as she flung herself forward. He got the glass on the advancing schooner once more. She was of the same type as the Seamew, a Gloucester fisherman model, unmistakable as she was alien to those waters. There was no need to go closer, but Jim held on. He wanted to read her name, to see the transshipment from the launch. Then, if he was right, if Swenson was trailing the Seamew, there would be an even start to the race and he exulted in the belief that the Seamew was the better boat of the two, and that he, as its captain, would show Hellfire that there are more ways than one of being lost at sea. Swenson might know, or guess, that they were bound for Fiji. Jim resolved to make Suva first and get away before Swenson showed. The only thing that surprised him was Swenson’s willingness to declare himself by leaving at practically the same hour. He must have ordered his schooner to weigh anchor at Hilo early that morning, using the inter-island wireless, and then waited for the Seamew to clear before he took the launch to meet his own boat; and he must have reckoned that the chances were all in favor of his being noticed. The maneuvering of the Seamew showed unmistakably that the folks aboard her were curious, if not suspicious.
Lynda Warner joined Kitty. Jim wondered what had passed between them about Swenson, if anything. He had said nothing further to Lynda, but it was very plain that the women had a mutual understanding and that they had agreed to ask no questions. It might be feminine intuition; it might be sheer wisdom, but Jim appreciated it. He did not care for Baker or any of the crew to suppose that they were bound on any but a pleasure trip. Later they must know of the search for Captain Avery Whiting; they would be wondering at the stranded hull of the Golden Dolphin, but there would be no necessity for letting them know anything about the pearls. If they were in their hiding-place they could be taken out quietly and never referred to. He could understand trouble arising among men who knew they were on a ship that contained a fortune, won by comparative ease, all destined for the lucky one or two, while they got nothing but seamen’s wages and seamen’s work, hard and exacting. So it must have been with the Golden Dolphin, even if the seeds of mutiny had not been sown beforehand.
Now the two schooners were less than half a mile apart, lunging on, almost abeam, a beautiful sight as the wind drove them and the lift of the seas cushioned them on their own buoyancy. Now he could see a name on the bows, letters of metal that glistened in the sun, a short word—Shark. A fitting title for a ship run by Swenson.
The launch came on, buffeting the seas. Suddenly the Shark shot into the wind, hung there with sails shivering, peaks lowered, rising and falling until from the Seamew they could see all the length of her deck with men scattered upon it. Through the glass Jim caught details that the rest could not. The launch came alongside, tossing. Bumpers were flung out. A big man, lithe and active, sprang for the schooner’s rail from the lesser freeboard of the launch, caught at the main rigging, jumped down on deck.
He took off his visored cap and wiped his face with the back of his hand as if to clear off spray. Jim caught the shine of a bald dome, a tonsure of red hair. Immediately he handed the glass to Baker and shouted an order. The wheel of the Seamew went up; the men sprang to ease out the sheets as she came about. The sails filled and once more she ran before the wind, southwest by five points west, her wake streaming out behind. Smartly too the Shark came surging on. The launch turned and went lunging back toward Oahu.
With a glance aft Jim went to the head of the companionway, following Kitty and Lynda down into the main cabin.
“It was Swenson?” asked Kitty.
“Yes. Trailing us. Pretty openly. If he figures he can keep us in sight night and day from here to the island he’s going to be mistaken.”
“Swenson?” Newton Foster spoke. He had evidently just made his appearance. Behind him stood Cheng, with coffee on a tray. Wiltz was making up the staterooms, not supposed to bother with extra service between meals. “What a
bout Swenson?” Jim did not answer, glancing at Cheng, whose face showed no interest as he set down the tray and left.
“Swenson has just come out in a launch and joined his schooner, the Shark,” said Jim briefly. “I think the schooner came out from Hilo. That would account for my not finding it entered at Honolulu. I saw Swenson in Honolulu last night. At least I thought it was he. Now I know. He hasn’t been able to get hold of our figures so he’s taking a try at following. We’ve got to shake him off. I don’t quite understand his tipping his hand so early. He must know we’ve recognized him. We’ll lose him between here and Suva. If we can’t out-sail him we’ll dodge him some night. And we’ll lose him if he doesn’t guess we’re putting in at Suva. We’ll be there a day or two.”
“Do we have to call there?”
Jim nodded.
“We’ll need gasoline, fresh provisions, water. We might get that at Apia. But Samoa’s out of our way. I want to get some native boys. We’ll need them for several reasons—bush work and landings. We can’t get along without natives and Samoa is not easy to recruit from. Why?”
He had sensed a reason back of Newton’s remark.
“Just wondering. I’ve got a horrible head on me.” Newton essayed a smile of frank confession, but groaned and held his head with hands as if to prevent it splitting. “They had some native liquor last night. Had me going in no time. That’s the worst of prohibition. A chap gets all out of shape for taking a drink when he travels. Good stuff, but regular bottled lightning.” He shuddered, pushed away the coffee and tackled a cigarette.
“I’ll take a stroll on deck,” he said. “Fresh air may help.”
As he passed to the companionway he gave Jim a meaning look. Jim followed him. Newton went aft to the taffrail, gazing at the Shark throwing up a smother of spray as she came on, down to leeward a little, but holding up as close to the wind as the Seamew.
The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales Page 13