Warren stiffened. His eyes narrowed. Wallace let the legs of his chair down hard and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Aldridge held the cards in his left hand and flicked the ash from his cigarette. His eyes shifted just a little, toward Wallace.
“Tonight,” Jim went on, “I had concrete proof. We were slipping away in the darkness, unnoticed, when someone on the main deck flashed a light!”
“What?” Warren sat up straighter. “You’ve captured him?”
“No,” Jim said. “I don’t know for sure who he is. But he’s in this room!”
Warren was on his feet, his face suffused with anger.
“I resent that!” he said sharply. “What about your own crew? These men are all mine. Why must one of them be the traitor? That’s impudence! It’s unfair!”
“It sounds like it,” Mayo agreed, “but my crew have been with me a long time. Each of them has been in battle against Nazis. They have no love for them.”
“Natives and renegades!” Warren protested angrily.
“But good men,” Ponga Jim said quietly, his eyes dark and brilliant. “I’ve fought beside them. They aren’t interested in ideologies. The traitor is.”
He hesitated, looking around. “I wanted to warn you. One of you undoubtedly knows who the guilty man is. Just think. When you decide, no matter who it is, come to me.
“There are, as you know, raiders in this ocean looking for us. Our chances of reaching Aden without encountering one of them are small. Every hour that spy is aboard makes our risk greater. But whatever he does, he will have to be alone to do it. So stay together. And under no circumstances must any man be found on deck alone!”
“And the passengers?” Aldridge asked softly. “What of them? Those very mysterious passengers who never appear on deck. Mightn’t one of them be the spy?”
“No,” Jim said quietly. “There is no possibility of that.”
He turned and left the saloon, hurrying down the passage toward the two mysterious cabins. He tapped lightly on the door. There was a murmured word, and the door opened. Jim stepped inside, closing the cabin door softly.
Two people faced him, a man of perhaps fifty and a girl of twenty-five. The man was tall and finely built, with a dark, interested face and a military bearing. He got quickly to his feet, even as Jim’s eyes met the girl’s. General André Caillaux and his niece had been famous in the Paris that preceded the Nazi attack.
And for years in North Africa, General Caillaux had been one of the most loved and feared officers in the French army.
Known for daring and fair dealing as well, he had great influence among the men. So enormous was this influence that the wavering Pétain government sent him to a position in New Caledonia. Now, hoping that his prestige might swing the Foreign Legion and other powerful detachments to their side, the British were returning him to North Africa.
“How is it?” Caillaux asked quickly. “Is there trouble?”
“A brush with a raider.” Jim’s feet braced against the roll of the deck, and his knees bent slightly when it tipped. “We got away in a squall. Hit once, but no serious damage. We holed his bow enough to make trouble in this blow, and wrecked one of his guns.”
“The Nazi agent?” Caillaux’s voice was anxious.
Jim shrugged. “You got me. Wallace has always been the sort to do anything for money. But this time I doubt it.”
“Warren?”
“I don’t know. He may be just officious, overly conscious of his new rank. And it might be a clever disguise.”
“Who else could it be?” Jeanne asked. Her voice was husky.
“It might be anyone of the twenty-three. It might be Aldridge. He’s a deep one. Never says much. But don’t open the door for anyone but me.”
He stepped out into the dark passageway and started to pull the door shut. He saw the flicker of the shadows a second too late, and then something smashed him alongside the head. He felt himself falling. But with a mighty effort, struggling against a black wave of unconsciousness, he held himself erect and swung blindly with his free hand. He missed. Something struck him again. But his hand clung to the door, and now he fell forward, pulling it shut.
As the lock clicked there was a snarl of impotent fury from his attacker. The man leaped at him, striking viciously at his head and face with a heavy blackjack. The attack was entirely soundless, for neither man had made a noise aside from that brief but angry snarl. Ponga Jim, groggy from the first blow, never had a chance. The pounding continued. He struggled to throw off the blows, to protect himself, but was unable to get his hands up.
The passage was lost in abysmal darkness. Only half conscious of what he was doing, Jim tried to retreat. But his enemy pursued him, hitting him with jarring blows that left him numb and unfeeling. Finally, he slipped to the deck, even his great strength unable to endure more battering.
A LONG TIME LATER, he fought his way back to consciousness. He was sprawled on the cold steel of the deck, some distance from where he had fallen.
He caught a steampipe housing and pulled himself to a sitting position. His head throbbed with great waves of agony. When he moved, white-hot streaks of pain shot through his brain and something hammered against his skull with great force. He tried to turn his head, and his brain seemed to move like heavy paint in a bucket. A dim light was growing in the east. On the deck he could see the dark smear of his blood where he had been dragged. His attacker had planned to drop him overboard, but had been frightened away, evidently.
Ponga Jim staggered to his feet and reeled against the bulkhead, clutching his throbbing head with both hands. It was caked with blood. Stumbling, he reached the ladder and climbed slowly to the lower bridge. Somehow he got the door open and lunged into his cabin, the roll of the ship sending him sprawling to his knees.
He was still there when the door opened and Brophy came in.
“Skipper, what’s happened?” His wide, flat face was incredulous.
“I’ll get him now,” Jim muttered, hardly aware of the other man. “I know how to find him.”
For three days Jim stayed in his bunk except when on watch. His face was swollen, and there were cuts and abrasions on the sides of his head. He was remembering that. He had not been struck over the head. All the blows had struck up. The attacker had struck with peculiar, sidearm blows. It was unusual, and for the average man, unnatural.
His jaw ached, and the back of his head was bruised. However, when he came to the bridge on the fourth day, he was just in time to see the raft.
It was a point on the starboard bow, a crude raft with a man clinging to it. Even as they saw it, the man stirred, trying to rise.
“Pick him up,” Jim said, and staggered into the wheelhouse to sit down.
He still sat there when the man was brought to him. Warren and some of the others crowded inside. The man’s skull stood out, the skin like thin yellow paper drawn over it. His eyes were blazing pools of fever.
“Ile du Coin,” he whispered hoarsely. “Hurry.”
“What?” Jim asked. “What’s on the Ile du Coin?”
“Sixty men, tortured, starving, dying. Prisoners from a raider. I escaped. They shot, hit me. Hit me.” His fingers touched the scalp wound. “Ile du Coin,” he muttered again, his wits straying.
“How many Nazis?” Jim asked, watching the man narrowly.
He looked up, blinking. “Fifty. A raider sunk, saved the crew. Other ship is due back.” He stared at Jim. “They die there, horribly. Please hurry!”
WARREN HESITATED, looking from the man to Ponga Jim, for once uncertain.
“Might be a trap,” he said, hesitantly.
“Yes,” Jim said. “But no man looks that bad for a trap.”
Aldridge gazed at the man. “We’d better go,” he said. “We can get away before the other raider returns.” He looked at Ponga Jim. “You know the island?”
“Of course,” Jim assured him. “It’s one of the Chagos group, not far off our course. We’ll go.”
The rescued
man, his name was Lauren, described the island. Ponga Jim listened and then shook his head.
“A small, rocky island with some scrub and coconut palms? Uninhabited? That’s not Ile du Coin. That’s Nelson Island. It’s in the same group.”
Lauren nodded. “The prisoners are in a barbwire stockade beyond a big cluster of palms and well out of sight. The Nazis have a fortified position behind some low dunes and scrubs. You can’t see it until you’re close by. The cove is too shallow for a ship.”
Mayo turned and went below. There was a word or two at Caillaux’s cabin, and the door opened.
The general looked at his bandaged head, and Jeanne’s eyes widened. “What happened?” she asked.
“Someone tried to get me before I could close the door when I was here last. I got the door shut, and then he tried to kill me.”
Briefly, Jim explained. “You see how it is, General. You are my mission. I have no right to risk you or Mademoiselle, yet these men will die if they are not saved.”
Caillaux studied Ponga Jim, pulling at his earlobe. Jeanne stepped over to her uncle and took his arm. The general smiled and said, “My niece and I feel the same. You believe you can do this?”
“I do.”
“Then the best of luck. We want you to try.”
A SHORT TIME LATER Ponga Jim studied the island through the glass.
“Half ahead,” he said.
Brophy put the engine-room telegraph over and then back to half speed, watching the island.
“We’ll drop the hook off the northeastern point,” Jim murmured. “The bay has a sandy beach where you can effect a landing. I’ll take you and a landing party of Lyssy, Big London, Tupa, Boma, Longboy, and Selim and Sakim.
“The Gunner will have to keep a very sharp lookout for subs and also for the raider.”
Warren had come up to the bridge. Wallace and Aldridge were behind him.
“We insist on going,” Warren said firmly. “I don’t approve of this, but if there are some of our men ashore, we want to help.”
“Suit yourself,” Jim agreed. “But not all of you. You three can come, and bring five more. Too many men will be worse than none. I want a small party that will maneuver easily. And my men know this sort of fighting.”
It wasn’t until the prow of the lifeboat grated on the sand that there was any sign of life. Then it was the flash of sunlight on a rifle barrel.
“Down!” Jim snapped, and threw himself to the sand. The others flattened instantly, just in time to miss a raking volley.
Instantly, Ponga Jim was on his feet. He made a dozen steps with bullets kicking sand around him and then flattened behind a low hummock and hammered out three quick shots at the spot where he’d seen the rifle. There was a gasping cry and then silence.
No orders were necessary. The flyers hesitated and then took their cue from Lyssy and the crew of the Semiramis. They worked their way forward, keeping to shallow places and losing their bodies in the sand.
Jim touched Lyssy. “They are bunched right ahead of us. Slip over to the left and flank them. London, you take the right. Take no chances, and keep your fire down. I want them out of that position.”
The two men disappeared, and Mayo looked at Warren. “This is war, friend,” he said grimly.
THE NAZIS OPENED a hot fire that swept the dunes, a searching volley that covered the ground thoroughly.
Only the hollows saved the landing party.
Mayo scooped sand away and worked his body forward. A shot kicked sand into his face. He worked in behind a low bush and lifted his head slowly beside it.
He had been right. The low dunes behind which the Nazis were concealed ran across the island diagonally, but both flanks were exposed. He snapped a quick shot into the space ahead and then slid back in time to miss the answering volley.
The Nazis were shooting steadily, hammering each available screen with steady fire. But suddenly a rifle cracked off to the left, and there was a scream of pain. The rifle spoke again, and there was an answering volley. Another shot came from the right, and Jim yelled.
In a scattered line his men rushed forward firing from all positions. The Germans, although in superior numbers, retreated hastily. Ponga Jim stopped, braced himself, and fired. A Nazi stumbled and fell headlong. Two more were down in the hollow where they had taken shelter. Now another stumbled and collapsed as a bullet ripped into his body.
Jenkins, a flyer from Kalgoorlie, rushed up beside Jim, stopped suddenly, and dropped to his face in the sand.
Jim fired. The Nazi let his rifle slip from his hands, bowed his head and took two steps, and then toppled.
Mayo crawled behind a five-foot bank of sand and looked around. All of Warren’s pomposity was gone. Under fire, the man had changed. Whatever else he was, he came of fighting stock.
Ring Wallace, an old hand at this game, was grinning. “Nice work, pal. Now what?”
“We’re stuck,” Jim said. “They’ve got a fortified position up there, and it will be tough to get them out of it. Listen to those machine guns. Those boys know their stuff, too.”
Brophy had been grazed by a bullet, and Tupa had a flesh wound. Aside from the first flyer, there were no serious injuries.
Wallace nodded to Jim’s comment. “Yeah, I could see the edge of a concrete abutment. It’s in crescent form and backed by the cove.”
“Let’s rush them,” Warren said. “Otherwise it’s a stalemate until that raider gets back.”
Ponga Jim shook his head. “We’d lose men in a rush. Wars aren’t won with dead soldiers. There’s always a way to take a position without losing many men, if you look for it.” Suddenly his eyes narrowed. “Slug, do you recall what the chart said about the water in that cove?”
Brophy nodded. “There’s a coral ledge topped with sand with about a fathom of water over it. Outside of that it slopes off gradually until at a hundred yards it’s about three fathoms. Why?”
“You’ll be in command here. I’ll take Selim, Longboy, and Sakim with me. We’ll bring the wounded aboard. Now scatter out and don’t move either forward or back, get me?”
“What are you going to do?” Warren protested.
“Wait and see,” Jim said. “If this works I’m one up on the Nazis for trying new angles. We’re going to take that position in less than thirty minutes! Now listen. Keep up an intermittent fire. Pretty soon Millan will lay five shells in that fort, get me? Then you’ll hear shooting over there. And when you hear shooting beyond the wall, come running. I’ll need help.”
Millan met them at the ladder. “What’s up?” he demanded.
Jim indicated the cove.
“As the fort lays, the situation is impregnable from the island with our weapons. I want you to lay five shells behind that abutment. And they’ve got to be right on the spot. If you overshoot, you’ll kill the prisoners. If you undershoot, you’ll get our boys for sure.”
THE GUNNER STUDIED the situation. Then he rolled his chewing in his jaw and spat.
“Yeah,” he said, “I’ll lay ’em right in their laps.”
“Well, whatever you do,” Ponga Jim added, “don’t drop any shells in the cove, because if you do they’ll be in my lap!”
“The cove?” Millan was incredulous. “You couldn’t get in there with a boat! They’d riddle you!”
Ponga Jim grinned. “Break out those Momsen lungs, will you? I’ll show those Jerries some tricks!”
An hour dragged by. The warm afternoon sun baked down on the little island. Ring Wallace took a swallow from his canteen and swore. Warren wiped the sweat from his face and kept his hands away from the hot rifle barrel. “I wonder what became of Mayo?” he asked.
“Darned if I know,” Ring said. “But he’s got something up his sleeve. Whatever it is, it better be good. That raider has me worried.”
A gun crashed from the Semiramis, and a shell screeched overhead, bursting beyond the abutment with a terrific concussion. A fountain of sand lifted into the air. Another shell screec
hed, and there was another explosion.
“That Millan!” Brophy said admiringly. “That guy can put a shell in your pocket. Just name the pocket!”
Two more shells dropped beyond the abutment, then a fifth.
The water of the cove stirred and rippled. Up from the pondlike surface five weird heads appeared, five faces masked in Momsen lungs. Lowering themselves into the water beyond the point, they had walked around in ten feet of water. Now they stripped the waterproof jackets from their guns and walked on. They were within a hundred feet of the shore, in just four feet of water, before they were seen.
One machine-gun emplacement had been smashed to bits with the first shell. Two others had exploded on the abutment itself, and a third had landed in a gasoline supply that was burning furiously. The final shell had been shrapnel, and the devastation had been terrific. Seven men had fallen from that one shell alone.
Crawling from behind a pile of boxes, one of the defenders glanced at the cove. His jaw dropped. For a fatal second he stared, uncomprehending; then he jerked up his rifle. Too late. Ponga Jim shot him in the stomach. As the startled defenders turned, Jim ran up the last few feet, and his automatic opened with a roar like a machine gun.
In a scattered line the other men rushed up the beach. The Germans, caught off balance, were rattled. They fell back. And in that instant the frontal attack broke over them. Brophy, Wallace, Warren, and the others cleared the barrier. The two sides met in a deadly rush.
A German dove at Jim. He spun out of the way, clouting the man over the head with the barrel of his gun. Then he snapped a quick shot at a man leveling a rifle at Wallace and fired a burst into a group trying to swing the machine gun on the prisoners.
A terrific blow struck him over the ear, and he went down, grabbing at the man’s legs. He upset his assailant and scrambled astride, swinging both hands for the fellow’s jaw. Then he was on his feet again and grabbing up a rifle. He jerked the barrel up into a charging German’s stomach and pulled the trigger. The man’s mouth fell open, and with his back half blown away, he sagged limply to the ground.
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four Page 43