Читать книгу The Secret of the Desert - Coutts Brisbane - Страница 5

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ONLY the splash of fishes breaking water occasionally disturbed the utter stillness, though once a booming bellow that might have been made either by a bull buffalo, or one of the swarming alligators in the swamps, came rolling over the calm water. Nothing whatever had happened when Captain Girvan came on deck, and nothing happened during the rest of the dark hours.

The regular routine was followed, as though the Rockabelle had been at sea. The crew turned out, the pumps were manned, the deck washed down, and everything put ship-shape. Then, after breakfast, the anchor was got up, and with her auxiliary motor chugging, for there was little more than a breath of wind stirring, the schooner made slowly up the inlet, look-outs alert for shoals, Jim Girvan, aloft at the crosstrees, sweeping the shores with his glasses in search of the mystery schooner—and any signs of the gang of murderers who had killed Lancing.

But the shores were desolate. No smoke rose from any camp fire, never a boat broke the mirror-like surface of the little coves or short creeks that indented the coastline. On went the Rockabelle, following the curve of the inlet till its head was in plain view, a mile away.

Jim Girvan swung the glasses to and fro over the smooth water, over the outcrop of rock that formed a sort of natural quay about the top of the inlet, then lowered them with a puzzled look, just as his brother joined him.

"Well? What's the answer?" asked Captain Girvan. "Where is she? We saw that schooner come up here last evening. I take it that you didn't go to sleep on watch, so that she could run out unseen, and certainly I didn't. So, if there's anything in logic, she must be here. Only—she isn't!"

"She isn't!" echoed Jim. "I—I suppose—it's absurd, of course, but—she couldn't have gone ashore? She couldn't be a sort of amphibian—a ship with motor wheels—could she?"

"Bosh!" snapped Girvan. "You've been reading some sensational novel! How in the name of wonder would you get a craft of that size ashore? Why would you want to do it? And if you did do it, where would you take her? And supposing for a moment that you had a wheel attachment, what sort of track d'you think you'd leave? Have you seen anything of the sort, because I haven't?"

"Then they must have sunk her," suggested Jim. "She isn't ashore, she didn't go out, she isn't on top of the water—therefore she must be under it."

"Oh, more bosh!" Girvan was irritated because he was puzzled. The thing was out of all reason. "Don't talk silly nonsense! Anyhow, we'll have a look around the head of the lagoon there and take a turn ashore."

Tommy Paston regarded them, his head on one side.

"How are these things done? I'm a land-lubber, and all that, of course, but it seems a trifle out of the ordinary, even to me," he remarked. "She seemed solid enough, but I suppose she was a mirage. A phantom ship, eh? That's the only explanation."

"Quite so, Tommy. And that's all about it for the moment, please. I don't like mysteries of this sort. Call all hands, Jim. We'll take Lancing ashore for burial. Call away the cutter."

The hands, eleven all told, mustered on deck, the cutter was got into the water and the body of Lancing lowered into it and covered with the flag, the Blue Ensign that Girvan, as an officer of the R.N.R., was entitled to fly.

"Rifles and ammunition!" said Girvan. "Serve 'em out, Jim!" He turned to the crew. "Men, this poor fellow has been murdered. We don't know who did it. We are going to bury him over yonder. There isn't cover for a rabbit for a mile round, but you, Kettle, will go aloft and keep a look-out. If you see anything suspicious you'll fire a rifle. Four men in the cutter. The rest will line the rail with rifles ready. Jim, you'll stay aboard. Cover us, if there's need."

"Ay, ay, sir," murmured Jim. "We can pot at anything very handily."

The boat put off. Jim searched the low-lying shore with glasses. Nothing stirred. Rock, sand, a sparse growth of spinifex and jack weed, all baking in the sunlight. Away beyond, to the north-east, began the marshland. Drainings from it tinged the upper end of the inlet, though they must have come by some underground channel, since no sign of any watercourse appeared above ground. The whole landscape was desolate in the extreme. Jim shook his head as he remembered what Tommy had said about the water underground.

"Perhaps this may be irrigated in time," he thought. "But I think they'll have to import soil if they want to grow anything. I've never heard that sand is good for much."

Then he stood still at attention, for Lancing's body was being carried ashore. A grave was quickly dug. Captain Girvan read the burial service. Soon the boat was pulling back to the ship.

"We'll take a look up at the head," called Girvan, as he swung round under the stern instead of coming alongside. "Keep on standing by, though. Keep a man aloft."

The boat went steadily on, and as steadily the water grew dark and muddy as they neared the place where the marsh water ran into the lagoon.

Tommy Paston looked back at the schooner. He could see Jim Girvan standing on the rail by the main shrouds, watching them through his glasses. In the foretop was a figure in blue dungarees, easily identified, for it was the Chinese cook's working rig. He had a telescope. Tommy could see the sun glint on it as he swung it to and fro, staring over the sands glimmering in the rapidly increasing heat.

"Looks like a natural landing-place, doesn't it?" said Girvan.

Tommy turned. The rock ledges ahead certainly were convenient. There were three of them, arranged like gigantic steps, each ledge about a couple of feet higher than the other, and about three or four feet wide. A boat could run alongside at any state of the tide, which here had no great rise and fall.

"Deep water, too," continued Girvan. "Twenty or thirty feet, at least, I should say. Well, there's nothing in sight, but as we've come so far we may as well give it the once-over. Oars!"

The boat slid alongside a ledge just awash, and the two white men stepped ashore, carrying their rifles. The uppermost ledge, which seemed to continue some way inland, was almost perfectly level, as though nature, having begun well in the way of a landing-stage, had determined to do the thing handsomely and provide a fine wharf as well. A thin coating of sand covered the surface, but they could feel the rock beneath.

Tommy suddenly stooped and picked up something small which he had stepped upon.

"Covered by the sand," he explained. "Now what d'you make of that? Not the sort of common object of the desert you'd expect to pick up hereabouts, eh?"

He held up a small pair of dividers fitted with a bow spring and setting screw, the sort often used for measuring distances on charts.

"Lancing's?" suggested Girvan.

"Don't know. He has a full set of instruments in his case. I noticed that. He may have had a spare pair. But—I don't think these are of European manufacture. They look to me like Japanese. Yes, see, there's the chrysanthemum. These have belonged to some officer of the Japanese Imperial Navy, Ned, old son, at some time or another. Well, have you seen all this delightful spot has to offer, or shall we go a little farther?"

"Over there to the left is where your buffaloes lie up. Are you still anxious to get one or..." Wheee-eee-eeee! Spat! Spat! Sand spurted up about them; they heard the whine of bullets, the vicious hum of missiles that passed within a few inches or a few feet of their bodies. They were under fire! From somewhere out amidst the dancing heat haze of the sands, a number of men were blazing away at long range with very efficient repeating rifles.

Neither of the pair waited. They leaped together down to the second, then to the third of the ledges, and, tumbling aboard the boat, ordered the men to give way.

A hail of bullets piped above their heads, but the rock ledges protected them. For the moment they were safe. Captain Girvan, his face red with anger, steered close under the shore. The men pulled like demons. Tommy Paston adjusted the sights of his rifle and stared with puckered eyelids across the glimmering waste of sand. The hail of bullets ceased as suddenly as it had begun. Tommy half-lifted his rifle with an exclamation, lowered it again.

"See anything?" asked Girvan.

"Something dancing along—like bits of brown paper before a puff of wind. Can't see much in this dazzle. Guess it's the darlings advancing to another position. Pull like the deuce!"

"Ah! Jim had seen something!" Girvan grunted.

From the schooner came the rattle of an irregular volley, then the rat-tat-atat of independent firing. They could see the crew lining the rail and firing rapidly. Ah Sin was descending the rigging at a great rate. Above the rattle of the rifles, his high-pitched screaming came to them like the voice of a scared hobgoblin.

The boat was near the schooner now. Phut! A spray of water flew up astern and a little short of the boat. Girvan shifted the tiller a trifle, and they swung out towards the farther side of the schooner. Phut! Phut! Then more shots, none of which fell very near.

"We're in the wake of the sun," said Tommy calmly. "Jolly good job, that! They can't see us clearly. Wow!"

The fountains were all about the boat. Bullets ricochetted from the water and went whining about their ears. The stroke jerked convulsively, his right arm dropped limp, while a splash of red started out upon his shoulder. Tony dropped his rifle, swung to the thwart beside the man, grabbed the oar as he dropped it, caught the time and swung into stroke.

Phut! Phut! Wheeoo-whee! They were through the bullet-sprinkled area, swinging in behind the schooner.

"Way enough! Oars! Stand by, bow!" rasped Girvan, and the boat ran alongside. Jim and a couple of men appeared at the rail.

"Are you hurt?" he cried anxiously. "Eh? What's it all about? I got a glimpse of 'em moving. Hard to see. They're in khaki, I think. Don't show up. Hey, is Lobo hurt?"

Captain Girvan turned to the wounded man crouching at his feet, ran a light, searching hand over the bloodstained shoulder.

"Not so bad! The bullet has gone clean through. Shoulder-blade drilled, but not fractured, I think. We'll see in a moment. Get the motor started, slip the cable. All on deck lie down. Get Lobo up, Tommy!"

He climbed aboard while the boat drew up to the ladder, and ducked low while he ran forward. The now invisible marksmen were firing at the schooner's deck. Bullets whined and thudded over and into the deck-house, rang on the steel hull, zipped about Girvan's head. One of the crew, hit in a leg by a ricochet, yelped as he crawled behind the deck-house.