Читать книгу Trapped in the Jungle! - Frederick Sadleir Brereton - Страница 4

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Mystery floats across the broad bosom of the gigantic reaches of the Pacific Ocean. But it would be safe to say that no greater mystery was ever presented to the wondering eyes of man than that which suddenly and unexpectedly raised its head at dawn of day on a certain December morn in the year of grace 1941.

A white yacht floated, as yet a mere misty shape, for the day had not yet broken, though an eastern glow heralded the coming morn. She rolled and wallowed gently from side to side, heaving as the vast ocean lifted and fell. She might have been a living thing, still asleep under the disappearing stars, yet stirring from her all-night slumber, slowly awakening to greet the rising sun.

And as the eastern glow—a purple mist it appeared—broadened and brightened, changing from purple to golden-orange, banishing the inky blackness of a tropic night which had been relieved by such glimmering from the stars as is to be seen only in far eastern places, she seemed to awaken into life, to throw off all lassitude, to rub her shapely eyes as it were, and to start into active life. She surged forward, propelled by a strong puff of wind which filled the tiny foresail under which alone she had passed the hours of darkness.

There were figures on her deck, a tall man, whose athletic frame became clearer as the light brightened, two youths, one unusually tall, and a native boy of as yet uncertain nationality. All but the native were clad in swimming-trunks and stood at the rail waiting to take their usual morning plunge.

It was at that precise moment, when dawn swept the ocean with that same suddenness with which darkness falls in the tropics, that this mysterious affair happened. Not a ship was in sight. The myriad coral islets which stud the wide Pacific, with their waving palms and their still lagoons flashing beneath the sun, were far away, many of them hundreds of miles. Honolulu, dream island of this ocean, home of the Pacific fleet and chief garrison of the United States in those waters, was too far distant to be seen. There were three smudges of smoke on the far horizon which probably denoted ships, and it seemed that birds of unusual size were hovering and darting to and fro in that direction. But there was no sound, save for the gentle lap of water soughing against the sides of the yacht and the two succeeding splashes as the two youths dived into the ocean.

A great ugly shape reared itself as if it were some marine monster, and rose beside the yacht, the swirl it made rocking the vessel. First appeared a periscope, through which no doubt the submarine commander had kept the yacht under observation. Then the conning-tower heaved above the surface, followed by the long deck from which a flood cascaded. There was the sound of some metal latch being operated. A dome-shaped hood swung upward, and in a few moments a swarm of dusky, stocky figures tumbled out and stood at attention on the deck.

At that moment, too, a swarthy figure erected itself behind the rail of the conning-tower and shouted a sharp order. Instantly a grappling-iron or some similar sort of instrument was heaved across the narrow space separating the two vessels, and as the tall man aboard the yacht gaped and gasped and the native cowered, the yacht was dragged to the side of the submarine. The crew boarded her as another sharp order was given, and in a trice the tall man, owner of the yacht perhaps, was seized and hurried across the deck and was dragged aboard this pirate underwater vessel.

It was an astounding affair. The two young fellows who had plunged into the sea for their usual morning swim hardly grasped the situation. Indeed, it was difficult to believe that anything out of the ordinary had happened, or even could have happened. For the yacht was there, as trim and neat and graceful as ever. The figure of the native servant could be seen. Only the owner of the craft had disappeared, while beside the vessel floated the ugly form of a submarine.

“Wa-al, I never!”

“What’s—it’s a sub,” gasped the other youth, shaking the water from his eyes.

“You’ve said it,” came the drawled response. “A sub. A Jap sub.”

“But—I say, what have they done to Mr. Baines? This is a hold-up.”

“That fellow,” shouted the one who had first spluttered his astonishment. “Look at him on the bridge. The son of a gun!”

The swarthy officer who had shouted his orders reared his head again above the rail of the conning-tower and waved. An order again snapped from his lips, while the members of the crew who had swarmed aboard the yacht and had abducted the owner, hustled him to the conning-tower and then forced him to descend into the interior of the vessel. Three of the crew leaped the space between the two ships and dived into the interior of the yacht. A minute later they came racing on deck again and once more gained the deck of the submarine.

“It is done,” the leader reported. “The bomb is placed and the fuse lighted. In less than five minutes the yacht will disappear.”

An electric hooter screeched. Men of the submarine still on her deck swarmed into the conning-tower and disappeared. A solitary figure remained for only a few seconds, sweeping the surface of the ocean to make sure that he was not observed. His gaze fell on the two bobbing heads just beyond the yacht and his right hand felt for the revolver at his hip.

“In less than two minutes,” called his junior. “Perhaps——”

Casting a last swift and malicious glance at the two youths treading water within so few feet of him, the commander of this pirate submarine waved to them ironically. Then he dived into the interior of his vessel. The hood clanked to with a resounding bang, and within a few moments the subdued sound of a motor broke the silence. The smooth waters of the Pacific were churned into foam at the after end of the submarine, and gathering way with incredible speed, she suddenly dived, her slippery deck dipped beneath the surface, her conning-tower disappeared in fantastic fashion, and in a trice even the periscope had been swallowed.

“Of all the cheek,” growled one of the youths, he of the drawling, American voice.

“It’s a kidnapping affair,” gasped his companion. “A Jap submarine commander seizes the person of a prominent and wealthy American citizen, and in peace-time, mark you.”

“Peace-time!” spluttered the other. “Peace-time, eh? You say that! Why America and Japan are on the very edge of war. It might happen to-morrow.”

“Watch Chu,” shouted his friend, and then choked and coughed to get rid of the flood of salt water which had filled his mouth.

They saw the only remaining figure aboard the yacht racing towards the stern. He bent low and disappeared below the shelter of the rail. Then he appeared again, and springing on to the rail took a header into the sea. It was all too astonishing. The sudden appearance of that sinister submarine, the abduction of the owner of the yacht, and the equally precipitate disappearance of this Japanese pirate—for Japanese she was without a doubt—would provide subject for gossip and even for heated debate for days to come. But Chu was adding to the mystery. This Chinese “boy,” boon companion of the two young fellows paddling to keep their heads above the swelling surface of the immense Pacific, was abandoning the ship.

“Why?” demanded one of the swimmers.

“Why? Wa-al—Now—say David, that gets me.”

“Saw him cutting the dinghy loose,” cried the other, trying to lift himself higher out of the water so as to obtain a better view of his surroundings. “Perhaps——”

A shattering detonation shook the air. At one moment the graceful Mignonette rolled and heaved ever so gently, as if awaiting their return. And then her single mast shot into the air as if catapulted. Her deck rails burst asunder. The sea around shuddered as her planks were shattered, while the swimmers were partially stunned by the violence of the explosion.

“Masters, duck,” bellowed Chu. “Quick, masters. Under the water.”

Perhaps immersing their heads helped a trifle to minimise the force of the bursting bomb. It may have saved the swimmers from the hail of debris which fell around them, all it seemed that remained of the graceful Mignonette. No, not all, for as the vessel burst asunder and foundered a dinghy floated clear of the wreckage, but not entirely, the boat so much used on fishing excursions or to take them ashore when the yacht lay off some island.

It was a seaworthy little craft which could face Pacific swells with confidence, and which had in fact withstood no little battering when breezes swelled almost to gale proportions and warned those aboard her to head for the yacht or for the shore in case a sudden Pacific tornado should overwhelm them. The dinghy slouched in the water, head down, part of her woodwork shattered and carried away. Not more than four inches of planking kept the water out of her, so that if the wind were to increase and the sea be lashed by something even short of a gale she would run the risk of foundering. Yet she was the only floating object within miles, save for the widely scattered wreckage of the Mignonette.

“We get aboard her,” shouted the American.

“Where’s that submarine?” demanded David, he with the British accent. Not that fashions of speech mattered much at such a moment, or were even to be noted. Still the few sentences which had passed between them, blown from spluttering lips, sometimes half-drowned by water lapping into their mouths, had shown that one of the swimmers was nearly certainly of American origin. Or he might have come from Canada.

His companion on the other hand had without doubt been educated amidst British surroundings. His voice was clear, as clear that is to say, as circumstances permitted, and he possessed that quaint, hardly-to-be-described inflection of voice which one so often encounters from people of British origin, an inflection which at times creates antipathies, even dislike, and which, far oftener, is found so attractive by people of America.

How often had David, the gay-hearted English schoolboy, when travelling across the great spaces of the American continent, been teased about his accent! More than a few times natives of Western America had affected not to be able to understand him, while there was at least one occasion when an American miss seated behind the reception table of an hotel had detained the lad.

“Say, go on talking for a while. My! Isn’t it queer to hear you! And say! Do all the young fellows over there speak as you do?”

“Don’t matter where she is. We get aboard the dinghy and look around. Time to think about that ruffian of a commander when we’ve the dinghy between us and this ocean, not to mention sharks, which shouldn’t be forgotten. You come too, Chu.”

They struck out for the boat and reaching her side hoisted themselves aboard, taking care not to upset the light craft, careful, too, not to tip her lest water should flow through the opening in her damaged timbers.

“Trim her!” commanded the American. “You squat here, David. Chu, get hold of the bailer. What about clothes?”

What about quite a number of important items! How were they to return to Honolulu? The cluster of islands which form the Hawaiian group were many miles to the eastward and the dinghy carried just a pair of oars and a tiny sail. What about food—and water. Yes, what about water, for presently the sun would be high in the heavens, suspended in a cloudless sky, and torrid heat would spread across the ocean. David glanced at the huge, glittering red ball just peeping above the distant horizon. Then he shouted.

“That chap again! Look!”

“The unutterable blackguard. What’s he doing?”

“Master, overboard again,” sang out Chu. Closer acquaintance showed that the native was undoubtedly a Chinaman, of uncertain age, for who can tell with any degree of certainty the probable years of one of this Oriental people? Chu might have been just twenty years of age. On the other hand, he might be quite forty. However many years he had actually seen he was still just “boy” to those who employed him, and though his command of the English tongue was not a matter for boasting, it was certainly better than the pidgin English one meets amongst his countrymen in the ports, and had moreover a quite distinct American flavouring, going to suggest, perhaps, that his employers were of that nationality. Chu glanced over his shoulder, saw the black, ungainly shape of the submarine heaving itself to the surface and promptly dived overboard, followed by his two young masters.

“Get over to this side of the dinghy,” spluttered David. “That Jap commander looks an evil customer.”

“He’s one of the greatest rogues I’ve ever met,” came the answer. “He’s drawn a revolver. There are men posted in the conning-tower with rifles. Get ready to sink.”

Spluttering fire broke from the underwater vessel. Bullets splashed around the dinghy and at least one of them struck its wooden sides with a sharp clipping sound. It seemed that, having blown the Mignonette to pieces and abducted the owner, the commander of this Japanese pirate vessel was determined to destroy all traces of his crime and remove all possible tale-bearers. He emptied his revolver at the dinghy and only ordered his men to cease fire when the magazines of the weapons were emptied. Then, unable to see those who had been aboard her, perhaps imagining that they were still there and had succumbed to the fusillade, he barked an order, closed the conning-tower with a bang and crash-dived.

“Time to get aboard again,” sang out David. “Even if that rascally Jap isn’t here any longer there may be sharks. There are sure to be sharks, eh? Thought I saw a fin over there a while ago.”

The American grunted. He was at home in this wide ocean. Indeed, he knew the surroundings of the Hawaiian group of islands almost as well as the average fellow knows his garden. And there were few places in the surrounding seas and even farther afield that he had not visited. But his aversion to sharks was constant. Perhaps it had been inherited, just as is the natives’ hatred and fear of alligators in the rivers of Malaya and other Eastern parts.

Sharks were to be found in every corner of this ocean. You might take a morning plunge and feel reasonably secure, for the brutes would keep clear of a splashing figure, and crowds of bathers off the beaches overawed them. But not always. They were bold and ferocious. He had seen the bamboo pens erected off some Eastern bathing beaches to make assurance doubly sure, for within the palisades bathers could not be attacked. But let a boat overturn in open water, let the occupants cling to her side to await rescue, and in a twinkling a dozen of the brutes would swirl to the attack.

“Aboard we go,” the American shouted. “Chu, lead the way and then give us a heave. Steady does it. I think the dinghy is lower in the water. The pot shots they took at it will sure have driven holes through the planks and some of them may be low down. Up you come, David.”

With all the care that was possible in such strenuous circumstances they clambered into the dinghy and shifted their positions till she was evenly trimmed.

“And now we repair damages,” said David, shaking the water out of his hair. “Here’s a nice little round hole from a Jap bullet. Their tommy-guns drove quite a wave of spray over us, and if they had turned them directly at the dinghy I reckon they would have cut her into pieces.”

Chu shivered. Not that the Chinese boy lacked courage. But he had had some experience of Japanese tommy-guns and of their ruthlessness. For years now—it seemed for longer than he could remember—these islanders had been attacking his country. Their regiments had overrun miles of it. Millions of his people had been slaughtered or driven from their homes, and the invader was still within China, shooting everywhere, trying to reduce the people to slavery and to make them accept the law of Japan.

“In a little while, masters,” he said, speaking in that sing-song voice so many of his race adopt. “To-day, yesterday, almost for always it seems the Japs have been top dog, eh? P’raps they win more. P’raps they try to kill all the Americans and take Honolulu.”

“Kill us! My word! Let ’em try,” shouted the American.

“Yes, master. But presently they will, p’raps. But wait a little bit. You see something good. Everyone not quite so without guns and things such as airplanes same as the poor Chinee. Suppose they attack Honolulu.”

The very mention of such a possibility roused the American youth. He doubled two quite respectable fists and shook them aimlessly in the face of the Chinese boy.

“Let ’em try,” he bellowed. “I’d like to see them do it.”

Would he really? Did Elmer Roach, for that was his name, suspect that the Japanese had such an intention? Pooh! The idea was fantastic. Japan attack America, the mighty United States, the prosperous and highly developed peoples inhabiting those rich lands to west and east of the Rocky Mountains. Fantastic! Impossible! Attack a country possessing no great army it was true, but with a Pacific fleet lying for the most part at Honolulu, with other outlying islands in strategic situations out in the Pacific.

Consider the impossibility of such a dream. From south of the marvellous, land-locked harbour of San Francisco right up to the tip of Alaska, America was in control of most of the Pacific coast of North America, save for that held by Canada, and there was sworn and real friendship with that country. Dutch Harbour in the north was a bastion which might awe the Japanese and, moreover, the world knew that America desired to conquer no one. She wanted peace and good neighbourliness with one and all, even with Japan, greedy, dangerous Japan. Even then, as the Great War in Europe, led by the aggressor Hitler, and aided by his pompous satellite, Italian Mussolini, raged across that continent and Great Britain alone faced those formidable enemies, Franklin Roosevelt, wisest of Presidents, a man gifted with remarkable foresight, desired only peace for his country, and at that very moment was in conference with Japanese delegates come to Washington to discuss peace.

“P’raps. Only p’raps they attack America, master,” said Chu, wagging a wise head.

How could anyone of the three seated in that small, insecure dinghy, imagine that that “perhaps” of Chu’s was in fact a certainty. Could they be expected to guess that even at that moment, as the sun climbed higher into a tropic sky and the day broadened, Honolulu was already under fierce attack? The suggestion seemed more than fantastic. No war had been declared between Japan and America. Delegates were even then discussing friendship in the White House in Washington. Could any nation in such circumstances countenance such a rascally act, such treachery?

Japan could and did. Those smudges of smoke on the distant horizon, glimpsed in the first rays of dawn by the people aboard the Mignonette, came from the funnels of Japanese warships, from her airplane carriers, and even then, as the civilians and garrison of Pearl Harbour, America’s naval base, stirred from their beds, ate their breakfasts and decked themselves for the day, Japanese aircraft were hurtling to and over the place, circling the proud Pacific fleet, bombing ships and shore installations, bombing airfields and planes, sowing destruction and death, operating in fact on a pre-arranged plan designed to kill and to destroy and in particular to cripple the offensive and defensive power of America’s fleet.

What treachery! What terrible scenes of death! How helpless ships and shore against this sudden attack made while peace was under discussion! In a very few hours, when the President broadcast the news, people of America were stunned, aghast, enraged, and then set firm on a purpose. Not to avenge, though surely punishment for such treachery was merited. But to fight this Eastern aggressor, this ruthless, unscrupulous murderer. To rid the world of the growing Japanese menace. To fight for liberty, security, and peace, perhaps to do so at the side of Britain.

Fortunately David and Elmer were ignorant of those terrible happenings at Pearl Harbour. They were out of sight and out of sound of the conflict and, moreover, their own position was sufficiently precarious.

“We take stock,” said Elmer in a business-like tone of voice. “Say, taking stock won’t take much of the day.”

“Item number one,” grinned David, rummaging under the thwarts of the boat. “Plenty of sea water at our feet, but none for drinking purposes. Not a can. Not a keg.”

“Ah!” grunted Elmer. “That’s tough. No water, and these the tropics. We’ll have to get shade. Suppose we rig the sail as an awning. There’s practically no breeze, so we shall lose nothing. And shade will help our thirst. Jingo! I feel thirsty already. Swallowing salt water doesn’t help any. What about grub?”

David began to realise the difficulty of their condition. It was with anything of a smile that he reported that there was no store of food aboard.

“Not a crust,” he said. “No drink. No food.”

They sat for a while staring rather moodily at one another. And who could blame them? For the swelling Pacific stretched everywhere, endlessly it seemed, unbroken by even a ripple, just swelling now and again, heaving, as if in deep sleep. They were alone in that waste. A cockleshell lay between them and destruction and how were they to exist and for how long could they hold out hoping for rescue?