Читать книгу Captain Cain - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 4

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“Now, my lads!” exclaimed Captain Cain briskly. “We’re a quiet little party all alone. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t make ourselves comfortable.”

He sprang easily to his feet. The others, stiff with the prolonged spell of inaction following their strenuous efforts, got up slowly and fell to chafing their numbed limbs. They felt down and out. The exciting events of the last few days culminating in a dare-devil dash for safety from the doomed submarine had left them limp and disheartened. They were without food, without shelter, outcasts on a strange, inhospitable shore.

Cain’s energetic spirit never failed him. He knew only too well that in the present circumstances activity would be the only antidote to the poison of despair that was consuming the minds of his companions.

“Look lively, lads!” he said encouragingly. “We’ll get the boat up above high-water mark, and we’ll have a roof over our heads at all events. Has any one any ’bacca?”

Davidge produced about an ounce of dark twist in a disreputable-looking pouch. The others had to admit that they were without any of the fragrant and comforting weed.

“Too much of a lash top at the finish to think of that, sir,” added Cross.

“Then ’tis as well I thought for you,” rejoined the captain, with a laugh. “I took the precaution of putting a couple of pounds of flake in one of my pockets—and matches in a damp-proof case. So up with the boat, my lads, and then spell-ho and a quiet smoke.”

It was an easy though somewhat lengthy task to get the boat up the beach. Thanks to the fact that the valve-plate had been removed, the men were spared the irksome business of baling. As they dragged the boat a foot at a time up the shelving beach, the water ran away rapidly, and by the time the whaler’s heel was clear of the river, she had drained herself. Then, as a matter of precaution, the valve-plate was bolted in position so that the boat would be ready for use when required. She was then turned bottom up and supported with her gunwale about a couple of feet from the ground by means of piled-up stones.

Tobacco was then served out, and all hands had a much-needed “stand-easy.” They smoked almost in silence, except for an occasional comment that for the most part failed to elicit a response.

Although he was impatient to disclose his immediate plans, Captain Cain wisely forbore to put the case before his men at this stage of the proceedings. He was content with the knowledge that they were in a better frame of mind, thanks to the soothing influence of the tobacco. Daylight, and with it food (for he was confident that although they were now hungry there was no prospect of starvation), would put a different complexion on things, especially after a night’s rest.

“Now to sleep, lads!” he announced, when the glowing bowls were extinguished. “I’m going to keep watch.”

“But——” protested the bo’sun.

“I’m keeping watch,” reiterated the skipper firmly. “If you like to relieve me at two bells (5 a.m.) for a couple of hours, Barnard, that’s all I’ll want.”

The two seamen also expressed their readiness to stand a trick, but Cain would have none of it. It was an easy sacrifice on his part, and daylight would bring its reward in the form of a tolerant and easily persuaded audience.

With his loaded automatic in the right-hand pocket of his coat, Cain crawled from underneath the whaler and began to pace to and fro. It was a sultry night, and in the captain’s opinion it was infinitely preferable to patrol the stretch of firm level sand to being cooped up underneath the upturned boat.

Overhead the stars shone brilliantly with the customary splendour of tropic climes. Not a breath of wind disturbed the palm trees, not a ripple lapped the edge of the lagoon, although the surf boomed sullenly against the outlying reef. A faint sickly smell from the mangroves hung in the still air. The only sound of life was the stertorous breathing of the now sleeping men and the ping of the deadly mosquitoes.

In his silent beat Cain was thinking deeply. He summed up the present situation with merciless accuracy. Here he was with three companions of a different social standing. They were practically stranded on a deserted stretch of coast miles from the nearest British stations on the Gambia. Nearer, of course, were the French outposts on either side of Cape Verde, but Cain meant to give them a wide berth.

He made a mental stocktaking. The sole assets of the fugitives were the clothes they stood up in, four diving-suits, now not likely to be required, automatic pistols and ammunition, a couple of knives, a few personal effects of little value, and the boat with her equipment—oars, crutches, baler and compass—all of which had been secured to prevent loss when the Alerte submerged.

Within a few miles was the spot where Pengelly had buried a quantity of loot from the captured Yankee ship, Bronx City. Amongst the plunder there might be something of practical use. Cain decided to burke his scruples concerning American-owned booty. After all, he decided, he didn’t plunder the vessel: that was the work of his treacherous partner. It was now a case of needs must, as far as Cain was concerned.

Then the pirate captain’s thoughts turned to the future. He was an outlaw. He could never return to England. Officially, he supposed, he was dead. That gave him a new lease of life, a suggestion that seemed somewhat a paradox. He had—or he hoped he had—money safely invested in South America. Could he but lay hands on it, he would be content to settle down to a relatively quiet life in a foreign land. Then there were the men who had stuck to him through thick and thin, and who, he confidently expected, would continue to do so. Well, he wasn’t going to let them down; his perverted code of honour was sufficiently straight to urge him to see that, to the best of his power, they should receive a fitting reward for their loyalty and devotion.

A mosquito settled on the captain’s cheek. He caught and ground it between his powerful fingers because it irritated him. Although fully aware of the risk of malaria communicated by these tropical pests, it was not fear that prompted the action. Cain thought himself immune—he had been salted years before. To him the attention of the mosquito was symbolic of a difficulty to be brushed aside firmly and resolutely.

Suddenly the steadily-flowing river was rippled by something that attracted the captain’s attention. An ordinary person might not have noticed the diverging wake under the starlit sky. He paused and regarded the movement intently; his hand fingered the butt of his automatic.

Then, above the surface, emerged a long dark object—something endowed with life. It was an enormous crocodile. Slowly it drew itself clear, appeared to sniff the miasmic air appreciatively, and proceeded to make its way towards the whaler and the men sleeping soundly beneath its shelter.

Cain might have aroused his men, but that would disturb their well-earned rest; the same objection applied to the use of the automatic, a relatively feeble weapon of offence against the armour-plated brute. Besides, he was loth to make use of firearms lest there be any human inhabitants, and he had no wish to attract the attention of any one to the refugees on the beach of Bahia Arenas.

With a quick, decisive movement Cain withdrew his hand from his pocket, stooped and picked up a couple of pebbles, each nearly as large as his fist. Coolly and deliberately, as if he were driving off an inquisitive dog, Cain strode to meet the saurian. The brute halted and raised its scaly head. Cain could see its small beady eyes blinking in the starlight. Then, resuming its struggling motion, the brute advanced with wide-open jaws, Cain also maintained his forward movement and hurled one of the stones at the crocodile’s mouth. Ere the missile struck, the brute had snapped its jaws. The stone clattered and glanced harmlessly from the protective plating over the skull. It stopped; then prepared to close.

At less than three yards distance Cain, with all the force of his muscular arm, sent the second stone hurling through the air. This time the missile hit the brute fairly on the point of the lower jaw. So severe was the impact that the thrower had good reason to believe that it was one of the crocodile’s teeth that had “carried away.”

The reptile had had enough. Lashing its tail furiously as a defence against a rear attack, it turned and made for the river. Not content with his success, Cain followed, picking up stones as he went and hurling them at the discomfited brute, until with a tremendous succession of splashes it took refuge in the water.

Captain Cain’s act of deliberate audacity had not passed unnoticed, although he was in absolute ignorance of the fact.

Barnard, the bo’sun, roused from his sleep, had seen his skipper secure his missiles. Realising that there was something of a dangerous nature on hand, the bo’sun crawled from under the whaler and quietly followed in Cain’s tracks. He saw the crocodile. His hand flew to the butt of his automatic. But when the pirate captain advanced with the utmost intrepidity, Barnard brought up all standing, but ready at the critical moment to rush to the other’s aid.

When the saurian turned and retreated, pursued by a steady discharge of stones, the bo’sun promptly returned to his bed of sand.

“’Strewth,” he muttered, “that chap’s got nerves of iron! He’s the horse for my money. I’d follow him from now till the crows come home.”

The pirate captain resumed his beat. For more than an hour nothing occurred to disturb the train of his thoughts. He was beginning to feel tired—a sensation of lassitude confined solely to his legs, although his brain was as active as ever. He missed the “give” of a deck; even the firm sand seemed hard and unyielding compared with the limited promenade afforded by the Alerte’s bridge.

Another dark object attracted his attention—this time on the seaward side of the tongue of land. At the sight of it, Cain’s eyes glinted with satisfaction, for the inverted dish-like creature was a turtle—and turtle meant nourishing food.

He stopped, turned and stole softly to the whaler, and without disturbing the sleepers secured one of the stout ash oars. Armed with this, he made straight for the water’s edge. The turtle was then about fifty yards away and crawling awkwardly up the belt of sand.

Cain waited patiently until he knew he was certain to cut off the animal’s retreat; then he dashed straight for it. Thrusting the loom of the oar underneath the turtle, the captain levered his prize over on its back. In that position it was helpless, its head and flippers floundering in the air in a vain endeavour to right itself. With one blow of his knife, Cain severed the turtle’s vertebra, cleaned and folded the blade, and resumed his vigil.

Once only during the long night did he consult his watch. He was not far out in his estimate. It was a quarter to five.

At the hour he roused Barnard by a firm pressure on the man’s hand—a sure way to awake a sleeper without causing him to start or call out.

“Two bells!” whispered Cain, and backed out to await the bo’sun’s appearance.

“You may have a bit of a bother with crocodiles, Barnard,” he remarked. “On the other hand, you may not. If you do, don’t shoot on any account. Unless you hit the brute in the eye or throat you’d merely irritate the thing. In any case, I don’t want any firing, but call me. You understand?”

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied Barnard.

“Have you a watch?” asked Cain.

“I have, sir,” answered the bo’sun, “but something’s gone wrong with it since we left the ship.”

“Then take this one,” rejoined the captain. “Call all hands, myself included, at six bells.”

Thirty seconds later, Cain was in a sound, dreamless sleep, as if he had not a care or a worry in the wide world; nor did he stir until the bo’sun’s time-honoured call of “Show a leg, there!” brought him back to wakefulness, refreshed in mind and body to assume the responsibilities of another day.

“Now, grub, lads!” he announced. “Davidge, you start a fire; boil some of the turtle in the baler, and try your hand at frying turtle steaks. Cross will bear a hand. Mr. Barnard, I want you to come with me. Unless I’m much mistaken, we’ll find some corn-stuff over there.”

The bo’sun chuckled to himself.

“The Old Man’s finding his feet again,” he soliloquised. “He’s started to call me ‘Mister’ again.”

Cain’s surmise proved to be correct, for on a fairly open patch of ground that extended a long way into the forest he found plenty of wild maize, and in the forest itself a species of tree bearing something that had a close resemblance to the bread-fruit of the Pacific Islands.

“Think it’s safe to eat it, sir?” queried Barnard doubtfully.

“I’ll start on it, anyway,” decided the skipper. “If it don’t turn me up within the next twelve hours, I think you need have no fear about eating it.”

They came back laden with the fruit and sheaves of ripe maize, to find that the cooks were well advanced with their task. The savoury smell greeted their nostrils a good fifty yards away.

“This is what I calls all right, sir,” said Davidge, with a grin. “I could stick this out for a month of Sundays.”

“That’s good, then,” rejoined the captain, although he was quite aware that turtle as an article of food for any continuous length of time speedily becomes objectionable. He remembered that there have been instances in which crews have mutinied on account of their being supplied with turtle instead of beef. But the principal business at the present moment was to give the men a satisfying and appetising meal—the surest method of getting the men to fall in with his plans for the immediate future.