The Black Joke (13 page)

“No, Kye, I ain't goin'. I'm goin' to do what I said I'd do.”

There was silence for a moment and then Kye sighed.

“Well,” he said, “I guess that makes two of us. We're in for it together. Might as well git comfortable and have a think.”

The space they were in was right in the bow of the ship, and the only openings into it were the small hatch and the two hawsepipes which led the chain down from the windlass. There was not enough room to stand up nor to stretch out. As Kye put it, “There ain't room to swing a mackerel.” No light could enter, and precious little air. The stink of bilge and of old harbor mud from the chain cable was almost suffocating. Nevertheless, the two boys made themselves as comfortable as they could, sitting cross-legged on the pile of rusty chain with their backs against the thin bulkhead which separated
the chain locker from the forepeak. Once or twice they heard someone clatter down the ladder into the forepeak, then go on deck again.

“We ain't goin' to be able to make no more noise than a butterfly in here,” muttered Kye, “else anyone in the forepeak's bound to hear us.”

“That's so,” Peter replied, “but it works both ways. We'll be able to hear 'em talkin' in there, and that way we'll know their plans.”

Kye snorted. “Plans! We knows right now what
their
plans are. Sail this lot of whiskey over to the States. What
we
got to do is make some plans. How ye figure we can git at the engine anyway?”

This was a detail which Peter had not yet considered.

“Don't know,” he admitted reluctantly.

They sat in miserable silence for several minutes.

Peter was remembering what he had seen of the changes made to the boat by the rum-runners–changes he had noticed during his brief tour as a cargo handler on deck.

“Maybe after they git under way one of us can sneak aft,” he suggested tentatively. “They'll be runnin' without lights till they gits well clear of Miquelon. And more'n likely most of the crew'll knock off to their bunks. We'll know about
that
because we'll hear 'em come down into the forepeak. The thing is, they've built a wheelhouse onto her, and it looked to me like the engine-room companion's been shifted to
abaft
the wheelhouse. So once ye got past the helmsman there'd be no one to see ye slip down into the engine room.”

The two boys were talking in almost normal tones now, for there was so much noise on deck that no one could have heard them in any case. In fact they could hardly hear each other. But suddenly Kye caught Peter's arm in a hard grip.

“Watch out,” he whispered sharply into his friend's ear. “The hatch!”

They both stared up. A slit of starlight showed where before there had been only darkness, for Peter had slid the hatch back into position immediately after he had recognized Kye.

The slit got wider, then the hatch-opening darkened as a head and shoulders blocked the entrance. Almost afraid to breathe, the two boys waited for the moment of discovery.

“Peter!” a voice whispered so softly they could hardly hear it. Trembling with relief, Peter and Kye scrambled to their feet and tried to push their faces out the hatch together.

They almost bumped heads with Jacques.

“Let me in. Quickly,” he said. “But take this bag; we will need it, I think.”

In a moment he had slid down beside them and Kye had replaced the hatch.

“One more scare like that and I'm just goin' to give up and die,” Kye said shakily, when the three of them had got sorted out and had found room to sit in the cramped quarters. “What in the name of old Beelzebub are
you
doin' here, Jacques?”

“I think I do the same as you. You see, when you two
run away I don't know what I must do. Then I think I am your friend and also I know what my father will say if I let you go on the boat alone. So then I go to the fish store and light the candle and make a letter for my father. Only I have no paper so I write on a piece of wood. Then I take some things and put them in the bag. Then I go quick to the house and put the wood outside the door where my father or
ma mère
will see it when daylight comes. Then I come here.”

“Well,” Kye said, “I guess that makes
three
crazy nuts. What'd ye bring with ye, anyway?”

“I have one knife and some matches. I have also one bottle of wine and some ship biscuits
mon père
keep in the fish store for to take on the dory when he forget his lunch. Also a hammer for the engine. Also, Peter speaks of a signal flare, but there is none like that in the fish store so I bring instead a can of powder my father use to fill his shotgun shells.”

“Gunpowder! You figure to blow up the ship?”

“But no, Kye. It will just burn very bright, and not make any bang unless it is in the cartridge case. It will be a good signal, you will see.”

In the meanwhile things were progressing on deck. Only a few more cases of whiskey remained to be loaded–which was just as well, for Captain Benjamin Smith's temper was becoming explosive. He wished to be clear away from the French islands and far out to seaward before the dawn revealed his presence in these waters.

In his impatience he was not inclined to be polite. When a fisherman stumbled and dropped a case of
whiskey so that it broke open, Smith was on him in two jumps and, picking him up by the scruff of his neck and the seat of his pants, he flung the unfortunate fellow headlong onto the wharf.

There were ugly murmurs from those who had witnessed the incident, and all work came slowly to a halt. Smith did not know it, or perhaps he simply did not care, but to lay violent hands on a Basque is as dangerous as prodding a rattlesnake.

Smith stepped to the rail and shone his flashlight over the fishermen.

“C'mon, c'mon!” he yelled at them. “Get that stuff on board!”

Not a man moved, and something of the menace in their silence began to seep through even Smith's tough skin.

“Okay,” he said loudly. “No work, no pay. Jake, have our boys sling the rest of those cases on the ship.”

Two or three of the rum-runners stepped onto the wharf to obey the order, but the fishermen moved solidly forward and the surprised sailors suddenly found themselves back on board again.

“You will pay what you owe,
capitain
,” said a voice from the crowd.

“The blazes I will!” Smith replied. “Leave them last few cases lay, Jake. Cast off them lines. Greasy, get that engine going. Gabby! Gabby! Where in the name of darkness is that Frog pilot?”

“I am on shore,
capitain
,” Gabby Morazi replied,
“and I
stay
ashore. I am only a Frog, you see, and therefore I cannot possibly pilot your ship.”

“I can't cast off them lines, Ben,” Jake interjected into the silence that followed Gabby's announcement. “The Frogs won't let me get ashore.”

“Cut the blank things then, cut 'em
now!
We're movin' out, you hear?”

The diesel suddenly burst into life; and before the fishermen could make a move, the three mooring lines had been sliced through and
Black Joke
was moving away from the dock.

Down in the chain locker the boys heard the shouts being exchanged between the deck and the wharf. Although they had not been able to catch all that was said, they had heard enough to realize that Captain Smith was no longer in favor with the local people. This knowledge helped to brace their spirits, which had begun to plummet as the diesel started and as they felt the ship begin to move. They were committed now–there was no going back.

 

13

The Battle for
Black Joke

I
T WAS
shortly before 2:00
A.M.
when
Black Joke
pulled clear of the little wharf. Captain Smith was in a foul mood. Having lost his pilot, he realized that he would now be forced to sound every inch of the way out of Miquelon Bay in order to avoid the shoals; and in order to sound he would have to steam dead slow.

Standing in the wheelhouse he stuck his head out the port window and slung a string of curses at his mate, the man called Jake.

“You name of a New Jersey name!” he bellowed. “Get two of those blanking clodhoppers forward with lead lines. I want the depth called every swing, and I want a swing every fifteen seconds. Now
jump
or by the blankety four blanks I'll move you with some
hot
lead!”

Jake jumped, and in a moment the three boys in the chain locker heard the pounding of feet overhead, and soon afterwards the monotonous calling of the depth began as two sailors swung their lead lines alternately.

“Three fathoms…three and a half…four.”

“That tears it,” Kye whispered. “Goin' out on his own by the lead. Them two fellers is right above our heads and we ain't got a chance to sneak out on deck and git aft to the engine room without they see us. How long ye reckon he'll have to use the lead, Jacques, considerin' he don't know the way?”

“There are shoals right to the mouth of the bay, Kye. In the dark he will be wise to take soundings until he is past Miquelon Head.”

“That means we'll be clear out to sea fore we can even try to git out of here,” Peter whispered miserably. “Ye was right, you two. I'm ten kinds of a fool. We never should have come aboard. I'm right sorry I got ye into this, I'm sorry….”

“Pickle it, Peter,” Kye interrupted abruptly. “We're here, and them fellers don't
know
we're here so we're not beat yet. Now git thinkin'–git thinkin' hard. There's got to be somethin' we can do.”

But there was nothing they could do. They were trapped for as long as the two leadsmen stood on the deck above them, and it looked as if the men would be there until daylight, by which time it would be impossible to try to reach the engine room.

However, the boys had a hidden ally they did not know about, a totally unexpected one–none other than Captain Smith himself.

Two hours after
Black Joke
had left the dock, Smith's slim store of patience ran out. For two hours he had kept the vessel creeping through the darkness like a
tired snail. He could stand no more of it. He was reasonably sure he was clear of the worst shoals, and as for the rest–well, the ship would have to take her chances.

He shoved the speed control handle to full throttle and again stuck his head out the wheelhouse window and shouted to his mate who was with the two leadsmen. “Okay, Jake. Call off them houn' dogs you got bayin' in the bow. Tell your loafin' bunch of bums they can all turn in–them as ain't asleep on their feet already. I'll take her myself till dawn. You rustle me up some coffee.”

This time the three boys heard almost every word of what was shouted. They listened intently to the thump of boots as men came heavily down the ladder into the forepeak. They sat quite still while the crew rumbled about behind the bulkhead. They heard a brief and uncomplimentary discussion of Captain Smith's nature, his ancestors, and his probable future; and the sound of corks being drawn from bottles. Then, one by one, the rum-runners crawled into their berths. In a few more minutes the sound of snoring had grown almost as loud as the sound of the diesel. Only one man was still awake: the mate, who was brewing a pot of coffee.

Kye drew the other two boys' heads down close to his.

“This is it,” he muttered. “Never be a better chance. Who's goin' to have a shot at it?”

“I'm the one, and that's flat,” Peter said and, though his voice was taut with fear, there was no question but that he meant it.

“Wait, please,” Jacques whispered. “I have been thinking. How will you get past the wheelhouse, Peter? The
capitain
, he will surely see you,
non?
And the man, Jake, he may return on deck also. So, we must make them not to see you. Put your hands down here…there is a hole in the bulkhead, do you feel it?…A rat-hole perhaps. If we pour some powder through that hole and put a match to it
…poooff!…
there will be a big flash. The forepeak will be full of smoke. The men will think the ship is on fire. They will yell and jump out. I think the
capitain
will run forward too. If you, Peter, are hiding close to the wheelhouse at that time you will have a chance to pass by to the engine room without trouble, I think. It is good, eh?
Bien
, after you go on deck, Kye and I will wait as long as it takes to count one hundred. If we hear nothing, we will know you are all right. Then we will light the powder.”

“By the Harry, ye sure got a head for thinkin',” Kye whispered admiringly. “What about it, Peter?”

“Start gittin' your powder ready, Jacques, and hand me the hammer, Kye. You fellers keep the knife in case…in case. I got to go right now. If I waits another minute I'll be so scared I'll be stiff as a dead cod. You ready yet, Jacques?”

In the darkness Jacques could not tell how much powder he was pouring through the hole. He had to be certain it was enough to cause a real diversion. In order to be sure, he tilted the can sharply one final time.

“You'll make it, Peter. I
knows
ye will,” Kye whispered as Peter gently slid back the hatch, thrust his head out for a quick look, then wriggled up and out of sight.

 

It was a magnificent night. Only a little zephyr of a breeze rippled the black waters about the vessel as she drove steadily out to sea. Thin clouds obscured some of the stars, but enough of them remained so that Peter, now thoroughly accustomed to darkness, could see quite well. There was a dim light in the wheelhouse, probably a reflection from the binnacle lamp, and by it he could see Captain Smith's head behind the glass.

Taking a long, deep breath, Peter bent double and cautiously moved aft, counting to himself as he went. He passed the open slider of the forepeak companion and smelled the coffee boiling. Just in time, he thought with a shiver. In another minute or two the mate would be coming on deck again. Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two–he reached the starboard side of the main hatch and, getting down on his hands and knees, began to crawl along in the shelter of it. Forty-seven, forty-eight–he was halfway to the mainmast now, and less than twenty feet from the wheelhouse; but where was he going to hide? He could not guess which side of the ship Smith would come along when the powder went off–sixty-three, sixty-four–something loomed in front of him, and his hands went out to it quickly. It was a loosely coiled mooring line. Almost without thinking, Peter wriggled into the middle of the coil and pulled some of the loops over him–ninety-five…ninety-
nine…one hundred-and-three–his hands were icy with sweat, and the hammer, which he had shoved into his belt and which was now beneath him, was hurting his leg intolerably–one hundred-and-ten
–what
had gone wrong? He couldn't stand this for much longer; he was so close to the wheelhouse that if Smith looked his way he couldn't help but see him. One hundred-and-fift–

A great flash of white light seemed to leap out of the open forepeak companionway, and for a moment the whole ship stood out in brilliant detail. There was a muffled
whoomf
from forward that shook the vessel as if she had run into something solid, and then the night was filled with shrieks and yells.

Peter saw the wheelhouse door flung open and Smith come lumbering toward him. Smith had been looking forward when the powder went off and had received the full effect of the sudden glare. Almost blinded, he rushed forward, yelling unanswerable questions over the cacophony of human voices which was pouring out of the companionway through a swirling cloud of smoke. Abruptly his foot caught in the coil of rope and he pitched full length across Peter, striking his forehead against the edge of the main hatch. It was a severe blow, but it did not knock him out.

Cursing, Smith managed to get to his knees, dragging his legs right across Peter, and then he began crawling forward on his hands and knees, having completely failed to notice the boy.

Peter was shaking so badly that his body would not
obey him. He knew there was very little time before the occupants of the forepeak would all come scrambling out on deck. He took his lip between his teeth and deliberately bit it as hard as he could. Pain shot through him like an electric shock, and his uncontrolled shivering ceased. Then he was on his feet, running the last dozen paces.

The engine-room scuttle was closed but not locked, and he flung it open and plunged down the short stairs. The thunder of the diesel filled his ears
–but he could not see
. He had forgotten that there might be no light in the engine room. Frantically he thrust his hands into the worn pockets of the fisherman's trousers he had borrowed. His fingers touched and grasped a match, one match. He knew it might have been there for months, might have been wet a score of times, and might now be quite useless. His trembling was returning as he knelt and felt for a dry place on the floor. He scratched the match…too carefully…try again…there was a faint hiss, a blue glow, and then, miraculously, he could see. His eyes searched the engine-room walls for a light switch, and just as the match began to burn his fingers and die down, he saw it. Lunging for it he pulled the toggle and the light went on.

Now he could hear the yells of men even above the thunder of the engine which stood before him. The deck vibrated with footsteps. Someone was coming aft at a dead run. Well, they were too late.

He stepped forward and very deliberately swung his
hammer at the first injector. Fuel oil spurted in all directions. Six cylinders, six injectors–one…two…three…four…five…six. The ragged thunder of the diesel died to silence.

 

Down in the chain locker Jacques had counted slowly in order to give Peter lots of time. When he reached one hundred, he took out a match scratched it on the chain at his feet, and as coolly as a man lighting a cigarette, bent over and touched the powder train.

Now, there are many kinds of gunpowder. The common kind is black, burns slowly, and is fairly harmless unless it is ignited in a closed container. Another kind is white and sugarlike in appearance and is used for high velocity cartridge loads. It is
never
harmless, and it burns so fast that even in the open the effect can be explosive. The powder in Jacques's can had been white–but in the darkness, how was he to tell?

The resultant
whoomf
as the powder ignited was so powerful that even in the chain locker it almost knocked the two boys down. It blew the hatch above their heads clean off and sent it sailing overboard. A cloud of bitter, choking smoke billowed back at them through cracks in the bulkhead and sent them coughing wildly and in panic-stricken flight out of the now open hatch. They reached the deck and, crouching just forward of the windlass, listened horrified to the sounds from the forepeak.

Had Jacques been a little more generous with the
powder, the explosion would probably have been fatal to some of the men in the forepeak. As things stood, they were reasonably well protected because the blast took place beneath their bunks. Nevertheless, the concussion was enough to half-stun them, and the acrid, rolling smoke nearly asphixiated them before they could recover their senses. Yelling and screaming in pure terror, they stumbled into and over one another as they fought desperately to find the ladder and escape from the shambles of the forepeak. Someone hit his head against the gimballed oil lamp, which had been blown out by the blast. He struck it such a blow that he split his own scalp and sent the lamp tumbling down upon the stovetop. A trickle of kerosene began to flow from the lamp's brass reservoir into the crack of a stovelid, and a tongue of yellow flame instantly licked up into the smoke-filled darkness.