CHAPTER XII. BETWEEN TWO FIRES.
"I say, Farmer, can't we have a little target-practice and hit something accidentally—even that Chinese junk over there would do—so as to stir up some sort of a scrap?"
Lieutenant Staples, addressing his commander familiarly by the old Academy nickname, yawned and stretched his arms in most undignified fashion as he spoke. The two officers were on the bridge of the Osprey, which lay at anchor off Chefoo. A gentle breeze barely stirred the placid waters of the bay, and the sun gave a hint of the torrid days that were to come.
"I'm tired of sitting here, like a toad in a puddle, aren't you?" added the tall lieutenant, straightening himself up a little as a boatswain's mate crossed the open deck below him.
"There is a kind of a sameness about it," laughed Rexdale, adjusting a pair of field-glasses. "What sort of a craft is that yonder, Tel?"
"H'm—something under steam, anyway. Can you make her out through the glass?"
"Unless I'm mistaken, it's the Zafiro," said the commander, working the glasses for a focus. "Yes, it's the despatch-boat, bringing Starr back from Tokio, no doubt."
Ten minutes later Bob scrambled up over the rail, followed by a young man in civilian's clothes.
"Fred Larkin!" exclaimed Dave. "How on earth did he get on board the Zafiro?"
As soon as Midshipman Bob had reported himself, the war correspondent stepped up with a genial smile and shook hands warmly with the officers on the bridge.
"Fact is, I'm a stowaway, Dave," said he. "That gay young lieutenant on the gunboat would have put me in irons if it hadn't been for Bob Starr. He's a good fellow and stood by me, when I disclosed myself on the Zafiro about twenty miles out."
"Well, what am I to do with you—that's the question?" said Rexdale, laughing in spite of himself at the reporter's nonchalance. "Strictly speaking——"
"Strictly speaking, I've no business on one of Uncle Sam's war-ships without a permit from the Secretary of the Navy, or the admiral of the fleet, at least," said Larkin, with utmost good-humour. "Therefore, we won't speak strictly, until I've had time to look about a little, being under arrest, theoretically."
"I can't very well drop you overboard, old fellow," assented Rexdale, "there being a shark or two around who would gobble up even a newspaper man. But really——"
"Really, I'll leave you before night, old man," interrupted Fred, "so don't worry. Now you and Lieutenant Staples just sit down and tell a fellow what's the news from home—and hereabouts."
"But how did you manage to get on board the Zafiro?" queried Dave.
"Ah, don't ask me, and then you won't know. The movements of some of the heavenly bodies—comets, for instance, and reporters—can only be calculated from their periodic appearances, my son. Didn't you learn that at the Academy?" asked Fred, as the party of officers betook themselves to the after cabin. "Let it suffice your lieutenant-commandership that I really did go on board, and at the proper dramatic moment materialized before the astonished crew. I had a little more sail than I bargained for, not knowing that Mr. Starr had to report to the admiral before coming here."
"Then Bob didn't know——"
"Hadn't the ghost of an idea about it, upon my word of honour," said Larkin hastily. "There wasn't a more thunderstruck man on the ship than he, when I stepped on deck. I wish you could have seen his face!"
They talked of Boston friends and of the progress of the war, concerning which Rexdale could afford his friend but little enlightenment. "All sorts of reports are afloat," said he. "I see in the home papers—by the way, there's a bunch of them at your disposal—that Chefoo is called a 'fake-factory, working over-time.'"
"Not bad," said Larkin. "But so-called fakes often prove to be facts, after all. Has any attack yet been made upon Vladivostock?"
"Apparently not. They say the whole sea-front, up there, is a network of submarine mines. Jap torpedo-boats and destroyers are patrolling the sea in every direction, and have picked up one or two vessels with contraband goods. I believe there was a bombardment of the port early in the month, but it amounted to nothing."
"And on land?"
"Well, the Russians are said to have about four hundred thousand men in Manchuria, and they are arriving by the railroad at the rate of a regiment a day. The Japs probably have at least half that number on the mainland. They are swarming across the Korean Peninsula and will have Port Arthur isolated before long."
"If that is so," mused Fred, "I must move quickly."
"Move—where?"
"I'm going into Port Arthur, my boy."
"Port Arthur! You'll never get there alive—don't try it, Larkin!" exclaimed Staples earnestly. "There's a close blockade, and you'll either be sunk in the bay or at the very best be taken prisoner if you reach the shore."
"It's just that 'very best' that I'm reckoning upon," rejoined the reporter coolly. "I wanted to see you fellows before I went in, so you can allude to my whereabouts if I don't show up in a week or two. I'm an American citizen, Dave, and don't you forget it. You may be sure I won't let Russian or Jap, whichever one captures me, forget that little fact. There's no danger of my being hung as a spy, for I have my passport and credentials, and the worst they can do, when they've made their investigation, is to fire me out. All this is supposing I actually reach one 'firing-line' or the other. I've sat round in Tokio and looked at lanterns and spidery letters until I'm tired of it. The Bulletin sent me out here to get news, and I'm not going to disappoint the old man."
The day passed pleasantly enough, with stories, talk of old times and discussions of war incidents. The routine duties of naval life filled the intervals in the conversation. Late in the afternoon the officers missed their jolly companion, and enquired for him, but no one knew where he was. As evening came on they realised that the daring young reporter had kept his word and left them, it was impossible to ascertain when or by what means.
"I hope he won't get into serious trouble," said the commander anxiously.
"Oh, Larkin can take care of himself," replied Liddon, who had joined in the useless search. "He has been through one war, besides innumerable scrapes in which he came out on top. That's why the Bulletin chose him for this service."
"Evening colours!" sang one bugle after another, on the war-ships; and all hands stood with bared heads while the flags fluttered down from staff and peak.
Shortly afterward a dull boom sounded across the waters of the bay. But little attention was paid to it by the men on the Osprey, such disturbances being of daily occurrence. That shot, however, meant much to Fred Larkin.
About half an hour before he was missed, that afternoon, he had slipped over the ship's side into a Chinese sampan, or small fishing-boat, which had come alongside to dispose of its fare of fish. Fred tossed a coin to the Chinaman who was seated in the stern and pulled a broad piece of matting over himself in the bottom of the boat. All this was done in less time than it takes to tell it. If any of the Osprey's jackies saw it, he said nothing. The sympathy of a sailor always goes with a runaway, whatever the reason for the escape may be.
The owner of the sampan, understanding from a gesture of his unexpected passenger that the latter wished to reach the shore without detection, immediately cast off his painter and worked his small craft skilfully and swiftly toward the docks of Chefoo. As soon as the Osprey was hidden by another hull—that of a British man-of-war—Larkin threw off the matting gladly enough and sat up. Presently he caught sight of a large junk, just hoisting its sails. It was heavily loaded, though the character of its freight could not be ascertained.
Fred pointed to the junk, and the oarsman turned his boat toward it. A moment later he was alongside.
"Where are you bound?" he called out to the skipper.
Fortunately the latter could understand English.
"Port Arthur," he replied, but not loudly.
Fred held up a coin. The man nodded, and the correspondent jumped on board, taking in his hand the small leathern gripsack he had brought from home.
The junk proved to be coal-laden, and the captain (and owner), having made sure that no Japanese vessels were in sight, was about to make a dash for Port Arthur, where he knew he would obtain high rates for his cargo.
It soon appeared that he had underrated the watchfulness of the blockaders, for within less than an hour from leaving port the men on the junk perceived a torpedo-boat destroyer bearing down on them. The skipper calculated his chances of safe return, and decided to "keep all on" for Port Arthur. In twenty minutes the black hull of the pursuer could be plainly made out, and soon after the sound of a gun was heard. The Chinamen working the junk got as far down out of danger as possible, in their clumsy craft, and Fred followed suit. He had no desire to be killed or maimed, nor did he wish to be captured and sent back to Tokio.
He was beginning to despair of the successful issue of his adventure, when a shout from the sailors called his attention to an object dead ahead. It was a column of dense black smoke arising from the sea in the direction of Port Arthur.
A cheer rang out from the Chinamen, as they perceived the smoke. There could be no doubt that it arose from a Russian war-ship, coming out under full head of steam to meet the destroyer.
Again the Japanese gun spoke, and this time the shot struck the water within a few feet of the junk.
"They've got our range," said Fred to himself grimly. "Trust the Japs for scientific work, when it comes to firing! I might as well improve the time, though!" And drawing his note-book from his pocket he began to take notes.
The junk kept on its course, foaming through the water under pressure of her great sail until the lee rail almost went under. Clouds had arisen in the west and it was nearly dark. A search-light on the mainland flared out suddenly, and a broad ray wavered over the waves until it picked up the Japanese boat, now within less than a mile of the fleeing junk. A deep boom sounded ahead. The Russian had at last spoken, and a big lump of steel swirled through the gloom, over the great triangular sail. The Chinese craft was between two fires. The Japs shrewdly kept her in line with themselves and the enemy, so that the latter dared not fire low. The destroyer fired steadily and fiercely, hulling the junk more than once. It was evident that a crisis was at hand.
Crash! A solid six-pound shot struck the stern of the labouring White Dragon, knocking her rudder to bits and killing the skipper, who had remained bravely at the helm. The junk yawed wildly and fell off before the wind. The sailors shrieked and ran to and fro, calling upon their gods to help them.
Another shot, and the mast went by the board. But the Russian cruiser was now close at hand and engaged the Japanese boat savagely.
Fred was watching the fight and looking for a chance to hail the Russian, when a splinter struck him and he was knocked headlong into the sea.