Four Bells: A Tale of the Caribbean

by Ralph Delahaye Paine

Clambering over the bowsprit, he crept as far as the anchor winch. Between him and the two men on watch near the forward machine gun was the deck-house in which the sailors were quartered. It was his assumption that most of them were ashore in the camp to hold it against a possible sortie from the Valkyrie. He had first to surprise the two men just beyond the deck-house. They were standing close to the starboard bulwark. From where they were, the deck ran flush to the after cabin and the raised quarterdeck upon which the other machine gun was mounted.

The intruder was silent and invisible. He took the heavy revolver by the barrel but, on second thought, shoved it back into the holster. It might be better to have both hands free.

Like a yellow tiger he leaped from his ambush behind a corner of the deck-house. His bare feet slapped the deck in three great strides. The two sailors of Ecuador had no more than time to whirl and face him. He stooped as he ran and grasped one of them around the legs. The fellow seemed to rise in the air as if he had wings. He soared over the bulwark in a graceful parabola. Into the placid waters of the bay he shot as prettily as a man diving. He was yelling when he went under, and he yelled when he came to the surface. He made as much noise as a riot.

Meanwhile the active Ricardo had lunged to get a grip on the other seaman and toss him overboard in the same fashion. This one had a moment’s warning, however, and he was wonderfully nimble. He dodged like a rabbit and fled around the machine gun. At this game of tag there was no catching him. He scudded under Ricardo’s outstretched arm and flew like mad to seek refuge with his friends in the after part of the vessel. A bullet might have stopped him, but the yellow tiger had business more urgent. Every second of time was precious.

He dropped to his knees behind the machine gun. His questing fingers told him that the belt was filled with cartridges. He swung the weapon to rake the quarterdeck and drive the enemy from that other machine gun before they could open fire on him.

He pulled the trigger. Brrrr-r-r—prut—prut—prut—prut, the mechanism responded in a ferocious tattoo amazingly sharp and loud as the headlands of the bay flung the reports to and fro. Checking the fusillade, he looked and listened. He heard shrill shouts, the scamper of feet, a man wailing that he was killed. The other machine gun was dumb. In this brief burst of fire he had driven Don Miguel’s men to cover, but he could not hope to hold them there long. They could snipe at him with pistols and rifles from the cabin windows, from behind the mizzenmast, from the rigging.

He was in the open, kneeling at his machine gun, his body naked to the waist as a target discernible in the darkness. There was this to be said for him, that the schooner was his, from the bow all the way aft to the quarterdeck. He glanced behind him at the open doors of the forecastle. If any seamen were in there, they had too much respect for a machine gun to poke their heads out.

The voice of Richard Cary rolled out in a tremendous shout of: “Ahoy the Valkyrie! Boarders away! Shake a leg. I can’t hold ’em long. Come over the bowsprit. Do you understand?”

The jubilant bellow of Chief Officer Duff announced that he understood. His men were in leash, awaiting the summons to cast off. They had an account of their own to square. Richard Cary heard their oars bang against the pins as they shoved clear and put their backs into it while Mr. Duff hurled profane exhortations at their devoted heads. Captain Cary saw the shadow of the boat as it surged toward the schooner. It was for him to maintain the mastery a few minutes longer. What he dreaded and expected was a swift rally to snatch the after machine gun, find shelter for it, and sweep the Valkyrie’s boat. The possibility of such a disaster made him desperate. His hands would be stained with the blood of his own comrades if he should lead them into such a wicked trap as this.

Now he recognized the voice of Don Miguel O’Donnell who was driving his men up from the cabin into which they must have piled helter-skelter. This made the situation more critical than ever. The reckless soldier of fortune would not hesitate to pistol his own ship’s officers or men if they refused to do his bidding. They would try to make quick work of it, reflected Cary.