“No, I know the whole bunch: Nonamesset, Uncatena, Naushon, Pasque and Nashawena, Cuttyhunk and Penikese. Sounds like something out of Longfellow, don’t it? ‘Hiawatha,’ maybe. No, we’re further from New Bedford than any of those. We didn’t drop anchor until about four bells, and we were doing fourteen most of the time. There’s some sand banks like that—” he nodded at the desolate expanse before them—“south of the Vineyard, I’ve heard. They get down on the charts as reefs and then the sea kicks a lot of sand over them and they’re islands. And maybe ten years after that they’re just rocks again. A couple of good gales tears them all to pieces. This one looks as if it had been here quite a spell, though.” Cochran broke the wrapper of a package of chewing gum, proffered it to Nelson and stowed a piece between his teeth. “Anyway,” he went on when he had got the gum working nicely, “you can be sure of one thing, Chatty. We didn’t come down here and slop around half the night in this nasty chop without some reason. Maybe that island’s one of these German submarine bases you read about.”
Nelson smiled. “They might have chosen a more cheerful one, I’d say. We’ll find out pretty quick, I guess, for there’s the Old Man now.”
But the solution of the mystery was not due to be solved just yet. Lieutenant Hattuck, very erect and smart in his uniform, walked forward to the bridge. Then he and the junior made their way to the bow and, standing by the gray-jacketed gun, examined the shore through their glasses and talked together for several minutes. Green, Ole Hanson’s relief, climbed out of the wireless room and approached them with a fluttering wisp of paper in his hand. Action followed closely after the captain had cast his eye over the message and handed it to the ensign. Up came the anchor and the Wanderer crept slowly along the shore, the ensign himself at the wheel, and Quartermaster’s Mate Jones keeping an anxious watch at the bow. When nearly opposite the easternmost end of the island, which curved slightly to the south, the small boat was ordered lowered and Mr. Stowell, yielding the wheel, gave his orders.
“Jones, pick four men for a landing party. Arm with automatics.”
“Yes, sir. Do I go along?”
“Certainly. Hustle now.”
“Right, sir! Staples, Troy, Endicott and Masters! Get a jump on! Don’t forget your cartridge belts!”
Four minutes later they were in the little boat, her tiny engine sending her bobbing crazily over the gray-green water. Ensign Stowell was in the stern sheets and Jones brooded over the engine. They beached near the little forest of twisted trees, leaped into the shallow surf and carried the anchor ashore.
“Draw your bean-shooters,” directed the officer, “but keep the safety on. Come ahead, keep down pretty well and don’t talk.”