I repeated.
“Donnerwetter!” rattled the wires. “The entire French iron-clad fleet is looking for her.”
“And I hope they catch her,” I telegraphed.
“Are you crazy?” came the frantic reply. “Who are you?”
“A Yankee, idiot!” I replied. “Run for your life, you hopeless ass!”
There was, of course, no reply, though I sent a few jocular remarks flying after what must have been the most horrified German spy south of Metz. 344
Then, at a venture, I set the switch on the arsenal line, got a quick reply, and succeeded in alarming them sufficiently, I think, for in a few moments I was telegraphing directly to the governor of Lorient, and the wires grew hot with an interchange of observations, which resulted in my running to the locker, tumbling out all the signal bunting, cones, and balls, sorting five flags, two red cones, and a ball, and hastening out to the semaphore.
Speed and the soldier Rolland saw me set the cones, hoist away, break out the flags on the halyards, and finally drop the white arm of the semaphore.
I had set the signal for the Fer-de-Lance to land in force and wipe Buckhurst and his grotesque crew from the face of the earth.
“Rolland,” I said, “here is another hundred francs. Watch that halyard and guard it. To-night you will string seven of those little lamps on this other halyard, light them, hoist them, and then go up that tower and light the three red lamps on the left.”