Schwenk’s Answer to Rebels
BRISCOE lasted the forty-eight hours. He lasted another twenty-four besides, but at the end of it, he was shaking with the strain of watching every bush ahead of him on the trail from which might come a fatal bullet.
But no bullet came. When he saw Schwenk, Schwenk was the height of courtesy, making no reference at all to the flagrant holster and gun butt which jutted away from Briscoe’s well-tailored breeches.
Diana had evidently taken her encounter to heart. She was not to be seen away from the house, though Briscoe waited several times along the trail where she had ridden before.
The Sultan was still at the dock. Tim and Banjo and Mike were impatient to get going.
The four met in the afternoon in Briscoe’s hut.
Briscoe quickly outlined the plan.
“I’m going through with this,” said Briscoe, “because I’m certain that something else is afoot and I’m not at all certain but what my influence with the natives is being steadily undermined. You’ve filed out those keys to the gun room?”
“You bet,” said Banjo, jingling them in his pocket.
“Good. You and Tim are to get the guns at dark. Mike is to wait on the dock. I’ll make sure that Schwenk is nowhere in the vicinity when it happens. Somehow I’ll get Diana away from the house. We will steal aboard the ship, knock out the three men on watch, tie up Gunarson, silently get up steam and then, before anything can happen to prevent us, we’ll be out of the harbor.”
“What about those pearls and the money?” said Mike.
“Banjo’s lookout,” said Briscoe.
“You mean you’ll consent to us stealing them?” said Tim.
“I won’t consent to you stealing them and if you take them you won’t be stealing anything.”
“A million bucks?” wheezed Banjo. “You don’t think a million bucks is something?”
“You don’t get me,” said Briscoe. “But we’ll let it pass as it is.”
“We’ll probably all get caught,” said Tim. “If one of the sailors lets out a yip, Schwenk will turn a machine gun on the bridge and we won’t have a chance.”
“Want to back out?” said Briscoe, sharply.
“No, but the Dutch will probably hunt us down,” said Tim, morosely. “If we go to Sydney, we’ll get caught and we ain’t got the fuel to go anyplace else.”
“We won’t go to Sydney,” said Briscoe.
“If not Sydney, then where can we go?” whispered Banjo.
“We’re not going very far. We’re taking the Sultan so that we can pen Schwenk up on Timba. We nail his other five boats as they come in. We tie them up on Rossman Island across the channel. No radio here. No chance of the Dutch coming in. Schwenk can’t send out word by canoe, can he?”
“No, but he’ll find some way,” muttered Tim.
“How can he?” demanded Briscoe. “We’re going to paralyze Schwenk, drive him to terms, cut him off from the world and … well, I have another answer for it, too, but I can’t give you that right now. In the meanwhile, have you got your jobs straight? At eight o’clock we meet on the edge of the dock.”
“At eight,” said Banjo.
“Schwenk will probably get there first,” moaned Tim. “But I guess it’s better than rotting on Timba forever. Why can’t we just kill him and let it go at that, Lee?”
“No murder,” said Briscoe. “That outlaws us.”
“I suppose piracy won’t,” said Tim.
“Who’ll find out about it?” demanded Briscoe.
“Schwenk,” said Tim. “That’s enough. If you’ll just let me slip a knife into him, quiet-like—”
“At eight,” said Briscoe, interrupting him.
“At eight,” said Mike.
“At eight,” sighed Tim, as though it was the date of his funeral.
It was not as hot as usual that night, the thermometer having dropped to a hundred and five. A wind was blowing in from the sea, bending the palm fronds and making them clatter like old bones shaken in a shroud.
Hatless, dressed in dark khaki, revolver swinging loosely at his hip, Briscoe approached the big house on the hill.
There were few lights there that night and no sign of anyone about the place. The gun shed, a sort of pillbox fort itself, was without a guard.
The gray, sharp walls made a lonely picture against the cloud-interspersed stars. The sea in the grottoes moaned and whispered awful things—of murdered men and drowned sailors and tortured natives.
Briscoe stopped in the roadway and looked back at the flat below where the natives had built a leaping blaze. The squalid huts showed up in the flickering yellow light and looked less forlorn than they did by day. The weary natives moved slowly back and forth before the flames, hopeless, broken men.
Briscoe went up toward the house again. He did not know just what he would do or how he would get Diana out of the place or just how he could temporarily remove Schwenk, if at all.
According to his watch he had fifteen minutes before the appointed time. Fifteen minutes were enough if nothing untoward blocked him.
The absence of a guard surprised him. Lately Schwenk had taken to posting some renegade on the steps and another renegade in the shadows to watch the first, while Schwenk himself, from time to time, at unexpected moments, watched the second.
As everyone more or less watched Schwenk, the round was complete.
But tonight there was no guard.
In the open, Briscoe approached the steps. He stopped suddenly. Diana was sitting on the veranda, looking down the path. She must have seen him and yet she had given no sign of it.
Things could not have been better, Briscoe told himself. If he could possibly get her to come peacefully, the deed was as good as done. But even if he had to gag and carry her away, the matter was still simple.
He slid into the shadows, rounded the end of the veranda, silently went over the rail. Diana was in profile to him. She seemed tense, ill at ease.
Briscoe slid along the rail, undecided about his tactics.
He had to get her away from there for her own good, no matter what she happened to think about it at the moment. He could take his time convincing her later. When she fully understood his position, she would realize that he had done her a favor.
From his pocket he took a clean handkerchief and three small lengths of rope. Rough it would have to be, there was no help for it.
“Hello, Briscoe,” said Schwenk. “You’re just in time. I was about to send down for you.”
Briscoe relaxed, put the rope and handkerchief back in his pocket. His fingers itched to grab his revolver, but he knew by the tone of Schwenk’s voice that he was amply covered.
A moment later, Briscoe’s gun left its holster to be thrust in Schwenk’s waistband.
Diana’s white face was turned toward them. She was sitting back now, motionless, waiting.
“Turn around, Briscoe,” said Schwenk, casually.
Briscoe turned. Schwenk had a .45 Derringer.
“Yes, Briscoe,” said Schwenk, “I was about to send for you. Come along. We’ll go down to the beach.”
Diana said nothing. Her only move was to turn her head slightly as the two men rounded a curve in the roadway.
Briscoe tried to be airy about it.
“I didn’t know hogs had such a keen sense of smell,” said Briscoe.
“I didn’t know,” said Schwenk, “that a man who bathed as often as you do could stink so much.”
“What’s this to be?” said Briscoe. “A firing squad?”
“Guilty conscience?” said Schwenk.
“Deep insight,” said Briscoe.
“I’m a deep man.”
They entered the clearing before the slave houses. Schwenk had crossed his arms and no one could see the Derringer, though it was still there.
“You go first,” said Schwenk, “so follow my orders.”
“It’s a pleasure,” said Briscoe.
“I want the crew to my longboat,” said Schwenk, loudly. “Lee Briscoe has some business up along Zaga way.”
Six natives stepped out. Schwenk sent two of them back. The others walked down to the beach and thrust the longboat out into the lagoon.
Loudly Schwenk said, “Briscoe, you go up there and see about that blight. You’ll be there in the morning. You stay upriver for a couple weeks. Get the supplies from Stephans at the Zaga post. When you’ve got all the blight mapped out, report back here.”
“What’s the gag?” said Briscoe in a low voice.
“That’s fine. You’ve got it straight then,” roared Schwenk. He added in a whisper, “Get into that boat. If you try to put back ashore, remember I’ve got a rifleman posted on the cliff up there.”
Briscoe stepped over the gunwale and into the stern. When he took the tiller, the native boys ran out into the water and stepped, dripping, into their places. The longboat bobbed broadside to the beach. The boys lifted up their oars.
“Prepare to give way,” said Briscoe. “Give way all together.”
“And keep going,” added a harsh voice from the pile of sail in the bow.
A .38 Colt gleamed in the starlight and behind it glittered the bright orbs of Captain Gunarson. Beside him lay a naked Kanaka hugging an Enfield rifle.
“Stroke,” said Briscoe. “Stroke.”
As though he had not heard a thing, he paced his rowing crew until they rounded a point and the fire disappeared from sight.
Gunarson sat up. He was a singularly ugly man. Twisted and bony, a slave to bad temper, he was greatly feared on Timba.
“Keep going, renegade,” said Gunarson. “In a minute, start heading straight out to sea. When you get a mile from shore go south until you are off Schwenk’s point. Then head in.”
“Nicely planned,” said Briscoe.
“You’re damned right it is,” snapped Gunarson, bringing the .38 to full cock. “Head out to sea.”
The native boys knew that as long as they followed the orders of the man with the gun they were reasonably safe. They pulled strongly, bodies rippling with effort, glistening with sweat and spray.
Briscoe tucked the tiller post under his arm, got out a cigarette.
“None of that,” growled Gunarson. “Think I want those natives to see you from shore?”
“I didn’t think you did,” said Briscoe with a sigh.
It took them about an hour to row the three sides of the quadrangle. They had passed the slave huts so far at sea the fire had been but a yellow dot in the ebony night.
The moon was coming up, turning the horizon into green gold. But it was too late to show up the longboat to the natives, and even if they had seen it they would not have understood.
Briscoe steered in toward the point. The hissing, boiling sea was battering itself into an angry fury against the pockmarked coral formation. At one place and one place only was it quiet. That was the entrance to a long and narrow passage a freshwater stream, combined with the sea, had eaten through the soft lime.
They steered into it. The motion of the water grew less and then ceased altogether.
Overhead the uneven roof grew higher. The echoes of the sea muttered fitfully against the rough walls.
Ahead a lantern glowed beside a natural landing stage. Briscoe steered the longboat up to it. The natives tossed their oars.
A Kanaka was holding the lantern. Beside him Schwenk was standing, lipless mouth curled into a triumphant leer.
“Hello, Briscoe,” said Schwenk. “Back again so soon. Have a nice trip, Briscoe? Unload them, Gunarson. Briscoe will be wanting a slug of Scotch after his long ride.”
Briscoe followed the boat’s crew ashore. Gunarson and his businesslike Kanaka sailor were alert and watchful for any trouble, ready to fire on the instant.
They left the stage in single file, walking up a long incline which wound through great masses of white coral. Presently they were out of Schwenk’s well-built tunnel and into a large, dark, airless chamber.
The feeble lantern rays did not reach far. They did not need to.
Securely bound, lying in a neat row, were Tim Sullivan, Mike Goddard and Banjo Edwards.
Briscoe looked at Schwenk and then beyond him. “Doc” Rengarte was standing there grinning. That, then, was the answer to all this. Rengarte had spied upon them, had listened to them, had reported their every move to Schwenk. When he saw the cold disdain, the bitter rage in Briscoe’s glance, Rengarte stopped smiling and moved closer to Schwenk.
The boat’s crew, although they had been no party to the attempted escape, only because they might talk, were tied up and chained to the wall.
Briscoe tried to keep them from braceleting his wrists, but they had him in a moment. Rusty iron clanked. Briscoe sat down against the cold rock.
“It won’t be long, Briscoe,” said Schwenk, pleasantly. “In three weeks, as soon as I am certain that the natives will make no connection between myself and your disappearance, you’ll get right out of here. I promise it faithfully, Briscoe. Right down the incline and to the landing stage. At high tide, Briscoe, sharks come in there, you know.”
“Sharks come in here, too,” said Briscoe.
“Quite a wit, isn’t he, Gunarson?” said Schwenk. “By the way, gentleman, I’ll have a Kanaka guard posted outside, so just sit down here and get a good rest. Auf Wiedersehen.”
Rengarte, Schwenk and Gunarson left with the Kanakas. The eight in the chamber sat quietly after that, looking straight ahead, saying nothing.
“I knew it,” said Tim, at last. “And them natives will forget all about you in three weeks. We’re stuck, Lee.”