To the Chatter of Machine Guns
WHEN Banjo had successfully picked the lock of every man’s irons, Briscoe signaled for silence.
The natives were hard to suppress. They grinned and capered and chuckled, but they finally understood that this was but the first step to their freedom.
Briscoe rubbed his chafed wrists and ankles, trying to exercise some of the stiffness from his body. Then, again motioning for silence, he moved toward the tunnel which led into the caverns below.
Quietly he made his way around the first bend. He knelt and peered around the second. He drew back hastily and crept to the top.
“There’s a Kanaka guard down there on the landing,” he whispered to Mike. “He’s got a machine gun pointed straight up the incline.”
“We’ll rush him,” said Mike.
“And run for a hundred feet in plain view of him?” said Briscoe. “It won’t work.”
Banjo grinned and waved the twisted hairpin. He slid to the door leading upward, thrust the metal into the big lock and then dejectedly shook his head.
“There’s a key turned in the other side,” said Banjo.
“And even if we made it,” muttered Tim, “Schwenk would be standing there waiting for us.”
“Can’t you think of something?” pleaded Briscoe.
Banjo stood up, shut his eyes tightly and pulled his nose. Mike scratched impatiently. Tim sat down and held his head in his hands. The natives expectantly watched Briscoe and Briscoe watched Banjo.
They were an unholy-looking crew in the greenish light which came up from the cavern below. Gaunt, red-eyed and ragged, one glimpse of them would have made a stone idol quake.
Banjo snapped his fingers, then shook his head, rejecting his thought. He looked brightly up again.
Banjo got down on his knees and sniffed along the bottom of the door. Quickly, he peeled off his shirt and thrust it through the wide crack so that it made a carpet on the other side.
Banjo reached into the keyhole with his hairpin and worked deftly at the key.
It dropped out and fell with a small, dull sound on Banjo’s shirt. Working with great care, he retrieved his garment and there solidly upon it was the large key.
Admiration made even Tim Sullivan smile.
Instantly, however, as an apology for it, Tim said, “You mark my words. Schwenk will be waiting for us on the other side.”
Banjo unlocked the door and shoved it open.
A blast of daylight blinded them. Hurriedly they stepped back out of the way of probable bullets. But when they could see well in the light, they were astounded to discover that the hall before them was quite empty.
Briscoe took the lead. As soundless as a stalking cat he crept along the hardwood planks, stopping every few feet to listen. He came to another door and tried it.
The dismal rattle of a chain came from the other side. Briscoe stepped back in despair. Not even the nimble-fingered expert could unfasten this barrier.
Banjo looked sadly at the lock. Tried it. Turning to Tim, Banjo said, “Looks like we’ll never find out if you’re right about Swiney being on the other side.”
“Look,” said Briscoe. “It swings out. If three of us lunge against it at the same time, something’s bound to let loose.”
“Our shoulders at least,” said Mike.
In spite of the noise it would make, risking everything for their freedom, Briscoe, Tim and Mike drew back. Briscoe counted, “One … two … three!”
Bam!
The door caved. In a tangle of arms and legs they lit on top of it, breath knocked completely out.
Briscoe tried to struggle up. Certainly the racket would bring somebody to investigate. He got to his feet and braced himself for an attack.
But the house remained silent.
Puzzled by the lack of a reception, the eight went cautiously ahead to find themselves in the cellar of the house.
“He’ll be waiting at the top of the stairs,” said Tim.
“I’ll see,” said Briscoe, ascending.
Another door was there, but it was half open. Through it Briscoe could see a gleaming expanse of floor, some scattered furniture and rugs, but no sign whatever of Schwenk.
“Come up,” said Briscoe to the others.
Irresolutely they gathered in the living room. Then, like zombies, they drifted several ways through the house.
Banjo came back eating an immense sandwich and swigging at a bottle of red wine. Tim returned dragging the yellow servant, Wong.
The slant-eyed little Oriental was terrified. He could not talk. He could only gasp and blink and gulp. He fell to his knees and raised his hands. His mouth open and shut like a goldfish’s.
“Where is Schwenk?” demanded Briscoe.
“M-m-m … gug!” said Wong, shaking like a flivver’s fender.
“Nuts,” said Briscoe in disgust. He picked up a pair of field glasses from a side table and went up a second flight of stairs to Schwenk’s lookout.
The island appeared completely deserted. No natives could be seen around the slave huts. Not a single white was on the beach. There were two ships in the harbor. One was the Sultan, the other was Schwenk’s Rangoon. Smoke poured out of the Sultan’s spindly funnel, but she was still fast to the dock.
Briscoe trained the glasses on the northernmost point of land. He lowered them quickly.
Schwenk was coming along the beach. Diana and Martin were with him. Behind the three mounted people came a long column of natives carrying a dark, oblong box.
“What the devil!” said Briscoe.
Behind him, Mike took a look.
“It’s a coffin,” said Mike.
“But who’s dead?” said Briscoe.
Tim had come up the stairs. Mournfully, Tim said, “You are.”
“Who?” snapped Briscoe.
“You,” sighed Tim.
Briscoe ran down the stairs and met Banjo. The moon-faced little man was laughing uproariously. He had Wong by the collar.
“Tell … tell him,” choked Banjo, between blasting guffaws.
“Briscoe dead,” quivered Wong. “Native boy findum Briscoe on Zaga all ate up by ants.”
“Tell him!” choked Banjo.
“D-D-Dead man—”
“Tell him who it is!”
Wong shriveled up and whined, “Master killum doc. Doc fellah askum hushee-hushee money. Me and master killum, dragum along Zaga las’ night.”
“He killed Rengarte!” shouted the hysterical Banjo.
Mike and Tim were coming down fast.
“What’s happened?” demanded Mike.
Briscoe jerked his thumb at Wong. “He says he and Schwenk murdered Rengarte. Schwenk needed a body to fix up like me. He had to convince the natives I was dead from causes he had nothing to do with. He let ants eat the corpse and now they’re bringing the corpse back. Rengarte tried to blackmail him.”
“We’ll get the guns and when Schwenk comes up, we’ll shoot him,” said Mike. “It’s easy.”
“Nothing of the kind,” said Briscoe. “Under no conditions shoot Schwenk. Keep him alive.”
“What the hell?” argued Mike. “We got to act quick. They’ll be up here in ten minutes. Schwenk’s got the crews of the Sultan and Rangoon for protection. Those Kanakas are armed and they’ll fight. They’ve got us outnumbered. We’ll have to shoot Schwenk—”
“I’ll kill the first man,” said Briscoe, “who tries to kill Schwenk. Is that understood?”
“Jesus, I didn’t know you was that serious about it,” gulped Mike. “What kind of a dizzy setup is this? First he couldn’t kill you, but now that he can, you won’t kill him. Is it that dame?”
“No,” said Briscoe. “It isn’t that dame. Look alive, Banjo. Find those keys you threw away. We’re going to take the Sultan.”
Banjo scurried outside and dived into a tangle of brush. He came up with the tailored keys, unlocked the gun shed and quickly picked the rack padlocks which held the rifles and pistols. All automatics were gone, evidently in the possession of the loyal Kanakas.
They had very little time to get to the dock. Already, Schwenk was close enough to see them plainly if they went into the open.
Buckling on a bandolier of ammunition and carrying an Enfield, Briscoe led the way toward the Sultan, the other seven running swiftly after him.
They swept down the curving roadway and into Schwenk’s sight.
Briscoe heard the far-off bellow of orders. He saw three men detach themselves from the column and throw themselves into the sand.
An instant later came the rattling explosions of automatic rifles.
Bullets ripped through the palms and plowed sand. Water frothed over the dock. Air crackled overhead.
“Come on!” yelled Briscoe, boots hammering on the planks.
Over the Sultan’s rail glittered a gun barrel. Behind the sight glinted the off-color eye of Captain Gunarson.
“I’ve got you!” roared Gunarson in triumph.
Briscoe dodged, but the machine-gun barrel whipped down, following him. Gunarson squeezed the trigger.
Less than a dozen shots left the muzzle.
One shot rapped sharply from the dock.
Banjo yelled a derisive “The hell you have!”
Gunarson’s collapsed face slid out of sight under the rail.
Screened from Schwenk by the ship, the eight sprinted up the gangplank, yelling, holding their rifles on high.
A Kanaka rose up as though ready to give battle. He took one look at the eight demons and threw down his rifle in surrender.
Tim raced up the bridge ladder and ducked into the pilothouse. Mike plunged down through a hatch toward the engine room. Two shots sounded below decks. Mike yelled, “Got him!”
Banjo grabbed up a fire ax and hacked through the bow hawser. Briscoe scooped the dead Gunarson’s weapon out of the scupper, raised the sights to shoot high and drove the Kanakas from the beach with scorching lead.
Banjo had the stern hawsers away. A bell jangled. Mike in the engine room jangled back.
The Sultan drew out into the stream.
Briscoe stopped firing and looked around. Two Kanakas had very quietly come out of the fo’c’s’le and were now engaged in coiling up what was left of the hemp. The Kanaka who had surrendered, also a diplomat, had reported for duty to Tim as quartermaster.
Out of the engine room hatch crept a half-breed engineer who had been left in charge by Gunarson. He had two bullets through the fleshy part of his arm and he docilely asked for treatment, giving no sign whatever of his late objection to Mike.
Briscoe eyed the shore and saw that two longboats were putting out for the anchored Rangoon. Schwenk had not given up by any means.
Briscoe looked at his crew. The four natives were wrist-deep in a ten pound can of corned beef and a box of sea biscuits, but their rifles were near at hand and, from time to time, they glanced at Briscoe as though anxious to follow any order he had to give.
“They’re following us,” said Banjo, looking at the swinging shore, and then at the Rangoon.
From the pilothouse, Tim leaned out and yelled, “There comes the Rangoon, Briscoe. Gunwales awash with Kanakas! We’ll play the devil getting away from those guys.”
Mike stepped out of the hatch like Punch. “She’s doing all she can.”
“Tie down the safety valves!” ordered Briscoe.
“Okay,” said Mike. “If you’re willing to go to hell by the high-line route, I’m right with you.” He disappeared.