CHAPTER NINE

To the Attack

THE brig was dimly lit by the blue bulb outside the bars in the corridor. Lars, sitting hunched on the bunk, was still too big for the place, dwarfing it to the size of a hatbox.

Ralph was nervously giving Lars’ arm medical attention. Ralph had read a great deal about first aid, but it was fortunate for Lars, just the same, that the bullet had passed straight through the flesh of his muscular shoulder. And Lars was watching impassively while Ralph sweated and felt green when he touched the sticky blood.

“You’ve got to do it,” said Lars.

“I . . . I can’t,” whispered Ralph, plastering down the adhesive tape. “Sis would murder me!”

“Paco is going to murder all of us. I’ve told you where you could find your rifles and ammunition and pistols. Why do you think Paco wants those? You’re a sensible fellow, Ralph. You know that I couldn’t do anything to this whole ship all by myself.”

“I don’t dare,” said Ralph.

“You call that a trial?”

“No, but—”

“All right. It’s Paco’s word against mine. And it’s your life unless you get this straight here and now. I tell you they’re going to attack. You won’t need any more proof than that.”

“No, but—”

“All right. The minute they strike, you be ready. You get those keys and swipe the riot guns up to the bridge. You take my revolver out of Terry’s keeping. And then, when they strike, you hot-foot it down here.”

“But how’ll we get to the bridge?”

“We go forward on this deck to the engine room. We go up through the fidley. You leave that to me. They won’t try to hit at the bridge because they don’t think anybody there is armed. And another thing. Keep watch by Miss Norton’s door. At dawn, tell her that I’m dying. Tell her anything. But get her down here so she’ll be on her way when Paco and the rest crack down. Understand?”

“Sure, but—”

“It’s your life and Miss Norton’s I’m thinking about, Ralph. You need do nothing if Paco fails to take over the ship.”

Ralph got up. His eyes were feverishly bright as he began to understand that there might be excitement in the offing.

“Maybe . . . maybe I’ll do it.”

Lars watched him out, heard the door lock. And then, wearily, he lay back upon his bunk.

In spite of the tension within him he knew he must have slept. A far-off shout came to him. He sat up and swung his legs down.

A shot sounded somewhere forward and Lars was on his feet, hands gripping the bars of the door. He shook them.

His every thought was concentrated upon Ralph. If the boy succeeded in getting Terry down here, if he succeeded in bringing the keys, if he had placed the riot guns on the bridge . . .

Lars knew too well what he himself was doing. How easy it would have been to swing in with Paco. But there were other elements involved besides revenge which had chosen his course for him. Terry Norton’s safety was now paramount. Since his play last night he had known that he had been fighting to choose between two paths—his own safety and that of Terry Norton. The girl had won. For Lars, now, there would only be French Guiana or Madame Guillotine, no matter if he won against Paco. He saw that clearly. Until midnight of last night, when he had swung that wheel, he had tried to preserve his hard-won freedom. But all question of doing that was gone.

Hurried footsteps were sounding in the passageway. By the blue light, Lars saw Ralph coming. And with him Ralph dragged Terry. She was protesting, glancing back, anxious about the violent sounds which came from the main deck, the repeated shots.

Ralph inserted the keys in the lock, opened the door and slapped a .45 into Lars’ big hand.

“What madness is this?” cried Terry. “I thought you said . . . It’s a trick! Ralph, you’re crazy! Can’t you . . .”

“Shut up,” said Lars roughly. “Paco is taking over the Valiant. We can get to the bridge from the engine room.”

Terry stared at him. Shots were more frequent now on deck.

“Are you coming?” demanded Lars.

She did not move and he scooped her up in his arms and bore her swiftly up the passageway. Ralph, panting excitedly, strove to keep up with Lars’ long, anxious strides. Terry’s negligee floated behind Lars like a ship’s wake. The back of the .45 slide was hard and bruising in Terry’s side but, staring at Lars’ face in wonder, she did not even feel it.

They reached the engine room, skirting the big Diesels and the shining rails, brushing past an astounded engineer, mounting the iron ladders which led upward.

At the top of the last stage, Lars set Terry down. “You’ll have to climb. I’ll go first.”

Lars mounted the precarious rungs up the sheer side. In a moment he reached the open fidley. He stopped there, looking toward the bridge on the same level. Dawn faintly lit the world.

Johnson was leaning over the bridge rail, shouting down at the forward deck. A bullet snapped beside his head and he drew back, almost somersaulting in his rush.

Heavy feet thundered on the bridge ladder. Lars slid out of the hatch and stepped quickly to a position commanding the forward part of the bridge.

Tallien, shaggy hair streaming like black smoke behind him, charged into sight. The light was faint but the range was short. He saw Lars and threw the Mannlicher rifle to his shoulder.

Lars shot from the hip.

Tallien’s great bulk stood immobile. He took an uncertain step back. Abruptly the rifle clattered to the deck and Tallien shot out of sight, backwards down the bridge ladder.

Lars raced to the rifle and scooped it up, darting back in time to dodge a random shot from below.

Ralph came up on all fours and Terry stood shivering, pressed against the door to the radio room. It opened against her and the sleepy operator stuck out his head.

“What the hell’s the shooting . . . ? Oh, beg pardon, Miss Norton, how—”

Lars was at her side. “Get a radio to Casablanca, French Morocco. Tell them Renoir and Patou are attacking the Valiant. Tell them to get a cruiser or anything out here instantly.”

“Where are we?”

“About fifty miles straight west of Casablanca.” Lars turned to the bridge. “I’ll give you the position exactly in a minute.”

Terry was swept along by Lars. He thrust her into the protection of the chart room. “Get down out of sight!”

Ralph was digging the riot guns from beneath a transom. A bullet shattered the glass over his head and he ducked. Lars crouched and fired forward at the fo’c’s’le head.

“This is going to be hot,” said Lars. He looked up as Johnson came in on hands and knees, and grabbed a riot gun from Ralph, shoving it into Johnson’s hands. “If you want to live, don’t be afraid to use this.”

“What’s it all about?” quavered Johnson.

Lars had no time to explain, going swiftly in a crouch he got to the wheel. The helmsman was lying on his stomach, afraid to reach up as high as the lowest spoke. Lars took a quick glance at the binnacle. A bullet greeted his rising, shrieking as it struck an inch from his face. But he had what he wanted. The compass still read sixty-one.

Johnson was lying beside him.

“You didn’t change the course?”

“I . . . I was scared to. I thought I better put into Casablanca because you threw us off and with all these islands—”

“Good! Ralph! Take this to Sparks!”

Lars handed their position, as swiftly as he could figure it, to Ralph who scuttled away.

Above the short cracks of pistol and rifle below, the whine of a dynamo began to rise. The message was on its way.

The sniper on the fo’c’s’le head was getting close, firing at random through the dodger. Splinters plowed up beside Ralph’s hand and he quickly stuck his fingers in his mouth to suck the blood from the cuts.

“Won’t they attack from the boat deck?” said Johnson.

“I’m going to cover that. You keep these two forward ladders clear.”

As Lars crawled past the chart room he saw Terry shivering against the legs of the table. But, no matter how much he wanted to speak to her before the French came, he could not stop.

Lugging a riot gun, he crept toward the boat deck.

He heard Terry’s scream, “Look out!”

He spun about. Blond Jean Patou’s wild eyes were staring down the sights of a Mann-Scho. Lars fired while still in motion. The two shots roared together. Glass showered down upon Lars. Clumsy, crazy Patou knew little about rifle sights.

Clumsy Jean Patou fell forward on the rifle.

Lars was motionless for an instant. He had hoped it was Paco. But Paco would hardly take part in such an attack unless it was from the fo’c’s’le head.

Shots were coming from that direction now with greater regularity. Lars glanced up at a searchlight platform over the bridge.

Then, using Jean Patou for a barricade, he sent five shots from the riot gun toward the fo’c’s’le head. He saw Paco bob back and knew that all five had missed.

But his object was accomplished. Quickly, Lars swarmed up the ladder to the searchlight stage. He threw himself down behind the narrow base. Three swift shots bit steel around him. He reloaded and returned them.

Something changed about the ship and then Lars knew. The engines had stopped. Paco, in the protection of the steel bulkheads forward, also knew it.

Paco’s voice was thin but jeering. “Now what are you going to do? We’ll starve you out! We’ll make you surrender. Don’t forget we’ve got the rest of our pets cooped up and the crew to boot!”

“Ever hear of a radio?” shouted Lars.

An incredulous silence followed this. For a space of minutes no shots were fired, no voice was raised.

And then a wail came from forward. “You wouldn’t! You haven’t got the nerve to send that radio! You know what they’d do to you!”

“A gunboat’s on its way from Casablanca!” shouted Lars. “A French gunboat!”

“Damn you!” screamed Paco. “It’s that woman! You fool, let us have the bridge and we’ll get out of here before they come! They’ll get you too!”

“Sure they will!” cried Lars, jubilant. “Sure they will but it’s worth the price. You and I started out from Casablanca. It’s fitting that we’ve come back. But it’s not the Penal Colony now. It’s the guillotine! The guillotine for the lot of us! If it’s the station ship, it’ll be Captain Renard. There’s no greasing out of this. He knows us. Both of us!”

A bullet shrieked away from the searchlight stanchion. Paco and Renoir and Auberville were firing wildly now. But they knew what had happened to Tallien and Patou and they did not have the courage for another charge.

For two sweating, grimy hours they held the bridge defenders and then, in the east, a smoke plume could be seen. The battle was over.