“Fog’s breakin’,” he said. “Hazy yet, but I wouldn’t wonder if ’t was clear outside. You’ll not take up your duty till tomorrow, Mr. Lyman, but if you want to stretch yourself a bit come on deck. I’m taking the watch. We’ll have a little touch of grog first.”
He filled glasses in the main cabin and handed one to Jim.
“Here’s to a successful voyage,” he toasted, and Jim drank to the toast. The whisky sent the blood surging through his veins. They went above together. Swenson kept close by Jim’s side, but it was plain that he had partially accepted him as one of his own kidney, or as a tool he could successfully use.
The fog was thinning, shredding away, and there were holes in it here and there through which a star peeped. The beacon lights tore at it, rending paths for their warnings. They stood aft by the wheel. Suddenly the engine started to turn the screw and their speed increased. Jim calculated they were making a good eight knots. They had passed New Bedford Harbor with Clark’s Point Light flashing almost abeam. Dumpling Rock Light was the next. Then he would keep his eyes peeled for the fixed white light at Cuttyhunk, westernmost point of the Elizabeth string of islands. There, between Gooseberry Neck and Penikese Island, the inlet was at its narrowest, somewhere about five miles. And the main channel swung toward Penikese.
Jim meant to stay on deck until they caught sight of the light at Cuttyhunk, then to take his chance over the rail. His shoes were unlaced, the ends tucked in, seemingly tied, but ready to kick off the moment he struck water. It was going to be a long swim—how long he could not gauge beforehand—and a hard one. The tide would sweep him down. If he missed Penikese he would have to fight hard to land on Cuttyhunk or be carried out into the ocean proper.
The long odds were preferable to staying aboard the schooner, even if he had not had special reasons urging him. He could not disassociate Foster as the real master mind of Swenson’s activities, and he was fired with desire to block all Foster’s plans which doubtless were maturing back in Foxfield. He meant to be present at the conference set for the same night—now that midnight had sounded. He had a hundred-odd dollars in his pocket. Let him get away, make a landing, and however roundabout his route, he would get to where autos might be hired, and then travel on the funds of the opposition.
Swenson did not seem to imagine that a man would dream of tackling a getaway by swimming; nevertheless he stayed closer to Jim than Jim relished. And he planned how he could avoid Hellfire’s attentions and even matters up with him a bit. So far he had been the underdog; from now on he hoped things would turn out differently.
They chugged on through the dissipating mists which should lend a friendly cloak to Jim’s escape. The fixed ray of Cuttyhunk shone like a misplaced star, then was eclipsed by something that must be Penikese Island. He and Swenson were pacing up and down together. Jim had started the topic of rum-running in a manner that suggested that he thought such exploits highly creditable, adventurous, and profitable. Swenson rose to the bait. With a congenial soul inclined to admiration, Hellfire was not averse to boasting.
“Good enough, when there’s nothing bigger on hand,” he said. “And it’s sure good fun to fool the raiders. They sing loud when they happen to light on a buried cargo or board a ship with contraband once in a million times, through some rotten informer telling ’em what they’d never find out for themselves. We keep ’em guessing. It’s a fine coast for hide an’ seek.”
He went on to tell of exploits, not attempting to veil his own personality as a principal. He hinted broadly at the existence of a national ring with ramifications spreading out north to Canada, west to the Orient, east to Europe, south to the Indies, Central and South America. And Jim, with the right word now and then, led him on. Swenson stood at the port rail, elbows on it, leaning back, puffing at his cigar. Jim purposely allowed his to go out. He looked beyond Swenson to where he fancied he could see the loom of Penikese. Fortunately it was thickening up a little. He stood within easy distance of Swenson, judging the space between them.
“Got a match?” he asked. “I’m out.”
Swenson took his glowing cigar from between his lips. This Jim had counted on, though it was not vital. He offered it, butt first, in his right hand, the left swinging low. Jim stepped forward as if to take it and brought up his right first smash against the point of Swenson’s jaw, with all the impetus lent by the past hours of defeat and ignominy, with all the force of the pivoting weight of his body concentrated in that blow for liberty. Hellfire saw it coming; his cigar fell from his lips, but he was too late to shout, and Jim was well inside his guard. A sudden, fiery pain shot through Jim’s knuckles. He had driven them back with the impact against Swenson’s adamantine jaw, but they had served their purpose. The big man’s head rocked; he half swung around then dropped like a chain. There was no one near but the man at the wheel. He turned his head at the thud. Jim heard the yell as he leaped to the rail, catching at the stays to steady himself for a split-second, then diving clean into the tide, kicking off his shoes and striking out, under water at first, in the direction of Penikese.
V
Reaction
The swift race of the tide gripped him, carrying him along parallel to the course of the schooner before he began to make transverse headway. When he was forced to come to the surface he heard confused shouts aboard and chuckled at the success of the blow that had temporarily paralyzed the brains of the boss. The weight of his clothes handicapped him so that he found he had miscalculated the power of the tide-rip and he settled down to a steady single overhand, swimming on his side, almost submerged, urging progress with powerful scissors clips of his legs, looking backward toward the ship from which he had so unceremoniously departed.
To his dismay a beam shot out from her deck. She was rigged with a searchlight that he in his limited survey had not noticed. The ray swept the waters in his direction, missed him as he promptly ducked, and when he again broke water it was swinging toward the New Bedford shore. But it came back, seeking him out. The churn of the screw had been plain to him across the water; now it stopped. A boat was being lowered. It came in his direction. Evidently they either guessed which way he had gone or they had seen him. Meanwhile the current was carrying down the schooner. As the tremulous finger of the searchlight pointed his way Jim dived for the third time. Swimming under water slowed his progress and there was the danger that when lack of air forced him up again the boat would be on him or the beam spot him. The last risk was realized. He bobbed up in a circle of dull radiance and there was a shout from the boat, a clutter of oars turning to a steady stroke, the flash and report of a gun and the watery spat of a bullet only too well aimed.
On they came, shouting in triumph. He heard the bellow of Swenson. His right hand had swollen with the blow, and now besides paining intolerably, it began to interfere with the diving power of his arm that grew numb.
“Turn on your back. Float, damn ye! Float, or I’ll sink ye for keeps!” Swenson was roaring like an infuriated bull. Jim might dodge for a while, might dive a time or two, but they would wear him down, If they got him alive he could imagine what would be in store for him aboard with the humiliated Hellfire; unless—
The gods had taken pity on him at last. A bank of fog, vagrant before the uncertain breeze, bore down on him. For the fourth time he slipped under water and struck out to reach its cover, swimming until he thought his lungs must burst and his body felt like lead from lack of oxygen. Up he came to suck in moist air, to find himself enveloped in woolly vapor. He turned over on his back to float and rest. He could hear the clack of oars, muffled calls. The search ray had long since reached its limit in the mist. Swenson and his rowers were losing their bearings. And the tide was bearing Jim rapidly toward the ocean. He had no hope of making Penikese now. That lonesome rock would have been only a temporary halting place, but a necessary one. Now he must keep on to Cuttyhunk. Out of the fog panic swooped at him. Was he going in the right direction? He knew how easy it was in broad daylight to get turned about while floating. In the fog—
His heart pounded for a few beats, then steadied. He could see a halo in the mist, a rainbow spot of dull, but—to him—glorious tints. The fixed white light of Cuttyhunk, well ahead on his left!