Part 24 (2/2)

”No hope,” replied Mr. Gibney. ”Fight and die is the last resort.

She's eight miles astern and gainin' every minute, and when she's within two miles she'll open fire. Of course we won't be hit unless they've got a Yankee gunner aboard.”

”Let's run up the Stars and Stripes and dare 'em to fire on us,”

said Captain Scraggs.

”No,” said Mr. Gibney firmly, ”my old man died for the flag an'

I've sailed under it too long to hide behind it when I'm in Dutch. We'll fight. If you was ever navigatin' officer on a Colombian gunboat, Scraggs, you'd realize what it means to run from a Mexican.”

Captain Scraggs said nothing further. Perhaps he was a little ashamed of himself in the face of Mr. Gibney's simple faith in his own ability; perhaps in his veins, all unknown, there flowed a taint of the heroic blood of some forgotten sea-dog. Be that as it may, something did swell in his breast when Mr. Gibney spoke of the flag and his scorning to hide behind it, and Scraggs's snaggle teeth came together with a snap.

”All right, Gib, my boy,” he said solemnly, ”I'm with you. Mrs.

Scraggs has slipped her cable and there ain't n.o.body to mourn for me. But if we can't fight under the Stars and Stripes, by the tail of the Great Sacred Bull, we'll have a flag of our own,” and leaving Mr. Gibney and the crew to get the guns on deck, Captain Scraggs ran below. He appeared on deck presently with a long blue burgee on which was emblazoned in white letters the single word _Maggie_. It was his own houseflag, and with trembling hands he ran it to the fore and cast its wrinkled folds to the breeze of heaven.

”Good old dishcloth!” shrieked Mr. Gibney. ”She never comes down.”

”d.a.m.ned if she does,” said Captain Scraggs profanely.

While all this was going on a deckhand had reeved a block and tackle through the end of the cargo gaff and pa.s.sed it to the winch. The two guns came out of the hold in jig time, and while Scraggs and one deckhand opened the after hold and got out ammunition for the guns, Mr. Gibney, a.s.sisted by the other deckhand, proceeded to put one of the guns together. He was shrewd enough to realize that he would have to do practically all of the work of serving the gun himself, in view of which condition one gun would have to defend the _Maggie_. He had never seen a mountain gun before, but he did not find it difficult to put the simple mechanism together.

”Now, then, Scraggsy,” he announced cheerfully when the gun was finally a.s.sembled on the carriage, ”get a sizeable timber an'

spike it to the centre o' the deck. I'll run the trail spade up against that cleat an' that'll keep the recoil from lettin' the gun go backward, clean through the opposite rail and overboard.

Gimme a coupler gallons o' distillate and some waste, somebody.

This cosmoline's got to come out o' the tube an' out o' the breech mechanism before we commence shootin'.”

The enemy had approached within three miles by the time the piece was ready for action. Under Mr. Gibney's instructions Captain Scraggs held the fuse setter in case it should be necessary to adjust with shrapnel. Mr. Gibney inserted his sights and took a preliminary squint. ”A little different from gun-pointin' in the navy, but about the same principle,” he declared. ”In the army I believe they call this kind o' shootin' direct fire, because you sight direct on the target.” He scratched his ingenious head and examined the ammunition. ”Not a high explosive sh.e.l.l in the lot,”

he mourned. ”I'll have to use percussion fire to get the range; then I'll drop back a little an' spray her with shrapnel. Seems a pity to smash up a fine schooner like that one with percussion fire. I'd rather tickle 'em up a bit with shrapnel an' scare 'em into runnin' away.”

He got out the lanyard, slipped a cartridge in the breech, paused, and scratched his head again. His calm deliberation was driving Scraggs crazy. He reminded Mr. Gibney with some asperity that they were not attending a strawberry festival and for the love of heaven to get busy.

”I'm estimatin' the range, you snipe,” Gibney retorted. ”Looks to be about three miles to me. A little long, mebbe, for this gun, but--there's nothin' like tryin',” and he sighted carefully.

”Fire,” he bawled as the _Maggie_ rested an instant in the trough of the sea--and a deckhand jerked the lanyard. Instantly Mr.

Gibney clapped the long gla.s.s to his eye.

”Good direction--over,” he murmured. ”I'll lay on her waterline next time.” He jerked open the breech, ejected the cartridge case, and rammed another cartridge home. This shot struck the water directly under the schooner's bow and threw water over her forecastle head. Mr. Gibney smiled, spat overboard, and winked confidently at Captain Scraggs. ”Like spearin' fish in a bath tub,” he declared. He bent over the fuse setter. ”Corrector three zero,” he intoned, ”four eight hundred.” He thrust a cartridge in the fuse setter, twisted it, slammed it in the gun, and fired again. The water broke into tiny waterspouts over a considerable area some two hundred yards short of the schooner, so Mr. Gibney raised his range to five thousand and tried again. ”Over,” he growled.

Something whined over the _Maggie_ and threw up a waterspout half a mile beyond her.

”Dubs,” jeered Mr. Gibney, and sighted again. This time his shrapnel burst neatly on the schooner. Almost simultaneously a sh.e.l.l from the schooner dropped into the sacked coal on the forecastle head of the _Maggie_ and enveloped her in a black pall of smoke and coal dust. Captain Scraggs screamed.

”t.i.t for tat,” the philosophical Gibney reminded him. ”We can't expect to get away with everything, Scraggsy, old kiddo.” The words were scarcely out of his mouth before the _Maggie's_ mainmast and about ten feet of her ancient railing were trailing alongside. Mr. Gibney whistled softly through his teeth and successfully sprayed the Mexican again. ”It breaks my heart to ruin that craft's canvas,” he declared, and let her have it once more.

”My _Maggie's_ tail is shot away,” Captain Scraggs wailed, ”an' I only rebuilt it a week ago.” Three more shots from the long gun missed them, but the fourth carried away the cabin, leaving the wreck of the pilot house, with the helmsman unscathed, sticking up like a sore thumb.

”Turn her around and head straight for them,” the gallant Gibney roared. ”She's a smaller target comin' bows on. We're broadside to her now.”

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