Bounty Hunter

Chapter 41

The boat was shuddering violently by the time she reached the strait and more officers were sprawled sick on the deck. There was a hammering noise from below and Tone noticed that Benson’s face was ashen.

He read the question on Tone’s face and shook his head. “She’s shaking apart. We’re up to twenty-five knots and she was never built to sustain that speed for any length of time.”

“The boiler?”

“She’ll blow; lay to that.”

Anderson was trying to appear calm. “Full throttle and keep her steady, Benson,” he said. “We’ll come up on those murderers soon.”

But Sprague’s longboat was nowhere in sight and a rolling fog bank had reduced visibility to a few yards.

“See anything?” Anderson asked. “Anyone?”

“No.” Tone answered for the others. “We’re sailing blind.”

“Damn it,” the inspector said, peering through the wheelhouse window into the mist. “Where are they?”

“Sprague would have told his crew to keep the yacht close to the strait,” Langford said. “We’ll find them.”

“Or they’ll find us,” Tone said.

A few minutes later the fog betrayed them.

As suddenly as it had appeared, the bank shredded into curling wisps of mist and suddenly the little boat was visible and vulnerable, charging through a blue sea spangled with sunlight.

Sprague’s steam yacht lay half a mile ahead, and men were scrambling up her starboard side from the longboat.

“We’ve got them!” Anderson yelled, smashing his right fist into the palm of the other. “We can board ’em, by God! Full speed ahead, Benson.”

But as men rushed around her deck, the big yacht was already turning to port.

“She’s showing us her ass,” Anderson said, perplexed. “Damn it all, she’s running.”

“No, sir!” This from Benson, who looked sick. “They’re uncovering a chase gun on the stern.” He peered through the window. “Oh, dear Lord, help us! It’s a Hotchkiss revolving cannon.”

“Look!” Langford called out, pointing.

Now the others saw what the sergeant had seen: the terrifying flag of the pirate ship fluttering from the Spindrift’s mainmast. Against a black background, a grinning white skeleton held a cutlass in one bony hand, an hourglass in the other.

“They’ll stand and fight,” Anderson yelled, grinning, his eyes wild.

As Tone recalled it later, those were the last words the inspector ever said.

Smoke puffed from the stern of Sprague’s yacht, followed by a bang that rolled across the flat sea.

A tall column of white water suddenly erupted on the little boat’s port side, and a moment later a second, vicious exclamation point of surf exploded to starboard, this one closer.

The yacht’s third shell crashed through the wheelhouse window, neatly decapitated Anderson, then detonated against the rear bulkhead with an earsplitting roar. Tone saw a flash of crackling silver and scarlet light around him and he was thrown headlong into the shattered window in front of him.

He lay stunned for a few moments and staggered to his feet as more shells crashed into the boat. He heard men scream and over in a corner Benson was groaning.

Through a drift of acrid smoke, Tone saw Langford lying on his back. The sergeant was bloodied but alive. Stepping over Anderson’s headless corpse, he kneeled beside Benson. He could see no apparent injuries and helped the man to his feet.

Tone took time to glance outside. The boat had turned broadside to Sprague’s yacht and was taking punishment, though she still had steam pressure and the screw was turning.

“Benson,” he said, staring into the cop’s face, “can you understand me?”

A shell crashed into the side of the boat and exploded. Abruptly she listed heavily to port and the wheelhouse reeked of cordite.

“Benson!” Tone yelled, shaking the man.

It took a few moments, but finally the cop’s eyes focused. “We’ve still got steam. Ram the yacht’s stern. You understand me? Ram her stern.”

Benson nodded and grabbed the wheel, spinning it fast, turning toward the big steam yacht.

Supporting himself on a shattered timber, Langford was on his feet, his face bloodied from a deep gash on his forehead.

“Are you all right?” Tone asked.

“I’ll survive.”

“Sprague’s boat rides high in the stern and they can’t depress the big gun much lower,” Tone yelled above the roar of yet another hit, this time well behind the wheelhouse. “We can sail under her line of fire and ram her.”

He studied Langford’s face. “We’ll go forward. Get your men ready to board her.”

“Where’s Anderson?”

“Dead. Now let’s go!”

Slipping on the blood and brains of dead men, Tone made his way to the bow. He heard Langford trying to rally his surviving officers. “Use your revolvers and then go to the knife, boys. Pirate scum can’t take cold steel in the guts.”

A thin, ragged cheer went up from fewer than a dozen throats. When, and if, they managed to board the pirate yacht, they could be badly outnumbered.

Tone looked behind him, across a deck torn by shot and shell. Despite his bloody face, Langford looked eager and ready, like a mighty, unmoving rock defying a sea storm. He had only ten officers around him, and one of those was favoring a wounded right arm.

Tone knew that his guns would have to make up for their weakness in numbers, a realization that thwarted his immediate plans.

The little boat was still plowing forward, though at a much-reduced speed. Smoke was pouring from the boiler room and she was shuddering so badly that Tone heard the screech of iron plates buckling. She was also settling lower in the water, wallowing like a sow in a sty.

Fifty yards separated them from the Spindrift.

A couple of shells from the Hotchkiss exploded far to their stern. Then the shooting stopped. The cannon could no longer be brought to bear. Slowly, the yacht began a turn to port to give the gun a clear field of fire.

In the shattered wheelhouse, Benson, his blood up, was screaming obscenities like a madman.

Thirty yards . . .

One of the officers sent to tend the boiler fire scrambled on deck. There was only a ragged stump where his left hand had been. He spotted Langford and yelled, “Sarge! She’s gonna blow!”

Twenty yards . . .

Langford looked back to the wheelhouse. “Benson!” he roared. “Ram her, damn your eyes!”

In reply, the man screamed louder.

“Sergeant Langford,” Tone said. “Your revolver, if you please.”

The big cop understood instantly why Tone would not fire his own guns. He passed over his revolver.

Ten yards . . .

The Hotchkiss cannon had been abandoned, but now the boat was coming under small-arms fire from Sprague’s deck. Tone aimed at a towheaded man who was leaning over the rail aiming a rifle and fired. The towhead threw up his hands and vanished from sight. Tone kept firing and, for the moment at least, cleared the rail.

With a tremendous crash, the little boat, now a splintered wreck, hit Sprague’s yacht on her port side just forward of the stern. Her bow failed to penetrate the Spindrift’s stout iron plates, but she rose up and climbed onto her, like a stallion mounting a mare.

The bow rose higher, tumbling Tone and everyone else head over heels along the deck until they collided hard with the base of the wheelhouse. Now almost vertical, the boat hung there until her weight forced her downward again. The bow crashed onto the deck, breaking apart Spindrift’s timbers as it buried itself deep.

A smoking, shot-riddled hulk, the little craft groaned, as though completely spent by this final effort, and stuck fast.

Tone scrambled to his feet and clawed his way up the crazily slanted deck. A bullet chipped wood a few inches from his face, a second sang a whining death song past his head. Behind him, Langford was exhorting his cursing men as they sought footholds on blood-slick planking.

Tone reached the bow and clambered over, aware how dangerously exposed he was to marksmen on the deck. He jumped onto the Spindrift—and was immediately skewered by a snarling sailor wielding a wicked-looking boarding pike.