CODE

A REVERED TRADITION OF THE SEA MAY BE CONFUSED WITH A SKUTTLE-BUTT RUMOR—WHEN STORMS BLOW UP OFF THE PACIFIC COAST AND TWO CAPTAINS OF THE OLD SCHOOL COME FACE TO FACE, ONE ON THE BRIDGE OF A COAST GUARD CUTTER AND THE OTHER IN COMMAND OF A RUM RUNNER

A month had passed since the Crayton had first appeared offshore seeking a chance to land her cargo unobserved. It was an interesting and valuable cargo, but there really was no secret regarding the identity—real stuff, bottled in Scotland. Each bottle bore a label which read:

Supplied on all the Liners of the P. & O. Coy. continuously since 1874, numerous other Shipping Companies, H. M. Transports, and to many Clubs and Officers’ Messes at home and abroad.

But this cargo was not destined for either P. & O. Liners, His Majesty’s transports or Officers’ Messes—not if Captain McNulty could elude the Coast Guard ships strung along the invisible line designated the twelve mile limit.

The glass was dropping and McNulty scowled and cursed his luck as the Chinook, one of Uncle Sam’s newest cutters, steamed past. Old Wold, her skipper, was on the bridge and he knew all about the Crayton and McNulty. In addition he was familiar with all of the tricks in the book and could neither be deceived nor bought. It was his belief that a pitcher could and would come to the well once too often.

From the Crayton’s crow’s-nest came the lookout’s monotonous voice, “Chinook two points off the starboard bow, sir!”

McNulty growled a retort and glanced at Pritt who owned the cargo and ship. “The Chinook is ready to take us as usual, Mr. Pritt.”

Pritt swore with feeling. Then he swore again as the radio operator appeared with a weather report predicting a bad blow within a few hours. McNulty put to sea. This was no coast to be caught in a blow. Pritt ventured a suggestion. “The cutter is riding light and we are loaded. We can stand rougher weather than the Chinook; why not try to run in after she’s hunted shelter?”

“Not off this coast, sir,” McNulty replied. He sniffed the air, believing his sense more reliable than a weather report. “A man needs room in bad weather. If we crashed on a reef——”

“Ship and cargo are insured against perils of the sea,” Pritt interrupted.

McNulty scowled fiercely. Pritt flushed. McNulty clipped his words. “Let me remind you, sir, I am a sailor first. There are certain codes a real sailor never forgets. There’s saving human lives; and there’s sailing your ship whether she’s a great liner with hundreds of passengers or a fishing schooner. Never forget that, Mr. Pritt.”

Pritt watched the coast line slip over the horizon. Ahead everything was black and the men were making things secure. Queer people, these sailors, he reflected. He had met many of the old school. They were all the same, respecting codes time had handed down. Yes, and stubborn. Old Wold was stubborn in his determination to prevent the Crayton from landing her cargo. McNulty, though he was none too keen about the job, was determined to see it through now that he had agreed to Pritt’s proposition.

An hour later the storm was upon them. Great seas crashed over the deck; the woodwork creaked and groaned as the vessel labored. McNulty paced a spray-drenched bridge. He was dressed in oilskins and the face peering from beneath the sou’wester was ruddy and glowing with the joy of battle. The blue eyes peered into the darkness and saw many things denied the landsmen. The flesh about the eyes was lined and seamed from many years squinting, for phantom ships leap unexpectedly from the fog; phantom reefs bare their fangs on stormy nights and the sailor’s only guess must be the right guess.

With this man on the bridge a sense of security stole over Pritt. He retired to his bunk, snuggled in the warmth of the blankets and listened to the roar of the storm and the break of the seas against the riveted walls. The pulsations of the engine lulled him to sleep.

It was the change in the engine room rhythm that awakened him. Sensing the unusual, Pritt dressed hastily. The Crayton was wallowing in a troubled sea. Sounds that the engine usually stilled became audible; spray hissed; waves broke and rushed into an inky night. “What’s the trouble, Captain. Coast Guarder?”

The Coast Guard vessels were a nightmare to Pritt. The storm might have driven them within the twelve mile limit.

“Vessel in distress. See her? Dead ahead, sir!” The skipper pointed a stubby finger. Pritt could see nothing, but presently a flare outlined the masts and shrouds of a small schooner. She was barely making headway. “Full speed ahead, Mr. Hansen! We’ll speak her!”

The mate executed the order, first repeating it.

When she was alongside the battered craft McNulty’s voice boomed a “On deck there?”

“Hello!” The answer came from a figure clinging to the schooner’s wheel. The wind carried half the man’s words away. Pritt caught, “—engineer—foot—in—’chinery—crushed—aid?”

“Engineer crushed his foot in the machinery,” McNulty explained. “Needs aid!” He turned to the mate. “Mr. Hansen we’ll take him aboard.”

McNulty did not say they would attempt to take him aboard the Crayton. He said they would take him. It was evident the schooner’s small crew had prepared for this. They carried a limp figure to a contrivance of wood and canvas secured to a midships deckhouse and lashed it. With few words being passed the two crews worked in unison.

Pritt gripped the bridge rail and held his breath as one of the Crayton’s cargo booms swung over the schooner’s deck. The steel block swung dangerously, caught and tore free some light gear on the smaller craft, then came banging against the steamer’s side. With infinite patience they maneuvered the restless craft and bided their time—knowing that in the end it would come.

Deft hands finally caught the block and hooked it into a network of lines as the schooner was on the crest of a wave. The next instant she had dropped beneath the improvised stretcher and the injured man swung into space. The sea leaped up furiously, as if denied its prey, then dropped sullenly away. The Crayton’s hoists whined, then slackened away on the falls as the stretcher came clear of the side. A dozen men rushed forward to stop the swinging burden. It knocked them down and crashed against steel walls of the deck houses. Pritt could feel his own flesh wince as the injured man’s bones snapped from the impact. The falls slacked away suddenly and their burden stopped soddenly in the water surging on the deck. Brief as was the pause it was sufficient for eager hands to snatch the man from the stretcher and carry him into a cabin. Drenched and battered, the men withdrew. The captain and the steward examined the victim.

The skipper’s thick fingers explored his ribs which had taken much of the impact. “Some broken,” he announced. “Arm broken, too! He’s unconscious, but coming ’round. Now for the foot!” The swollen, pulpy mass might have been a foot at one time, but now—— Pritt shuddered. It looked as if it had been fed into a rock crusher.

The skipper scribbled a brief message:

Captain Wold,
U.S.C.G. Chinook. Have taken badly injured man from Schooner, Vivian Gill. Leg amputation necessary. Radio position.

McNulty, Crayton.

Pritt read the message and licked his lips, suddenly grown dry. “Are you taking him inside the twelve mile limit, Captain?” he inquired.

“Certainly, sir! God was with us in getting him aboard. We could never transfer him again—and be lucky.”

“We might!” Pritt’s voice was hoarse. “If we’re caught inside the twelve mile limit—— God, Captain, and you’re going right into the cove where the Chinook’s anchored. It means—ship and cargo.”

“He can’t be transferred again at sea,” McNulty answered grimly.

“Try it!”

“We can’t trifle with a dying man.”

“If the cutter would meet us he’d get attention that much sooner. Try it——”

“No!”

“I order you to do it, sir!” The words came thickly. Pritt’s face was ashen. A jury might take into consideration the circumstance and free them, but it would never return ship and cargo—it could not. “I order you to at least attempt it, sir!”

“You order?” McNulty’s eyes glittered.

“Yes!”

“You’ve forgotten the law of the sea, sir. I am the only man who gives orders on this ship. I am responsible.”

“When we touch port, sir——”

“Yes, when we do,” McNulty rasped anticipating his words. “My chest is always packed!” he added.

Presently the steward returned from the radio shack. The Chinook was lying in Salmon Cove.

Salmon Cove!

What queer tricks fate played at times. This was the point selected to land their cargo.

With the storm blowing her shoreward and the engines turning over at full speed the Crayton was breaking her best previous record. McNulty was grim as he crossed the twelve mile limit. In time the grim walls of the coast loomed ahead. Even in the darkness the line of surf stood out sharply and white. Somewhere there was a break. They felt the ground swell now—the lift and fall was different.

“Peril of the sea!” muttered Pritt. “I hope we strike. The Coast Guarder is there to rescue us. I hope we strike!”

A white finger of light suddenly pointed skyward, giving the location of the cove. The Crayton slackened speed, then McNulty growled, “Hard over!”

“Hard over, sir!”

The steamer seemed to slip into the trough of the sea then slide behind white water. The tossing ceased!

As they came slowly alongside the cutter, her rails were lined with alert seamen. The cutter’s surgeon leaped aboard and disappeared below, followed by a hospital steward.

Wold paced his own bridge, pausing frequently to take in the details of the Crayton. She rode very low in the water. “Nasty outside, Captain?” he observed.

“Very, Captain,” McNulty answered. “The man’s bad hurt, I should say. The Vivian Gill has a gas engine to keep her moving, like so many fishing schooners. He got his foot into the machinery some way. Then in getting him aboard we smashed him some more, sir!”

“It don’t seem possible you could have taken him aboard, Captain, in that blow!” What a cargo the Crayton must have to make her ride so low. Only machinery or bottled goods could make a steamer ride like that. So this was the Crayton, the rum runner, a thorn in the Coast Guard’s side? Wold looked at McNulty’s stubby hands, resting on the bridge rail. The rain was whipping the flesh into a ruddy glow. Short, thick hands—the hands of a man who had learned his ground work in sail. They were hands similar to Wold’s. Scars from rope burns; scars from fistfights. The present generation of sailors was good enough, but it was the old sailing vessels that taught men the sea and its codes. Such codes were made by time; not by men who wrote them on paper and called them laws. Men got around laws through technicalities, but seamen followed the spirit of the code.

They were bringing a stretcher from the Crayton. A blanketed figure lay silent, but the chest rose and fell—like the sea beyond the reef. Sometimes it was quick, again it was slow, doubtful, as if the blow was almost over. The blanket blew back, disclosing a white face coated with the grease of the engine room.

The surgeon looked up briefly. “He’ll live, I think, but that foot will have to come off. Yes, he’ll live. The sea breeds men.”

Two of the Crayton’s crew leaped back to the deck of their own vessel as seamen took their places at the stretcher. The grim Coast Guard skipper cleared his throat. “Cast off the Crayton’s lines for’d and aft,” he shouted. He looked sharply at McNulty. “I suppose you’ll be proceeding, sir, the storm has about blown out.”

“I’ll be proceeding, Captain Wold,” McNulty answered.

As the Crayton swung about and steamed slowly seaward a sailor who had been aboard the steamer hurried up to the skipper. He was a young man and did not understand all of the traditions of the sea and the unwritten codes between masters. “When I was aboard, sir, I could smell whisky—Scotch whisky, sir. Some of her cargo must have broken in the storm.”

Captain Wold looked the youth squarely in the eye. “Youthful imagine, lad, youthful imagination,” he said as though giving an order. “There’s a skuttle-butt rumor that she’s a rum-runner, but I sniffed and didn’t smell a damned thing.”