Tom Slade on a Transport Part 5

HE MAKES A DISCOVERY AND RECEIVES A SHOCK

Soon after dusk the soldiers were ordered to throw away their "smokes"

and either go below or lie flat upon the decks. Officers patrolled the rail while others strolled among the boys and reminded the unruly and forgetful not to raise themselves, and soon the big s.h.i.+p, with its crowding khaki-clad cargo, was moving down the stream--on its way to "can the Kaiser." Then even the patrol was discontinued.

A crowded ferryboat paused in its pa.s.sage to give the great gray transport the right of way, and the throng of commuters upon its deck saw nothing as they looked up but one or two white-jacketed figures moving about.

Tom thought the s.h.i.+p was off, but after fifteen or twenty minutes the throb of the engines ceased and he heard the clank, clank of the anchor winches. A little distant from the s.h.i.+p tiny green, red and white lights appeared and disappeared and were answered by other colored lights from high up in the rigging of the _Montauk_. Other lights appeared in other directions and were answered by still others, changing rapidly. Tom thought that he could distinguish a dark outline below certain of these lights. The whole business seemed weird and mysterious.

In the morning he looked from the rail at a sight which astonished and thrilled him. No sign of land was there to be seen. Steaming abreast of the _Montauk_ and perhaps a couple of hundred yards from her, was a great s.h.i.+p with soldiers crowding at her rail waving caps and shouting, their voices singularly crisp and clear across the waters. Beyond her and still abreast was another great s.h.i.+p, the surging army upon her decks reduced to a brown ma.s.s in the distance. And far off on either side of this flotilla of three, and before it and behind it, was a sprightly little destroyer, moving this way and that, like a dog jumping about his master.

Upon the nearest vessel a naval signaler was semaphoring to the _Montauk_--his movements jerky, clean-cut, perfect. Enviously Tom watched him, thinking of his own semaph.o.r.e work at Temple Camp. He read the message easily; it was something about how many knots the s.h.i.+p could make in a steady run of six hundred miles. The _Montauk_ answered that she could make twenty-eight knots and keep it up for nineteen hours. The other signaler seemed to be relaying this to the transport beyond, which in turn signaled the destroyer on that side. Then there was signaling between the _Montauk_ and her own neighbor destroyer about sailing formation in the danger zone.

It was almost like A B C to Tom, but he remembered Mr. Conne's good advice and resolved not to concern himself with matters outside his own little sphere of duty. But a few days later he made a discovery which turned his thoughts again to Adolf Schmitt's cellar and to spies.

He had piled the captain's breakfast dishes, made his weather memoranda from the barometer for posting in the main saloon, and was dusting the captain's table, when he chanced to notice the framed picture of a s.h.i.+p on the cabin wall. He had seen it before, but now he noticed the tiny name, scarcely decipherable, upon its bow, _Christopher Colon_.

So that was the s.h.i.+p on which somebody or other known to the fugitive, Adolf Schmitt, had thought of sailing in order to carry certain information to Germany. As Tom gazed curiously at this picture he thought of a certain phrase in that strange letter, _"Sure, I could tend to the other matter too--it's the same idea as a periscope."_

Yet Mr. Conne's sensible advice would probably have prevailed and Tom would have put these sinister things out of his thoughts, but meeting one of the steward's boys upon the deck shortly afterward he said, "There's a picture of a s.h.i.+p, the _Christopher Colon_----"

"That's this s.h.i.+p," interrupted the steward's boy. "They don't say much about those things. It's hard to find out anything. n.o.body except these navy guys know about how many s.h.i.+ps are taken over for transports. But I saw a couple of spoons in the dining saloon with that name on them. And sometimes you can make it out under the fresh paint on the life preservers and things. Uncle Sam's some foxy old guy."

Tom was so surprised that he stood stark still and stared as the boy hurried along about his duties. Upon the _Montauk's_ nearest neighbor the naval signalman was semaphoring, and he watched abstractedly. It was something about camouflage maneuvering in the zone. Tom took a certain pride in being able to read it. Far off, beyond the other great s.h.i.+ps, a sprightly little destroyer cut a zigzag course, as if practicing. The sky was clear and blue. As Tom watched, a young fellow in a sailor's suit hurried by, working his way among the throng of soldiers.

Presently, Frenchy strolled past talking volubly to another soldier, and waving his cigarette gracefully in accompaniment. A naval quartermaster leaned against the rail, chatting with a red-faced man with spectacles--the chief engineer, Tom thought.

Who were Secret Service men and who were not? thought Tom. Who was a spy and who was not? Perhaps some one who brushed past him carried in his pockets (or more likely in the soles of his shoes) the designs of the Liberty Motor. Perhaps some one had the same thought about _him_. What a dreadful thing to be suspected of! A spy!

That puzzling phrase came into his mind again: _Sure, I could tend to the other matter too--it's the same idea as a periscope._ What did that mean? So the _Montauk_ was the _Christopher Colon_....

He was roused out of his abstraction by the fervid, jerky voice of Frenchy, talking about Alsace. Alsace was a part of Germany, whatever Frenchy might say.... Again Tom bethought him of Mr. Conne's very wise advice, and he went to the main saloon and posted the weather prediction.

That same day something happened which shocked him and gave him an unpleasant feeling of loneliness. Mr. Wessel, the steward, died suddenly of heart failure. He was Tom's immediate superior and in a way his friend. He, and he alone, had received Tom's recommendation from Mr.

Conne, and knew something of him. He had given Tom that enviable place as captain's boy, and throughout these few days had treated him with a kind of pleasant familiarity.

He stood by as the army chaplain read the simple burial service, while four soldiers held the rough, weighted casket upon the rail; and he saw it go down with a splash and disappear in the mysterious, fathomless ocean. It affected him more than the loss of a life by torpedoing or drowning could have done and left him solemn and thoughtful and with a deep sense of loss.

Just before dark they semaph.o.r.ed over from the _Dorrilton_ that they could spare the second steward for duty on the _Montauk_. Tom mentioned this to one of the deck stewards, and to his surprise and consternation, an officer came to him a little later and asked him how he knew it.

"I can read semaphoring," said Tom. "I used to be in the Boy Scouts."

The officer looked at him sharply and said, "Well, you'd better learn to keep your mouth shut. This is no place for amateurs and Boy Scouts to practice their games."

"Y-yes, sir," said Tom, greatly frightened.

The next morning, when the sea was quieter, they rowed his new boss over in a small boat.

CHAPTER VI

HE HEARS ABOUT ALSACE AND RECEIVES A PRESENT

That was a good lesson for Tom and a practical demonstration of the wisdom of Mr. Conne's advice. Not that he had exactly gone outside his duties to indulge his appet.i.te for adventure, but he had had a good scare which reminded him what a suspicious and particular old gentleman Uncle Sam is in wartime.

The officer, who had thus frightened him and, in Tom's opinion, cast a slur upon the Scouts, made matters worse by scrutinizing him (or so he fancied) whenever they met upon the deck. But that was all there was to it, and the captain's mess boy did his allotted tasks each day, and stood for no end of jollying from the soldiers, who called him "Whitey"

and "Eats," because he carried the captain's tray back and forth.

This banter he shared with Frenchy, who took it as good-humoredly as Tom himself, when he understood it, and when he didn't Tom explained it to him.

"Ziss--how you call--_can_ ze Kaiser?" he would inquire politely.

"That means putting him in a tin can," said Tom.

"Ze tin can? Ze--how you call--wipe ze floor wiz him?"

"They both mean the same thing," said Tom. "They mean beating him--good and thorough--kind of."

Frenchy did not seem to understand but he would wave his hands and say with great vehemence, "Ah, ze Kaiser, he must be defeat! Ze wretch!"

Frenchy's name was Armande Lateur. He was an American by adoption and though he had spent much time among the people of his own nationality in Canada, he was strong for Uncle Sam with a pleasant, lingering fondness for the region of the "blue Alsatian mountains," whence he had come.

It was from Frenchy that Tom learned much which (if he had only known it) was to serve him well in the perilous days to come.

The day before they entered the danger zone the two, secure for a little while from the mirthful artillery fire of the soldiers, had a little chat which Tom was destined long to remember.

They were sitting at dusk in the doorway of the unoccupied guardhouse which ordinarily was the second cabin smoking-room.

"Alsace-Lorraine is part of Germany," said Tom, his heavy manner of talking contrasting strangely with Frenchy's excitability. "So you were a German citizen before you got to be an American; and your people over there must be German citizens."

"Zey are Zherman _slaves_--yess! Citizens--no! See! When still I am a leetle boy, I must learn ze Zherman. I must go to ze Zherman school. My pappa have to pay fine when hees cheeldren speak ze French. My little seester when she sing ze Ma.r.s.ellaise--she must go t'ree days to ze Zherman zhail!"

"You mean to prison?" Tom asked. "Just for singing the Ma.r.s.ellaise! Why, the hand-organs play that where I live!"

"Ah, yess--Americ'! In Alsace, even before ze war--you sing ze Ma.r.s.ellaise, t'ree days you go to ze zhail. You haf' a book printed in ze French--feefty marks you must pay!" He waived his cigarette, as if it might have been a deadly sword, and hurled it over the rail.

"After Germany took Alsace-Lorraine away from France," said Tom, unmoved, "and began treating the French people that way, I should think lots of 'em would have moved to France."

"Many--yess; but some, no. My pappa had a veenyard. Many years ziss veenyard is owned by my people--my anceestors. Even ze village is name for my family--Lateur. You know ze Franco-Prussian War--when Zhermany take Alsace-Lorraine--yess?"

"Yes," said Tom.

"My pappa fight for France. Hees arm he lose. When it is over and Alsace is lost, he haf' lost more than hees arm. Hees spirit! Where can he go?

Away from ze veenyard? Here he ha.s.s lived--always."

"I understand," said Tom.