a few words, Harry Markel was informed. A squad of police had been blocking the street when the boatswain and the cook arrived at its entrance, making it impossible to reach the quay that way. They had to retrace their steps to the little street already occupied by other constables and flee towards the far end of the neighborhood. From there, the delay had risked compromising everything.
“Get in!” Harry Markel simply said.
In an instant, he, John Carpenter, and Ranyah3 had taken their seats in the rowboat. Four were seated in the front, their oars ready. The lines were cast off just as quickly. The boatswain held the tiller, with Harry Markel and the others next to him.
The tide continued to drop. With the ebb tide lasting half an hour more, the rowboat would have time to reach Farmar Cove, no more than two miles away. The fugitives would see the Alert at its anchorage, and it would not be impossible to take the ship by surprise before it was able to assume a defensive position.
John Carpenter knew the bay. Even in the middle of this deep darkness, by going south-southeast, he was sure to reach the cove. They would certainly see the mandatory lantern that all ships must hoist at their bows whenever they have dropped anchor.
As the boat advanced, the last city lights disappeared in the mist. There wasn’t the slightest breeze, nor a single wave on the bay’s surface. The most complete stillness reigned everywhere.
Twenty minutes after leaving the landing, the rowboat stopped.
John Carpenter, in a half-crouch, said:
“A ship’s lantern … There …”
A white light was shining at about fifteen feet over the water, at a distance of a hundred toises.4
The rowboat, coming closer by half that distance, stopped again.
No doubt that this ship was the Alert, since, according to the maritime newspaper, no other was anchored at Farmar Cove at this time. It was, then, a matter of drawing alongside it without alerting anyone. It was probable that the crew was below deck during this misty weather. But, at the very least, a man would be posted on guard on the bridge. It was necessary to avoid drawing his attention. Therefore, with oars raised, the current should suffice to bring the rowboat to the side of the Alert.
Indeed, in less than a minute, Harry Markel and his companions would be approaching the starboard side of the ship. Neither seen nor heard, for them it would not be difficult to climb up over the rails and get rid of the sailor on watch before he was able to give an alert.
The ship had just swung on its anchor. The first wave was felt without bringing any wind with it. Under these conditions, the Alert presented its bow toward the opening of the bay, its stern turned toward the back of Farmar Cove which closed at a headland on the southeast. It would be necessary to come around this headland in order to gain the open sea and to set into its course through Saint George’s Channel.
So, at this moment, in the middle of a deep darkness, the rowboat was getting ready to draw along the ship’s starboard side. By itself, above the forecastle, shone the lantern suspended on the forestay, whose light was sometimes eclipsed when the mist fell more heavily.
No noise was heard, and the approach of Harry Markel and his companions had not drawn the attention of the sailor on watch.
Nevertheless, they thought their presence was going to be detected. Probably, a slight lapping reached the ears of the sailor whose steps they heard along the railing. The outline of his silhouette emerged for a moment on the poop deck; then, leaning over the guardrail, he turned his head from right to left, like a man trying to see …
Harry Markel and the others lay down on the benches of the rowboat. Surely, even if the sailor could not see them, he might notice the rowboat, and would then call his mates to the bridge to tie up a boat adrift. They would try to grab it as it went by, and it would no longer be possible to take the ship by surprise.
Well, even in that case, Harry Markel would not abandon his plan. To seize the Alert was for him and his companions a question of life or death. Therefore they would not consider turning away.
They would dash onto the bridge, they would fight with their knives, and since it would be they who would strike the first blows, they would probably have all the advantage.
Besides, the circumstances were going to favor them. After having stopped for a few minutes on the poop deck, the sailor went back to his post in the bow.
They did not hear him call out. He had not even seen the rowboat that was gliding in the darkness.
One minute later, the rowboat drew up to the side of the ship and stopped by the beam of the mainmast, where climbing up on deck would be easy by using the chain-wales.
For the rest, the Alert’s deck was only six feet above its waterline, which barely passed the copper sheathing of its hull. With two leaps, climbing with hands and feet, Harry Markel and his men would soon find themselves on the bridge.
As soon as the rowboat was tied, so that the waves could not push it back into the bay, the knives were strapped on their waists—knives that the fugitives had been able to steal after their escape. Corty was the first to clear the handrail. His mates followed him with such skill and caution that the guard neither heard nor saw them.
Creeping along the gangway, they sneaked up to the forecastle. The sailor was sitting there, leaning against the capstan, almost asleep already.
It was John Carpenter, the first to close with him, who plunged his knife into the middle of his chest.
The poor devil did not make a sound. His heart pierced, he fell onto the bridge, where, after a few convulsions, he exhaled his last breath.
As for Harry Markel and the other two, Corty and Ranyah Cogh, they had reached the poop deck, and Corty said in a low voice:
“Let’s find the captain.”
Captain Paxton’s cabin occupied the portside angle on the deck. There was access to it through a door that opened onto the corner of the wardroom.
A window facing the bridge provided light, and, through that window, outfitted with a curtain, light from a lamp suspended by double rings filtered through.
At that hour, Captain Paxton was not yet in bed. He was organizing the navigation charts in preparation for departure as soon as the morning tide came in, after the passengers’ arrival.
Abruptly, the door to his cabin opened, and, before he could react, he was under Harry Markel’s knife, shouting:
“Help! Help!”
As soon as his cries reached the crew’s posts, five or six sailors burst out of the hatch. Corty and the others were waiting for them at the entrance and, as they came out, they were struck down, without being able to defend themselves.
In a few moments, six sailors were lying on the bridge, mortally wounded, some of them screaming with fear and pain. But these cries, who would have heard them, and how would help have arrived inside this cove where the Alert was alone in anchorage, in the midst of this deep darkness of night?
Six men and the captain were not the whole crew. Three or four had to be below decks, not daring to come out.
But
