Little Lost Lambs Read online

  ~LITTLE LOST LAMBS~

  Uncollected Stories of Harold Lamb

  All-Story

  Somewhere in the Pacific - April 28, 1917

  Expert Proficiency - June 23, 1917

  Takings and Leavings - May 3, 1919

  Ships and Sharks - Dec. 20, 1919

  People's Favorite Magazine

  Call of the Caribbean - Feb. 10, 1919

  Adventure

  McCarnie's second bet - Jan. 18, 1920

  Saladin’s Holy War - Dec. 1, 1930

  Richard the Lion Heart - Jan. 1, 1931

  Beauséant Goes Forward - Feb. 15, 1931

  The Panther - March 15, 1931

  Argosy

  The Red String - Jan. 11, 1919

  Yellow Elephants - March 8, 1919

  The Sunwise Turn - Sept. 6, 1919

  The Eyes of Ya Long - June 5, 1920

  Short Stories

  Two Thousand Years - March 1921

  The Jumping-Off Place - April 16, 1921

  The Make-Weight - Sept. 25, 1921

  The Voice in the Drum - Jan. 25, 1923

  The Camp of the Snake - July 10, 1924

  Colliers

  Bolshaya, Room Three - Machr 20, 1943

  Esquire

  Strong Point Sixty-Eight - Oct. 1943

  Blue Book

  The Three Good Witnesses - Jan. 1945

  Contents

  Somewhere in the Pacific

  Expert Proficiency

  The Red String

  Yellow Elephants

  Call of the Caribbean

  Takings and Leavings

  The Sunwise Turn

  Ships and Sharks

  McCarnie's Second Bet

  The Eyes of Ya Long

  Two Thousand Years

  The Jumping-Off Place

  The Make-Weight

  The Voice in the Drum

  The Camp of the Snake

  Saladin's Holy War

  Richard the Lion Heart

  Beauséant Goes Forth

  The Panther

  Bolshaya, Room Three

  Strong Point Sixty-Eight

  The Three Good Witnesses

  Chapter I

  Whither Bound?

  It all began when we first sighted the Dunstan.

  She was a big passenger ship of the Blue Belt line, and the first ship of the kind we had seen at the jumping-off place. All hands lined the rail of the gunboat and watched the Dunstan until she faded to a tail of smoke on the horizon. We thought it was curious that we didn't see any passengers on her decks, but it was none of our business. Later, we found out why it was.

  Now about what happened there in the jumping-off place——.

  You can't find an account of it in the reports of three navies, and the Blue Belt skippers aren't volunteering information, The papers never printed a line about it. So I guess if anybody's going to get busy and tell what really happened, it might as well be me.

  Anyway, I want to see Kempton, who is just out of Annapolis, get the credit that's coming to him. Kempton is one of those stiff, uniformed ducks with a mind as exact as the crease in his pants; but he stuck by me in a tight place, and I'm grateful.

  It was patriotism that first got me going. Yes, I had a bad case of the "boys-in-khaki" feeling when General Pershing started on a hike over the border. Things were stirring around pretty lively then, and I wanted to be in the show and sing "Good by girls, we're going to Mexico," too.

  I enlisted in the navy and admitted that I knew a few things about a wireless. I had visions of being the trusted wireless operator on the flagship of the battle fleet and chumming up with the admiral himself; but they don't do things that way in the navy—only in the movies.

  At the Charleston Navy Yard they assigned me to a ship which proved to be a gunboat, rather old, and named the Badger. At that, the Badger was a leftover from Spain at the end of the Spanish-American war, and in the derelict destroying service.

  When we left Charleston, President Wilson had just called out the militia, and things looked promising for the big scrap. I polished up the wireless apparatus and experimented with the spark, trying to get more kick out of it.

  My job was pretty soft, because we never picked up anything in the way of a message for the Badger and my range was too limited to do much listening in. The apparatus was in my cabin, and I had a bed shoved in a box which they called a bunk. I thought it was a pretty good bed—no bunk about it at all. The other fellows slept in the cellar in hammocks.

  It was a couple of days later that they broke the news to me. I was on deck, chinning with a gunner's mate, Terence Borden, who used to come to my cabin and kid me along—me being a landlubber.

  "Terry," said I, "do you think we'll bombard Vera Cruz or just blockade it?"

  Terence stopped chewing his plug-cut long enough to look at me out of the corners of his blue eyes.

  "Nayther," he said, "it's a long ways from Very Cruz we're going. Phwat put th' idee av fightin' into yer head?"

  "That's the idea that made me enlist," I said. "There's a war, isn't there?"

  "Sure," Terry smiled on me widely, "there ain't any war, lad. There's complications, but no fightin' for th' likes av us. It's through th' canal we be goin'."

  No war? It took me a minute to realize that he meant it. But Borden always had good dope as to what our orders were. I asked him where we were going after we got through the canal,

  "We're bound," he informed me, "four thousand miles from here, an' a thousand from annywhere else. 'Tis the ind av th' world, an' no mistake. A spot it is that God loves less than anny av th' sivin seas, to my mind. You'll hear it called th' jumpin'-off place by the men that's been there, and whin they have they turn their backs on it with thanksgivin's and praise.

  "There's the island inhabited wance by Mr. Robinson Crusoe in th' midst av it, an' stiddy winds from th' nor'west day in an' day out. Th' coast is mostly rocks, with grand mountains for scenery, an' nothin' much else. There's wan town in th' strait, Puntas Arenas.'

  Puntas Arenas! That was in Magellan Strait, at the southern tip of South America. I felt pretty sad as I understood this, when I had enlisted to fight Mexicans.

  "What are they sending us to a place like that for?"

  "'Tis along av th' merchant skippers," explained Terence, "who, Lord help thim, ought to go to sea with a nursin' bottle. Two av thim have sighted derelicts of the Evangelistas, an' asked a warship to rid th' sea av th' scourge. We are th' war-ship."

  "How long do you figure we'll be there?"

  "There's no tellin', Dick. Maybe a week, maybe a year. We must search th' waters with th' care av a jutiful patrol ship like we are. Th' currents drift derelicts about till it's harrd to find thim. Wance before I was there for six months, an' there's a matter av a difference av opinion I left unsettled in Puntas."

  At the time this last bit of information didn't interest me. Later I had cause to remember it. All in all, Borden's size-up of the situation agreed with that of the other men I interviewed. They were not eager to visit that part of the Pacific for some reason—those who had been there. They didn't explain it, just swore a bit and shrugged their shoulders.

  "I get you," I told Terence, "we're bound for 'somewhere in the Pacific.'"

  Chapter II

  What Happened to the Dunstan?

  Two days after we passed the Dunstan we arrived at Puntas Arenas. The Badger needed coal, and Captain Godfrey wanted to pick up information that might be circulating in that port, concerning derelicts. We had not been able to sight any up to now.

  You know Puntas Arenas, don't you? A little, corrugated iron town snuggled in the foot of the usual mountains, half-way through the strait. There are no customs dues, and this makes it a clearing
house for smuggling on a large scale. The town itself is a sort of hang-out for the political driftwood of South America. I saw a specimen of the smugglers when we went to shore.

  Our stay in the place was to be brief, and only a boatload of the first-class men were allowed ashore. Borden was in the cutter, and when we cleared the gunboat he pointed out a sloppy-looking schooner that was coming lazily up the bay. A broad, squat man of powerful build was at the wheel. On the stern of the craft the name Bella Clara was painted.

  "D'ye see that fellow," whispered Terry, "at th' wheel? Well, that's Tom Roth—a good man to steer clear av. He bears a bad name along th' coast here, an' not without cause. There's many a wreck near here that Tom Roth's seen th' inside av, an' taken away more than he took in. Bechune you an' me, it's well to keep your mouth shut in Puntas an' your eyes open. Along th' water front you'll find deserters from most av th' navies av South America—some av thim are on th' Belly Clary."

  Then we reached a wharf Borden steered me toward one of the saloons, a one-story, sheet-iron joint with a bar of pine boards. We hoisted aboard our first drink in a month and sat down at one of the tables with our next. There were half a dozen other men in the place, of all nationalities. Terry cast his eye over them curiously.

  "Have anny av you men sighted a derelict on th' west coast? It's thim that we're after in these waters, though the job is little to our likin'."

  "There was one of the hulks reported off the Evangelistas abut a week ago," answered the bar-keep, an Englishman.

  "Was it schooner or shteamer?" asked Terry.

  "No telling" the Englishman answered shortly. "You ought to run athwart it without any trouble, if you keep your eye peeled."

  Thanks," returned Terry, finishing off his glass, "that's good news. It wad be a pity, now, if th' fine shteamer we sighted awhile ago should pile up on a hulk like that."

  "What ship was that?"

  "The Dunstan, av th' Blue Belt line—though it's th' first av th' like we've iver sighted in these waters."

  Several of the men in the place looked up at this, and one of them addressed Terry gruffly. "

  "The Blue Belt line runs west from Australia—not east. There ain't never been one of them ships around here—not within a few thousand miles. You can't tell me you saw the Dunstan near here."

  "Sure, the Dunstan it wuz, fifty miles out from th' strait, shteamin' along swately, about fifteen knots. I made out th' name av th' ship, plain as I see you now. It's yourself that's blind, considerin' that th' ship has touched at Puntas two days ago."

  "It 'asn't been 'ere," broke in the Englishman, from the bar.

  Several others spoke up in agreement, and Terry was puzzled. We couldn't figure out how the ship could have missed the port coming through the strait. You see they don't navigate at night in Magellan Strait, on account of the tide rips and williwaws, especially craft that don't know the passage well. It wasn't possible that the Dunstan had gone by in the night. It was plain that our news stirred up quite a little interest among the men at the bar. They got to talking among themselves pretty earnest.

  By and by Borden said he'd take a turn through the town and look it over, and come back for me when he was through. He went out, but he hadn't been gone ten minutes when a big chap in a linen suit and Panama hat breezed in. Some of the other men in the place greeted him politely but he didn't pay much attention to them. After glancing about the tables he sat down opposite me, although there were two or three tables vacant.

  He had good manners all right—asked me what I'd have, and said the town was happy to have American visitors again. He said it was months since an American warship had touched there, and there wasn't much for our consular agent, Mr. Braun, to do, so he had gone on a visit to Buenos Aires.

  My companion introduced himself as Joseph Moritz, and from his manner I guessed that he was quite a somebody in the place. He finally got around to quizzing me about the Dunstan. I told him all I knew, and asked if it was straight that the ship never reached Puntas. He said it was.

  Moritz and I were on good terms by the time our second drink was gone and I asked him if he knew of any derelicts along the west coast. He seemed kind of surprised and said he hadn't heard of any. I explained that the Badger was sent here to sink a derelict, and that one had been reported as being off the Evangelistas.

  "I don't think there's any truth in that report, Mr. Henderson," said Moritz—he was Spanish or Portuguese, but spoke excellent English—"because I own several schooners around here and no derelict has been reported for the last year. If there was one where you say I would be certain to know it. My schooners pass the Evangelistas two or three times a week."

  The Evangelistas? They are three big rocks with some smaller ones, lying just out of the entrance to the strait, a little north, and with a light on one. You have to watch out for them when you are making the entrance in a fog.

  "What kind of a ship is this derelict?" went on Moritz. "Do you know if it's a dismasted schooner, or a bark?"

  "You've got me there," I admitted. "Our information doesn't go as far as that; but well find out for ourselves within two or three days."

  "Then you are going to leave Puntas to-morrow?"

  I told him we were, as soon as we had coaled, and we dropped the subject. Then he gave me a bit of news. An English cruiser had come into the bay, and was anchored near us. Moritz looked at me pretty keenly when he said it, as if he expected the news would stir me up some. It didn't though, and after a few more pleasantries he got up and left. He was as polite as they make 'em, but he acted as if he was cross examining me to find out what I was and what I wanted in the town.

  When Borden didn't show up at the time he said he would, I hiked out and wandered around looking for him. It was growing dark then, and I expected to hear our bosun's whistle any minute. So I worked along the streets by the wharves, to where our boats were waiting.

  I didn't see Terry, but I did see Señor Moritz again. He was standing with his back to me in front of one of the harbor saloons. With him was a young looking officer from the English cruiser. I could just make out his cap and blue coat in the gloom.

  I hung back, not wishing to be lugged into any more conversation by Moritz in front of the officer, where I might have to stay at attention and miss the boat. While I was looking around for a way to get by them without being spotted I heard what Moritz was saying. As soon as I caught the drift of it, I hung back and listened.

  "The man I saw," the Portuguese was saying, "was not a seaman, He was in uniform, and claimed to be from the gunboat. But he talked like a landsman. He said the gunboat was searching for a derelict at the west entrance. What do you make of it?"

  "There's something queer about it all, Moritz," replied the officer. "I never saw a United States gunboat with a build like that. Look at that sloping funnel and curved bow. The deck is flush. Another thing, the beggars have finished coaling, and the dock hands say they are going to take up anchor early in the morning. Does Braun know them?"

  "Braun is away at Buenos," returned Moritz, "he can tell us nothing. It looks suspicious, their clearing out as soon as you come in. What are you going to do about it?"

  "Watch the gunboat as closely as we can. We have been calling the Dunstan by wireless for two days, without an answer. Captain Pemberton is awfully cut up over it. You know the liner was to meet us at Puntas. We received a wireless from her when she was about a hundred miles out of the strait. After that the Dunstan seems to have been wiped out, wireless and all. Even if there had been a fire in the hold she could have let us know. The thing seems incredible."

  There was a pause while they seemed to be turning it over in their minds. The news hit me all of a sudden. The liner's non-appearance at Puntas was strange, but now the officer from the cruiser declared that she had dropped out of sight, as it were, in the middle of the strait. No wonder they were curious about us, because the gunboat had been near the spot where the liner was last heard from.

  They wer
e talking in lower voices now, and I thought I caught the word Tasmania once or twice. Then Moritz raised his voice until I could hear what he said.

  "We can get that Johnnie in the saloon doped. I'll take him on one of my schooners and find out what he knows."

  The officer said something about the American uniform. Moritz laughed.

  "What can he prove?" he said. "He sits in there swilling booze and finds himself stowed away in a nice quiet place. Do you think he's going to ask an investigation? Well, he won't,"

  It was about time for me to be leaving. I was looking around for a way to the docks when, sure enough, our bosun's whistle cut through the dark. That settled it. I wasn't going to run the chance of being left on shore all night. It was pretty dark, by then, and I stepped around the corner, past them, at a lively gait.

  Moritz peered at me as I went by.

  "Here you," he called, "wait a minute."

  Instead of waiting, I slipped to one side in the shadows of an alley, dodged around a couple of corners and came out on the street leading to the wharf where our cutter was waiting. If the Portuguese chap followed me he lost his way. Anyway, I got clear of him. And I met up with Borden, who was trotting along double time, headed for the cutter.