CHAPTER XX

THE FIGHT IN THE FOG

To be exposed to the risk of disappointment when the intrepid voyagers were two-thirds of their way across the Channel was terribly annoying. Their failure or success, seemed to depend on the fickle wind, but Harry Goodall did not lose heart, being confident in his own prowess and resources, and being buoyed up with reminiscences of his own good luck on previous occasions, especially under the circumstances attending his arrival in Wedwell Park.

Harry Goodall assured his companions, therefore, that all the time the wind was blowing from a northerly direction, they could pass on into France, even if they had to allow the fishing-lugger to slip out of their grasp, as she might do, if Croft saw the balloon advancing in pursuit of him. The great point they had to study was this, could they get sight of the French craft before the thick mist that was gathering over the coast, covered the interval of sea that was before them?

“We are now, I should guess,” said Harry Goodall, “about twelve miles from Dieppe, and we are inclining to the southward of that port. We must therefore strain every nerve to ‘spot’ the lugger.”

“Hold on, sir!” cried Trigger. “What do you make of that vessel further down to our right?”

“By Jove, Tom! Here hand me over Mr Strive’s sketch while Warner looks at her with his glass. He knows more about her than we do.”

“That’s she right enough,” exclaimed the detective, “and I can actually make out her number--365.”

“Well, then, that’s the vessel to a certainty, Warner. And, I say, just look at that steamer, miles away, coming from the north; you see that her smoke is drifting towards us, which clearly shows that the wind has changed below. Still, we are holding our own up here, and we are moving towards France.”

“Do you notice, sir,” said Trigger, “how fast the fog is bearing down on the lugger?”

“Yes, you’re right; I have been observing that, Tom, for some minutes past, and I noticed, too, that they have somewhat altered their course. Depend upon it, Croft has seen the balloon, and is trying to make for Havre, but we are moving that way too, which will favour the scheme I now intend to adopt.”

“The lugger,” said Warner, “Will be hidden by the fog in a few minutes, Mr Goodall.”

“So much the better,” replied the aeronaut, “and my mind is now fully made up what to do before the fog lifts, and if we drop quickly, but fail to grapple with her, we can re-ascend into the higher current and pass into France. I have well calculated our distance, and intend to descend on the other side of her, in fact, between her and the coast, because then the easterly breeze below will carry us towards her, exactly on the side they won’t expect to see us, and should we not be running absolutely straight on to her, we can make the necessary divergence by means of the drag and deflector. Do you follow me, Warner?”

“I think so, sir.”

“Right. Well, now, I will let out gas and make a swoop through the fog, so be ready, Tom, with the drag, and you, Warner, must stand by and be prepared to unship sand at a moment’s notice.”

A rather rapid drop was then made, Harry Goodall having calculated that he would break through the mist at about a mile, more or less, to the east of the lugger, when the breeze off the French coast would facilitate his project.

“Smothereens!” cried Warner, “but we’re in the fog now, and no mistake.”

“Silence, there,” enjoined Harry Goodall, in hushed but decisive tones. “Be ready with the sand.”

A few moments of perfect quiet ensued, then came the word of command.

“Let go your drag, Tom.”

“Out it is, sir, and has struck the water. Ah! she’s checked now.”

“Yes, that’s all right,” whispered the aeronaut, “but we want just a little more ballast overboard, or we may touch the waves. You see we have to get a proper equilibrium, Warner, between our ascensional power and the drag of our water anchor. And now,” said Harry Goodall, with bated breath, “it is a case of hit or miss. Keep perfectly still, for we must listen for their voices.”

For some time the party careered along at about a hundred feet above the waves, which had become less rough, so that the balloon was comparatively steady, though their motion could be felt as the drag rose and dipped in the water.

“We can’t see far ahead,” said Warner, in an undertone.

“No, we shall have to be guided by sound, and the less we say, Simon, the more we may hear,” replied Goodall to the detective, whose conversational powers were difficult to restrain.

For the next half hour they were in a state of suspense and uncertainty, not knowing whether they had overshot their mark, or were going too far north or south to be within measurable distance of the lugger.

Trigger busied himself with a coil of rope, which he first fastened to the hoop, and, after doing so, he divested himself of his coat and boots; he then attached the other end of the rope round his waist, which amused Mr Goodall and Warner, especially the latter, who wanted to know what he was preparing for.

“A miss would be as bad as a mile,” whispered Tom. “We might give her a close shave and yet pass by her. In that case I would go down the rope and try to hook on to the lugger where I could, being a pretty good swimmer.”

“A good idea, Tom,” said Harry Goodall; “but you forget that when we lost your weight the balloon would suddenly spring up, and we might leave you below. Still, I credit you with being ready for any kind of service in order to grapple with the lugger. The great point now,” added the aeronaut, “is to lower the lee-board in the event of being compelled to deflect one way or other, so we may as well do so at once and see how it acts. You can pay away that fore rope, my lad, as we can still draw ahead, and check her if necessary when we like.”

“They wouldn’t hear us do it, would they, sir?” asked Warner.

“Oh, no, or else we should be equally able to hear them. That board, you see, will cause us to sway to starboard or to port.”

“Hush, sir!” said the detective, in a whisper, “I fancied I heard a voice not far off.”

“Yes, you’re right, Warner--softly,” added Trigger, “I distinctly heard someone speaking.”

“And so do I,” said Harry Goodall, under his breath. “They are straight ahead, and are doubtless all unconscious of our proximity. We are gaining on them,” said Goodall, after a lapse of a few seconds. “Slack that lee-board line, Tom. Can’t you see her sails. We must bear more south, for the fog lifts a trifle, and it won’t do to be seen. And put your boots and coat on, Tom; you will not have to wet yourself after all. The great point now is whether she is the right craft or not? Heave on this line both of you--steady, Warner.”

“That gleam of sunshine will help us,” whispered Trigger.

“I heard a voice just now,” said Warner, “very much like Croft’s.”

“Hush!” muttered Harry Goodall. “Don’t you see the number on her sails faintly looming in the distance?”

“We’re getting pretty near them,” whispered Warner. “Listen to what is said.”

“I will pay you extra, skipper, if you land me at Havre.”

“That’s Croft, the Pocket Hercules, speaking, I’ll be sworn, sir,” said the detective.

“Not a word more! We’re within an ace of running into them, but they are looking the other way.”

“Are you steering for Havre, skipper?” asked a voice very like Croft’s on board the lugger.

“I comprend vat you say, monsieur,” said the skipper, “but ve must vait ontil de mist rise; ve are long vay from Dieppe, and vy you go to Havre?”

“That’s no business of your’s, skipper; you take me there!” cried Croft.

“Oui, oui, mais mon Dieu! vat is that? A round ship or de sun?”

“By jingo!” cried Croft, “that’s that cussed balloon! Look here,” exclaimed the fugitive, “I’ll give anyone on board a fiver for a loaded rifle.”

“My crew no fight or ve may get into trouble,” cried the skipper. “Pere-haps dat is a varbalon from my contree, it come dat vay from the east.”

“I know where it comes from, skipper,” cried Croft. “If I only had a gun--”

“Here you are, monsieur,” said a fierce-looking fellow, who did not look like one of the crew. “It is fully loaded. And I say,” he added in an undertone, “I am taking explosives to Paris for the glorious Anarchist cause. Will one of our little dynamite _bons-bons_ suit you?”

“Yes, brother of my heart,” said Croft, “and if you can chuck it up high enough, your fortune is made, but don’t blow yourself up in a vain attempt that will fail. After all, it would be safer to trust to ordinary firearms rather than these new-fangled concerns.”

On hearing this conversation, Trigger at once loaded the guns, handing the air-gun to Mr Goodall, who was intent on thinking out a plan to check the skipper from putting his helm up and so avoiding the balloon.

Harry Goodall’s idea was to lower their grapnel a few feet and give it a pendulum-like swing so that it should stand a better chance, by describing a larger area, of coming in contact with the spars and rigging.

“I’m afraid, sir,” said Trigger, “there will be bloodshed.”

“Well, we must avoid it if possible, Tom,” replied his master.

“Don’t kill Croft,” said the detective; “I want particularly to take him alive.”

A moment afterwards Croft and the French Anarchist were seen to raise their guns to the shoulder. A flash followed, and Warner was grazed by something on the forehead, while Tom had been hit in the leg. And the rattle on the wicker basket-work of the car indicated that they had been fired at with slugs.

“I say this is getting a little too hot, Mr Goodall,” cried Trigger. “Look, sir, at that French villain climbing up to cut away our grapnel.”

“Shall I fetch him down with my bull-dog?” asked Warner.

“I thought you wanted to take him alive?”

“That’s true, sir, but another fellow wants to cut us adrift, and I shall lose them altogether.”

But Trigger’s blood was up, and before his master could restrain him he had fired, and immediately a man was seen to slip down the rattlings.

“I’ve dusted him in the stern sheets, anyway.”

“Yes, you’ve marked him, Trigger, but I hope not seriously.”

Then an excited conversation took place between the skipper and the wounded man, but the aeronauts could not hear the actual words. But whatever they were, their effect was that the little Anarchist dropped some package overboard, and then, picking himself up, he retreated with Croft behind an improvised barricade of cases which were on the fore-deck of the lugger, while the skipper and his crew grouped themselves astern, evidently as non-belligerents.

Then Harry Goodall called on the skipper to surrender Croft, but, to the aeronaut’s surprise, the skipper made no reply. Thereupon Warner prepared for further action, while Trigger popped into Bennet’s double-barrelled breach-loader two more cartridges of No. 8 shot.

Taking his cue from Croft and the Anarchist, Goodall proceeded to hoist the lee-board over the edge of the car, so as to be even with their opponents when they renewed their attack, for it appeared as though they intended to do so, as their duck guns had been reloaded, and Croft had placed his leather bag, which was supposed to contain the squire’s property, in a snug place by his side; but his companion was writhing with pain, owing to the peppering his legs and back had received from Trigger. Possibly he was not seriously hurt, but his vows of vengeance on Tom Trigger and his companions, were truly horrible to listen to. Evidently it had not been believed that the aeronauts were able to make such a stout retaliation.

Presently the loud shriek of a fog horn was heard, as though a steamer were approaching through the mist.

Croft, as if startled at the sound, decided upon immediate action, believing probably in the badness of his own cause, and fearing the approach of those who might lend assistance to the aeronauts.

“Now or never!” he said to his fierce associate, “let them have it,” and another volley was discharged at the balloonists, but they had kept their bodies well behind the board; and as Harry Goodall could just discern a steam vessel looming through the fog, he at once ordered Trigger and Warner not to return the fire, especially as someone could be distinctly heard hailing them in English.

“Ship ahoy! What’s amiss?” asked someone. “What’s all this firing about? Is there mutiny on board?”

“Blowed if there ain’t a balloon hitched on to the lugger,” exclaimed another voice before Goodall could reply.

“If you will send a boat, I’ll explain matters,” said Goodall. “What ship are you?”

“Oh, yes, I’ll have a boat manned. Hold on. I am Link, the captain. This is the _Retriever_ from London.”

“What! my dear old friend Link, by all that’s wonderful. I’m Harry Goodall. Well, this is a bit of luck and no mistake.”

The situation now became still more exciting, for Croft, who heard what had been said, rushed out of ambush, bag in hand, and looked as if he were either going to jump overboard or throw his bag into the sea. Hereupon, Harry Goodall immediately levelled his air-gun and sent a pellet through Croft’s left arm, which was extended with a swinging motion, causing him at once to drop the bag. Then Goodall made a dash for the deck of the lugger by slipping down a rope, he scarcely knew how, being followed by Warner, while Trigger compensated for their loss of weight by discharging gas very freely. The detective at once confronted Croft, produced his warrant and slipped on the handcuffs, while Goodall held a revolver menacingly; as he did so, Captain Link and his crew, who had steamed up nearer to them, witnessed this proceeding, and a ringing cheer was given when Harry Goodall held up for their inspection the black bag which held the stolen cash, the deeds and other securities.

The _Retriever’s_ life-boat had by this time brought Captain Link alongside the lugger, and he quickly sprang on deck. The meeting there was naturally one of great cordiality.

During their hasty consultation, the balloon had risen clear of all surrounding obstacles to the full length of the grapnel rope, and was swaying over towards the steamer’s stern. But the crew gradually hauled in the rope, in accordance with Trigger’s instructions, while he opened the top valve.

“So I have just arrived in time to give you a lift into Cherbourg, my dear Goodall,” said Link, “but we must take this fellow Croft on board at once. Here, Warner, you had better take off these handcuffs; the fellow’s arms seem injured, though not fractured, I think. He can’t escape, you know. How about this other man?” added Captain Link, who did not like the look of the Anarchist, and thought that as he had been warmly peppered in the legs and back by Trigger’s dust shot, he might be left behind.

“He stay wid me,” cried the skipper. “You no punish him more.”

“I have a second warrant,” said Warner, who now had Croft in the boat.

“Oui, oui,” said the skipper, “but not for my contreeman.”

“I only wish I could meet with Croft’s master; I’ve a word or two to say to him,” said the detective.

“Eh, vat you mean--Croft’s master? Is it Maester Fallcone you mean?” asked the skipper.

“You shut up, skipper,” cried Croft, with a murderous expression of face. “You have too long a tongue.”

“Hadn’t the skipper better come along with us on board the _Retriever_ and explain matters?” said Captain Link.

“Yes, I go vit you,” observed the skipper. “I no fear dat fellow,” pointing to Croft, already in the boat, “nor his grand maitre.”

“Well, come and talk things over,” said Harry Goodall. “But how about this Anarchist? Are you hurt, my man?”

“Sacré! Mort au bourgeoisie!” was his sole reply.

“He no run avay; pere-haps I vant him soon,” said the skipper. “He is a good sailor, but a fool to do vit dy-nam-mite and bomb-shell.”

“I may have to run you into Cherbourg,” said Captain Link. “We must talk it over on board.”

“See you here, monsieur capitaine,” replied the skipper, as Croft was put below hatches on board the _Retriever_, “you vant to meet the little man’s maister, don’t you? Den de first ting is to let me and the luggare go.”

“I don’t quite see that,” said Harry Goodall.

“Come on board, skipper, and have a glass of Burgundy,” urged Captain Link, diplomatically.

“Oh, certamong monsieur capitaine, aprèz vous. I vant to go avay in my luggare, and you vant, I tink, Maître Fallcone to com to you; vary vell. Vat is so, is it not?”

Warner, who had locked up his prisoner safely, then joined the party in the cabin, where the skipper was gesticulating over his wine and slapping his forehead, as if he had conceived a bright idea.

Warner’s quick brain at once realised the situation, and, taking up a slate and pencil near him, he wrote down these words, handing them to Mr Goodall and the captain,--

“Cut short the palaver by making him a liberal offer in cash.”

Captain Link, however, did not wholly approve of this short off-hand way of proceeding, and said to the Frenchman,--

“If we take you into Cherbourg, skipper, we could--”

But Goodall cut in with,--

“We could there come to terms about arranging an interview with Mr Falcon, but, since time is pressing, can’t you see your way clear to agree at once, skipper, to accept one hundred pounds--ten on account to-day--in consideration of fulfilling our wishes?”

“Oui, oui; I do dat dis moment for I know where Fallcone is located, and can do--vat you call it?”

“Lead him,” suggested Goodall.

“Ah, grand, monsieur. Lead him or pilot him to exchange complements wid you--say if you tink it vel--about tree mile from Cherbourg Harbour.”

“In your lugger, skipper?”

“No, no, in quite annudder sheep.”

“That will do capitally, skipper,” said Captain Link, “but you must let us know the day and the hour as near as possible.”

“I do all dat, nevare fear. I vire you or write by poste. Au revoir,” said the Frenchman, as he pocketed the ten pounds.

“Your name, I think, skipper, is Captain Ami?”

“Oui; Poste Restant, Dieppe.”

“All right,” said Harry Goodall. “Well, remember the ninety pounds shall be forthcoming on your carrying out our bargain.”

“Vill dis veek suit you?”

“Certainly; the sooner the better. You had better address to Captain Link, the _Retriever_, Cherbourg Harbour. Adieu!”