Heritage of the sea
Date: 2025-06-10T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Short stories; Sea stories; Ship captains -- Fiction; Alcohol trafficking -- Fiction; Long Island Sound (N.Y. and Conn.) -- Fiction

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Title: Heritage of the sea

Author: W. R. Bethel

Illustrator: Robert A. Graef

Release date: June 10, 2025 [eBook #76263]

Language: English

Original publication: New York, NY: The Frank A. Munsey Company, 1929

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/76263

Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HERITAGE OF THE SEA ***

Heritage of the Sea

By CAPT. W. R. BETHEL

Fog blinded the captains of the
vessels on Long Island Sound—blinded
them to everything but honor.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Argosy All-Story Weekly March 2 1929.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

In the exact center of the bridge of the lightless vessel, the lanky captain leaned far out over the dripping weather apron and listened tensely into the murky darkness of Long Island Sound. Astern and to the starboard, the Montauk bell buoy tolled faintly as it was left behind. Far off to the right the distant clanging of other buoys came from the Connecticut shore.

"Gr-r-r-r-r-unh!" a bass whistle grunted up ahead. That would be the Fall River boat.

"Gr-r-r-r-unh!" again she grunted, dead ahead.

The captain whirled his head and spoke in a hoarse whisper to the man at the wheel.

"Port a bit, Sims!"

"Aye, sir!"

The slowly moving rum-runner veered slightly as she answered the suppressed rattle of the steering engine in the bowels of the ship.

The harsh chuffing of the Fall River boat began to cough closer, and in a moment her fog-veiled lights hove into view to the starboard.

"Gr-r-r-r-r-unh!" her fog horn blared as she churned eastward at half speed toward the open Atlantic. From along the black side of the rum-runner came the slosh and sucking of the wave the big steamer had raised, and the smaller vessel rose and fell softly upon it for an instant as it crept along.

"Hoo-o-o-o-ooh!" That would be the Boston turbine.

"Starboard a hair, Sims!"

"Starboard, sir!"

"Hoo-o-o-o-ooh!"

A dripping gray shape with phosphorescent rows of dim lights along her decks forged by, high over the port rail.

"Wh-a-a-a-h!" a seagoing tug spoke astern, and in a moment she wallowed by out of sight on the port side.

Here and there all over the Sound, vessels were blaring and tooting their warnings and giving their answers as they forged up and down the channel and crossed between Connecticut and the Long Island shore.

The rum-runner's captain craned farther out and strained his ears as he exactly placed the nearest of them. The dank fog was congealing on his oilskins and dripping from his face. He straightened up and groped for the speaking tube. Thrusting it to his lips he growled a terse order to the man deep below in the engine room.

"Give me half speed, chief, until I change it!"

He clanked the tube back on its hook and as he craned out again the ship began to vibrate gently to the increased throttle.

A man who had been standing silently in the starboard wing clutched the bridge rail and groped over beside the captain.

"You no thinka you go too fast now, cap, hey?"

His hand tugged at the captain's oilskin sleeve as he voiced the question.

The captain whirled his head and peered back over his shoulder at the unseen speaker.

"What the hell's biting you now, Joe?" he growled.

The questioner prefaced his words with a chuckle, but there was panic and hysteria in it.

"I no lika this fog too moch. Too moch traffic in dam Sound thisa night. You no thinka we run too fast, cap?"

The captain shoved himself erect.

"Feet gettin' cold, huh? Well, this is just our sort of weather, Joe. We'll slide to Oldfield Point under cover of the fog, slip the stuff to your men at the landing, and then we'll turn tail and hop out again. The chasers 'll be wondering whatinell happened this time. This is our eighth trip in together. I'm another thousand to the good and you're another hundred thousand. I never see you get scared before. What are you kicking about?"

"I no feela right, cap! I have hoonch this time not so good! Listen, cap, you no think we better back up and get back out for less foggy time?"

Up ahead two big fog horns blared. A long, lean tanker loomed out of the murk and grazed by.

"Aw, damn it, Joe, shut up! Get to hell away from me! How can I con this ship with your bazoo going? Scat! Get over where you was and make a noise like a mouse!"

"Leesten, cap!" Hysteria was making the Italian's voice tremble reedily. "You better swing round and put back out! I got two hunderd t'ousand dollars' wort' on board here. I lose that an' my guarantee on thisa vessel, see?"

"Aw! Go back where you was, I told ye!"

He gave the scared Italian a shove away from him.

Joe Parento shuffled back along the rail and whined his woes to himself as he peered, listening desperately, into murk from the starboard wing. The fog had constantly thickened, and he dodged back as a huge black tramp wallowed by so close he could almost have reached out and touched it.

"For Heaven's sake, cap!" He scrambled over and again tugged at the captain's sleeve.

"Get to hell away, Joe! You're yellow as a Chink! I haven't lost a dime yet for you and I've made you a million while I was makin' seven grand for myself. What's got you scared of a little hatful of fog?"

He groped for the speaking tube.

"Give her another twenty revolutions, chief," his tense growl spoke down the tube.

"Per Dio!" swore the Italian. "You get crazy lika the hell!"

"Sh! Listen!"

The captain craned out again.

"Wh-a-a-a-h! Whuh! Whuh! Whuh!"

The captain chuckled.

"That's the Bridgeport-Port Jeff ferry! He's divin' over, and he's makin' it! Bully for him, and I'm glad he's out of our way!"

Two big fog horns began booming, in question and answer, off to the port quarter ahead.

"Them big fellows are gettin' worried," he growled half to himself, "gettin' close together and neither one knows just where t'other one is exactly!"

"Hoo-o-o-o-ooh! Hoo! Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!"

"Gr-r-r-r-r-unh! Grr! Grr!"

In a moment came a long blast followed at an interval by two short grunts.

"By Godfrey, that was a close shave for 'em!" enthused the captain of the rum-runner, sotto voce.

He spoke into the speaking tube.

"Cut her to half throttle, chief!" he murmured.

He felt the Italian's hand trembling on his sleeve.

"You no thinka we better turna back, cap? I have hoonch thisa time we have trooble, hey, what you theenk?"

The captain grabbed the quivering hand on his sleeve and with his calloused clutch he firmly tore the hand away.

"You give me the heebie-jeebies, Joe! Whyn't you be reasonable? What're you askeard of?"

Something up ahead caught his ear and he half crawled out on the weather apron.

"There's some damned thing up ahead of us goin' our way with no lights either! She ain't a hundred fathoms ahead of us!" he blurted as he crawled back. He put the mouth-piece of the tube to his lips.

"Hey, chief! Cut her to about forty revolutions and stand by! May need full speed astern any moment!"

He spoke in a tense whisper to the man at the wheel.

"Port a bit, Sims! Steady as you go!"

"Steady, sir!"

The captain started to stretch out over the apron again and a rasping sound from up ahead caused him to pause, tensely listening. A big siren and a hoarse whistle blared at the same instant. A terrific smashing, grinding crash leaped to a crescendo of harsh noise. Excited voices shrilled across the water.

The rum boat captain's voice rose to an excited snarl.

"They've met head on! It's this feller ahead of us and somepin. It's one of them big fellers that's got him! He's either a booze boat like us or he's a chaser!"

The Italian was sniveling.

"Cap, you turn back, cap, you hear me?"

The captain gave him a shove that sent him scurrying to the end of the bridge. From up ahead came the jangle of ship's bells and the sharp coughs of the exhausts.

"Hell's bells! The big fellow's rammed 'em and he's runnin' off to leave 'em drown!"

The lights of the oncoming steamer loomed out of the fog and bore down on them, scraped along the side and moved by. The bootleg captain snatched up a flash light and snapped it on as he dashed to the wing, and he roughly elbowed the Italian aside as he thrust it upward to peer at the vessel. Scared yellow faces blinked down at him from along the rail.

"You yellow devils!" the captain shrilled up at them. "What you runnin' off for after ramming a vessel?"

He glimpsed the word "Maru" on the stern of the tramp as she surged by with engines pounding full speed ahead.

He leaped to the speaking tube.

"Shut her down, chief, and let her drift! Somebody rammed up ahead. Don't want to smash into one of their boats or run down anybody swimmin'. Stand tight by the tube, too! I may want to use the engine quick at any time!"

His words leaped down the tube like pistol shots. He snatched the megaphone down and whirling, shouted down to the deck.

"Snap on the lights, mister!"

"Aye, aye, sir!"

The metal switch-box door clanged open as the thudding feet of the mate reached it and his hand clawed it open. Globes of light sprang out along the foggy deck and up in the wheelhouse.

The captain bawled down the tube: "All right, chief! Hold her there! Watch the indicator!"

A bell clanged harshly as he rammed the telltale over to "Stop."

"Man the boats! Get them hooks and life-rings out! Snap to it, mister! Snap them carrions into it!" His voice was bawling through the short megaphone. He sprawled out upon the weather apron and bawled ahead.

"Ahoy, out there! Ahoy!" his voice roared and quavered.

Faintly through the fog came: "Ahoy! Ahoy! This way!"

He sprang back into the bridge and grabbed wildly for the whistle cord and the black steamer's hoarse whistle began to roar staccato blasts which echoed and reëchoed into the night. Men were racing about the deck to the sharp commands of the mate, which were punctuated by thudding fists and heavy boot toes.

Port and starboard davits creaked outward, and the ropes whined in the sheaves as the lifeboats raced down and crashed into the water. The gangplank clattered to the water's edge. The mate ran down it and began to bawl through his megaphone. Up overhead the big whistle was still booming.

Up on the bridge Joe Parento, the bootleg king, was gaping open-mouthed at the lanky captain, whose long arm was still yanking the whistle cord.

"You stoppa that! You heara me? You quit it? You gone lunatico? What's matter you, cap? Cut it out, now!"

He leaped forward and seized the captain's arm with both his own and dragged it down.

"I'm goin' to stand by, Joe! They's men drowndin' out thar ef we don't help 'em!"

"Stand by lika the hell!" the Italian jabbered. "You crazy! Swing 'round! Head back out! You hear me, hey?"

"You crazy!" the Italian jabbered. "Head back out!"

He groped in the pocket of his coat and came out with a snub-nosed automatic.

"Turn her 'round, cap, and don't waste no time, or I blow you to hell!" His voice was a yelping scream.

The captain sprang toward him with clenched fist and arm doubled back, ready to strike. A lurid flame burst forth from the blunt muzzle of the pistol and searing pain jabbed at the left shoulder of the seaman.

"Drop the gun, wop!"

His clenched fist smashed down and the gun exploded in mid-air as it dropped toward the floor. The sturdy sea-muscled arm lashed upward and the blocky fist crunched under Parento's chin, lifting him upward from the floor and propelling him backward. He fell on his back with a thud. The captain snatched up the fallen pistol and thrust it into the pocket of his sou'-wester.

The lifeboats were thumping against the vessel's side and grating along as the riffraff crew returned with the swimmers they had rescued. The captain picked up the unconscious body of the Italian bootleg king and strode down the bridge stairs with it under his right arm. A patch of blood was already oozing out from the burning hole in his left shoulder, painting the yellow oilskin crimson.

He deposited his unconscious burden upon the deck underneath an electric light. Walking to the head of the gangplank, he bent to peer downward, where dripping figures were climbing from the boats upon the landing platform of the gangplank and starting up toward the deck.

At the head of the line was a man in a blue uniform, and as he stepped upon the deck he snorted with astonishment, for the menacing figure of the captain shot out a long arm with a stubby automatic gripped in his huge fist.

"I'm grabbing for the sky, skipper!" the uniformed man chuckled, stretching both his hands high overhead.

"What vessel?" snarled the oilskin-clad figure.

"Coast Guard cutter Quadras. We were laying without lights for the rum-runner Bear, from St. John, when we got rammed by a Jap tramp who went on and left us."

The blunt nose of the automatic whipped toward the face of the next gaping man who stepped on the deck.

"Hands up! Get 'em up, I said, damn you!"

The gaunt skipper stepped to the side of the Coast Guard commander and tapped the back of his coat with the back of his left hand. Finding no hidden weapons, he thrust the pistol muzzle into the face of the dumfounded seaman, who had frozen in his tracks at the top of the gangplank.

"I ain't got no gun, cap!" the man blurted.

"Step ahead, then, you're blocking traffic!"

One by one the others filed up and ranged along the deck, grinning sheepishly, their hands uplifted.

The Coast Guard commander turned to confront him.

"I give you my word, sir, neither my men nor myself will commit an overt act. We're too glad to be picked up, no matter who you may be."

The skipper smiled grimly as he thrust the automatic into his pocket.

"At your ease, men. Your arms might get stiff from keepin' 'em up so long. I hate to do it, but I'm in honor bound to protect my cargo. This is the rum-runner Bear, with two hundred and fifty thousand dollars' worth of Canadian Club."

The Coast Guard commander slapped his wet thigh and laughed heartily.

"That's pretty rich!"

A roar went up from the line of men, glad to enjoy a joke on themselves.

Several of the rum vessel's crew came stalking up the gangplank, with guns and knives gleaming in their hands, only to thrust them out of sight and join in the laughter. Down on the landing platform the mate was bawling to the men he had sent to scull the boats to the davit falls.

In a moment he came up, scowling, only to grin as he saw the good nature of all hands. With a wave of his arm he sent men to the davits, and in a few minutes the boats came bobbing up and were swung onto the deck and made fast.

Joe Parento crawled to his feet and came stumbling toward the group on the deck with his hand nursing his bruised jaw. He gaped dazedly about into the grinning faces. He gasped with fright as his eyes rested on the blotch of blood which had oozed from the captain's left shoulder and stained his oilskins.

"I no go for to shoot you, cap, honest!" he denied.

"Shut up!" the skipper roared. "Here's your gun! Better toss it over the side, or you'll get into real trouble with it."

He flung the gun to the Italian, who caught it and threw it over the rail into the water.

"Is everything snug, mister?" the skipper bawled to the mate.

"Shipshape and Bristol fashion, sir!" the mate answered as he came to the skipper's side.

"Break out dry clothes for these sailors and find places for 'em to sleep. Break out a half dozen quarts of whisky and give 'em a nip. They've been wet and might catch cold."

He spoke kindly to the captured commander.

"If you'll come with me, sir, I'll show you your quarters up alongside my own, and some dry clothes, and some real stuff, if you'll have it. We'll be back at the twelve-mile line in an hour or so, and you can wireless from one of the boats in the row for a cutter to come after you and your men."

As they walked by the switch-box he reached in and snapped off the lights. His flash light glowed for a moment as he opened the door of a cabin and ushered the rescued officer inside. Walking to his own room, he came out with an armful of clothing and handed them to the commander, telling him to don them in the dark. Then he lurched to the ladder and climbed the bridge.

"Half speed, chief, stand by for full!" he growled down the tube. He swayed back and forth dizzily as his head swam from weakness and gnawing pain in his left shoulder. The scuff of the Coast Guard commander's shoes sounded as he climbed the steps and groped along the bridge. His arm ran around the sagging waist of the skipper.

"Better come on down and rest awhile yourself, sir," he suggested. "I'm fresh, and I know this Sound as well as you do. I'll con the old tub out and deliver her in Rum Row."

He supported the faltering steps of the old man down the steps and along to his stateroom, and then raced back to the bridge. Half crawling out on the weather apron, he peered and listened into the impenetrable murk. The black ship swung slowly around to his orders and began to forge up the Sound out toward the open sea.

THE END

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HERITAGE OF THE SEA ***

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