THE LAST VOYAGE OF JOHANN HAPPS

There was a story, one which Billy had often heard Captain Saulsby tell, of a ship that had driven on the rocks outside the harbour of Appledore during one of the terrible winter tempests. No boat could hope to reach her, so gigantic were the seas, and the crew had clung in her rigging all night, waiting for the wind to fall and help to come. The fisherfolk of the village had gathered on the shore, had built fires to signal to the desperate sailors that friends were watching and ready to give aid, and had tended their beacons all night long, so that some spark of hope might still live in the hearts of the drowning men. When morning broke and the wind went down, they were all rescued, “seventeen men and the ship’s cat.”

Appledore saw a similar scene tonight, with the long red line of signal fires blazing the length of the beach, and with every man and woman toiling to keep them burning. Yet it was not to friends they were signalling this time, but foes; to a lurking, treacherous enemy whose one safety lay in secrecy and darkness, and who read the message of defiance and drew off silently into the night.

Hour after hour passed, the wind rose higher and higher, sweeping great clouds of smoke and sparks along the beach. The tide came in and the seas rose, until even the harbour became a circle of tossing waves and thundering breakers.

“They’ll not be trying to send any boats ashore now,” one of the fishermen said to Captain Saulsby. “I think Joe Happs is safe enough from any danger of their coming after him.”

The Captain nodded gravely as he sat there on the sand.

“I believe you can let the fires go out,” he said, “and you have surely done a good deed for Johann this night. He would thank you if he could, but it is pretty plain that just now he can’t. I wonder what he is going to do.”

The people went away homeward one by one, the fires burned down to heaps of blazing coals, the surf came roaring in, higher and higher as the wind and tide rose together, and the call of Appledore sounded deep and loud through all the growing tumult. Long ago Sally Shute had been dragged away to her bed, protesting loudly, but led by a determined mother. Johann Happs had wandered aimlessly off in the direction of his little house, so that only Billy and Captain Saulsby were left still sitting on the sand. The old man could not be persuaded to go home, nor would Billy leave him. After some time Johann reappeared again, coming silently out of the dark and seating himself beside them without a word. The three said very little for a time, as the Captain’s thoughts seemed to be busy with the past, Johann’s to be bent on the problem of his future, while Billy’s whirling wits were trying to cope with the present. Where was the yacht? What was she doing? Were German eyes still fixed upon their fires in the dark? Would morning bring some bigger adventure, or would it show an empty harbour and that victory was with the watchers of Appledore?

The night wore past, the blackness faded to grey, by slow, slow creeping hours the morning came. Captain Saulsby seemed to know just the moment when it was light enough for observation, for he pulled the glasses from his pocket, adjusted them, and looked long and earnestly out to sea. Then he handed them to Billy.

“Sight straight across the point,” he directed, “above that scrub pine. What do you make of it?”

Billy looked and gave an unrestrained shout of joy. Within the dancing field of the glasses he could see the big, white yacht plunging through the heavy seas, while on either side and just ahead of her three dark vessels were swiftly drawing in.

“I wondered why they were so slow there at the Naval Station when I sent my message,” remarked the Captain. “I see now that they were taking no chances, but were seeing to it the yacht was headed off this time. Hark!” The wind had shifted and was blowing hard in shore. It carried to them a faint sound—“boom,” and then again—“boom.”

“They are firing on her,” shouted Billy, dancing up and down with excitement. Johann had the glasses now, and was looking through them intently.

“She is lying to,” he said quietly at last. “She sees she can’t make it.”

“No? Give me that glass.” Captain Saulsby fairly snatched it out of his hand. “Well, it’s true,” he went on after watching the vessels for a moment. “She hasn’t even the spirit to get herself respectably sunk. They’ll bring her into port, I suppose, and put the whole lot in jail. Harvey Jarreth will be glad to see them.”

He got up slowly and stiffly.

“I guess the show is over,” he said, “and I, for one, begin to remember that there is such a thing in the world as sleep. We ought all of us to turn in. Johann Happs, you look like a ghost, man; you should be taking some rest. When those rascals are brought up in court, the authorities will be needing your evidence. You must get yourself pulled together somehow.”

“Yes—yes, I will go home at once.”

Billy thought that Johann seemed to be paying very little attention even to his own words, but he said nothing. He was weary himself, yet still too excited to feel sleepy. Johann left them at Captain Saulsby’s door, but Billy went inside and remained to help the old man prepare a breakfast of bacon and coffee, which tasted most delicious and was badly needed by both of them.

It was still very early, with the sun only just coming up when he started homeward. He had borrowed the binoculars and went first down to the point, hoping to have another view of the captured yacht. The wind was blowing fiercer and fiercer, and the spray dashing up in columns between the rocks. The yacht and two of her captors had disappeared, it was plain that they had made for some port other than Rockford. The third ship, however, was headed in his direction, probably planning to make for Rockford or possibly Piscataqua. She passed so close that Billy could see, through the glass, as plainly as though he were alongside, her wave-swept deck, her weary wind-buffeted crew, even the worn faces of the officers on her bridge.

They had had a night of it, just as he had, but he was going to rest and to recover himself in peace and ease, while they had probably another day and night of just such toil and watching before them, and another, and another. That was what war was! No gathering of great fleets for battle, no spectacular deeds of glory, no frequent chances for the winning of undying fame. It was to be hard work, unwearying vigilance, dull days of patrolling and long, long nights of watching. So America was to be guarded, so her Allies were to be given aid. It would take many men to do it, and each last one must bear his full part. He went back along the point and up the beach path, thinking deeply.

What was his surprise on seeing Johann Happs again; he who should have been at home sleeping was, instead, hurrying toward the wharf with a bundle under his arm. When Billy called to him he did not stop, merely hastened on the faster. Finally, however, Billy’s flying feet overtook him, the boy’s hand was laid upon his arm and he was forced to turn about.

“Oh, it’s you!” he exclaimed in evident relief, “I thought it might be some one else.” He fumbled in his pocket. “The hotel clerk had this message for you; I told him I would deliver it and had almost forgotten all about it.”

He drew out an envelope and handed it to Billy. It was a cablegram, the answer to the dispatch he had sent to his father the morning before. He held the paper with difficulty in the wind and finally managed to read its contents.

“Give consent reluctantly,” it ran.

When he had cabled he had thought of enlisting only as a distant possibility, now, with the permission in his hand, with the vivid impression still in his mind of what the naval service stood for, he felt the desire surge up within him to enlist now, without a moment’s delay.

“Father may cable again to say I can’t,” he reflected as he stood there, buffeted by the wind. “They are so far away, he and mother might not understand how things really are. If I can send a message saying I have applied, before they can send word to me again, that I know would settle it. It would take months to get my father’s signature to the papers giving consent, but he could cable authority to some one to sign for him. The great thing is to hurry.”

Where was the nearest recruiting office, he began to wonder. Certainly not on Appledore Island, no, nor even at Rockford. The nearest was at Piscataqua and—wait, what was it they had told him there? That the number was nearly full and that probably the place would be closed in a day or two. In that case he might have to go to Boston; there would be delay, it might be too late.

“Johann,” he asked, suddenly coming down to earth and calling to his companion who had begun to move off down to the wharf, “Johann, where are you going?”

“I am going over to the mainland,” returned Johann, turning around and bending backward against the wind that caught him with full force where he stood.

“Then wait,” said Billy; “I am going with you. When does the boat start?”

“She is not going out today, the wind is too bad,” was the reply. “I have just been to ask her captain.”

“Then how are you going?” asked Billy, “and, Johann—why do you go?”

The lad looked down, shuffled his feet uneasily and seemed at a loss for an answer.

“And when are you coming back?” Billy pursued. “Tell me, I must know.”

“I am never coming back,” Johann broke forth with sudden vehemence. “Do you not see, can you not understand? Those Germans they are bringing in will be tried and I will have to testify. Every one will hear of it, will know how Johann Happs, of Appledore, let them tempt him, let them try to drive him, nearly let them carry him away to fight for Germany. Will any person ever trust me again, think you? When I wish to serve my country, my own country, and offer myself, will they not say, ‘Ah, you are Johann Happs; no, no, we take no such men as you.’ So I am going away to lose myself, to change my name, to be an American with no memory of what my father was. Those men who are to be tried will be convicted anyway. Harvey Jarreth, Captain Saulsby, you, can all give evidence enough for that. There will be no need for Johann Happs, so he is going to vanish forever.”

“I could stop you,” said Billy slowly. “I ought to stop you. Do you think I ought to, Johann?”

“I have been weak and a coward,” the other replied, “but somehow in this night I have learned to be a man. Would you rob me of my chance to prove it? Will you not believe in me and let me go?”

Billy thought harder for a moment than he had ever thought in his life before.

“Yes, I believe in you,” he said at last. “And if you are going I am going too. But how will we cross?”

“I have arranged with Sanderson to let me have his boat,” returned Johann. “I own a half interest, so if I sink her I will not be doing wrong. But you should not go with me.” He looked at the storm-tossed harbour and the angry sea outside. “No,” he finished mildly, “it would not be wise.”

“If you can, I can,” was Billy’s decree. “Wait two seconds while I get my things.” He dashed wildly up to the hotel and was back again almost before Johann had loosed the dory that was to carry them out to Sanderson’s boat. The rocking and pitching were so great that it was difficult to embark, but Johann had managed it and Billy was just preparing to follow, when a firm hand took him by the arm.

“What are you two boys doing, starting a suicide club?” growled Captain Saulsby’s voice in his ear.

Billy turned quickly.

“You can’t keep us,” he exclaimed desperately; “you needn’t try.”

“I’ll hear first where you are going, thank you,” returned the Captain, “though to be going anywhere with such a wind coming, is rank lunacy.”

As briefly and as earnestly as he could, Billy explained their respective errands and the need of both of them for haste. More than once he had to shout to make himself heard above wind and water.

“I’ve got to enlist,” he ended; “to delay now may mean waiting months. And it takes a long time to train a good sailor; I must begin now! I must! And you need not say anything, because we are both bound to go.”

“Well, I’m not saying anything, am I?” the old sailor answered. Then he bent forward and spoke close to Billy’s ear to make absolutely certain of being heard. “I wouldn’t stop any one’s going into the Navy, surely not at a time like this. But if you go in at the bottom, remember the mistake I made and, for all you are worth, aim at the top. And when you get to be something big, that every one salutes and says ‘sir’ to, why, you might remember once in a while that it was old Ned Saulsby of Appledore Island that launched you. That is all, only—only—God bless you.”

He actually took Billy’s arm and pushed him toward the boat. “There is no one but Johann Happs would stand a chance of getting across in the face of such a storm,” he added, “but I believe he can make it. I will explain to your Aunt. Now drop in the tender, and I will push you off.”

People tell on Appledore Island today, and will tell for many a year to come, of the great storm of April, nineteen seventeen. They will show you just how far up the shore the waves broke at high tide; they will tell you the maximum velocity of the wind, and will point out the broken wreckage of two fishing boats that dragged their anchors and were thrown upon the beach. And they will always end by saying—

“And would you believe it, there were two boys that put out to sea right in the face of it? Boys, mind you, and one of them not born and bred to sailing a boat. A little craft, they had, too; Sanderson’s Echo; you can see her at anchor over yonder by the wharf.”

Only the utter recklessness of two headlong boys could have conceived such an expedition; only the almost uncanny skill of one and the blind obedience of the other could ever have carried it through. Billy, who did not yet know all that there was to be learned of sailing, could still realize that never had he seen a boat handled as was the little Echo with Johann Happs at the helm. He himself made a better assistant than he had on the day when he and Captain Saulsby capsized; he knew what to do when he could help, and how to keep out of the way when he could not.

The harbour of Appledore faced the open sea, so that it seemed more than once that the furious wind must blow them back upon the beach or dash them against the rocks as they sought to clear the point. Then they were past it at last, and flying before the wind toward the distant shore. Billy had one last glimpse of the Island as they rose on the crest of a wave, then a curtain of rain descended and blotted it from his sight. Yet even above the wind he could hear the strange, deep humming voice of Appledore calling aloud to speed them on their way.

“This wind is nothing to what is coming,” Johann shouted.

Except for this remark and for the orders he issued from time to time, he scarcely spoke throughout their long and perilous voyage. White-faced, determined, with eyes that seemed to be seeing far visions, rather than the hungry seas about him, he stood at the tiller and, by main strength of will it seemed, drove the little boat upon her course. To Billy it appeared that at any moment one of the vast, green mountains of water that ran beside, must sweep in upon them with its overwhelming flood, but always the boat lifted just in time and slipped over the crests in safety.

He crouched in the bottom, drenched, shivering, blinded by the flying spray, thinking of nothing but Johann’s next order and whether he could carry it out. Dimly he realized that the wind shrieked ever louder through the rigging, that the great waves were becoming greater, that the squalls of rain were sharper and more frequent. Yet he never doubted the outcome; he felt certain that Johann’s skill would not fail them, that the wind might roar as it pleased, and the threatening waves rise as high as they willed, that it all would bring them only the more swiftly to the desired haven.

There was no way of telling how long their voyage lasted. Sometimes it seemed to Billy that it was only a few minutes since they had set out, and he strained his ears to hear if Appledore were calling still. Sometimes it seemed that they had been sailing for days and that they must go on forever, soaked, dazed, worn out to the utmost, but determined still.

A dim grey shape loomed up through the rain at their right hand.

“Andrew’s Point,” announced Johann tersely. Billy felt an almost imperceptible change, the wind struck them a shade less fiercely, the seas were not so heavy, their speed began to slacken. Johann spoke suddenly once more as a dark line showed vaguely before them.

“That’s Rockford breakwater,” he said. “We’re nearly in.” Then—“Here, take her, Billy; I’m done!”

He collapsed all at once, sinking to his knees, yet managing somehow to steady the tiller until Billy’s hand fell upon it. Then, with a queer, gentle sigh, he dropped upon his face and lay inert, thrown to and fro as the boat pitched, while the water they had shipped washed back and forth over him. Billy could do nothing to aid him, for all his attention and all of his strength were needed to handle the plunging boat. How had Johann ever stood it so long he wondered, out there in the gale where it seemed, now, that it was only by a miracle they had lived at all? Could he manage to round the breakwater unassisted? He felt that he could not possibly do it, but that he must.

It was accomplished at last and they were in nearly quiet water, speeding toward the wharf. Three members of the Life-Saving Crew, who had been watching from the pier, came rowing out to meet them and showed Billy where he could pick up a mooring and make the Echo fast.

“I thought it was boys!” ejaculated one when first they came alongside. “There’s no grown man would be fool enough to cross over from Appledore Island in such weather, and you didn’t get in one second too soon. The way the wind is now off Andrew’s Point, no boat like yours could last five minutes.”

They lifted Johann into their dory and brought the two boys ashore.

“He’ll be all right in a bit when he’s got dry and warm again,” said one of the men, “and as for you, young skipper, you are not in a much better state yourself.”

“I’m not the skipper,” explained Billy quickly. “It was he that sailed her all the way over, and only gave out when we got to the breakwater. I don’t think any one else on earth could have put us across. If you will take care of him a little I will be so thankful. I have to go on.”

“In that state?” the man exclaimed, but Billy could not be persuaded to wait. His water-soaked watch had stopped, but a clock in one of Rockford’s steeples was striking the hour.

“I can only just make the Piscataqua train,” he said. “Telephone back to Appledore, won’t you please, that we are safe. No, don’t stop me, I have to go.”

Johann had opened his eyes and now managed to hold out a wet hand to say farewell.

“You’ll never see Johann Happs again,” he whispered weakly, but even under his breath the tone was joyous. He was to live to forget his weakness and his mistakes, Billy knew, and, under some other name, to become a firm and loyal American.

It was not until he had climbed aboard the jerky, bumpy little train, that he realized what a plight he was in. Water dripped from his clothes and splashed in his shoes, his hair was wet, he had lost his hat. There were not many passengers on the Piscataqua accommodation, but what few there were stared at him unceasingly and discussed him in whispers through the whole period of the journey.

Every farmhouse, every crossroads, seemed to be a stopping place for this especial train; precious minutes were wasted that began to grow into precious hours.

“Suppose the recruiting place is closed,” he kept thinking. “Suppose they are closing it now! Suppose the last man they need is just applying and the officer in charge is saying, ‘Shut the doors!’”

They bumped to a stop at Clifford’s Junction, three miles from Piscataqua and waited ten minutes—fifteen—twenty.

“How long is this going to last?” Billy finally appealed to the brakeman.

“We’ve got to wait here for the Boston train and she’s an hour late,” was the easy reply. “Don’t fuss, young man, she’ll be along by and by.”

“I’ll walk,” returned Billy, and flung himself down the steps.

There was no town at the Junction, no place where a conveyance was to be had, so walk Billy did. The road was rough and rutty, it seemed eternally climbing up hills and never going down them; the distance seemed thirty miles instead of three. The rain clouds cleared and the sun came out, hot and steaming, to beat mercilessly upon his uncovered head. His shoes were heavy and stiff from their salt-water soaking, there was salt, too, in his hair, his eyes and in his parched throat. He stumbled on, knowing vaguely from the shortening shadows that it was nearly noon, that the time was flying and that even now it might be too late.

He began to pass small houses, he crossed the bridge that spanned Piscataqua’s tide-river, he came into the town itself. He threaded his way up and down several narrow, crooked streets until he came out at last upon a broader one, with a feeling that he had seen it before. Yes, there ahead of him was the recruiting station, he could not mistake it. His head was swimming with heat and weariness, he could hardly lift his feet; people stopped and looked strangely at him, but he pressed on. The flag was still flying, a bluejacket was standing on the step, the door was open, he was in time.

The sailor held out a hand to help him as he stumbled over the threshold, but Billy shook it off. What he was about to do he was going to do alone. Inside a uniformed officer was sitting behind a desk; he, too, looked up anxiously as he caught a glimpse of the boy’s exhausted face, and half rose to aid him. Mutely Billy shook his head; he did not want assistance. He held to the back of a chair and stood up very stiff and straight before the desk.

His throat was queer and sticky and his lips so dry that at first he could not speak. When at last the words came, they sounded strange in his own ears, even though he had rehearsed them a hundred times as he came along the road.

“I want to enlist in the Navy,” he said.

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