Heritage of the sea

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?"