On the side of the flared bow of the little patrol boat, around his porthole, Richardson had written in large block letters the word “EEL.”
After several hours Rich decided that not only had his painting spree gone completely unnoticed, but also Moonface seemed to have forgotten all about him. Perhaps the Japanese skipper intended to let hunger and thirst weaken his resolve, in preparation for an even more thorough interrogation next day. On the other hand, every hour brought nearer the possibility that next day Eel might closely inspect the patrol boat through her periscope, would note the name lettered on her bow, would realize that only two persons could have written it there.
If, on the other hand, Eel did not see his sign, inevitably Moonface would see it. The consequences would, at their least, be most unpleasant. Among other things, it revealed at least part of what Moonface wanted to know.
Alive, now, to the possibility of other significant noises, he kept the port open and his ear to it. Nothing was to be heard except the idle lapping of the water against the patrol boat’s drifting hull and the creaking of masts and gear on deck to an occasional gentle roll. The entire ship was still. Absolutely silent. He could not even hear the quiet movement of any of her crew.
After a suitable interval he cautiously put his hand out the port to sample his paint, found it satisfactorily tacky. This at least seemed to be working out, but of course everything depended upon whether or not Eel would choose tomorrow in daylight to look over the patrol boat. If the fog continued, the prospect of her doing so would be greatly reduced.
In his current state of mind, Richardson was not only sleepless but also acutely conscious of everything going on aboard the little ship. It must have been about midnight that he heard voices speaking in low tones in Japanese not many feet away from his prison. There was a certain furtiveness about them, as if they did not wish to be heard, as if they were worried, uneasy, perhaps in subdued fear. He shortly afterward was conscious of some other voices talking loudly, farther away. One voice, shouting in particularly violent tones, was that of Moonface. The others sounded conciliatory, placating. One clearly carried a note of justification, of exculpation, was finally reduced to frightened pleading.
Moonface’s authoritarian tones increased in intensity. His denunciations grew louder. There came sounds of heavy blows. The pleading voice was crying in pain. Then several more dull thudding noises, and the pleading voice was silent. Moonface’s voice continued for several minutes in a paroxysm of rage, then silence again descended upon the little ship. Richardson recognized it for what it was. It was the silence of terror.
Several more hours passed. Daylight was beginning to lighten the murk when Richardson heard purposeful footsteps coming toward his cell. Quickly he closed and latched the port, turned with foreboding as the door was unbarred and opened.
Three solemn Japanese sailors accosted Rich, tied his arms as before, led him aft.
Moonface had arrayed himself in full uniform, with samurai overtones. He had buckled a pistol belt around his ample middle. Hung from the belt, its ornamented brown scabbard secured by a length of intricately brocaded line, was a heavy curved sword about three feet in length. A shorter sword, or dirk, was stuck in the pistol belt, and from the belt also hung a leather holster and a modern automatic pistol. Richardson instantly saw that Moonface was in an evil humor and at the same time hugely pleased with himself.
“I am not ready to talk to you yet, my friend,” he scowled, “but I will be soon. Have you had a good breakfast?”
Rich stared at him stonily.
“Probably not, but such are the fortunes of war. Too bad. Since I am a samurai, a two-sword man, I cannot of course eat with commoners, but it would amuse me if you attend upon me while I have my breakfast.” His scowl was replaced by the unpleasant grin which, by this time, Richardson had learned to fear. He made a great show of waving his hands through the air, clapping them together. From somewhere one of the sailors brought out a white mat, unrolled it on the deck. Moonface sat on it cross-legged. “You may stand over there,” he said, pointing to one side. “I do not want my faithful retainers interfered with as they serve me.” Again the show of clapping his hands. An uncomfortable-looking sailor brought a tray upon which lay a dish of meat with some vegetables, several small cups, two bottles filled with colorless liquid, a pair of chopsticks.
Moonface unsheathed his dirk, inspected its keen edge, stropped it gently in the palm of his hand, and returned it to its polished wooden sheath. He picked up a sliced piece of meat with the chopsticks, stuffed it into his mouth. “You must forgive my servants,” he said, smacking his lips and making sucking noises between his words; “we samurai are generally more punctilious in our requirements for proper service, but in war one must do the best one can with what one has.”
Richardson shot a glance at the half-dozen crewmen standing about: the man who had unrolled the mat, the one who had brought the tray, another who seemed also to be in attendance, the three guarding him. Already, in the short time he had been aboard the ship, he felt he had gained some understanding of the Japanese character in spite of the facade of impassiveness. With the exception of Moonface, all were extremely tense. Obviously they were terrified of their big captain. “This man is insane,” he said to himself, “plain crazy, and all the more dangerous because of it.” He fought down the flow of saliva which had started at the sight of food, willed himself to be as impassive as the Japanese, stared woodenly at Moonface. Moonface ate the entire meal, drank ceremoniously and with satisfaction in the small cups from the more ornate of the two bottles, not at all from the other, which evidently contained only water.
Finished at last, he pushed the tray aside, lumbered to his feet, waved his arms again in a beckoning motion. “Come, my friend,” he said, with the leering grin. “I have something to show you.” He led Richardson to an area below decks in the after part of the ship, turned on a single light bulb in the overhead. There was a man huddled against the side of the ship. Irons were clamped on his legs. His hands were manacled to a beam over his head. Dried blood matted his hair, covered the front of his blouse. His head was hanging down, but Richardson could see that both eyes were swollen shut, and there was a deep gash across the top of his head. The skin had pulled back, exposing the bone beneath. The man was unconscious.
“This is one of my crewmen who defied my authority.” The familiar titter. “My grandfather would have cut off his head immediately for such presumption. I have been kinder. I have given him a day to repent. Tomorrow you shall see me cut his head off with a single blow of this sacred sword I am wearing.” He spat upon the wretched man, kicked him heavily in the side.
He turned to Richardson. “You see, my friend, what I can do. Think carefully when I send for you. Poetic, is it not? You see, my friend, what I can do. Think carefully when I send for you.” He made the phrase into a little singsong chant. Still singing to himself, he turned and went back up the ladder.
His guards were looking at each other. They had evidently been given no instructions. Richardson smiled mirthlessly, pointed with his chin toward the bow. Wordlessly, they accompanied him back to his cell, walking stooped under the low overhead. When his arms were unbound and he was about to re-enter his prison, he looked the three men in the eye, tapped his forehead significantly. In a loyal crew this would have brought a reaction. It was, in a way, a test. The faces remained impassive, but there was an underlying unease as they closed the door upon him.