Ghost Stories (8 page)

“What about this?” Joe pulled out the headband and handed it to his friend.

“It looks new,” Biff stated. “No more than a few years old.”

“That's true,” Joe admitted. “But there are some Apache markings on the inside. I had an Indian friend translate them for me. It's the name of a chief who was killed by miners on March sixth in Flaming Rock.”

“But this is ink,” Chet said, after he had studied the headband closely. “As far as I know, the Indians didn't write with ink.”

“Right,” Biff added. “You were duped, you see?”

“No, we weren't,” Joe replied. “The Indians did use white man's ink after trade had been established.
And here's the kicker. The chemist said that this ink, though it looks new, tested out to be of a kind that hasn't been manufactured since 1880!”

This convinced Chet. His face became worried. “What did you say happened to those guys who went to Flaming Rock before you?”

“We don't know. They disappeared,” Joe replied.

Chet sighed. Then he stood up and went to the telephone. “What are you doing?” Frank inquired.

“I'm going to call all our friends. From now on, you two won't go anywhere without a bodyguard!”

 
THE PHANTOM SHIP
 

Frank and Joe were out in their motorboat, the
Sleuth.
Frank shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed around at the surging waves dotted with whitecaps.

“Looks like a storm coming up, Joe,” he said to his brother. “We'd better get out of the Atlantic before it gets any worse.”

Joe wiped drifting spray from his face. “It's getting dark,” he noted. “But we're not far from the bay. Let's head home. I'll rev up the motor and gain some speed.”

The Hardys often took their boat out into the Atlantic, but when a storm began on the ocean, they knew they had to get back into Barmet Bay, which was near their home in Bayport, for safety. Otherwise, the
Sleuth
might sink or overturn.

Joe pressed the accelerator. The boat shot forward in a burst of speed. But suddenly the engine sputtered, then stopped, and they came to a halt in the water. Joe struggled to get the boat started again, but in vain.

“No use,” he said at last. “It's conked out.” The brothers checked every part of the mechanism according to the manual. When they had finished, Frank scratched his head.

“Everything seems just fine, Joe. Transmission, oil, gas—everything.”

“But the engine won't start,” Joe declared.

“Well, we'd better get help. It's a long swim from hereto the bay!”

Frank took the transmitter of the ship-to-shore radio and flipped the switch. Nothing happened! He levered the switch up and down, examined the cord, and checked the batteries.

“Nothing wrong with the radio,” he muttered, “except the fact that it won't work, either. It's odd. We must be under a hex or something.”

The
Sleuth
rocked helplessly in the waves churned up by strong winds as darkness fell. There was no moon, and black clouds covered the stars. Frank and Joe shivered in the cold.

“Looks like we'll have to spend the night out here,” Joe mumbled. “I just hope we don't capsize!”

“We don't have much chance of being picked up, either,” Frank said glumly. “I can hardly see my hand in front of my face. Even if a ship came past, they'd never spot us.”

Suddenly a towering black mass loomed toward
them in the darkness. A harsh voice shouted over the water: “Who are you?”

“It's a ship!” Joe exclaimed exultantly. “And someone saw us!” He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted back, “We're Frank and Joe Hardy! We're marooned! Can you take us aboard?”

“Aye, we can do that!” came the reply.

The black mass moved closer and stopped beside the
Sleuth.
A lantern swaying in the wind revealed the curving bow of a large ship. On the bow were painted in white letters the words
Samoa Queen.

A rope ladder fell down the side of the vessel until it dangled over the
Sleuth.
Frank gripped the ropes on either side, got his foot onto the bottom rung, and quickly climbed up. Joe tied the launch to the ladder and followed.

The Hardys vaulted over the railing and came down on a deck of massive oak planks. In the dim light of old-fashioned lanterns they saw they were on a sailboat. The sails billowed in the wind and the mainmast pointed high into the dark sky. A flight of wooden steps led up to the wheelhouse.

A crew of rough-looking sailors were on deck. They wore old-fashioned work clothes and stood silently, glowering at the newcomers. One held a harpoon in his hand and waved it menacingly.

“This must be some sort of training ship,” Frank said to Joe in a low tone.

“Well, it's the spookiest training ship I've ever seen,” his brother whispered back.

A man in a salty pea jacket strode toward them. He was tall and gaunt with a black beard and piercing
black eyes. When he spoke, they recognized the harsh voice that had hailed them over the water.

“So you are Frank and Joe Hardy, are you?” he growled. “Those names mean nothing on my ship!”

Joe spoke up boldly. “Who are you?”

“Captain Jonathan Parker. The
Samoa Queen
is a whaler from Nantucket. And I need more able-bodied seamen for a voyage to the Pacific. You two will do. You will be members of my crew until we get back to Nantucket.”

Frank and Joe stared at one another in the murky light of the ship's lanterns. They were thinking the same thing. Sailing ships had not made whaling voyages since the nineteenth century!

He must be kidding, Joe thought. Aloud he said, “Captain Parker, there's no reason for us to stay aboard the
Samoa Queen.
All we need is help with our engine.”

“‘Engine'? What is an ‘engine'?” Parker snarled.

That's got to be a joke, Frank told himself. To the captain he said, “Well, you need power to drive a ship, don't you?”

“Aye. The power of wind and sail!” Parker thundered. “What other kind of power is there to drive a ship across the ocean? Or maybe you paddle across!”

The sailors behind him burst into wild laughter. Parker joined in the laughter, which rose to a high-pitched cackle in the moaning of the wind across the deck.

“These guys are weirdos!” Frank exploded. “Let's go back over the side—we'll be better off drifting in the
Sleuth!”

The Hardys ran to the railing where they had climbed up the rope ladder. But when they peered down, they froze. The
Sleuth
was gone!

“Grab them!” Parker ordered his crew.

The sailors rushed forward and seized Frank and Joe, who were forced back into the middle of the deck. Captain Parker confronted them furiously.

“I know your game.” he rasped. “You want to sign on another whaler. Well, it is too late. You will stay aboard the
Samoa Queen.
We are headed around Cape Horn into the Pacific, and on our trip I will make whalers of you or throw you to the sharks!”

The Hardys felt cold chills as they listened to Parker's tirade. To Frank it seemed as if they had fallen into the hands of lunatics. Joe wondered if they were living a nightmare.

Abruptly Parker turned toward the wheelhouse, and yelled, “Amos Langton, come down here!”

A burly sailor emerged and descended the steps to the deck. Parker ordered him to take the Hardys below and get them ready for sea duty. Langton led the boys across the heaving ship. Behind them, they heard the eerie laughter of the captain and his strange crew.

“I am the first mate,” Langton said as they went down the stairs. “I will show you where you will stay when you are off duty.”

“But what's this all about?” Joe inquired.

“You know very well what this is about,” the first mate reproached him sternly.

“No, we don't!” Frank protested.

Langton turned and confronted them at the bottom of the stairs. “Then you had better learn fast. Follow orders, always! Sailors who disobey orders on this ship get thrown to the sharks!”

The Hardys shuddered as they remembered Captain Parker's threat.

Langton took them into the living quarters of the crew. They saw a large, spare room with bunks along the walls. Beneath each bunk hung a harpoon, and next to it were oilskins to be worn over pea jackets and a sou'wester for use as a hat during bad weather.

“Take those two empty bunks and get ready for duty on deck,” the first mate ordered. Then he turned and left.

The ship began to move, forcing Frank and Joe to shift their feet to keep their balance. The timbers creaked and swayed from side to side. A lantern on a chain overhead threw a flickering light across the room. It gave off a greasy smell.

“That's whale oil,” Joe said.

Frank nodded. The brothers had experimented with all kinds of fuel in their detective work, and recognized whale oil as easily as wood smoke.

“Trouble is,” Frank went on, “that stuff went out when kerosene came in. What's happening here?”

“I have no idea,” Joe replied. “But we'd better be careful until we find out.”

He called a greeting to the sailors who were lounging in several of the bunks.

They stared at him somberly without answering.

“We're new here,” Joe went on in a friendly tone.

The men still said nothing.

“They're a cheerful lot!” the boy muttered. “Silent as the grave.”

“And what about this ship?” Frank said. “It's a phantom, just like these guys!”

“I hope we don't have to sail on the
Samoa Queen
forever,” Joe said with a shudder.

Near them, an evil-looking sailor was working on his harpoon. He polished the wooden shaft and oiled the long steel blade. Then he took a file and sharpened the point, which had a tong curving backward like that of an enormous fish hook.

Joe decided to make conversation. “That looks like a dangerous weapon,” he observed.

“Dangerous to whales, or my name is not John Corkin!” the man snapped. “And dangerous to landlubbers who think they are whalers!”

Corkin was so hostile that Joe made no reply.

Frank turned to the sailor on the other side, a grizzled veteran who looked friendlier. “What's your name?”

“Orne. I come from New Bedford. We are an old whaling family, we are.”

Encouraged by Orne's amiable demeanor, Frank continued the conversation. “What's the real story of the
Samoa Queen?”

Orne looked surprised. “Why, she is a whaling ship from Nantucket.”

“Where's she bound?”

“Around Cape Horn. If you do not know that, why did you sign aboard?”

Before Frank cpuld reply, Joe intervened. “Whaling
voyages around the Horn go back to the nineteenth century,” he insisted.

Orne looked puzzled. “Right you are, mate,” he said, “and this is the year 1850!”

The Hardys were startled by the statement. Corkin, who had been listening, spoke sarcastically. “You two must be stupid if you do not know what year it is!” He laughed loudly.

The other sailors except Orne joined in one by one until a mad cackle echoed through the ship like a chorus of witches.

The Hardys were horrified by the grinning faces and weird laughter. They leaped to their feet.

“We know what time it is!” Joe exploded. “It's time for us to jump ship!”

Frank supported Joe wholeheartedly. “You can have the
Samoa Queen
and the whales!”

Corkin glared savagely. Raising his harpoon, he hurled it at them.

Frank and Joe ducked as the sharp weapon zoomed through the air over their heads and slammed into one of the ship's timbers. The harpoon hung there, quivering under the rise and fall of the waves.

“That was a close call!” Joe gulped.

“Get ready,” Frank warned. “Here they come!”

Led by Corkin, the sailors rushed at the boys, who went into a protective karate stance and prepared to defend themselves. The crowd of grinning faces pressed in on them and a multitude of hands reached out.