The Coast of Adventure
by Harold Bindloss · English · Gutenberg #37582 · 515,610 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Coast of Adventure
Author: Harold Bindloss
Release date: October 1, 2011 [eBook #37582]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37582
Credits: Produced by Steven desJardins and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COAST OF ADVENTURE ***
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THE COAST OF ADVENTURE
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
ALTON OF SOMASCO
LORIMER OF THE NORTHWEST
THURSTON OF ORCHARD VALLEY
WINSTON OF THE PRAIRIE
THE GOLD TRAIL
SYDNEY CARTERET, RANCHER
A PRAIRIE COURTSHIP
VANE OF THE TIMBERLANDS
THE LONG PORTAGE
RANCHING FOR SYLVIA
PRESCOTT OF SASKATCHEWAN
THE DUST OF CONFLICT
THE GREATER POWER
MASTERS OF THE WHEATLANDS
DELILAH OF THE SNOWS
BY RIGHT OF PURCHASE
THE CATTLE BARON'S DAUGHTER
THRICE ARMED
FOR JACINTA
THE INTRIGUERS
THE LEAGUE OF THE LEOPARD
FOR THE ALLINSON HONOR
THE SECRET OF THE REEF
HARDING OF ALLENWOOD
THE COAST OF ADVENTURE
[Illustration: "Dropping his chin upon the stock, he stiffened his arms
and held his breath as he squeezed the trigger"--Page 327.]
The COAST OF
ADVENTURE
BY HAROLD BINDLOSS
Author of "PRESCOTT OF SASKATCHEWAN,"
"RANCHING FOR SYLVIA," "FOR THE ALLINSON
HONOR," "THE SECRET OR THE REEF," ETC.
_WITH FRONTISPIECE IN COLOR_
[Illustration]
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHED IN ENGLAND UNDER THE TITLE "A RISKY GAME"
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. FATHER AGUSTIN'S SHEEP 1
II. THE ADVENTURES BEGIN 12
III. HIGH STAKES 23
IV. THE "ENCHANTRESS" 32
V. THE CALL OF THE UNKNOWN 43
VI. ON THE SPANISH MAIN 52
VII. MANGROVE CREEK 64
VIII. THE TRAITOR 73
IX. STRANDED 80
X. THE PEON PILOT 89
XI. A MODERN DON QUIXOTE 99
XII. BAITING THE SMUGGLERS 105
XIII. THE EMERALD RING 117
XIV. SMOOTH WATER 126
XV. THE TORNADO 136
XVI. THE RUSE 145
XVII. ELUDING THE GUNBOAT 157
XVIII. THE TEST OF LOVE 167
XIX. THE CUBAN SPY 178
XX. THE ARREST OF CASTILLO 189
XXI. A HALF-BREED'S TRICK 198
XXII. HELD FOR RANSOM 209
XXIII. THE INTERCEPTED NOTE 219
XXIV. IN THE CAMP OF THE HILLSMEN 229
XXV. A TRIAL OF SPEED 240
XXVI. TRAPPED 250
XXVII. HANDS DOWN 259
XXVIII. THE PRESIDENT'S DESPATCHES 271
XXIX. THE PRESIDIO 283
XXX. THE ESCAPE 294
XXXI. THE AMERICAN TRADER 305
XXXII. LOVE'S VISION 315
XXXIII. THE HERO OF RIO FRIO 322
XXXIV. THE COMING DAWN 335
THE COAST OF ADVENTURE
CHAPTER I
FATHER AGUSTIN'S SHEEP
High on the sun-scorched hillside above the steamy littoral of the
Caribbean Sea the Spanish-Indian town of Rio Frio lay sweltering in the
heat of afternoon. The flat-topped, white houses surrounding the plaza
reflected a dazzling glare, and the heat shimmered mercilessly upon the
rough paving-stones. Flakes of plaster had fallen from the buildings; a
few of them were mere ruins, relics of a past age; for the town had been
built when _conquistadores_ from Spain first plunged into the tropic
forest to search for El Dorado. Here and there dilapidated green
lattices shaded upper windows, and nearer the ground narrow openings
were guarded by rusty iron bars; but some of the houses showed blank
outer walls, and the plaza had rather an Eastern than an American look.
Spain has set upon the New World the stamp the Moors impressed on her.
At one end of the plaza stood the Cafe Four Nations, a low, open-sided
room, with a row of decaying pillars dividing it from the pavement. It
was filled with flies, which stuck in black clusters to the papers
hanging from the tarnished lamps and crawled about the dusty tables. The
hot air was tainted with aniseed, picadura tobacco, and the curious
musky smell which is a characteristic of ancient Spanish towns. On the
right-hand side of the square rose the twin towers of the church of San
Sebastian. Wide steps led up to the patch of shadow where a leather
curtain left uncovered part of the door, and a niche above sheltered an
image of the martyr with an arrow in his breast. The figure was well
modeled and grimly realistic.
Opposite the cafe, the _calle Mercedes_ cut a cool, dark gap through the
dazzling town. On its outskirts, the hillside fell sharply to a wide,
green level. Beyond this a silver gleam indicated the sea.
The cafe was in shadow, and at its inner end a number of citizens
lounged, half asleep, in low cane chairs. The hour of the siesta had
slipped away, but it was not yet time for dinner, and, having read the
newspaper and guardedly discussed politics, the leading inhabitants of
Rio Frio had nothing else to do. They were men with formal manners, a
few dressed in rusty black, and some in white cotton, but all were not
of pure European blood. One or two, indeed, plainly showed their Negro
descent; others the melancholy of the Indian aboriginal.
Near the front pillars, a priest and two men of lighter color were
seated at a table. Father Agustin wore a threadbare cassock and clumsy
rawhide shoes, but he had an air of quiet dignity, and his sharply cut
features were of the Gothic type, which is not uncommon in Spain. His
accent was also clean Peninsular. James Grahame, who sat opposite
across the chessboard, wore the same vague but recognizable stamp of
breeding, though his duck suit was getting ragged and his red silk sash
was obviously cheap. He had steady gray eyes, and light hair, a rather
prominent nose and a firm mouth. He looked older than his thirty years.
The lines on his forehead hinted at stern experience, and his alertness
was partly masked by an easy self-control. Walthew was younger, and
dressed with scrupulous neatness in duck, with smart tan shoes. His face
was mobile, his glance quick but open, and his mouth sensitive; he had
the look of an aristocratic American.
Father Agustin made a deprecatory gesture as his thin, long-nailed hand
moved across the board, and Grahame smiled.
"Yes," he said, filling the tiny glass before the priest, "it is mate
this time, _padre_. When you had made a few moves I foresaw defeat, but
while the candle burns one plays out the game."
"It is so, but not with all," Father Agustin replied in his fine
Castilian. "The losing game needs courage."
"Experience helps. Getting beaten does not hurt so much when one grows
used to it."
"Ah!" said the priest, "that is the way to the greatest victory man can
win. But I am your guest, and will not moralize. I must compliment you
on the game you play. It is bold and well thought out, but perhaps
somewhat lacking in finesse."
"I am afraid finesse is not a virtue of mine," Grahame smiled.
Father Agustin studied him quietly. When the Briton spoke he lost
something of his reserve. His glance got keen, and his eyes had a
curious hawk-like look. The priest could imagine him as swift and
determined in action; quick to seize an advantage, but not a good
plotter.
"For all that, it is a quality that is useful when one deals with the
Latins, at Rio Frio, or elsewhere," the priest said.
"With apologies, _padre_, that is certainly true," Walthew agreed.
"So you have some business here? Perhaps, like the others, you seek a
mineral concession."
"No. Our host, Don Martin, is of course out of office and doesn't deal
in them."
"He never will," the priest said quietly. "The natural wealth of this
country belongs to its people, but it is stolen from them, piece by
piece, and given to foreigners."
"The foreigners pay for what they get."
"Yes," said the priest; "but where does the money go? If it were spent
on the development of the country, one would not complain; but it is
gamblers and courtezans who benefit. Those who hold office here fill
their pockets from the public purse, and what is left when they are
satisfied is needed to keep the Government in power."
"Then, why do you not reform your administration and put in straight
men?"
Father Agustin indicated the drowsy group at the back of the cafe.
"These are our politicians! They meet every day and ruminate over the
affairs of the nation. Think of it!"
"Well," said Walthew, "they do not look busy; but things do happen here
now and then."
"It is true. A clique breaks up, there is a new coalition, and those who
plotted each other's downfall are united again. We Latins have seldom a
continuous policy. Sometimes there is a tumult in the streets and
disaffection among the troops; then the man who rules us uses the whip.
One hears of no trial, but a malcontent is missing, an officer's duty
takes him to the fever jungles, where he cannot live. Sometimes, before
the morning mist has lifted, one is wakened by a volley in the ditch
behind the citadel."
"You are a patient race," Grahame remarked.
"Not so," said Father Agustin. "We often dream when we should act, but
sometimes we act too soon. It is our misfortune that we do not know how
to wait for the right moment." He paused and indicated the thinned-out
ranks of pawns on the chessboard. "It is like that in the game of
politics! The fight is between the greater pieces, but these others
fall."
Grahame lighted a cigarette and glanced about the square, for Rio Frio
was waking up. Here and there a woman of mixed blood crouched beside a
cast-iron pot, fanning the handful of charcoal in it, ready for cooking
the evening meal. A team of mules hauled a heavy load across the hot
paving stones, a gaunt, dark-faced man in ragged cotton walking at the
leaders' heads. Then came a pack train, with jingling bells, a cloud of
flies following the burdened animals, and dusty, barefooted peasants
plodding by their side. A group of women appeared from the mouth of a
narrow street, their faces wet with perspiration and straps across their
foreheads supporting the big cane baskets on their backs. After them
came a negro with a great tray of fruit upon his head. Next, three or
four lean, barefooted fellows with ragged palm-leaf hats seated
themselves on the pavement in a strip of shadow. They sat there, silent
and motionless, contemplating the scene with listless eyes. The crowd
looked dully apathetic, there was languor in the air they breathed; but,
after all, they claimed descent from Spanish stock and Grahame thought
they could be roused. It does not need much fanning to wake the
smoldering fire in the Iberian's veins.
"My sheep!" said Father Agustin. "But they have other shepherds, who do
not always lead them well."
"Shear the flock instead of guarding it? One would imagine that there is
not much wool."
"None is so poor that he has nothing to give; if not goods, his voice,
his sullen clamor and savage rage. The unthinking passion of the mob is
terrible, but it is used by those who must answer for the deed some day.
My people have their wrongs, but one cannot build the State on
foundations of revenge and cruelty."
"But you have some honest men who hate the present Government."
"It is possible that their honesty lessens their influence. At Rio Frio
one does not follow the ideal. It is remote and elusive; the feet get
weary, and many things that please the eye lie nearer to hand." Father
Agustin rose and bowed with grave courtesy. "And now I have talked
enough and have some duties. I thank you and take my leave."
They watched him cross the plaza in his rusty cassock.
"Guess we've struck the wrong place," Walthew said. "We're more likely
to find trouble than money here. Well, there's a prospect of new
experiences and a little excitement; and, anyway, we can't go back on
our bargain with Don Martin."
"I never quite understood what led you to join me," Grahame remarked.
"You know the risk we run. If the Government catches us, we'll be hanged
or shot--whichever suits their fancy."
Walthew laughed.
"That's the attraction. But we won't be caught. I guess my Yankee
ingenuity will count for something. If these sleepy-looking dagoes
should trap us, we can find a way to give 'em the slip."
"Optimism is a great asset," Grahame smiled; "but in this country it
must have a handmaiden--a convenient revolver."
Walthew leaned forward on the table.
"We've gone into a risky business together. I know nothing about you
except that you seem to understand these dagoes and are a handy man to
have around when they pull their knives. You know almost nothing about
me."
He paused and smiled, and Grahame stirred uneasily. Walthew looked so
boyish when he smiled like that. Would he have that carefree look in,
say, two months? At times, Grahame regretted letting the boy join him in
a venture that might try the heart of even a very strong man.
"I say, old chap, you aren't listening!" Walthew expostulated. "I'm
telling you that the pater's a money-making machine. When I left Harvard
he was for working me up into a partnership in the Walthew factory. But
I couldn't stand it--too monotonous. I took ten thousand dollars,
instead, on condition that if I hadn't made good in my own way when two
years were up, I'd go back and start as clerk."
"Well," Grahame returned with a smile, "I haven't much to tell. I have
no family business to fall back on. As my means were not large enough to
let me live as I liked at home, I went abroad to increase them. So far I
haven't succeeded; but, on the whole, I've had a pretty good time, and I
don't see much reason for grumbling about my luck."
This was correct, so far as it went, for Grahame did not think it worth
while to explain that the fiery blood of the Borderers ran in his veins
and his people had been soldiers and explorers until economic changes
impoverished the family. Nor could he add that, because his name still
counted for something in the North, he had left home to avoid being
skilfully led into a marriage his friends thought suitable. He had,
indeed, run away from a well-born girl with money, who, he suspected,
was relieved to see him go. Since then he had known trouble, and it had
hardened him. Yet he was honest and was marked by some polish.
At first sight, and by contrast with his comrade, Walthew looked callow,
but he improved on acquaintance. It was not for nothing that he was the
son of a shrewd manufacturer, who had built up a great business from a
humble beginning. Walthew was cool in a crisis, and though outwardly
careless, he was capable of looking ahead. So far, his talents were
undeveloped, but Grahame suspected them.
While they sat talking, the scene in the square gained animation. Groups
of men, moving quickly, emerged from the side streets; there was a
murmur of voices; and a crowd began to gather. Women called from the
flat housetops; doors were opened and naked, dark-skinned children
dragged in from the pavement. The concourse thickened about the steps of
the church; gesticulating men chattered in the native patois.
Grahame's eyes grew keen.
"Something's going to happen," he said quietly.
Then he pressed his comrade's arm as a man appeared on the highest step
of the church, and the murmur of the crowd swelled into a roar:
"_Viva Castillo! Viva el libertador!_"
The tall figure bowed and held up a hand, and for a moment there was
silence; then a clear voice rang out, and Grahame tried to catch the
sonorous Castilian words. He was too far off, and some escaped him, but
he heard enough to gather that it was a grim indictment of the rulers of
the country. The man spoke with fire and passion, using lavish gestures,
and the cries that answered showed that he could work upon the feelings
of the crowd.
The cafe had emptied, and its stout proprietor lounged, napkin in hand,
near Grahame's table.
"Sounds pretty drastic, if I heard him right," Walthew remarked. "It's
obvious that the authorities don't use half-measures. Did he say they
had the deputation arrested and its leader shot?"
"So I understood," said Grahame. "How did you come to learn Castilian?"
"A notion of the old man's; he made me study languages. It's his
ambition to ship the Walthew manufactures all over the world, and he got
a footing in Cuba some time ago."
They were silent for a few minutes, and then Grahame turned to the
landlord.
"Are these things true?"
"It is possible," the other answered cautiously.
"Then are you not afraid of a revolution?"
"No, senor; why should I fear? When there is a revolution the wine trade
is good."
"But suppose your customers get killed?"
The landlord smiled.
"They are philosophic politicians, senor. It is the untaught rabble that
fights. These others drink their wine and argue over the newspapers.
Besides, there will be no revolution yet. Some talk, perhaps; possibly a
supporter of the Government stabbed in the dark."
"And that will be all?" Grahame asked with a keen glance.
"There will be nothing more. The President waits and watches until he
knows his enemies. Then he gives an order and there is an end of them."
The man turned away, and when, shortly afterward, the plaza rang with
fierce applause, a voice was raised in alarm. Others joined in, the
crowd began to stream back from the steps, and the orator disappeared.
Then the mass broke into running groups, and through the patter of their
feet there came a steady, measured tread. It drew nearer; short, swarthy
men in dirty white uniforms marched into the plaza, the strong light
gleaming on their rifles. They wheeled and stopped in ranks extended
across the square, and the rifles went up to their shoulders. Warning
shouts fell from the roofs, the patter of feet grew faster, the shadowy
streets were choked with fugitives, and the place was empty except for
the line of quiet men. Then an officer laughed and called out, and the
rifles came down with a clang.
"I suspect that we're up against a big man in the President," Walthew
remarked. "Perhaps we'd better light out before these fellows ask us
questions."
CHAPTER II
THE ADVENTURES BEGIN
A half moon hung over the flat roofs and the air was very still. Walthew
and Grahame sat on a balcony surrounding the patio of Don Martin
Sarmiento's house. The lattice windows that opened onto the balcony had
old but artistic hinges of bronze, and the crumbling hardwood rails
showed traces of skilful carving. Below, a small fountain splashed in a
marble basin surrounded by palmettos, and a creeper covered a trellis
with trails of dusky purple. A faint smell of decay mingled with the
more pungent odors of garlic and olive oil from the kitchen in the
courtyard, where a clatter was going on, but no sound from outside broke
the silence. Rio Frio was very quiet now.
Cups of black coffee and a plate of fruit stood on a table in front of
the men, and the senorita Blanca Sarmiento sat in a low chair opposite,
with her duenna a few yards away. Blanca was then nineteen, and Walthew,
watching her with unobtrusive admiration, wondered how it was that her
relatives had not already arranged a marriage for her, unless, perhaps,
her father's political opinions stood in the way. One ran a risk in
opposing the Government at Rio Frio. The girl was attractive, with a
finely molded figure, the grace of which was displayed by her languid
pose. Her hair was dark and coiled in heavy masses on a small,
well-shaped head; her lips were full and very red, but her eyes were a
deep blue and her skin fairer than that of the Spanish-American women
Walthew hitherto had met. Nor did she use the powder they lavishly
employ.
With a crimson rose in her hair, and a fine black-lace mantilla draped
about her shoulders and emphasizing the whiteness of her neck and
half-covered arms, she reminded Walthew of Carmen. She had something of
the latter's allurement, but he thought it was an unconscious attraction
that she exercised. The art of the coquette was missing; the girl had a
certain dignity, and there was no hint of sensuality in her beauty. She
had, no doubt, Spanish fire in her blood, but the lad thought it burned
with a clear and pure flame.
"How do you come to speak English so charmingly?" he asked, in the hope
of satisfying his curiosity about her.
"Do I speak it charmingly?" She laughed prettily. "Well, the explanation
is that it was my mother's tongue. She was Irish, you must know."
"Ah!" said Walthew. "Now I understand."
Blanca gave him a glance of languid amusement.
"Your interest is flattering, senor; but what is it you understand?"
"That's an awkward question," Walthew answered, grinning frankly.
"Still, there's something about you that I haven't noticed in
Spanish-American girls, charming as they are."
"I'm afraid you're evasive. Do you know many of my countrywomen?"
"I'd like to know more. But I believe I'm good at reading character. It
is a gift I inherited. My father was never mistaken about a man, and he
has made use of a good many."
Blanca studied him. He had a smooth, fresh face, and looked very young,
but while she thought he was direct and perhaps impulsive, something
suggested that he was shrewd.
"Women are supposed to be more puzzling," she answered. "Then the
Sarmientos come from Andalusia, and the Peninsulares are complex people.
On the surface, we are often cheerfully inconsequent, but underneath
there's a strain of melancholy. We live in the shadow of a fatalism we
got from the Moors." She glanced at Grahame. "I think you can
understand."
Grahame made a sign of assent. Sitting thoughtfully silent, his lean but
powerful frame displayed by the thin white duck, and his strong, brown
face impassive, he had a somber look. The man was reckless and sparkled
with gay humor now and then, but it was the passing brightness of the
North.
"Yes," he said, "I understand. But the Irish are optimists, and you are
Irish too."
"Then perhaps that's why I keep hopeful. It is not always easy at Rio
Frio, and life was not very joyous when we were exiles in America."
"You know my country?" Walthew broke in.
"I know your Southern States. We lived there in poverty, wandering up
and down. My father is what his friends call a patriot, and his enemies
a dangerous agitator. He had to choose between ruin and acquiescence in
corrupt tyranny, and his course was plain. But the seed he had sown
sprouted, the dictator was driven out, and we came back to our own.
Then, for a time, there was rest and safety, until the new ruler began
to follow the old. He tried to bribe my father, who had helped to put
him in power; but our honor was not for sale, and we had to leave the
capital. There are men who trust my father, and look to him for help....
But I think you know something of this."
"Yes," said Grahame. "This afternoon we heard Castillo speak in the
plaza."
The girl's eyes flashed angrily.
"Castillo is a fool! He pulls down what others have carefully built up."
"Tries to fire the mine before things are ready?" Walthew suggested. "A
premature explosion's apt to blow up the men who prepared it."
Blanca gave him a keen glance.
"That is what nearly happened this afternoon. I believe you are to be
trusted, senores?"
Grahame bowed.
"I am an adventurer, not a patriot, and my partner is out for money, but
we made a bargain with Don Martin and we keep our word."
"Then," said the girl quietly, "Castillo is hiding here."
"In the _casa Sarmiento_! Isn't that dangerous? Won't the President's
friends suspect?"
"I think they do, but they are afraid of my father's hold on the people;
and there is only a handful of troops. When it is late they may make a
search, but Castillo will leave soon. It is possible that you are in
some danger."
Walthew laughed.
"That makes things interesting; I've never been in serious danger yet.
But I suppose you have Don Martin's permission to be frank with us?"
"You are shrewd," she answered, smiling. "He has some confidence in my
judgment. I spent the years that should have been happiest in poverty
and loneliness. Are you surprised that I'm a conspirator? If you value
your safety, you will beware of me."
"You might prove dangerous to your enemies, but I believe you'd be very
staunch to your friends."
"_Gracias, senor._ I'm sure I can at least hate well."
A mulatto boy came out on to the balcony, and the girl's stout duenna,
who had been sitting silent and apparently half asleep, rose and
approached the table.
"Don Martin is disengaged," she said to Blanca; and when the girl waited
a moment Grahame imagined that something had been left for her to
decide.
He did not see any sign exchanged, but he thought with some amusement
that he and his companion had passed a test when the duenna said to
them:
"Don Martin would speak with you."
Walthew turned to Blanca, saying in Castilian:
"Until our next meeting! I kiss your hands, senorita."
The girl rose with a grave curtsy and there was a touch of stateliness
in her manner.
"May you go in safety, senores! We expect much from you."
The mulatto led them away, and, passing through the house, they found
their host and another man sitting by a dim lamp in a room with the
shutters carefully closed. Don Martin Sarmiento wore an alpaca jacket, a
white shirt, and a black silk sash round the waist of his duck
trousers. He was dark-haired and sallow, lightly built and thin, but his
expression was eager and his eyes were penetrating. One could have
imagined that his fiery spirit had worn down the flesh.
The other man was of coarser type. His skin was very dark, his face hot
and fleshy, and Grahame noticed that his hands were wet with
perspiration. His glance was restless and he had a rather truculent air,
though there was something in it that hinted at uneasiness. Grahame
thought that while he might show a rash boldness now and then, his nerve
was not very good.
"With your permission, I present my comrade, Senor Castillo," said Don
Martin. "Should any disaster overtake me, Senor Castillo, or another
whom he appoints, will carry out our contract. Our funds are in safe
hands; the rifles will be paid for."
"They will be delivered," Grahame answered quietly.
"Good! The word of a gentleman is sufficient. And now there is something
more to be said. My house is my friend's, particularly if he is in
trouble, but one has higher duties than hospitality."
"Yes," agreed Grahame, turning to Castillo. "The interests of one's
country come first. There are only three of us, and Don Martin is the
head of an important organization."
"It was not for my personal safety that I came here," Castillo broke in
hotly. "I carried papers; lists of names, compromising details. It was
unthinkable that they should fall into the President's hands. They must
be made safe, and then it does not matter what happens to me--though I
may, perhaps, claim to have been of some help to the cause of freedom."
Grahame saw his host's half-impatient smile.
"And so you gave them to Don Martin!" he remarked dryly.
"He is not watched as I am," Castillo answered. "I am hunted among the
sierras, I hide in the fever swamps; but where I pass I leave a spark
that tyranny cannot trample out. It burns and spreads; by and by there
comes the purging conflagration."
"Yes," said Grahame. "I'm told, however, that your President has a keen
scent for smoke, and I don't mean to scatter more sparks than I can
help." He turned to Don Martin. "Since our business is finished, we can
leave Rio Frio in an hour."
"I, too!" exclaimed Castillo. "It is not good for the cause that the
soldiers find me. But there are difficulties; the house may be watched."
Don Martin looked thoughtful, but not disturbed; and Grahame saw that he
could calmly take a risk. Danger and his host obviously were old
acquaintances.
"It is better that you go," he answered. "Sometimes I entertain an
American traveler, and Englishmen now and then visit Rio Frio. I do not
think you are suspected yet, and you may be able to help us by drawing
off the watchers' attention when you leave. We will see what can be
done, but it would be safer for Senor Castillo not to come with us."
He took the others to the roof, where he walked to the edge and looked
over the low parapet. A narrow, dark street divided Sarmiento's house
from the next, but a lattice in a high wall was open, and Grahame
imagined that he made out a man's head, which was, however, promptly
withdrawn.
"Once or twice a guest of mine has reached the _calle_ by a rope, but
the President's friends take precautions to-night," Don Martin remarked.
"There remain the windows on the other side, but Castillo is heavy and
fat. I think the door into the plaza would suit him best."
"Wouldn't the small one at the back be safer?" Walthew suggested.
"That will be watched, but it might be of some help if you went that
way. Possibly you would not mind wearing a sombrero and a Spanish
cloak."
"Not at all," Grahame assured him. "Still, there are two of us."
"That is an advantage. If one leaves shortly after the other, those who
keep watch and expect a single man will be puzzled."
Walthew chuckled.
"Good! I'd a hankering after adventures, and now it looks as if I'd be
gratified. But you had better not give us clothes with a name on them."
"In this country, people out of favor with the Government are modest
about their names," Don Martin rejoined.
Ten minutes later Grahame, wearing a wide black hat and a dark Spanish
cloak, stepped quietly out into the shadowy street. He had seen that his
automatic pistol was ready to his hand, having had more than one
experience of the half-breed's dexterity with the silent knife. For all
that, his hurried, stealthy gait was assumed and not natural to the man,
whose heart beat calmly, though he cast quick glances about. The houses
were high, and the street seemed to get narrower and darker as he went
on. Then he imagined he heard soft steps behind him. Walking faster, he
stopped at a corner and listened. Somebody was certainly following him.
Grahame's first impulse was to hide in a dark doorway and wait for his
pursuer, but he reflected that this would not fall in with his host's
plan, and he went on, keeping in the shadow while he made for the hotel
at which he had left his mules. There were, he imagined, two men
following him now.
A few moments afterward he reached the end of the dark street, and the
empty plaza lay before him. The moon shed a faint light upon the stones
and the high, white walls, and Grahame was glad of this. Now, if it were
needful, he could defend himself: the walk through the shadow had been
trying. Still, he must not hurry, for he never promised more than he
meant to perform, and he knew that Don Martin relied upon his playing
out his part. Perhaps he overdid it when he stopped to light a
cigarette, for, looking up as he dropped the match, he saw two dark
figures stop at the corner he had left. Then there was a low whistle,
and one of them disappeared. Grahame smiled, because he knew that
Walthew had divided the attention of the spies. The remaining man,
however, walked quickly after him, and when Grahame was half way across
the plaza he waited. His pursuer seemed to hesitate, for he came on more
slowly, and stopped a few yards off.
"The American!" he exclaimed.
"English," said Grahame calmly. "The difference is, no doubt, not
important."
The man looked hard at him, and Grahame carelessly dropped his hand upon
his pistol.
"I am going to the _fonda_; if you are going that way, I would rather
you walked in front. One is careful at night, my friend."
Though the fellow had a sinister look, he smiled and went off with an
apology, and Grahame, going on to the hotel, waited outside until
Walthew came up. The boy looked hot and breathless, but Grahame noticed
that he had a flower in his hand.
"I've been followed," Walthew laughed. "The fellows dropped back soon
after I came into the moonlight. Guess they saw they were after the
wrong man."
"Very possibly. It happened to me. I wonder whether Castillo got away?"
They listened, but the town was quiet. One or two citizens crossed the
plaza, but no sound that indicated anything unusual going on rose from
the shadowy streets.
"It seems likely," Walthew replied. "I don't think they could have
arrested him without some disturbance. Why didn't they search
Sarmiento's house?"
"Perhaps they were afraid of starting a riot that would spread. The
President seems to be a capable man, and Don Martin obviously enjoys the
confidence of the citizens. On the whole, I think he deserves it."
"So do I," Walthew agreed. "What do you think of the other fellow?"
"I wouldn't trust him. He's no doubt sincere, but I'm not sure of his
nerve. But where did you get the rose?"
"On the pavement outside the _casa Sarmiento_," Walthew answered with
some embarrassment.
"Mmm! Dropped from a window. Such things happen in Spanish-American
towns, and it's possible that the President's spies have noted it
against you. However, you'll be too busy to think of the senorita when
we get back to the coast." Grahame paused and added: "It might be wise
to remember that you're engaged in a dangerous business, and can't run
the risk of any complications. Neither of us can indulge in philandering
until this job's finished."
"I'll take no risk that could get us into difficulties, but that's all
I'll promise," Walthew said quietly.
Grahame gave him a steady glance.
"Well, I suppose I must be satisfied."
They entered the hotel, and half an hour later they left Rio Frio and
rode down the hillside toward the misty swamps that fringed the coast.
CHAPTER III
HIGH STAKES
The green shutters were half closed to keep the dazzling sunshine out of
Henry Cliffe's private sitting-room at the smart Florida hotel, but the
fresh sea breeze swept in and tempered the heat. The scent of flowers
mingled with a delicate perfume such as fastidious women use, but Mrs.
Cliffe was enjoying an afternoon nap and her daughter had gone out, so
that Cliffe and Robinson had the room to themselves. They sat, opposite
each other, at a small table on which stood a bottle and a cigar box,
but there was only iced water in the tall glass at Cliffe's hand.
He had lunched sparingly, as usual, and now leaned back in his chair,
looking thoughtful. His hair was turning gray, and his face was thin and
lined, but there was a hint of quiet force about him. His dress was
plain but in excellent taste, and he looked, what he was, a good type of
the American business man, who had, however, as sometimes happens to his
kind, sacrificed his health to commercial success. He was a financier
and a floater of companies which generally paid.
Robinson was tall, with a high color, a prominent, hooked nose, and a
face of Jewish cast. His clothes were well cut, but their adherence to
the latest fashion was rather pronounced, and he wore expensive
jewelry. He was favorably known on Wall Street and sometimes heard of
when a corner was being manipulated in the Chicago wheat pit. Cliffe had
proposed a joint venture, because he knew that Robinson did not fear a
risk and he had learned that a Jew can generally be relied upon when the
reckoning comes.
"Well," said Robinson, "I see a chance of trouble. If President Altiera
goes down, we lose our money."
"A sure thing," Cliffe agreed. "It will be our business to keep him on
his feet, and it may cost us something. In a way, that's an advantage.
He must have our help, and is willing to bid high for it."
"The revolutionaries may beat him."
"If he's left alone; but a little money goes a long way in his country,
and the dissatisfied politicians would rather take some as a gift than
risk their lives by fighting for it. Altiera can buy up most of them if
he has the means; and he's capable of quieting the rest in a more
drastic way." Cliffe smiled as he continued: "It's not my habit to plan
a deal without carefully considering what I may get up against."
"Then it's your honest opinion the thing's a good business chance?"
"I call it that. One gets nothing for nothing. If you expect a prize,
you must put up the stakes."
"Very well. Suppose you get the concession? Is there gold worth mining
in the country?"
"I can't tell," Cliffe answered frankly. "The Spaniards found a good
deal three hundred years ago, and now and then a half-breed brings some
out of the bush. Guess we could get enough to use as a draw in the
prospectus."
"You'd have to make the prospectus good," Robinson said with a
thoughtful air. "Not an invariable rule, of course, but our names stand
for something with the investing public."
"I generally do make good. If we don't strike gold, there's rubber, and
the soil will grow high-grade cane and coffee. Give me the concession
and I'll make it pay."
Robinson nodded. Cliffe's business talent was particularly marked in the
development of virgin territory, though he never undertook the work in
person. He knew where to find the right men, and how far to trust them.
"I suppose we won't be required to meddle with dago politics?" Robinson
suggested.
"Certainly not; that's Altiera's affair, and he's capable of looking
after it. A number of his people are getting tired of him, but so long
as he can pay his soldiers up to time and buy support where he can't use
force, he'll keep control."
"A bit of a brute, I've heard."
"He's not a humanitarian," Cliffe agreed. "Still, countries like his
need a firm hand."
"Guess that's so," said Robinson.
He and Cliffe were respected in business circles. They met their
obligations and kept the rules that govern financial dealings. That they
might now be lending their support to tyrannical oppression, and helping
to stifle the patriotic aspirations of a downtrodden people, did not
enter their minds. That was not their affair; they were out for money,
and their responsibility ended with the payment of dividends to those
who bought their stock. They would fulfill this duty if the thing were
possible; although their standard of morality was not of the highest,
they had prosperous rivals who fell short of it.
"I'll stand in," Robinson decided after a few moments' silence. "You can
let me know how much you will need to carry you through when you get
your plans worked out."
"Very well. It's over the first payments we take a risk. The money will,
so to speak, vanish. We'll have nothing to show for it except the good
will of the men in power. Some of it may even get into the wrong hands."
Robinson made a sign of comprehension. He knew something about official
graft, for he now and then found it needful to smooth the way for a new
venture by judicious bribery.
"There'll be no trouble after we've bought the concession," Cliffe
continued. "The cash will then go to the treasury, and whichever party
gets control will have to stand to the bargain. And now I guess we can
let the matter drop until I fix things up."
They went out to a seat on the veranda, which looked across a row of
dusty palmettos and a strip of arid lawn that the glistening showers
from the sprinklers could not keep green. An inlet of blue water ran up
to its edge, and beyond the curve of sheltering beach the long Atlantic
swell rolled into the bay flecked with incandescent foam, for the
sunshine was dazzling and the breeze was fresh. Two or three miles away
there was a stretch of calmer water behind a long point on which the
surf beat, and in the midst of this a small steamer gently rolled at
anchor. Nearer the inlet, a little sailing-boat stood out to sea, her
varnished deck and snowy canvas gleaming in the strong light.
"Miss Cliffe's boat, isn't it?" Robinson remarked. "Looks very small; I
s'pose she's safe?"
"New York canoe club model," Cliffe replied. "Had her brought down on a
freight-car. Evelyn's fond of sailing and smart at the helm. She's all
right--though the breeze does seem pretty fresh."
While they talked about other matters, Evelyn Cliffe sat in the stern of
the tiny sloop, enjoying the sense of control the grasp of the tiller
gave her, and the swift rush of the polished hull through the sparkling
foam. There was also some satisfaction in displaying her nerve and skill
to the loungers on the beach, who were, for the most part, fashionable
people from the Northern States. Among these was a young man upon whom
Evelyn knew her mother looked with approval.
Though he had much to recommend him, and had shown a marked preference
for her society, Evelyn had come to no decision about Reginald Gore, but
she was willing that he should admire her seamanship, and it was,
perhaps, in the expectation of meeting him afterward that she had
dressed herself carefully. She wore well-cut blue serge that emphasized
her fine pink-and-white color, and matched her eyes; and the small blue
cap did not hide her red-gold hair.
As the breeze freshened, she forgot the spectators, and began to wish
she had taken a reef in the mainsail before starting. Hitherto she had
had somebody with her when it was necessary to shorten canvas; but it
was unlike a sport to turn back because of a little wind. She would
stand on until she had weathered the point and was out on the open
Atlantic, and then run home. The strain on the helm got heavier, the
foam crept level with the lee deck, and sometimes sluiced along it when
the boat dipped her bows in a sea. Then the spray began to beat upon the
slanted canvas, and whipped Evelyn's face as she braced herself against
the tiller.
The boat was sailing very fast, plunging through the sparkling ridges of
water; there was something strangely exhilarating in her speed and the
way the foam swirled past. Evelyn had an adventurous temperament, and,
being then twenty-three, was young enough to find a keen relish in
outdoor sport. Now she was matching her strength and skill against the
blue Atlantic combers, which were getting steeper and frothing on their
crests. The point was falling to leeward; it would be a fair wind home,
and she determined to stand on a little longer. Casting a quick glance
astern, she saw that the figures on the beach had grown indistinct and
small. She felt alone with the sea at last, and the situation had its
charm; but when she fixed her eyes ahead she wished that the rollers
were not quite so large. She had to ease the boat over them; sometimes
let the sheet run in the harder gusts, and then it was not easy to get
the wet rope in.
When the point shut off the beach, she saw she must come round, and,
after waiting for a patch of smooth water, put up the helm to jibe. The
strain on the sheet was heavier than she thought; the rope bruised her
fingers as it ran through them. The boat rolled wildly, and then the big
sail swung over with a crash. Evelyn saw with alarm that the gaff along
its head had stopped at an unusual angle to the canvas. Something had
gone wrong. But her nerve was good. She could lower the mainsail and
run home under the jib.
When she left the helm the boat shot up into the wind, with the long
boom banging to and fro and the spray flying across her. Evelyn loosed
the halyards, but found that the gaff would not come down. Its end
worked upon a brass slide on the mast, and the grips had bent and
jambed. Things now looked awkward. It was blowing moderately fresh, the
sea was getting up, and the sail she could not shorten might capsize the
boat.
With difficulty, she got the sloop round, but, as the gaff was jambed,
she would not steer a course that would take her to the inlet, and
Evelyn remembered with alarm that there was some surf on the beach. She
could swim, but she shrank from the thought of struggling ashore from
the wrecked craft through broken water. Still, it was some comfort to
see the point drop astern and the beach get nearer; she was on the way
to land, there were boats on the inlet, and somebody might notice that
she was in difficulties. No boat came off, however, and she realized
that from a distance nothing might appear to be wrong with the sloop.
When she was near enough to signal for help it would be too late.
A small steamer lurched at anchor not far away; but Evelyn could not
reach her: the sloop was like a bird with a broken wing and could only
blunder clumsily, in danger of capsizing, before the freshening wind. In
another quarter of an hour she would be in the surf, which now looked
dangerously heavy.
While she was trying to nerve herself for the struggle to land, she saw
a boat leave the steamer's side. It was a very small dinghy, and there
was only one man on board, but he waved his hand as if he understood
her peril, and then rowed steadily to intercept her. This needed
judgment: if he miscalculated the distance it would be impossible for
him to overtake the sloop. And Evelyn could do nothing to help. She must
concentrate her attention upon keeping her craft before the wind. If she
jibed, bringing the big sail violently over with its head held fast
would result in a capsize.
Five minutes later she risked a glance. The dinghy was close at hand,
lurching up and down, lost from sight at intervals among the combers.
The man, coatless and hatless, seemed to be handling her with caution,
easing her when a roller with a foaming crest bore down on him, but
Evelyn thought he would not miss her boat. Her heart beat fast as she
put the helm hard down. The sloop swung round, slackening speed as she
came head to wind, there was a thud alongside, and the man jumped on
board with a rope in his hand.
Then things began to happen so rapidly that the girl could not remember
exactly what was done; but the man showed a purposeful activity. He
scrambled along the narrow deck, got a few feet up the mast, and the
sail came down; then he sprang aft to the helm, and the sloop headed for
the steamer, with his dinghy in tow and only the jib set.
They were alongside in a few minutes, and he seized a rope that some one
threw him.
"Our gig's hauled up on the beach for painting, and I'm afraid we
couldn't reach the landing in the dinghy, now the sea's getting up," he
said. "You'd better come on board, and I'll see if Macallister can put
your gaff right."
Evelyn hesitated, for she suspected that it would take some time to mend
the damaged spar. It was not an adventure her mother would approve of,
but as she could see no way of reaching land, she let the man help her
through the gangway.
CHAPTER IV
THE "ENCHANTRESS"
On reaching the steamer's deck, Evelyn glanced with curiosity at her
rescuer. He was a tall, lightly built man, dressed in an old blue shirt,
paint-stained duck trousers, and ragged canvas shoes, but he had an easy
manner that was not in harmony with his rough clothes. Evelyn liked his
brown face. It had a hint of force in it; though now he was watching her
with a half-amused smile. He fell short of being handsome, but, on the
whole, his appearance made a good impression on the girl.
Then she looked about the vessel. The deck, finely laid with narrow
planks, was littered with odd spars, rusty chain, coal bags, and pieces
of greasy machinery, as if repairs and refitting were going on. She was
a very small, two-masted steamer, carrying some sail, for smoke-grimed
canvas was furled along the booms, and Evelyn thought she had been built
for a yacht. Her narrow beam, her graceful sweep of teakwood rail, and
the long, tapering counter suggested speed. A low, lead-gray funnel
stood just forward of the mainmast, and a teak house, rising three or
four feet above the deck, occupied part of her length. The brass boss of
the steering wheel bore the name _Enchantress_. The after end of the
house, however, was built of iron, with raised lights in the top, and
the hammering and the pointed remarks that came up indicated that
somebody below was grappling with refractory metal. After one
exclamation, Evelyn's companion walked to the skylights.
"Mack," he said in a warning tone, "there's a lady on board."
"One o' they half-dressed hussies from the hotel? Man, I thought ye had
mair taste," a hoarse voice replied.
Evelyn was glad that her boating costume was not in the extreme of
fashion, for sleeves and skirts were severely curtailed then, but she
waited with some amusement.
"Come up and don't talk!" said the man who had brought her on board.
"Here's a job for you."
"That's one thing I'll never die for the want of," the voice below went
on. "I've got jobs enough already, and no help wi' them. Ye cannot make
a mechanic out o' a dago muleteer, and the gangrel son o' a rich
American is no' much better. They're wrecking the bonny mill and when I
had them strike at a bit forging the weariful deevils smashed my finger.
I telt them----"
"It won't stand for repeating. Let up; you've the voice of a bull,"
somebody broke in. "Grahame's waiting with a lady. Can't you get a move
on?"
"What's the lady wanting--is it her watch mending?" the Scot asked with
a hint of eagerness. A passion for tampering with the works of watches
not infrequently characterizes the marine engineer.
"Come and see!" called Evelyn's companion; and a few moments later the
mechanic appeared.
He was big, rather gaunt, and very dirty; but he carried himself well,
and had obviously just put on a smart blue jacket with brass buttons
that bore the crest of an English mail line. Evelyn thought his age was
between forty and fifty, but his eyes had a humorous twinkle and his air
was rakish. Behind him came a much younger man in greasy overalls.
The engineer bowed to Evelyn with some grace.
"Ye'll be Miss Cliffe; I ken ye by sight," he said. "They telt me who ye
were in the bar at the hotel."
"Do they talk about me in such places?" Evelyn asked with a touch of
haughtiness.
"What would ye expect? When ye're born good-looking, ye must take the
consequences. But, as Grahame has nae manners, I'll present
myself--Andrew Macallister, extra chief's ticket, and noo, through
speaking my mind to a director, engineer o' this barge." He indicated
his greasy companion. "Mr. Walthew, who, though ye might not think it by
his look, was taught at Harvard. If my temper stands the strain, I may
make a useful greaser o' him yet. The other ye nae doot ken."
"No," said Evelyn, half amused. "He kindly came to my help when I was in
trouble with my boat."
"Then he's skipper. They call him Grahame, and it's a good Scottish
name. But I was hoping ye had maybe some difficulty with your watch."
"Why did you hope so?" Evelyn asked, laughing.
"On no account let him have it," Walthew interposed. "He brought back
the last watch a confiding visitor left him with the gold case badly
crushed. 'I had to screw her in the vice, but a bit rub with a file will
smooth her off,' he told the owner."
"He was a fastidious beast o' a Custom House grafter," Macallister
explained. "But if it's no' a watch, what way can I serve ye?"
Grahame took him to the sloop and showed him the gaff, and a few minutes
later he came back with the bent jaws.
"It's no' a bad piece o' work; your people have an eye for design, but
they make things too light," he said. "Noo I'll cut ye a new grip out o'
solid brass, but it will take an hour."
"I suppose I must wait; there's no other way of getting back," Evelyn
answered dubiously.
Macallister went below, and Grahame put a deck chair for Evelyn under
the awning in the stern, where he sat down on a coil of rope, while
Walthew leaned against the rail near by. The girl felt interested in
them all. She had heard that Walthew had been to Harvard, and his
appearance suggested that he belonged to her own world. If so, what was
he doing in the _Enchantress's_ engine room? Then, Macallister's random
talk had some piquancy. His manners were not polished, but they were
good in their way.
"The steamer is yours, I suppose?" she remarked.
"Yes," said Grahame. "We bought her cheap, and are getting her ready for
sea. As I dare say you have noticed, she needs refitting."
"But wouldn't that have been easier at New Orleans or Galveston?"
"Perhaps, if we were able to hire professional assistance, but we have
to do the work ourselves, and this place is quiet, and clean for
painting."
"Aren't you painting her an unusual color? White would have been
prettier than this dingy gray."
"White's conspicuous," Walthew answered, and Evelyn noticed Grahame's
warning glance. "A neutral tint stands better, and doesn't show the
dirt. You see, we have to think of our pockets."
"Then it isn't to be a pleasure trip. Where are you going?"
"Up the Gulf Stream. To Cuba first, and then south and west; wherever
there's a chance of trade."
"But the boat is very small. What do you think of trading in?"
"Anything that comes along," Walthew answered with a thoughtful air. "We
might catch turtles, for example."
"One understands that turtles are now farmed for the market."
"It would be cheaper to catch them. We might get mahogany."
"But mahogany logs are big. You couldn't carry many."
"We could tow them in a raft. Then the English and American tourists who
come out in the mail boats might charter us for trips."
"I'm afraid you'd find them exacting. They'd expect nice berths and a
good table. Do you carry a good cook?"
Grahame chuckled and Walthew grinned.
"Modesty prevents my answering, because my partners leave me to put up
the hash. I'll admit it might be better; but our passengers wouldn't
find that out until we got them away at sea."
Evelyn was frankly amused. She could not imagine his cooking very well,
but she liked his humorous candor.
"Your plans seem rather vague," she said.
"They are, but one doesn't want a cut and dried program for a cruise
about the Spanish Main. One takes what comes along; in the old days it
used to be rich plate ships and windfalls of that kind, and I guess
there's still something to be picked up when you get off the liners'
track. One expects to find adventures on the seas that Drake and
Frobisher sailed."
Evelyn mused. She was shrewd enough to perceive that the men were hiding
something, and they roused her curiosity, but she thought Walthew was
right. Romance was not dead, and the Spanish Main was a name to conjure
with. It brought one visions of desolate keys where treasure was hidden,
the rush of the lukewarm Gulf Stream over coral reefs, of palm-fringed
inlets up which the pinnaces had crept to cut out Spanish galleons, and
of old white cities that the buccaneers had sacked. Tragic and heroic
memories haunted that blue sea, and although luxurious mail boats plowed
it now, the passions of the old desperados still burned in the hearts of
men.
Walthew was smooth-faced, somewhat ingenuous, and marked by boyish
humor, but Evelyn had noticed his athletic form, and thought he could be
determined. He was no doubt proficient in sports that demanded strength
and nerve. For all that, it was Grahame and his hawk-like look that her
thoughts dwelt most upon, for something about him suggested that he had
already found the adventures his comrade was seeking. He was a soldier
of fortune, who had taken wounds and perhaps still bore their scars. She
remembered the cool judgment he had shown when he came to her rescue.
Walthew disturbed her reflections.
"It will be some time before Andrew fixes your gaff, and there's no use
in trying to hurry him," he said. "He's an artist in metal, and never
lets up until he's satisfied with a job. So, as you must wait and we
have a kettle on the forge below, I can offer you some tea and I'd like
your opinion of the biscuit I've been baking for supper."
Evelyn felt doubtful. She was spending the afternoon in a way her mother
would certainly not approve of, but she could not get ashore until the
gaff was mended. Besides, it was pleasant to sit under the awning with
the fresh sea breeze on her face and listen to the splash of the combers
on the bows. Then she was interested in her companions. They were
different from the rather vapid loungers she would have been talking to
had she stayed at the hotel.
She let Walthew go and then turned to Grahame.
"Have you known your partner long?" she asked.
"No; I met him for the first time in New Orleans a few months ago."
"I asked because he's a type that I'm well acquainted with," Evelyn
explained.
"And you would not have expected to find him cooking and cleaning
engines on a boat like this?"
"No; they're rather unusual occupations for a conventionally brought up
young American."
Grahame smiled.
"I understand that Walthew might have enjoyed all the comforts your
civilization has to offer, but he preferred the sea. Perhaps I'm
prejudiced, but I don't blame him. There's a charm in freedom and the
wide horizon."
"Yes," she agreed thoughtfully, looking across the blue water; "I
suppose that's true. If a man has the courage to break away, he can
follow his bent. It's different with women. We're securely fenced in;
our corral walls are high."
"They keep trouble out. Hardship and danger aren't pleasant things, and
after a time the romance of the free-lance's life wears off. One
sometimes looks longingly at the sheltered nooks that men with settled
habits occupy."
"And yet you follow your star!"
"Star's too idealistic; my bent is better. What's born in one must have
its way. This is perhaps most convenient when it's an inherited genius
for making money."
"It's useful to oneself and others," Evelyn agreed. "But do these
talents run in the blood?"
"It seems so," Grahame answered, and was quiet for a time, languidly
watching the girl and wondering how far his statement was true.
It might be argued that the strongest family strains must be weakened by
marriage, and their salient characteristics disappear in a few
generations, but he felt strangely akin to the mosstroopers of his name
who scourged the Scottish Border long ago. Their restlessness and lust
of adventure were his. This, however, was not a matter of much
consequence. Chance had thrown him into the company of a pretty and
intelligent girl, and he must try to entertain her.
"You're fond of the sea and adventurous, or you wouldn't have driven
that little sloop so far out under full sail," he said.
"Oh," she admitted, smiling, "that was partly because I wanted to show
my skill and was ashamed to turn back when the breeze freshened."
Grahame laughed. He liked her frankness.
"After all," he said, "it's a feeling that drives a good many of us on.
A weakness, perhaps, but it may be better than excessive caution."
"A matter of opinion. Of course, if you determine never to do anything
foolish, you're apt to do nothing at all. But I'm afraid I can't throw
much light upon these subjects.... Here comes our tea."
It was drinkable, but Evelyn thought the biscuit could undoubtedly have
been better. For all that, she enjoyed the meal, and when it was over
Macallister appeared with the mended gaff.
"I'm thinking yon will never bend or jamb," he said, indicating the
beautifully finished pieces of brass-work.
Evelyn thanked him, and soon afterward Grahame helped her into the boat
and hoisted the reefed sail. The wind was still fresh, but the sloop ran
shoreward safely, with the sparkling seas ranging up on her quarter, and
Grahame admired the grace of the neat, blue-clad figure at the helm. The
rushing breeze and the flying spray had brought a fine color into the
girl's face and a brightness to her eyes.
As they neared the beach, a gasolene launch came plunging out to meet
them, and Evelyn laughed as she turned to Grahame.
"I've been missed at last," she said. "That's my father coming to look
for me."
The launch swung round close alongside and Grahame recognized that he
was being subjected to a keen scrutiny by a man on board. The broken
water, however, made explanations impossible, and the launch followed
the sloop to the inlet, where Evelyn neatly brought the craft up to the
landing. On getting ashore, she spoke to Cliffe, and he thanked Grahame
and invited him to the hotel. Grahame politely declined, but agreed to
borrow the launch to take him on board.
As he was leaving, Evelyn held out her hand.
"It was fortunate that my difficulties began when I was near your boat,
and I don't altogether regret them. I have spent a pleasant afternoon,"
she said.
Grahame bowed and turned away; but somewhat to his surprise, he found
his thoughts return to his guest as the launch carried him back to the
steamer. The girl was cultured and intelligent, perhaps a little
romantic, and unspoiled by luxury; but this was nothing to him. There
were times when he felt lonely and outcast from his kind, for until he
met Walthew his comrades had generally been rough and broken men. Some
years ago he had been a favorite with well-bred women; but he never met
them on terms of friendship now. He was poor, and would no doubt remain
so, since he had not the gift of making money; but an untrammeled,
wandering life had its advantages.
With a smile at his brief relapse into sentiment, he resolved to forget
Miss Cliffe; but he found it strangely difficult to occupy his mind with
calculations about stores for the coming voyage.
Evelyn related her adventure to her mother, who listened with strong
disapproval. Mrs. Cliffe was a thin, keen-eyed woman, with social
ambitions and some skill in realizing them.
"If you hadn't been so rash as to go out alone, this wouldn't have
happened," she remarked. "You must really be more careful."
"I couldn't prevent the gaff's jambing," Evelyn replied.
"That is not what I meant. After all, nobody in the hotel knows much
about the matter, and there is, of course, no need to do more than bow
to the men if you meet them at the landing, though it would be better to
avoid this, if possible. A small favor of the kind they did you does not
justify their claiming your acquaintance."
"Father wanted to bring one of them here."
"Your father is a man of business, and has very little discretion in
social matters," Mrs. Cliffe replied. "If Reggie cannot go with you,
take the hotel boatman when you next go sailing."
Evelyn did not answer, but she disagreed with the views her mother had
expressed, and she resolved to leave Reggie ashore. For one thing, he
was not of much use in a boat. Yet it was curious that she had once been
pleased to take him out.
CHAPTER V
THE CALL OF THE UNKNOWN
The sea breeze had fallen, and the air was hot and still. A full moon
rested low in the eastern sky, and against its light the tops of the
royal palms cut in feathery silhouette. Evelyn was sitting in the hotel
garden with Reginald Gore. A dusky rose arbor hid them from the veranda,
where a number of the guests had gathered, but Evelyn imagined that one
or two of the women knew where she was and envied her. This once would
have afforded her some satisfaction, but it did not matter now, and
although the spot seemed made for confidential talk, she listened
quietly to the rollers breaking on the beach. The roar of the surf had a
disturbing effect; she felt that it called, urging her to follow her
star and launch out on the deep. Her companion was silent, and she
wondered what he was thinking about, or if, as seemed more likely, his
mind was vacant. She found him irritating to-night.
Gore was the finished product of a luxurious age: well-bred,
well-taught, and tastefully dressed. His father had made a fortune out
of railroad stock, and although Reginald had not the ability to increase
it, he spent it with prudence. He had a good figure, and a pleasant
face, but Evelyn suspected that his highest ambition was to lounge
through life gracefully.
Evelyn knew her mother's plans regarding him, and had, to some extent,
fallen in with them. Reggie had much that she valued to offer, but she
now and then found him tiresome. He stood for the luxurious, but, in a
sense, artificial life, with which she was growing dissatisfied. She
felt that she wanted stirring, and must get into touch with the real
things.
"You're not talkative," she remarked, watching the lights of the
_Enchantress_ that swung and blinked with the tossing swell.
"No," he agreed good-humoredly. "Doesn't seem to be much to talk about."
There was silence for a few moments; then Evelyn put into words a train
of thoughts that was forming indistinctly in her mind.
"You have never done anything very strenuous in life. You have had all
the pleasure money can provide one. Are you content?"
"On the whole, yes. Aren't you?"
"No," said Evelyn thoughtfully. "I believe I haven't really been content
for a long time, but I didn't know it. The mind can be doped, but the
effect wears off and you feel rather startled when you come to
yourself."
Gore nodded.
"I know! Doesn't last, but it's disturbing. When I feel like that, I
take a soothing drink."
Evelyn laughed, for his answer was characteristic. He understood, to
some extent, but she did not expect him to sympathize with the
restlessness that had seized her. Reggie would never do anything rash or
unconventional. Hitherto she had approved his caution. She had enjoyed
the comfortable security of her station, had shared her mother's
ambitions, and looked upon marriage as a means of rising in the social
scale. Her adventurous temperament had found some scope in exciting
sports and in an occasional flirtation that she did not carry far; but
she was now beginning to feel that life had strange and wonderful things
to offer those who had the courage to seize them. She had never
experienced passion--perhaps because her training had taught her to
dread it; but her imagination was now awake.
Her visit to the _Enchantress_ had perhaps had something to do with
these disturbing feelings, but not, she argued, because she was
sentimentally attracted by her rescuer. It was the mystery in which
Grahame's plans were wrapped that was interesting. He was obviously the
leader of the party and about to engage in some rash adventure on seas
the buccaneers had sailed. This, of course, was nothing to her; but
thinking of him led her to wonder whether she might not miss much by
clinging too cautiously to what she knew was safe.
With a soft laugh she turned to Gore.
"Tell me about the dance they're getting up. I hear you are one of the
stewards," she said.
It was a congenial topic, and as she listened to her companion's talk
Evelyn felt that she was being drawn back to secure, familiar ground.
Cliffe, in the meanwhile, had come out in search of her and, seeing how
she was engaged, had strolled into the hotel bar. A tall, big-boned man,
dressed in blue serge with brass buttons on his jacket, was talking at
large, and Cliffe, stopping to listen, thought the tales he told with
dry Scottish humor were good.
"You are the engineer who mended the gaff of my daughter's boat," Cliffe
said. "I must thank you for that; it was a first-rate job."
"It might have been worse," Macallister modestly replied. "Are ye a
mechanic then?"
"No; but I know good work when I see it."
"I'm thinking that's a gift, though ye may not use it much. It's no'
good work the world's looking for."
"True," agreed Cliffe; "perhaps we're too keen on what will pay."
"Ye mean what will pay the first user. An honest job is bound to pay
somebody in the end."
"Well, I guess that's so. You're a philosopher."
Macallister grinned.
"I have been called worse names, and maybe with some cause. Consistency
gets monotonous. It's better to be a bit of everything, as the humor
takes ye."
"What kind of engines has your boat?" Cliffe asked. He was more at home
when talking practical matters.
"As fine a set o' triples as I've clapped my eyes upon, though they have
been shamefully neglectit."
"And what speed can you get out of her?"
"A matter o' coal," Macallister answered with a twinkle. "A seven-knot
bat will suit our purse best."
Cliffe saw that further questions on this point would be injudicious,
but the man interested him, and he noted the flag on his buttons.
"Well," he said, "the _Enchantress_ must be a change from the liners you
have sailed in."
"I find that. But there's aye some compensation. I have tools a man can
work with, and oil that will keep her running smooth. Ye'll maybe ken
there's a difference in engine stores."
"I've heard my manufacturing friends say something of the kind."
Cliffe ordered refreshment, and quietly studied his companion. The man
had not the reserve he associated with the Scot, but a dash and a
reckless humor, which are, nevertheless, essentially Scottish too.
Cliffe wondered curiously what enterprise he and his companions were
engaged upon, but he did not think Macallister would tell him. If the
others were like this fellow, he imagined that they would carry out
their plans, for he read resolution as well as daring in the Scot's
character; besides, he had been favorably impressed by Grahame.
After some further talk, Macallister left, and Cliffe joined his wife
and daughter.
The next morning, Evelyn, getting up before most of the other guests,
went out on the balcony in front of her room and looked across the bay.
The sun was not yet hot, and a fresh breeze flecked the blue water with
feathery streaks of white, while the wet beach glistened dazzlingly.
There was a refreshing, salty smell, and for a few minutes the girl
enjoyed the grateful coolness; then she felt that something was missing
from the scene, and noticed that the _Enchantress_ had vanished. The
adventurers had sailed in the night. On the whole she was conscious of
relief. They had gone and she could now get rid of the restlessness that
their presence had caused. After all, there was peril in the longing for
change; it was wiser to be satisfied with the security and solid comfort
which surrounded her.
Looking down at a footstep, she saw Gore strolling about the lawn,
faultlessly dressed in light flannel, with a Panama hat. There was not
a crease in his clothes that was out of place; the color scheme was
excellent--even his necktie was exactly the right shade. He stood for
all her mother had taught her to value: wealth, leisure, and cultivated
taste. Reggie was a man of her own kind; she had nothing in common with
the bronzed, tar-stained Grahame, whose hawk-like look had for the
moment stirred her imagination.
"You look like the morning," Gore called up to her. "Won't you come down
and walk to the beach? The sun and breeze are delightful, and we'll have
them all to ourselves."
Evelyn noticed the hint of intimacy, but it did not jar upon her mood,
and she smiled as she answered that she would join him.
A few minutes later, they walked along the hard, white sand, breathing
the keen freshness of the spray.
"What made you get up so soon?" Evelyn asked.
"It's not hard to guess. I was waiting for my opportunity. You're in the
habit of rising in good time."
"Well," she said with a bantering air, "I think waiting for
opportunities is a habit of yours. Of course, you have some excuse for
this."
Gore looked puzzled for a moment and then laughed.
"I see what you mean. As a rule, the opportunities come to me."
"Don't they? I wonder whether you're much happier than the men who have
to make, or look for, them."
"I can't say, because I haven't tried that plan. I can't see why I
should look for anything, when I don't have to. Anyway, I guess I'm a
pretty cheerful person and easy to get on with. It's the strivers
who're always getting after something out of reach that give you jars."
"You're certainly not a striver," Evelyn agreed. "However, you seem to
have all a man could want."
"Not quite," he answered. "I'll confess that I'm not satisfied yet, but
I try to make the most of the good things that come along--and I'm glad
I got up early. It's a glorious morning!"
Evelyn understood. Reggie was not precipitate and feared a rebuff. She
believed that she could have him when she liked, but he would look for
some tactful sign of her approval before venturing too far. The trouble
was that she did not know if she wanted him.
She changed the subject, and they paced the beach, engaged in
good-humored banter, until the breakfast gong called them back to the
hotel.
In the afternoon, however, Evelyn's mood changed again. The breeze died
away and it was very hot. Everybody was languid, and she found her
friends dull. Although Gore tried to be amusing, his conversation was
unsatisfactory; and the girls about the hotel seemed more frivolous and
shallow than usual. None of these people ever did anything really worth
while! Evelyn did not know what she wished to do, but she felt that the
life she led was unbearably stale.
When dark fell and the deep rumble of the surf filled the air, she sat
with her father in a quiet corner of the garden.
"Didn't you say you might make a short business trip to the West
Indies?" she asked him.
"Yes; I may have to spend a week in Havana."
"Then I wish you would take me."
"It might be arranged," said Cliffe. He seldom refused her anything.
"Your mother wouldn't come, but she has plenty of engagements at home.
Why do you want to go?"
Evelyn found this hard to answer, but she tried to formulate her
thoughts.
"Cuba is, of course, a new country to me, and I suppose we all feel a
mysterious attraction toward what is strange. Had you never a longing
for something different, something out of the usual run?"
"I had when I was young."
"But you don't feel it now?"
"One learns to keep such fancies in their place when business demands
it," Cliffe answered with a dry smile. "I can remember times when I
wanted to go off camping in the Canadian Rockies and join a canoe trip
on Labrador rivers. Now and then in the hot weather the traffic in the
markets and the dusty offices make me tired. I'll confess that I've felt
the snow-peaks and the rapids call."
"We went to Banff once," said Evelyn. "It was very nice."
"But not the real thing! You saw the high peaks from the hotel garden
and the passes from an observation car. Then we made one or two
excursions with pack-horses, guides, and people like ourselves, where it
was quite safe to go. That was as much as your mother could stand for.
She'd no sympathy with my hankering after the lone trail."
Evelyn could see his face in the moonlight, and she gave him a quick
look. Her father, it seemed, had feelings she had never suspected in
him.
"But if you like the mountains, couldn't you enjoy them now?"
"No," he said, rather grimly. "The grip of my business grows tighter all
the time. It costs a good deal to live as we do, and I must keep to the
beaten tracks that lead to places where money is made."
"I sometimes think we are too extravagant and perhaps more ostentatious
than we need be," Evelyn said in a diffident tone.
"We do what our friends expect and your mother has been accustomed to.
Then it's my pleasure to give my daughter every advantage I can and,
when the time for her to leave us comes, to see she starts fair."
Evelyn was silent for a few moments, feeling touched. She had formed a
new conception of her father, who, she had thought, loved the making of
money for its own sake. Now it was rather startling to find that in
order to give her mother and herself all they could desire, he had held
one side of his nature in subjection and cheerfully borne a life of
monotonous toil.
"I don't want to leave you," she said in a gentle voice.
He looked at her keenly, and she saw that her mother had been speaking
to him about Gore.
"Well," he responded, "I want to keep you as long as possible, but when
you want to go I must face my loss and make the best of it. In the
meanwhile, we'll go to Cuba if your mother consents."
Evelyn put her hand affectionately on his arm.
"Whatever happens," she said softly, "you won't fail me. I'm often
frivolous and selfish, but it's nice to know I have somebody I can
trust."
CHAPTER VI
ON THE SPANISH MAIN
There had been wind, but it had fallen toward evening, and the
_Enchantress_ rolled in a flat calm when her engines stopped. As she
swung with the smooth undulations, blocks clattered, booms groaned, and
the water in her bilges swirled noisily to and fro. It was difficult to
move about the slanted deck, and two dark-skinned, barefooted seamen
were seated forward with their backs against the rail. A comrade below
was watching the engine fires and, with the exception of her Spanish
helmsman, this was all the paid crew the _Enchantress_ carried.
She drifted east with the Gulf Stream. Around her there hung a muggy
atmosphere pervaded with a curious, hothouse smell. Grahame stood in the
channels, heaving the lead. He found deep water, but white patches on
the northern horizon, where the expanse of sea was broken by spouts of
foam, marked a chain of reefs and keys that rose a foot or two above the
surface. A larger streak of white was fading into the haze astern, but
Grahame had carefully taken its compass bearings, because dusk, which
comes suddenly in the Bahama Channel, was not far away. He dropped the
lead on deck, and joined Macallister, who stood in the engine-room
doorway rubbing his hands with cotton waste.
"No sign o' that steamboat yet?" the Scot asked.
"It's hazy to the east," said Grahame. "We mightn't see her until she's
close if they're not making much smoke. Still, she ought to have turned
up last night."
"She'll come. A tornado wouldna' stop her skipper when he had freight to
collect; but ye were wise in no' paying it in advance."
"You haven't seen the fellow."
"I've seen his employers," Macallister replied with a chuckle. "Weel I
ken what sort o' man would suit them. Gang canny when ye meet him, and
see ye get the goods before ye sign the bill o' lading."
"I mean to take precautions. No first-class firm would touch our
business."
"Verra true. And when ye find men who're no' particular about one thing,
ye cannot expect them to be fastidious about another. When I deal wi'
yon kind, I keep my een open."
"Where's Walthew?"
Macallister grinned.
"Asleep below, wi' his hair full o' coal-dust, looking more like a
nigger than the son o' a rich American. Human nature's a verra curious
thing, but if he can stand another month, I'll hae hope o' him."
"I think the lad's right. He wants to run his life on his own lines, and
he is willing to pay for testing them by experience."
Grahame, glancing forward, suddenly became intent, for in one spot a
dingy smear thickened the haze. It slowly grew more distinct, and he
gave a seaman a quick order before he turned to his companion.
"That must be the _Miranda_. You can start your mill as soon as we have
launched the dinghy."
By the time the boat was in the water the steamer had crept out of the
mist. She came on fast: a small, two-masted vessel, with a white wave
beneath her full bows and a cloud of brown smoke trailing across the sea
astern. She was light, floating high above the water, which washed up
and down her wet side as she rolled. A few heads projected over the iron
bulwark near the break of the forecastle, and two men in duck stood on
the bridge. Studying them through the glasses, Grahame saw they had an
unkempt appearance, and he was not prepossessed in favor of the one whom
he took to be the captain.
He rang the telegraph, and when the engines stopped he jumped into the
dinghy with Walthew and one of the seamen. Five minutes later, they
ceased rowing close to the steamer's side, which towered high above
them, red with rust along the water-line. The black paint was scarred
and peeling higher up, the white deckhouses and boats had grown dingy,
and there was about her a poverty-stricken look. The boat swung sharply
up and down a few lengths away, for the sea broke about the descending
rows of iron plates as the vessel rolled.
"_Enchantress_, ahoy!" shouted one of the men on her bridge. "This is
the _Miranda_. S'pose you're ready for us?"
"We've been ready for you since last night," Grahame replied.
"Then you might have got your gig over. We can't dump the stuff into
that cockleshell."
"You can't," Grahame agreed. "The gig's hardly big enough either, and I
won't risk her alongside in the swell that's running."
"Then what do you expect me to do? Wait until it's smooth?"
"No," said Grahame; "we'll have wind soon. You'll have to take her in
behind the reef, as your owners arranged. It's not far off and you'll
find good anchorage in six fathoms."
"And lose a day! What do you think your few cases are worth to us?"
"The freight agreed upon," Grahame answered coolly. "You can't collect
it until you hand our cargo over. I'll take you in behind the reef and
bring you out in three or four hours. There'll be a good moon."
The skipper seemed to consult with the man beside him, and then waved
his hand.
"All right! Go ahead with your steamer and show us the way."
"I'd better come on board," Grahame answered. "It's an awkward place to
get into, but I know it well."
A colored seaman threw them down a rope ladder, and, pulling in
cautiously, Grahame waited until the rolling hull steadied, when he
jumped. Walthew followed, and in a few moments they stood on the
_Miranda's_ deck. Walthew had been wakened when the boat was launched,
and he had not had much time to dress, but he wore a fairly clean duck
jacket over his coaly shirt. His bare feet were thrust into greasy
slippers, and smears of oil darkened the hollows round his eyes.
One or two slouching deckhands watched the new arrivals with dull
curiosity, and a few more were busy forward opening the hatch. Grahame
thought the vessel a rather unfavorable specimen of the small, cheaply
run tramp, but when he reached the hatch the skipper came up. He was a
little man with a bluff manner, a hard face, and cunning eyes.
"They'll have the cover off in a minute and you can see your stuff," he
said, and called to a man with a lantern: "Stand by with the light!"
When the tarpaulin was rolled back, Grahame went down with a mate and
counted the wooden cases pointed out to him. After this, he examined
their marks and numbers and, going up, declared himself satisfied.
"Now," said the skipper, "you can take us in; the sooner the better,
because it will be dark before long. Would you like a drink before you
start?"
Grahame said that he would wait until he had finished his work. He
followed the skipper to the bridge, and rang the telegraph.
The _Miranda_ went ahead, her propeller hurling up the foam as it
flapped round with half the blades out of the water, while the
_Enchantress_ crept slowly up her froth-streaked wake. Grahame, standing
at the wheel-house door, was glad that Walthew had come with him,
although this reduced his vessel's crew. Macallister, however, was
capable of managing his engines without assistance, for a time, and
could be trusted to take charge of the _Enchantress_ if necessary, for
Grahame did not think the hands would give him trouble. One was a Canary
Spaniard, whom they had picked up at Matanzas, a very simple and,
Grahame thought, honest fellow; the other three were stupid but
apparently good-humored half-breeds. Grahame would have preferred white
seamen but for the danger of their getting into trouble in parts where
wine was cheap and perhaps betraying the object of the voyage in
drunken boasts. His business would not bear talking about--and that was
why he distrusted the _Miranda's_ captain.
The moon rose before the short twilight had changed to dark, and the
steamer moved on across the dimly glittering sea, until a long white
line grew plainer ahead. As they drew near, the line could be seen to
waver, gaining breadth and distinctness and then fading, while a dull
roar which had a regular beat in it mingled with the thud of the
engines. Though the _Miranda_ rolled and plunged, the surface of the
water was smooth as oil, and in the deep calm the clamor of the surf had
an ominous sound. Then another white patch appeared to starboard, and a
few moments later, a third to port.
The captain was pacing up and down his bridge.
"It's a puzzling light," he said, stopping near Grahame with a frown. "I
suppose you do know the place?"
"Oh, yes," said Grahame carelessly. "We made a rough survey and took
soundings. But slow her down and use your lead if you like."
"That's what I mean to do," the captain replied.
He rang the telegraph, and when the beat of engines slackened a man
stood on a footboard outside the bridge, where a broad canvas belt was
fastened round his waist. Whirling the heavy plummet round his head, he
let it shoot forward to the break of the forecastle, and steadied the
line a moment when it ran vertically up and down.
"By the deep, eight!" he called.
"Starboard!" said Grahame, and there was silence except for the rumble
of the surf, while the quartermaster turned his wheel in the
glass-fronted house.
In a few minutes the lead plunged down again.
"By the mark, seven!" was announced.
The captain gave Grahame a quick glance, and then looked ahead, where
there was something to occupy him, for at regular intervals the sea was
torn apart and a spout of foam and a cloud of spray shot up. Moreover,
the vessel was heading directly toward the dangerous spot. It was not
needful for Grahame to take her so close as he meant to do, but he had
reasons for letting the nearness of the reef appeal to the captain's
imagination.
"And a quarter six!" the leadsman called.
The captain grasped the telegraph.
"If you mean to go any closer, I'll stop her and back out!" he said.
"Then you can tranship your goods outside or I'll take them on, as you
like."
"We can let her come round now," Grahame answered, and beckoned to the
quartermaster. "Starboard. Steady at that!"
The _Miranda_ swung until the frothy confusion on the reef, where the
swell broke in cascades of phosphorescent flame, bore abeam, and then a
similar troubled patch grew plain on the opposite bow. There was,
however, a smooth, dark strip between, and she followed it, shouldering
off a spangled wash, with the propeller beating slow. Ahead, a low, hazy
blur rose out of the sea, and when Grahame spoke to the captain the
windlass began to clank and indistinct figures became busy on the
forecastle. Then a gray strip of sand came into sight, and Grahame
nodded to the anxious captain.
"You can let go here, but don't give her much cable."
The anchor splashed from the bows, there was a roar of running chain,
the throb of the screw slowly turning astern, and a screaming of
startled birds. She brought up, the noise died away, and the silence was
emphasized by the clamor of the surf on the opposite shore of the key.
The captain looked about with a frown, for the desolation of the spot
and the nearness of the reefs had their effect on him.
"Hail them to get your gig over at once, and then we'll have a drink,"
he said.
Macallister answered Grahame's shout, for the _Enchantress_ had anchored
close astern, and the boat was hanging from her davits when he followed
the captain into his room. The vessels rolled lazily and the swell broke
with a languid splash upon the beach, for the bight was sheltered by the
reefs. The small room was lighted by an oil lamp and was very hot. A
pilot coat, damp with salt, and a suit of oilskins swung to and fro
across the bulkhead, and a pair of knee-boots stood in a corner. Two or
three bad photographic portraits were tacked against the teakwood
paneling, but except for these, all that the room contained suggested
stern utility.
Unlocking a cupboard, the captain took a bottle and some glasses from a
rack, and Walthew coughed as he tasted the fiery spirit.
"That's powerful stuff, but the flavor's good," he said with an attempt
at politeness.
A big, greasy man who the captain informed the others was Mr. James, his
chief engineer, came in. He sat down with his feet on the locker, and
helped himself liberally to the spirits. In the meanwhile the captain
put an inkstand on the small folding table.
"You have the bill of lading; endorse it that you've got delivery, and
I'll give you a receipt for the freight."
Grahame glanced at Walthew, who sat nearest the door, and the lad looked
out.
"The gig's alongside, ready for the cases," he said.
"We'll heave them up as soon as we've finished this business," the
captain replied.
Grahame wrote a check and put it on the table with some American paper
currency.
"Your owners have satisfied themselves that this will be met; I thought
I'd better keep the other amount separate."
"That's all right," the captain returned; "but you're a hundred dollars
short."
"I guess you're mistaken," Walthew said. "We've paid the freight, and a
bonus to yourself, as we promised because it was an awkward job. What
else do you want?"
"A bonus for the engineer," the greasy mechanic answered with a grin.
"Precisely," said the captain.
"Then I'm afraid you'll be disappointed," Grahame said, and Walthew
picked up the check, which still lay on the table.
There was silence for a few moments while the _Miranda's_ officers
looked hard at their visitors. Grahame's face was impassive, but there
was a gleam of amusement in Walthew's eyes.
"Now, you listen to me," said the captain. "Mr. James is entitled to his
share, and he means to get it. You don't suppose he'd take a hand in a
risky job like this entirely for the benefit of the owners?"
"Mr. James," said Walthew, "runs no risk that I can see. However, if
you think he has a right to something, you can divide with him."
"No, sir! What you have given me is mine. But there's another point
you've overlooked. The crew expect a few dollars, and it might be wise
to satisfy them."
Grahame smiled.
"They certainly struck me as a hard crowd; but seamen don't rob
cargo-shippers nowadays. Then it's difficult to imagine that you told
them what's in the cases. In fact, the way they obeyed your mate
suggested that there's not much liking between men and officers on board
this packet. If there was any trouble, I don't know that they'd take
your side."
The captain frowned; and James drained his glass again and then struck
the table.
"Think something of yourselves, I reckon, but we've come out on top with
smarter folks than you. Put down your money like gentlemen, and say no
more."
"It's good advice," the captain added meaningly.
"Guess we disagree," Walthew said, putting the check into his pocket.
"You haven't got your freight payment yet."
"Do you think you can keep that check?"
"Well," said Walthew coolly, "we could cable the bank to stop payment
from the nearest port. For that matter, I'm not certain that you could
take it back."
"We're willing to try," the big engineer scowled.
"And you don't get the goods until we're satisfied," the captain added.
"May I ask what you would do with the cases? They're consigned to us,
and you'd have some trouble in passing them through a foreign customs
house. They open things and inspect the contents when the duty's high."
"We could dump them overboard. Better do the fair thing by us and get
delivery."
"I don't think we're unfair," Walthew replied. "We engaged with your
owners to pay a stipulated freight, and added a bonus for the skipper.
Now we put down the money and want our goods."
"The winch that heaves them up doesn't start without my order," James
said with an ugly laugh.
Grahame turned to the captain with a gesture of weariness.
"We don't seem to get much farther! I suspect you've forgotten
something. How much a day does it cost you to run this ship?"
"What has that got to do with it?" the captain asked curtly.
"Well," said Grahame coolly, "there's a risk of your stopping here for
some time. It's an awkward place to get out of unless you know it well;
particularly when it's blowing fresh. The Northers hardly reach so far,
but they unsettle the weather, and when the wind's from seaward a strong
eddy stream runs through the bight. Perhaps you may have noticed that
the glass is falling fast."
The captain looked disturbed; but he was not to be beaten so easily.
"You don't get back on board your boat until you've taken us out!" he
threatened.
"I can take you out to-night, but if you miss your chance and have to
wait we can afford it best. Our expenses aren't heavy, but you'll have
to account to your owners for the delay that won't cost us much.
Besides, you'd be forced to keep steam up in case she dragged; it's bad
holding ground."
There was silence for a few moments, and then the captain made a sign of
surly acquiescence.
"Very well; we won't argue about the bonus. Give me the check."
"I think we'll wait until the cases are transhipped," Walthew said with
a smile.
"Give them steam for the winch, Mr. James," the captain ordered; and the
engineer slouched away.
The winch began to rattle and an hour or two later Grahame went up to
the bridge while the anchor was broken out. When the men were stowing it
the engines throbbed and the _Miranda_ turned her head toward open
water. In another half hour the propeller stopped and the captain turned
to his guests with a grin as the _Enchantress's_ gig came alongside.
"I expect the dagoes you're shipping those rifles for will find you hard
to beat," he said.
CHAPTER VII
MANGROVE CREEK
There was not a ripple on the sea when the _Enchantress_, steaming
slowly, closed with the coast. The glittering water broke with a drowsy
murmur at her bows and turned from silver to a deep blue in the shadow
of the hull; her wake was marked by silky whirls on the back of the
swell. It was four o'clock in the afternoon, the sea flung back a
dazzling light, and Grahame's eyes ached as he searched the approaching
land with his glasses.
Far back, blue mountains loomed through haze and the foreground was
blurred and dim. One could not tell where the low expanse began or
ended, though a broad, dark fringe, which Grahame knew was forest,
conveyed some idea of distance. In one or two spots, a streak of white
indicated surf upon a point, but the picture was flooded with a glare in
which separate objects lost distinctness. Blue and gray and silver
melted into one another without form or salient line.
Grahame put down the glasses and turned to the seaman near him. Miguel
was getting old, but his tall figure was strong, and he stood, finely
posed, with a brown hand on the wheel. His face was rugged, but he had
clear, blue eyes that met one with a curious child-like gaze. He was
barefooted and his thin cotton trousers and canvas jacket were
spotlessly clean, though Grahame imagined he had made the latter out of
a piece of old awning they had meant to throw away.
"You come from the Canaries, don't you, Miguel?" Grahame asked in
Castilian. "It is not so hot there."
"From San Sebastian, senor, where the trade-breeze blows and the
date-palms grow. My house stands among the tuna-figs beside the
mule-track to the mountains."
"Then you have a house? Who takes care of it while you are away?"
"My senora. She packs the tomatoes they send to England. It is hard work
and one earns a peseta a day."
"Then why did you leave her?" Grahame asked, for he knew that a peseta,
which is equal to about twenty cents, will not buy much of the coarse
maize-flour the Canary peasants live upon.
"There came a great tempest, and when my three boats were wrecked
something must be done. My sons were drawn for the navy; they had no
money to send. For years, senor, I was captain of a schooner fishing
_bacalao_ on the African coast, and when I came home to catch tunny for
the Italian factory things went very well. Then the gale swept down from
the peaks one night and in the morning the boats were matchwood on the
reef."
"Ah!" said Grahame. He could sympathize, for he too had faced what at
the time had seemed to be overwhelming disaster. "So you sailed to look
for better fortune somewhere else? You hope to go back to San Sebastian
some day?"
"If my saint is kind. But perhaps it is well that he is a very great
angel, for fortune is not always found when one looks for it at sea."
There was no irony in Miguel's answer; his manner was quietly dignified.
Indeed, though he had been taught nothing except rudimentary seamanship,
he had the bearing of a fine gentleman.
"Wages are good in English and American ships," Grahame resumed, feeling
that he was guilty of impertinence. "Sometimes you are able to send the
senora a few dollars?"
"I send all but a little to buy clothes when I go where it is cold, and
my senora buries the money to buy another boat if it is permitted that I
return. Once or twice a year comes a letter, written by the priest, and
I keep it until I find a man who can read it to me."
Grahame was touched. There was something pathetic in the thought of this
untaught exile's patiently carrying the precious letters until he met
somebody who could read his language.
"Well," he said, "if things go well with us, you will get a bonus
besides your wages, which should make it easier for you to go home. But
you understand there is danger in what we may have to do."
Miguel smiled.
"Senor, there is always danger on the sea."
Grahame turned and saw Walthew standing in the engine-room door. He wore
dirty overalls and a singlet torn open at the neck, there was a smear of
oil across his face, and his hands were black and scarred.
"What on earth have you been doing?" Grahame asked.
"Lying on my back for two hours, trying to put a new packing in the
gland of a pump."
"Well, who would have predicted a year ago that you would be amusing
yourself this way now!"
Walthew laughed.
"Do you know where we are?" he asked.
"I imagine we're not far off the creek; in fact, we might risk making
the signal smoke. It will be dark enough to head inshore in a few
hours."
"Then we'll get to work with the fires," said Walthew, promptly
disappearing below.
Soon afterward, a dense black cloud rose from the funnel and, trailing
away behind the _Enchantress_, spread across the sky. Grahame knew that
it might be seen by unfriendly watchers, but other steamers sometimes
passed the point for which he was steering. After a while he signaled
for less steam, and only a faint, widening ripple marked the
_Enchantress's_ passage through the water as she closed obliquely with
the land. It was still blurred, and in an hour Grahame stopped the
engines and took a cast of the lead. Dark would come before long, when,
if they had reached the right spot, signals would be made. In the
meanwhile it would be imprudent to venture nearer.
Walthew and one of the seamen set out a meal on deck and when it was
eaten they lounged on the stern grating, smoking and waiting. There was
dangerous work before them; and, to make things worse, it must be done
in the dark, because the moon now shone in the daytime. It was very hot,
and a steamy, spicy smell drifted off the coast, which grew less
distinct as the darkness settled down. A faint rumble of surf reached
them from an unseen beach, rising and falling with a rhythm in it. The
black smoke had been stopped and thin gray vapor rose straight up from
the funnel. The quietness and the suspense began to react upon the men's
nerves; they felt impatient and highly strung, but they talked as
carelessly as they could.
Then in the quietness the roar of the sea on sandy shoals reached them
ominously clear. Grahame glanced shoreward, but could see nothing, for
the sun had gone and a thin mist was spreading across the low littoral.
"We're drifting inshore," he said. "As soon as I get four fathoms we'll
steam out. Try a cast of the lead."
Walthew swung the plummet and they heard it strike the sea.
"Half a fathom to the good," he called as he coiled up the wet line.
Then he stopped, looking toward the land. "What's that?" he said.
"Yonder, abreast of the mast?"
A twinkling light appeared in the mist and grew brighter.
"A fire, I think," Grahame answered quietly. "Still, one's not enough."
A second light began to glimmer, and soon another farther on.
Macallister chuckled.
"Ye're a navigator. Our friends are ready. I've seen many a worse
landfall made by highly-trained gentlemen with a big mail company's
buttons."
"A lucky shot; but you had better stand by below. Start her easy."
He blew three blasts on the whistle, and the fires went out while the
_Enchantress_ moved slowly shoreward through the gloom. Miguel held the
wheel and Grahame stood near by, watching the half-breed who swung the
lead. Presently another light twinkled, and, listening hard, Grahame
heard the splash of paddles. Stopping the engines, he waited until a
low, gray object crept out of the mist and slid toward the steamer's
side. Ropes were thrown and when the canoe was made fast the first of
the men who came up ceremoniously saluted Grahame.
"You bring the goods all right?" he asked.
"They're ready. If it makes no difference, I'd rather wait until
to-morrow before delivering them. I understand the beach is mostly
mangrove swamp, and it's a dark night to take the steamer up the creek."
"To-morrow she be seen; the coast is watch by spy," said the other in
his quaint English; then indicated his companion. "Dese man he takes her
anywhere."
Grahame hesitated.
Secrecy was essential, and if he waited for daylight and was seen by
watchers who had noticed the smoke in the afternoon he might not have an
opportunity for landing another cargo. For all that, knowing nothing
about his pilot's skill, he imagined he ran some risk of grounding if he
took the steamer in. Risks, however, could not be avoided.
"Very well," he decided. "Send him to the wheel."
He kept the lead going as the _Enchantress_ crept forward, and was
relieved to find that the water got no shallower. It looked as if the
pilot were following a channel, for the wash of the sea on hidden shoals
began to rise from both sides. Except for this and the measured throb of
the engines, there was deep silence, but after a while the vessel, which
had been rolling gently, grew steady, and Grahame thought he could hear
the water she threw off splash upon a beach. He looked about eagerly,
but there was nothing to be seen. This creeping past invisible dangers
was daunting, but he felt comforted as he glanced at the motionless,
dark figure at the helm. The fellow showed no hesitation; it was obvious
that he knew his business.
Through the darkness low trees loomed up ahead, and shortly afterward
another clump abeam. Mist clung about them, there was not much space
between, and the absence of any gurgle at the bows indicated that the
_Enchantress_ was steaming up the inlet with the tide. The lead showed
sufficient water, but Grahame had misgivings, for the creek seemed to be
getting narrower. It was, however, too late to turn back; he must go on
and trust to luck.
Some time later a light appeared among the trees, and the pilot ordered
the engines to be stopped. Then he pulled the helm over and waved his
hand as the _Enchantress_ swung inshore.
"_La ancla!_" he cried. "Let her go!"
There was a splash and a sharp rattle of chain, and when the
_Enchantress_ stopped the beat of paddles came out of the gloom. Then
the cargo-lamp was lighted and in a few minutes a group of men climbed
on board. Some were dusky half-breeds, but two or three seemed to be of
pure Spanish extraction. Grahame took these below, where they carefully
examined the cases. When they were satisfied they followed him to the
deck-cabin, and Walthew brought them some wine. One man gave Grahame a
check on an American bank, and shortly afterward the work of getting up
the cargo began.
Everybody became suddenly busy. Shadowy figures dragged the cases about
the shallow hold and fixed the slings. Dark-skinned men, dripping with
perspiration, slackened guys and swung the derrick-boom while canoes
crept into the light of the cargo-lamp and vanished, loaded, into the
dark. The stir lasted for some time, and then, after the cases had all
been hoisted over the side, the white men among the shore party shook
hands with their hosts.
"It is all right," said the spokesman. "We are ready for the next lot
when you get back."
"I suppose your man will be here in the morning to take us out?" Grahame
asked, because he had been told that it was too late to leave the creek
that tide.
"If nothing is happen, he certainly come."
The visitors got on board their canoe, and it slid off into the mist.
When the splash of paddles died away, an oppressive silence settled down
on the vessel, and the darkness seemed very thick, for the big
cargo-lamp had been put out. After the keen activity a reaction had set
in: the men were tired and felt the heat.
"It's lonesome," Macallister remarked, and sniffed disgustedly. "Like a
hothouse in a botanic garden when they've full steam on, with a dash o'
Glasgow sewer thrown in. In fact, ye might call the atmosphere a wee bit
high."
"I don't suppose you found it very fresh in West Africa," Walthew
replied.
"I did not. That's maybe the reason the ague grips me noo and then.
Ye'll learn something about handling engines when it takes me bad. This
is a verra insidious smell."
"The mosquitos are worse," Grahame said. "I wonder whether there are
many of them about? Anyway, I'd like a warp taken out and made fast to
the trees. There's not much room to swing, and though the flood
generally runs harder than the ebb in these places, one can't count on
that."
Walthew got into the boat with Miguel and one of the crew, and came back
half an hour later, smeared with mire and wet to the waist.
"We've made the rope fast, but this creek has no beach," he said. "The
trees grow out of the water, and you slip off their roots into holes
filled with slime. Couldn't feel any bottom in one or two, and I was
mighty glad I caught a branch. In fact, we've had a rather harrowing
experience."
"Get your wet clothes off and take some quinine before you go to sleep,"
Grahame advised; and when Walthew left him he watched the men heave the
warp tight.
Soon afterward the crew went below, except for one who kept
anchor-watch. The ebb tide was running strong, and Grahame was not quite
satisfied about the way the vessel was moored. It was, however,
impossible to make her more secure in the dark, and, getting sleepy
presently, he left his seat on the stern grating and went to his berth.
CHAPTER VIII
THE TRAITOR
Grahame was awakened by a crash. Springing half asleep from his berth,
he scrambled out on deck. Thick darkness enveloped the steamer and at
first he could see nothing. Then as his eyes grew accustomed to the
gloom, he made out indistinct black trees in the mist. They were sliding
past and he knew the warp had broken and the _Enchantress_ would swing
inshore before her cable brought her up. This must be prevented, if
possible, for the creek was narrow and shoal.
Jumping on the stern grating he gave his orders, and they were obeyed.
He saw Macallister, in pajamas, dive into the engine-room, and the screw
began to throb; then barefooted men sprang into the boat alongside, and
a heavy rope ran out across the rail. There was nothing more to be done
for a few moments and, lashing the wheel, Grahame hurriedly lighted a
pyrotechnic flare. The strong blue radiance drove back the gloom, and
the water glittered among cakes of floating scum. Then the bright beam
picked out the boat, with Walthew toiling, half-naked, at an oar, and
Miguel's tall figure bending to and fro as he sculled astern. Another
man was rowing forward, and his tense pose told of determined effort,
but he vanished as the light moved on.
The rope the crew were taking out fixed Grahame's attention. It crawled
through the water in heavy coils, like a snake, holding the boat back
while the stream swept her sideways. He did not think she could reach
the opposite bank, though the _Enchantress_ was sheering that way to
help her. Then the light forced up a patch of greasy mud in which
crawling things wriggled, and, passing on, picked out foul, dark caves
among the mangrove roots. After that, it touched the rows of slender
trunks and was lost in impenetrable gloom.
A few moments later the flare, burning low, scorched Grahame's fingers
and he flung it over the rail. It fell with a hiss into the creek and
bewildering darkness shut down. There was now no guide but the strain on
the helm, and Grahame began to be afraid of breaking out the anchor. For
a time the splash of oars continued, telling of the tense struggle that
went on in the gloom, but it stopped suddenly and he knew the men were
beaten. Ringing off the engines, he ran forward with a deckhand to drop
the kedge anchor. It was heavy, an arm was foul of something, and they
could not drag it clear, until a dim object appeared close by.
"Heave!" cried a breathless voice. "Handy, noo! Away she goes!"
There was a splash and a rattle as the chain ran out, a thud as the
returning boat came alongside, and then the vessel quivered, listed down
on one side, and became motionless.
"I'm thinking she's hard and fast, but we'll try to shake her off,"
Macallister said and vanished, and soon the engines began to turn.
The _Enchantress_ trembled, straining hard and rattling, but when
somebody lighted the cargo-lamp, which still hung from a boom, it could
not be seen that she moved. The light showed a narrow stretch of water,
sliding past, blotched with foul brown foam. Then it fell upon the
boat's crew, who had come on board, and Grahame saw that Walthew was
gasping for breath. His flushed face was wet and drawn with effort, and
his bare arms and neck were marked by small red spots.
"Sorry we couldn't manage to reach the bank," he panted. "Warp kept
getting across her and the stream was running fast. But I'd better help
Mack."
"Sit still a minute," Grahame said. "What are those marks on your neck?"
"Mosquito bites, I guess. Hadn't time to swat the brutes; they were
pretty fierce."
The deck was now slanting steeply, and Grahame, looking over the rail,
saw a wet strip a foot broad between the dry planks and the water.
"You can tell Mack to shut off steam," he said. "She's here until next
tide and I'm not certain we can float her then."
The engines stopped, there was by contrast a curious stillness, and the
men went below; but Grahame spent some time studying a chart of the
coast and a nautical almanac before he went to sleep.
* * * * *
When the cases had been safely landed, the little group of Spaniards and
half-breeds separated, some following the coastline going south, others
finding a narrow path that led through the jungle beyond the
mangrove-trees. Bio, the peon pilot, lingered behind. There was no
moon, but the night was not really dark, for the sky was jeweled with
stars which covered the earth with a soft, mystic radiance.
When the footsteps of the others had died away and the night was quiet,
Bio started slowly down the jungle path. It opened out into a flat
stretch of sandy land and then was lost in a plantation of coffee-trees.
Beyond the coffee plantation was an uncultivated space known to the
natives as _La colina del sol_ (The Hill of the Sun) because of the many
broad rocks upon which the sun beat down in all its intensity. Here and
there a wild date-palm grew, and an occasional clump of bananas; but
except for that the hill was covered with low shrubbery and a blanket of
trailing vines, which now were wet with the dew.
Bio went directly to one of the rocks and stood upon it looking upward
at the stars. The warmth that still remained in the rock was pleasant to
his damp, bare feet. The air about him was filled with the soft flutter
of moths and other honey-seekers; the heavy perfume of a white jasmine
came to him, mingled with the sweet odor of the night-blooming cereus.
At his side an insect chirped, and above him a whistling frog gave
answer.
These wild night sounds found quick response in Bio's Indian blood. With
an odd little smile of content, he stretched out on the rock to
listen--and to sleep. At high tide he would have to return to take the
boat out of Mangrove Creek; what better place to wait than _La colina
del sol_?
He awakened shortly after daybreak, very hungry; but he knew where he
could get a pleasant breakfast before returning to the boat. With a
comfortable yawn and stretch, he left the rock and pattered off down
the hill to a path that led to the main road. A half mile down this
stood a little adobe house owned by a Spaniard who was suspected of
sympathizing with the revolutionists although he had many friends among
the _rurales_.
When Bio reached the house he gave his customary signal--a stick drawn
harshly across the iron gratings at the window; and the door was soon
opened by Filodomo himself. A hasty conversation followed, and Bio went
back to the kitchen while Filodomo aroused his daughter. And when the
black-eyed Rosita came tripping out, with the flush of sleep still on
her, Bio all but forgot the _yanqui_ senores and their boat which waited
in Mangrove Creek.
He was enjoying his breakfast so much, indeed, that he did not hear
Filodomo talking loudly in the front room. Rosita was more alert. She
paused a moment to listen, and then the laughter in her eyes changed to
quick alarm.
"_Los rurales!_" she whispered.
Bio was on his feet instantly. The _rurales_ had several counts against
him, and he knew what his life would be worth if he were caught. Rosita,
too, seemed to know. She led him quickly to the low window and pointed
to a narrow path that led through a field of cane. Bio lost no time. As
he disappeared among the green stalks, the girl gave a sigh of relief;
and then hurried into the front room to put the _rurales_ off his path.
Bio made his way quickly but cautiously through the cane-field, meaning
to double back to _La colina del sol_; but as he left the cane and
rounded a gigantic calabash-tree he ran directly into the arms of two
young _rurales_.
"Not so fast, my friend," said one of them, grabbing him.
"Bio!" exclaimed the other.
And Bio knew there was no hope of escape. The _rurales_ were only too
eager for the credit of capturing him and taking him to headquarters.
Four days later he found himself in a military camp and was led at once
to the officer in charge. During all the questions of the _rurales_ he
had maintained a sullen silence; but now he was forced to speak.
"We are told that the revolutionists are getting rifles from a little
boat that lands them at impossible places," the officer said. "Only a
pilot with your knowledge of the coast could bring in such a boat. Tell
us what you know!"
Bio did not answer.
The officer leaned forward threateningly.
"We have enough charges against you to warrant our shooting you on the
spot," he said. "You will never see another sunrise, unless you tell
us--and tell us quickly, and truthfully!"
A gleam of hope crept into Bio's eyes.
"And if I tell you--all?"
"Then, if I believe you, you will be set at liberty."
There was a sneer in the conditional clause that made Bio's blood run
cold for an instant; but it seemed his only chance of escape, and he
began haltingly but in a tone that they could not doubt was the truth.
"I left the boat far up in Mangrove Creek," he ended. "I think the
_yanqui_ senores cannot take her out."
"Tell Morales to have the mules ready at once!" the officer ordered.
"The quickest road?" he asked Bio.
The pilot answered without faltering. The road he told them was twice as
far as over _La colina del sol_ and through the jungle path.
The officer consulted a few moments with the _rurales_ who had brought
Bio in, and then gave his decision.
"My men will not need you. You will be held in camp for one day and then
set at liberty. I am a man of my word!"
Bio could hardly believe his good luck, although he frowned anxiously at
that one day's detention. Silently he followed his guards; but, as he
expected, he found them very lax after the first hour or two. Long
before midnight he was snaking his way noiselessly through the
underbrush that surrounded the camp.
And in the meantime the _rurales_ were riding furiously along the road
that led to Mangrove Creek.
CHAPTER IX
STRANDED
The sun was high above the mangroves when Walthew joined Grahame and
Macallister at breakfast the morning after they landed the rifles. No
wind entered the gap in the forest, the smoke went straight up from the
slanted funnel, and the air was still and sour. The steamer lay nearly
dry among banks of mire, though a narrow strip of dazzling water
sluggishly flowed inland past her. Fifty yards outshore, there was a
broader channel and beyond it the dingy, pale-stemmed mangroves rose
like a wall. Some were strangely spotted, and Walthew glanced at them
with disgust as he drank his coffee.
"I guess I've never seen such repulsive trees," he said. "This place
takes away one's appetite. Even the coffee's bitter; you've been
doctoring it."
"It's weel to take precautions," Macallister replied. "Ye got a few
nibbles last night from a dangerous bit beastie they ca' _anopheles_."
"I suppose it doesn't manufacture the malaria germ, and from the looks
of the place one wouldn't imagine there was anybody else about for it to
bite."
"That's what we're hoping. We're no' anxious for visitors, but when ye
meet a smell like what we noo enjoy, ye take quinine till it makes ye
hear church bells ringing in your head."
Walthew turned to Grahame.
"Can you get her off?"
"We'll try. The sooner we get out the better; but the tides are
falling."
"Do you reckon the half-breed pilot meant to pile her up?"
"No," said Grahame thoughtfully. "For one thing, it would be a dangerous
game, because his employers wouldn't hesitate about knifing him. They
gave us a check which I've reason to believe will be honored and they
wouldn't have wasted their money if they'd meant treachery. I imagine
they're all too deep in the plot to turn informer."
"Do you think the pilot will turn up to take us out then?"
"I believe he'll be here at high-water, unless he's prevented."
"What could prevent him?"
"It's possible that our friends have been followed by the opposition's
spies. The man who rules this country is not a fool."
"Then it seems to me we must do our best to heave the boat off this
tide."
"Mack and I agree with you," Grahame said meaningly.
Breakfast was soon finished, for nobody had much appetite, and they sat,
smoking, in the thin shade while the water got deeper in the creek. When
the _Enchantress_ slowly rose upright, Macallister went down to stir the
fires; but though the others listened anxiously no splash of paddles
broke the silence.
"Our pilot's not coming," Grahame said at last. "I'll try to take her
out if we can get her afloat."
"What's likely to happen to him if he's been corralled by the dictator's
rural-guards?"
"On the whole," said Grahame, "I'd rather not speculate. They have a
drastic way of dealing with rebels here."
An hour later the screw shook the vessel, while the windlass strained at
the cable. Once or twice a few links of chain ran in and she moved, but
the mud had a firm hold and she stuck fast again. Then the water began
to fall and Grahame reluctantly told Macallister to draw the fires.
"We're here for the next six days," he said.
"It's to be hoped the Government's spies don't find us out before we get
her off," Walthew remarked.
"We could put the coal and heavier stores ashore, if ye can find a bit
dry beach to land them on," Macallister suggested. "It would lighten
her."
"I thought of that," Grahame answered. "On the other hand, it might be
safer to keep them on board as long as possible. We could strip her and
land everything in a day."
Macallister agreed, and for four days they lounged in such shade as they
could find. It was fiercely hot, not a breath of wind touched the
dazzling creek, and the sun burned through the awning. The pitch bubbled
up from the deck-seams, the water in the tanks was warm, and innumerable
flies came off from the mangroves and bit the panting men. To make
things worse, there was no coolness after sunset, when steamy mist
wrapped the vessel in its folds, bloodthirsty mosquitos came down in
swarms, buzzing insects dimmed the lamps, and the smell of festering
mire grew nauseating. Sleep was out of the question, and when the
mosquitos drove them off the deck the men lay in their stifling berths
and waited drearily for another day of misery to begin.
Among other discomforts, Walthew, who was not seasoned to the climate,
was troubled by a bad headache and pains in his limbs, but he said
nothing about this and accompanied Grahame when the latter took the
soundings in the dinghy. At last they rose at daybreak one morning to
lighten the vessel, and although he felt shaky and suffered from a
burning thirst, Walthew took charge of the gig, which was to be used for
landing coal.
The work was hard, for when they reached a sand bar up the creek they
were forced to wade some distance through mud and shallow water with the
heavy bags on their backs, while the perspiration soaked their thin
clothes and the black dust worked through to their skin. At noon they
stopped for half an hour and Walthew lay in the stern-sheets of the gig
where there was a patch of shade. He could not eat, and after drinking
some tea tried to smoke, but the tobacco tasted rank and he put his pipe
away. Up to the present his life had been luxurious. He had been
indulged and waited on, and had exerted himself only in outdoor sports.
Now he felt very sick and worn out, but knew that he must make good.
Having declined to enter his father's business, he must prove his
capacity for the career he had chosen. Moreover, he suspected that
Macallister and Grahame were watching him.
When the clatter of the winch began again he hid the effort it cost him
to resume his task and stubbornly pulled his oar as the gig floated up
the creek with her gunwale near awash. His back hurt him almost
unbearably when he lifted a heavy bag, and it was hard to keep upon his
feet while he floundered through the mire. Sometimes his head reeled and
he could scarcely see. The blisters on his hands had worked into
bleeding sores. This, however, did not matter much by comparison with
the pain in his head.
After the coal was landed they loaded loose ironwork and towed heavy
spars ashore, and Walthew held out somehow until darkness fell, when he
paddled back to the _Enchantress_ with a swarm of mosquitos buzzing
round his face.
He could not eat when they sat down to a frugal meal, and afterward lay
in his berth unable to sleep, and yet not quite awake, lost in confused
thoughts that broke off and left him conscious of intolerable heat and
pain. When he went languidly on deck the next morning Grahame looked
hard at him.
"You had better lie down in the shade," he said.
"I may let up when we reach open water," Walthew answered with a feeble
smile. "There's not much enjoyment to be got out of a lay-off here."
Grahame reluctantly agreed. He knew something about malaria and Walthew
did not look fit for work; but every man was needed, and this foul swamp
was no place to be ill. The sooner they got out the better.
Steam was up when the _Enchantress_ rose with the tide, and shortly
afterward the engines began to throb. Muddy foam leaped about the
whirling screw, flame mingled with the smoke that poured from her
funnel, and steam roared from the blow-off pipe. Then the clatter of
winch and windlass joined in, and Grahame stood, tense and anxious,
holding a rope that slipped round the spinning drum. The winch could not
shorten it, though the vessel was shaking and working in her muddy bed.
It was high-water, the tide would soon begin to fall, and the sweat of
suspense and strain dripped from the man as, at the risk of breaking the
warp, he tightened the turns on the drum. It gripped; to his surprise, a
little slack came off, and he nodded to Walthew, who was watching him
eagerly from the windlass.
"Give her all, if you burst the chain!" he cried.
The windlass clanked for a few moments, stopped, and clanked again; the
_Enchantress_ trembled and crept a foot or two ahead. Then she stuck
while the cable rose from the water, rigid as a bar, and the
messenger-chain that drove the windlass creaked and strained at breaking
tension. While Grahame expected to see links and gear-wheels fly, there
was a long shiver through the vessel's frame, a mad rattle of liberated
machinery, and she leaped ahead.
Five minutes later Walthew walked shakily aft, scarcely seeing where he
went because a confused sense of triumph had brought a mist into his
dazzled eyes. This was the first big thing in which he had taken a
leading part. He had made good and played the man; but there was still
much to be done and he pulled himself together as he stopped near
Grahame.
"She's moored where she won't ground again, but perhaps you had better
see that the chain-compressors and warp fastenings are right."
"If you're satisfied, it's enough," said Grahame.
"Then I'll take the gig and get the coal on board."
"If you feel equal to it," Grahame answered.
Walthew got into the boat with a sense of elation. His eyes had met
Grahame's while they spoke, and a pledge of mutual respect and trust had
passed between them. But this was not quite all. He felt he had won
official recognition from a leader he admired; he was no longer on trial
but accepted as a comrade and equal. The thought sustained him through a
day of murderous toil, during which his worn-out muscles needed constant
spurring by the unconquered mind. It was not dainty and, in a sense, not
heroic work in which he was engaged, but it must be done, and he dimly
saw that human nature rose highest in a grapple with obstacles that
seemed too great to overcome. Whatever the odds against him were, he
must not be beaten.
The heat was pitiless in the afternoon, but Walthew pulled his oar and
carried the hundred-pound coal bags across a stretch of mire that grew
broader as the tide ebbed. He could scarcely pull his feet out and keep
the load upon his aching back, and he sometimes sank knee-deep in the
softer spots. The air was heavy with exhalations from the swamps; he had
thrown off his jacket and the coal wore holes in his shirt and rubbed
raw places on his skin. He was wet from the waist downward and black
above, while the gritty dust filled his eyes and nostrils. Still he held
out until the work was finished, when the _Enchantress's_ cargo-light
began to twinkle through the dusk; and then, losing his balance, he fell
forward into the boat with his last heavy load. Miguel pushed her off,
and with oars splashing slackly she moved downstream. When she ran
alongside the steamer, Grahame saw a limp, black figure lying huddled on
the floorings. The others lifted it gently, but Walthew did not speak
when he was laid on deck, and Macallister, bending over him, looked up
at Grahame.
"Fever and exhaustion! I allow that ye were right about the lad. But we
must do the best we can for him."
They washed off the coal-dust, and when Walthew, wrapped in thick
blankets, lay unconscious in his berth, they debated earnestly over the
medicine chest before administering a dose that experience in the
unhealthy swamps of the tropics alone justified. They forced it, drop by
drop, between his clenched teeth, and then Macallister waited with a
grimy finger on his pulse, while Grahame sat down limply on the edge of
the berth. His hands were bruised, his thin clothes were torn, and he
felt the reaction after the day's strain. He had now an hour or two in
which to rest, and then he must pull himself together to take the vessel
down the creek.
When at last Macallister nodded, as if satisfied, Grahame went wearily
up on deck. Except for a faint hiss of steam, everything was quiet.
Tired men lay motionless about the deck, and the mist that clung to the
mangroves did not stir. After a while the lap of the flood-tide against
the planks made itself heard, and the moon, which was getting large,
rose above the trees.
Grahame, sitting limply on the grating, half dozing while he waited,
suddenly jumped to his feet, startled. Out of the semi-darkness came
distinctly the splash of oars, faint at first and then nearer.
Miguel lay nearest him. The Spaniard, quickly grasping the danger,
shook his men awake while Grahame ran below to Macallister.
"The government spies!" he said briefly. "Our pilot's turned traitor!"
CHAPTER X
THE PEON PILOT
Grahame and Macallister stood on deck, peering into the moonlit jungle
of mangroves. So far as they could judge, there was only one pair of
oars making the splashes that had aroused them; but they could hear the
blades dig deep into the water with an intense effort that could mean
only haste on the part of the boatsman.
They waited; and presently the small boat appeared in the moonlight and
they saw a single figure, who dropped one oar and crossed himself
religiously.
"_Gracias a Dios!_" he said.
"The pilot!" Macallister gasped.
Grahame waited, tense and alert, until the pilot climbed on board. The
instant the half-breed touched the deck he began gesticulating wildly
and talking so rapidly that Grahame had difficulty in grasping his
meaning. Miguel, who was more at home in the peon Spanish, explained--in
English, for Macallister's sake.
"The government men catch him; make him tell; he escape; take short
path--Indian _senda_; get here first. _Soldados_ coming. We hurry!"
Miguel had worked himself up to a state of great excitement, and when he
finished, his bare feet went pattering off across the deck almost before
Grahame could give the order.
Tired as the men were, they realized the necessity for haste, and they
lost no time in getting under way. There was a clatter in the stokehold
as the fires were cleaned, the dinghy crept across the creek, and
half-seen men forward hurriedly coiled in a wet rope. Then the boat came
back and the windlass rattled while the propeller floundered slowly
round. The anchor rose to the bows and the _Enchantress_ moved away
against the flood tide.
The pilot took the wheel while Grahame stood beside him. There were
broad, light patches where the water dazzled Grahame's eyes, and then
belts of gloom in which the mangroves faded to a formless blur. Still,
they did not touch bottom; miry points round which the tide swirled,
rotting logs on mud-banks, and misty trees crept astern, and at last
they heard the rumble of the swell on beaten sand.
She glided on, lifting now and then with a louder gurgle about her
planks. When a white beach gleamed in the moonlight where the trees
broke off, the _Enchantress_ stopped to land the faithful pilot, who had
first betrayed and then saved them.
"It was a risky thing he did," Grahame said, as the half-breed, standing
easily in his boat, swaying with the rhythm of his oars, rowed off into
the moonlight. "Suppose they had caught him coming to us--or with us!"
"I'm thinking yon pilot's a bit of a hero," Macallister responded
laconically. "Albeit a coward first!"
"Oh, it was all for Don Martin's sake that he risked his own hide to
warn us. Don Martin has a wonderful hold on those peons. They'd go
through fire and water for him."
The _Enchantress_ skirted a point where two sentinel cedar-trees stood
out blackly against the sky; then the spray leaped about the bows as she
dipped to the swell, and the throb of engines quickened as she left the
shore behind.
* * * * *
Two weeks later the _Enchantress_ was steaming across a sea that was
flecked with purple shadow and lighted by incandescent foam. Macallister
lounged in the engine-room doorway, Grahame sat smoking on a coil of
rope, and Walthew, wrapped in a dirty blanket, lay under the awning. His
face was hollow, his hair damp and lank, and his hands, with which he
was clumsily rolling a cigarette, were very thin. The deck was piled
with a load of dyewood, which they had bought rather with the object of
accounting for their cruise than for the profit that might be made on
it.
"It's good to feel alive on a day like this, but I suspect it was
doubtful for a time whether I'd have that satisfaction," Walthew
remarked languidly. "Guess I owe you both a good deal."
They had stubbornly fought the fever that was wasting him away, and had
felt that they must be beaten, but Macallister grinned.
"I'll no' deny that ye were an interesting case and gave us a chance o'
making two or three experiments. As ye seem none the worse for them, ye
must be tougher than ye look."
"I thought tampering with other people's watches was your specialty."
"What's a watch compared with the human body?" Macallister asked.
"You do know something about springs and wheels, but it's different
with drugs. I expect you gave way to an unholy curiosity to see how they
would work."
"Maybe there's something in the notion. An engineer canna help wanting
to find out how things act. It's a matter o' temperament, and there's
no' a great difference between watching the effect o' a new oil on your
piston-rings and seeing what happens when a patient swallows your
prescription. I'll say this for ye: ye were docile."
"I've survived," said Walthew. "From my point of view, that's the most
important thing."
"And now you had better think about the future," Grahame interposed.
"Some people are practically immune from malaria; others get it
moderately now and then, and some it breaks down for good. At first it's
difficult to tell which class one belongs to, but you have had a sharp
attack. There's some risk of your spending the rest of your life as an
ague-stricken invalid if you stick to us."
"How heavy is the risk?"
"Nobody can tell you that, but it's to be reckoned with. I understand
that your father would take you back?"
"He'd be glad to do so, on his terms," said Walthew thoughtfully.
"Still, it's hard to admit that you're beaten, and I suspect the old man
would have a feeling that I might have made a better show. He wants me
to give in and yet he'd be sorry if I did."
"Suppose you go home in twelve months with a profit on the money he gave
you?" Grahame suggested.
"Then I'm inclined to think he'd welcome me on any terms I cared to
make."
"Think it over well and leave us out of the question," Grahame said.
"You can't be left out," Walthew answered with a gleam in his eyes. "But
I'll wait until I feel better. I may see my way then."
They left him and he lighted his cigarette, though the tobacco did not
taste good. Hardship and toil had not daunted him, the risk of shipwreck
and capture had given the game a zest, but the foul mangrove quagmires,
where the fever lurks in the tainted air, had brought him a shrinking
dread. One could take one's chance of being suddenly cut off, but to go
home with permanently broken health or perhaps, as sometimes happened,
with a disordered brain, was a different thing. Since he took malaria
badly, the matter demanded careful thought. In the meanwhile, it was
enough to lie in the shade and feel his strength come back.
A few days later they reached Havana, where they sold the dyewood and
had arranged to meet Don Martin Sarmiento, whose affairs occasionally
necessitated a visit to Cuba.
One evening soon after his arrival, Grahame stood in the _patio_ of the
Hotel International. The International had been built by some
long-forgotten Spanish _hidalgo_, and still bore traces of ancient art.
The basin in the courtyard with the stone lions guarding its empty
fountain was Moorish, the balconies round the house had beautiful bronze
balustrades cast three hundred years ago, and the pillars supporting
them were delicately light.
The building had, however, been modernized, for part of the _patio_ was
roofed with glass, and wide steps, tiled in harsh colors, led to a
lounge through which one entered the dining-room, where everything was
arranged on the latest American plan. There was a glaring cafe in the
front of the building, and an archway at the back led to the uncovered
end of the _patio_, where porters, pedlers, and the like importuned the
guests.
Just then this space was occupied by a group of Chinamen, half-breeds,
and negroes, and Grahame was watching them carelessly when he heard a
step behind him. Turning abruptly, he stood facing Evelyn Cliffe. He
imagined that she looked disturbed, but she frankly gave him her hand.
"You!" she exclaimed. "This is something of a surprise."
"That's what I felt," he answered. "I hope the pleasure's also mutual.
But you see, I get my meals here and Walthew has a room. He has been
down with fever and isn't quite better yet."
"And I've just arrived with my father, who has some business in the
town," Evelyn said and laughed. "I nearly missed meeting you, because I
thought you were a stranger and I meant to slip past, but you were too
quick. Do you generally swing round in that alert manner when you hear
somebody behind you?"
"I admit it's a habit of mine--though I must have been clumsy if you
noticed it. A number of people go barefooted in these countries, and the
business I'm engaged in demands some caution."
"Then it's lucky you have self-control, because you might run a risk of
injuring a harmless friend by mistake."
"One does not mistake one's friends. They're not too plentiful," he
replied, smiling.
"But what is the business that makes you so careful?"
"I think I could best call myself a general adventurer, but at present
I'm engaged in trade. In fact, I'm living rather extravagantly after
selling a cargo."
Evelyn gave him a quick glance. His manner was humorous, but she
imagined he wished to remind her that he did not belong to her world.
This jarred, because there was an imperious strain in her, and she felt
that she could choose her acquaintances as she liked. Besides, it was
mocking her intelligence to suggest that the man was not her equal by
birth and education. For all that, she had been disconcerted to find him
in the hotel. He had exerted a disturbing influence when they first met,
and she had had some trouble in getting free from it. That the influence
was unintentional made things no better, because Evelyn did not want her
thoughts to center on a man who made no attempt to please her. Yet she
felt a strange pleasure in his society.
"I suppose you are waiting for dinner now?" she said.
"Yes," he answered. "Shall we look for a seat here? A fellow who sings
rather well sometimes comes in."
He led her to a bench near the marble basin under the broad leaves of a
palm. Evelyn noticed that the spot was sufficiently public to offer no
hint of privacy, and she admired his tact. It got dark while they
engaged in casual talk, and colored servants lighted lamps among the
plants and flowers. Then the soft tinkle of a guitar and a clear voice,
trilling on the higher notes with the Spanish tremolo, came out of the
shadow. One or two others joined in, and Evelyn listened with enjoyment.
"The _Campanadas_," Grahame said. "It's a favorite of mine. The refrain
states that grapes eaten in pleasant company taste like honey."
"Isn't that a free translation? I'm not a Spanish scholar, but I imagine
it means something more personal than company in general."
"Yes," said Grahame slowly. "It really means--with you."
The music changed to a plaintive strain, which had something seductive
and passionate in its melancholy.
"_Las aves marinas_," said Evelyn. "That means the sea-birds, doesn't
it? What is the rest?"
"I won't paraphrase this time. The song declares that although the
sea-birds fly far across the waves they cannot escape the pains of love.
These people are a sentimental lot, but the idea's poetical."
"I wonder whether it's true," Evelyn said with a smile. "Perhaps you
ought to know."
"The sea-birds are fierce wild things that live by prey. One associates
them with elemental strife--the white tide-surge across desolate sands
and the pounding of the combers on weedy reefs--and not with domestic
peace. That's the lot of the tame land-birds that haunt the sheltered
copse."
"And cannot one have sympathy with these?"
"Oh, yes. I've often stopped to listen while a speckled thrush sang its
love-song among the bare ash-boughs in our rain-swept North. The joyful
trilling goes straight to one's heart."
"And lingers there?"
"Where our thrushes sing, you can, if you listen, hear the distant roar
of the sea. It's a more insistent call than the other."
"But only if you listen! Cannot you close your ears?"
"That might be wiser. It depends upon your temperament."
Evelyn was silent for the next minute or two, and Grahame mused. He had
felt the charm of the girl's beauty, and suspected in her a spirit akin
to his. She had courage, originality, and, he thought, a longing,
hitherto curbed by careful social training, to venture beyond the
borders of a tame, conventional life. It was possible that he might
strengthen it; but this would not be playing a straight game. For all
that, he was tempted, and he smiled as he recalled that in earlier days
his ancestors had stolen their brides.
"Why are you amused?" Evelyn asked.
"An idle thought came into my mind," he said awkwardly.
Evelyn smiled.
"My father has come to look for me; but I shall see you again. You will
be here some time?"
"A few days."
He watched her join Cliffe in the archway that led from the _patio_, and
then he sat down again on the bench under the palm-tree. But he no
longer heard the strum of the guitars nor the tinkle of the mandolins:
he was thinking of Evelyn. There seemed to be some peculiar bond of
sympathy between them; he felt that she understood him even when nothing
much was said.
"Mooning all alone?" came Walthew's voice.
Grahame laughed, and joined his comrade and Macallister, who had entered
the _patio_ with Don Martin and Blanca.
CHAPTER XI
A MODERN DON QUIXOTE
The dining-room of the International Hotel was modern, but while noisy,
power-driven fans stirred the heavy air and the decoration was profuse,
traces of more austere ancient art remained. Stone pillars and the
fretted arch at one end had an Eastern grace and lightness; among the
gaudy modern lamps hung one or two finely-modeled in copper and burning
scented oil. The glass and nickeled knives were American, but curious
old carafes filled with red and yellow wine stood among the flowers and
fruit on the long table.
Evelyn, looking down the room from its opposite end, was conscious of
faint displeasure when Grahame entered with a very attractive girl. The
feeling could not be jealousy, but she studied Blanca with a curiosity
that was half hostile. The girl was dressed in Parisian fashion, but she
walked with a grace that only Spanish women show. There was no fault to
be found with her supple figure, but her black hair was rather coarse
and her blue eyes too languishing. Yet she was well bred, and the man in
dark clothes who followed and was, no doubt, her father had an air of
dignity. Grahame seemed to be on friendly terms with them, for they
talked and laughed when they sat down and Evelyn noticed that the girl
sometimes touched him coquettishly with her fan.
Walthew sat opposite with a thoughtful expression; and soon Macallister
joined in the talk. It was obvious that he was amusing, for Evelyn saw
those who sat near smile and then hearty laughter rose from his end of
the table. The Spanish girl and Grahame no longer spoke to each other,
and the engineer's voice came up through the clink of glass and the hum
of conversation, sometimes in broad Scots and sometimes in stumbling and
uncouth Castilian.
When the guests were leaving the dining-room Grahame met Cliffe in the
corridor.
"Glad to see you. I didn't expect to find you in Havana," the American
said cordially. "I want a smoke. Will you come along?"
They found a seat in the _patio_, and Cliffe gave Grahame a cigar.
"How's business?" he asked.
"We can't complain, so far," Grahame answered cautiously. "The boat, of
course, does not carry much, but her light draught allows her to get
into harbors that larger vessels can only enter on big tides, and we
sold our last cargo at a satisfactory price. Just now I'm looking out
for a few passengers to Kingston; there's no boat across for some time."
"I might go with you, if you have two good rooms to spare. There's a
fruit-growing estate I want to look at in Jamaica."
The suggestion was welcome to Grahame. He promised to give Cliffe part
of the deckhouse, and they afterward talked of something else.
In the meanwhile, Walthew was sitting with Blanca Sarmiento. He was
quiet, for he still felt languid and the _patio_ was hot; but he was
conscious of his companion's charm. Indeed, he had thought of her often
since he left Rio Frio, and she had had a place in the fantastic dreams
the fever brought him.
"You do not speak much, but you have been ill," she said presently, with
a sympathetic glance. "It was a grief to us to hear it; but you have
suffered in a good cause."
"I'm not sure of that," Walthew answered. "You see I was out for money."
"And that was all!" Blanca exclaimed in a half-contemptuous tone.
"I think so," Walthew admitted. "My people are traders and I suppose
money-making runs in the family. Still, I might claim to be a soldier of
fortune, if you like that better. It's more romantic, anyhow."
"Ah!" she said with a sparkle in her eyes. "There were great soldiers of
fortune among the liberators; one thinks of Bolivar, Lafayette, and
Garibaldi. But the brave Italian had wounds and prison, not money, for
his reward."
"These fellows are too near the top notch for me to follow. I know my
limits," Walthew modestly owned.
"One should follow the highest, and chivalry is not dead; even commerce
cannot kill it. There are still knights errant, who see visions and
leave everything, to right the wrong and help the downtrodden. It has
been my good fortune to meet one or two."
"Your Cervantes wrote about one such. Seems to me that although he meant
well, Don Quixote did more harm than good."
"Ah, the sad, sad book! But you think like Cervantes? You sneer at
romance?"
"I'm young, senorita, but I try to keep my head." He gave her a steady
glance. "Sometimes I find it difficult."
She laughed with a sparkle of coquetry, and touched him with her fan.
"Then there is hope for you, and we will labor for your conversion. The
man who always keeps his head never does anything great; the power that
moves the world comes from the heart." Lowering her voice, she went on:
"Our cause is just, senor, but we need trustworthy friends, even if they
are not idealists. Quixote failed because he used rusty armor and the
lance; we will use rifles."
Walthew was trying to be cautious, but was swept away. He had been
attracted by the girl at their first meeting, though he had then felt
something of the Anglo-Saxon's prejudice against the southern races,
which is not unmarked in the United States. This had gone, however, and
he now wondered whether Blanca meant to use him only to further her
father's objects, or if she had any personal interest in him. Her
patriotism was, he thought, a burning flame, and she would not stick at
trifles where she saw a chance of serving her country. Still, it would
be his fault if she were willing to get rid of him when he had done his
work.
"I wonder why you thought I could be trusted?" he said.
"It is difficult to explain, senor, but one can tell, perhaps by
instinct, when a man rings true."
"It would hurt to find you had been deceived?"
"It might be so," she answered slowly.
Walthew wondered if this were mere flirtation, designed to gain an end.
Blanca was playing with her fan, which lay in her lap. He could not see
her eyes. He felt that he had been given an opportunity, however, and he
meant to seize it. Leaning forward toward her, he waited until she
raised her eyes to his, and then he spoke in a low, tense voice.
"When I was leaving Rio Frio, I found a crimson rose on the pavement. I
picked it up because I ventured to think it was meant for me."
Blanca was again playing with her fan, opening and shutting it slowly.
"Senor, it is possible the flower was dropped by mistake," she said,
giving him a sidewise glance that made his heart beat fast.
"How--if it was really meant for me?"
She hesitated a moment, and then, raising her head, she met his
insistent look with a curious smile.
"It was given because I thought you were perhaps, in a way, and as far
as it was possible for you, like the great soldiers of fortune we talked
about."
Walthew made her a ceremonious bow.
"You set me a pretty big task, senorita, but, as far as it's possible
for me, I will try to make good."
He was thrilled by the look she gave him as she rose and held out her
hand.
"Your conversion begins," she said, with a strange, new note in her
voice. "It is a chivalrous resolve, and--you will live up to it, senor."
When she left him, Walthew found Grahame alone in the hotel lounge.
"I promised to let you know whether the malaria would send me home or
not," he said. "I've made up my mind to see the business through."
Grahame grasped his hand cordially.
"I don't know that you are wise, old man; but I am glad to have you,
just the same." He gave Walthew a whimsical look. "Haven't you come to a
decision rather suddenly?"
"That doesn't matter," said Walthew, "I mean to stick to it."
CHAPTER XII
BAITING THE SMUGGLERS
It was late, and the dew was heavy. Macallister's thin clothes were
getting damp as he walked impatiently up and down the mole. The
_Enchantress's_ gig lay near the steps, but her crew had not arrived,
although Macallister had waited half an hour for them. This by no means
pleased him, because, while not a tyrant, he expected his orders to be
obeyed. Besides, he resented the ingratitude of the men. He had agreed
with Grahame that it was prudent to moor the _Enchantress_ out in the
harbor and keep the crew short of money. They had behaved well, and
during the afternoon Macallister had given them a few pesetas and
allowed them a run ashore, although he imagined he had kept within a
limit that would ensure their sobriety.
They had, however, not returned, and he felt disturbed as he watched the
twinkling anchor-lights and the ripples flash in the silvery track the
moon cast across the water. Boats were coming and going, and when one
approached the landing Macallister drew back into the shadow. He had
made the acquaintance of the captain and the engineer of the vessel from
which the boat came, and he did not want to be found waiting for his
unpunctual crew. The footsteps of those who landed were growing faint
when he heard singing farther up the mole. The voice was unsteady, and
the patter of bare feet that accompanied it suggestively uneven.
Macallister knew the song, and was not surprised that his men, who were
obviously coming back the worse for liquor, should show a taste for good
music, for this is common among Spanish-Americans. It was, however,
difficult to understand how they had made the money he had given them go
so far.
"Where kept ye, ye drunken swine?" he asked when they lurched into
sight.
"No savvy," answered his fireman, Pepe, and Macallister explained what
he thought of them in the most virulent epithets used along the Clyde.
This relieved his feelings and satisfied his sense of discipline, but he
did not think it wise to translate his remarks: Spanish half-breeds have
fiery tempers and carry knives.
"Get into the boat before I kick ye off the mole!" he concluded when he
was breathless, and the men clumsily obeyed, though one came near to
falling into the water. They had some trouble in getting out the oars,
but at last they rowed away. Macallister noted that one man placed a
small cane basket under a thwart, and he suspected what was inside.
When they reached the _Enchantress_ he was first on deck, but he waited
by the gangway until the man who carried the basket climbed up.
Macallister held out his hand for the basket, and when the fellow gave
it to him confidingly he hurried aft to examine it by the engine lamp.
It contained two bottles of _anisado_, a spirit flavored with aniseed in
favor in Spanish countries. He felt tempted to throw them overboard,
but refrained because such waste went against the grain, and the liquor
might be doled out when the men had been forced to work unusually hard.
He imagined they had forgotten the matter, and was lighting his pipe
when he heard them coming, and stepped out of the engine-room to meet
them.
"There was a small basket, senor," one said civilly, though his voice
was thick.
"It is possible you dropped it overboard," Macallister suggested in his
best Castilian--which was very bad.
"No, senor. One does not drop such baskets over."
"What was in it, then?"
The man was obviously not sober, but it looked as if he had not lost his
senses.
"A small present to me and the others, Don Andres. You will give it back
to us."
"No," said Macallister sternly. "Presents of that kind are not allowed
on board this ship."
He watched them while they murmured together. They were active, wiry
fellows, obedient as a rule, but liable to passionate outbreaks, like
most of their mixed race. Now they looked drunkenly determined, and he
knew the strength of his fireman, Pepe.
"The basket is ours," said one. "We will take it."
"I think not," said Macallister shortly. "Stand back!"
Their half-respectful mood changed in a flash and they came at him with
a rush. They could wrestle and use the knife, and Macallister knew that
Pepe, who came first, must be stopped. He supposed that Miguel, whom he
had left on board, was asleep; but to summon help would be subversive
of authority and the affair would be over before Miguel arrived. Lunging
forward, he put the weight of his body into his blow, and Pepe reeled
when it landed on his jaw. Before he could recover, Macallister sprang
upon him, and with a strenuous effort flung him backward through the
gangway.
There was a splash in the water and the others stopped, daunted by the
vigor of the attack; but Pepe did not strike out for the gig as
Macallister expected. Indeed, for there was shadow along the vessel's
side, he did not seem to come up, and after a moment's pause Macallister
jumped into the sea. The water closed above him, but when he rose a
white-clad figure was struggling feebly near by and he seized it. Pepe
seemed unable to swim, and Macallister had some trouble in dragging him
to the gig, into which the others had jumped. They pulled both men out
of the water, and in another few minutes Macallister stood, dripping, on
board the _Enchantress_, sternly regarding his fireman. The shock had
apparently sobered him, and the others, with the instability of their
kind, had become suddenly docile.
"Now," said Macallister, "where did you get the _anisado_?"
"A gentleman gave it to us in a cafe."
Macallister shook his head.
"Try again! A gentleman does not give drunken sailors bottles of
liquor."
"We were not drunk then," one of them answered naively. "And he was a
gentleman: he spoke Castilian like the Peninsulares."
"Ah," said Macallister thoughtfully, for the use of good Peninsular
Spanish indicates a man of education. "So he gave you all some wine and
put the bottles in the basket!"
"It was so, Don Andres," another answered with a readiness that invited
belief.
"But why?"
"Who can tell?" Pepe rejoined. "Perhaps the senor was generous; then he
said he liked sailors and tales of the sea."
"You told him some, no doubt," Macallister remarked dryly.
"We did, Don Andres. Herman told him of the great shark that bites off
the fishermen's oars at Punta Anagan, and I about the ghost _caravela_
that beats to windward in Jaurez Strait."
"And what else?"
Pepe shook his head.
"Then there was some cognac and afterward--I do not remember."
"Get below, except the anchor-watch!" Macallister said sternly. "We'll
consider what's to be done with you to-morrow."
They slouched away, and while Macallister was talking to Miguel a splash
of oars grew louder, and presently Grahame clambered up from a shore
boat. He heard what had happened and then, sitting down, thoughtfully
lighted his pipe.
"You must see what this points to," he remarked.
"It's no' difficult. Somebody has made the wasters drunk, and I ken what
sea stories he would start them telling. A _gran senor_, they said!"
"One of President Altiera's spies! But why do you think he gave them the
_anisado_ afterward?"
"He might have wanted them to make trouble, so we'd put them ashore and
he could get hold o' them again. Then it's possible it would have suited
him if they'd knifed you or me."
"There may be something in that. Anyhow, your going overboard after Pepe
ended the matter well. They're not ungrateful; it gives us a hold on
them."
"I see that noo, but I did no' stop to think before I jumped,"
Macallister modestly admitted. "It was what ye might call a stroke o'
natural genius. Then, ye see, I threw him in."
Grahame laughed.
"Well, we must keep our eyes open, and get away as soon as we can. I
expect to finish with Don Martin to-morrow."
* * * * *
On the following evening Cliffe was sitting with Evelyn in his private
room at the International when a mulatto boy brought him in a card.
"Senor Gomez!" he remarked. "The fellow has kept me hanging round three
days, and I'd made up my mind to sail with Grahame to-morrow, whether he
came or not."
"Who is Senor Gomez?" Evelyn asked.
"I understand his official title is _Secretario General_, and he's next
in power to the President of the country I'm trying to do business with.
My opinion is that they're both slippery rascals."
He broke off as the door opened and a dark-skinned gentleman came in.
Gomez bowed ceremoniously to Evelyn and Cliffe, and then waited with his
hat in his hand. He was dressed all in black except for his spotless
linen. He wore a number of valuable rings, and Evelyn noticed that his
nails were unusually curved and long. She shrank from the glance of bold
admiration he gave her, but resentment and half-instinctive dislike
conquered this feeling, and she returned his greeting politely when
Cliffe presented him. She thought no better of him when she withdrew
after some general talk.
"Now," Cliffe said when Evelyn had left them, "we'll get down to
business. I've been waiting three days for you, and am not sure the deal
is worth it."
Gomez spread out his hands with a deprecatory air.
"It was impossible to come sooner; affairs of state, you understand! May
I suggest that the concessions we offer you are valuable?"
"So it seems!" Cliffe rejoined bluntly. "The price you asked was high
enough, and now, when we have half fixed things, you want to raise your
terms."
Gomez looked pained. He was rather stout and greasy, but his dress and
manners were unexceptionable.
"Senor, that is a grief to us, but the affairs of my country necessitate
the change. We only ask for a little more money in advance. It is to the
advantage of all parties that you agree."
"I can't see how it is to my advantage to part with money I can make a
good use of," Cliffe replied.
"I must speak frankly, senor." Gomez's manner became confidential.
"These concessions have already cost you something, and there are
dissatisfied people who are anxious to rob the President of his power."
"I've heard that some of them are anxious to shoot him; but that's not
my business."
"With your pardon, senor, we must disagree. If the President loses
office before the papers are signed, the concessions go. I imagined you
understood this."
"I suppose I did understand something of the kind," Cliffe admitted.
"Still, if the revolutionists prove too strong for you, I'll lose any
additional money I may let you have."
Gomez smiled, a slow and rather cruel smile.
"If we can get the money there will be an end of the discontent; we know
how to deal with it. And now, with apologies, I must remark that while
we give you the first opportunity, there are others----"
"Ah!" said Cliffe sharply. "I'd thought this business wouldn't have much
attraction for my rivals. Whom am I up against?"
Gomez gave him a letter from a German syndicate, and Cliffe examined it
closely. He knew the principal, and recognized the signature.
"I see; they're bolder than I thought," he said. "If I don't come up to
the line, you'll make the deal with them."
"We should be forced. The political situation demands it."
"You mean you must have the money. Well, you have got a good deal of
mine already. What becomes of it if the thing falls through?"
"It was a gift," Gomez answered with an apologetic smile. "Your
generosity will be gratefully remembered."
Cliffe was silent for a few minutes. He had not been tricked, because he
had known that when one negotiates a transaction of that sort with a
Spanish-American country, a certain amount of money must first be spent
in clearing the ground, and this, going into the pockets of venal
officials, offers no direct return. Gomez and his master had, however,
been smarter than Cliffe thought, for, after exacting all they could
from him, they had opened negotiations with another party, and would
force him to come up to his rival's bid. They could do so, because if he
drew back he would lose the money he had already put in. He distrusted
them, but he thought he would be safe when he secured the concessions.
"I guess I'll have to meet you," he said, "but we'll get everything
fixed up now."
Half an hour afterward he lighted a fresh cigar, and put some papers
into his pocket. He was not altogether satisfied, and neither was Gomez,
but they had by mutual compromise arrived at a workable arrangement and
each had some respect for the other's astuteness.
"How will you get across to Jamaica?" Gomez asked.
"A little boat sails in the morning."
"The very small, lead-colored steamer? The senorita may find the
accommodation rude. Why not wait for a passenger boat?"
"It's fine weather, and the man who owns her is a friend of mine."
Gomez was puzzled. He was suspicious of the _Enchantress_, and had taken
trouble to find out something about her. It surprised him to learn that
her owner and Cliffe were friends.
"Then he is in Havana?"
"He's in this hotel. I noticed him sitting, half asleep, in the far
corner of the lounge just before you came in. Do you want to see him?"
"Oh, no," Gomez said in a careless tone, for he feared he had been
incautious. "I imagined you meant he was somebody you knew in America."
He made an excuse for leaving, but Cliffe, noticing his interest, was
not satisfied, and went out to the landing with him. Gomez, however, did
not go straight to the lounge. He was afraid of rousing Cliffe's
curiosity, and men of his stamp are seldom direct in their methods. It
seemed wiser to spend a while sauntering about the _patio_, where Cliffe
could see him. But Grahame in the meantime came up the stairs, and
Cliffe beckoned him.
"Do you know Senor Gomez?" he asked.
"No," said Grahame, immediately on his guard. "I've heard about him.
Clever politician, but a bit of a rogue, I believe."
Cliffe gave him a keen glance.
"I thought he was interested in you, but I may have been mistaken.
Anyway, I told him you were taking a _siesta_ in a corner of the
lounge."
Grahame smiled carelessly.
"Inquisitiveness becomes a habit with fellows like Gomez, and I dare say
it's needful. The cafes in these ports are full of political refugees
and intriguers."
Seeing Macallister in the hall below, Grahame went down to him and told
him what he had learned.
"Weel," said the engineer, dryly, "after that present o' _anisado_ to
the men, I'm thinking it would no' be desirable that ye should meet
Senor Gomez. For a' that, I would not have him disappointed, and I'll
daunder along to the lounge."
"It would be almost as bad if he saw you."
Macallister chuckled.
"He'll have hard work to recognize me afterward. Come away to the
hat-rack."
Grahame followed him, feeling puzzled but suspecting that his comrade
had some ingenious plan. Seeing nobody about, Macallister borrowed one
or two articles from the rack; but neither he nor Grahame noticed that
Miss Cliffe watched the proceedings with interest from a shadowy
passage.
Shortly afterward, Gomez entered the lounge and saw only one person
there, but this individual's appearance surprised him. As the light was
not good, he strolled toward the drowsy gentleman who lay negligently in
a big chair with a newspaper dangling from his hand. He wore a soft hat,
pulled down upon his forehead as if to shade his eyes, and a loose dark
cloak hung over his shoulder. He looked like a Cuban and although Gomez
noticed that his nails were short and broken, this might be accounted
for by his having something to do with sugar-making machinery.
"Perhaps you are not using the _diario_?" Gomez said.
The man did not look up, but held out the paper with a drowsy grunt.
Gomez was too clever to make a poor excuse for starting a conversation
with a man who obviously did not wish to be disturbed, and, taking the
paper, he moved away. After a few minutes he put it down and strolled
out of the room. When he had gone, Macallister left by another door,
and, replacing the things he had borrowed, rejoined Grahame in the
_patio_.
"It worked," he said, chuckling. "If Senor Gomez was on our track, he's
weel off it noo. But it's fortunate we sail the morn."
"He mustn't meet Don Martin," Grahame answered thoughtfully. "I'll go to
his room and warn him."
He found that Sarmiento was out, and none of the hotel servants knew
where he had gone. Grahame felt disturbed by this; but there was nothing
he could do.
CHAPTER XIII
THE EMERALD RING
Grahame went in to dinner feeling anxious. Sarmiento had not returned,
but he would probably come in before the meal was over, and Gomez was
sitting by Cliffe near the head of the table. Blanca sat opposite
Walthew, and Grahame found a place next to Evelyn, who had not joined
Cliffe because she disliked Gomez. Though his manners were polished,
there was something sinister about him, a hint of craft and cruelty, and
she did not approve of his association with her father.
"Have you met the gentleman yonder?" she asked Grahame.
"Senor Gomez? I know who he is, but have not spoken to him."
"That's curious, because he has been looking at you as if he were
interested."
This confirmed Grahame's suspicion, and he felt uneasy. He did not want
Gomez to study him, and he would not have come in to dinner only that he
must warn Sarmiento. If he and his friends were to succeed in their
undertaking, their connection with Don Martin must remain unknown; for
it would not be difficult to catch them landing arms should their object
be suspected. He wondered where Macallister was, for the engineer could
be trusted in an emergency, and presently he saw him coming in. There
was no vacant place near Grahame, and Macallister sat down some distance
off.
"You may have been mistaken, Miss Cliffe," Grahame suggested. "Somehow,
I imagine that Gomez is not a favorite of yours."
"That's true, though I hardly know him," she answered with a smile. "One
is now and then seized by a quick prejudice, and I think the reason I
mentioned the man was because I wanted your opinion."
"Did you think it worth having?"
"I can't judge. Perhaps I really wanted to be agreed with. When you have
no good ground for making up your mind about a thing, it's pleasant to
find your conclusions confirmed."
"Well, I believe you can trust your feelings. Gomez can't be a nice man
if all one hears is true. But what turned you against him--the dash of
dark blood?"
"No, not altogether. I felt repelled, as one feels repelled by a snake
or a toad."
Grahame made a sign of understanding. There was, he thought, something
very refined in the girl's character; an instinctive fastidiousness. She
walked in the light and shrank from all that lurked in the shadow. It
was her inner self that had recoiled from the swarthy politician and
reason had nothing to do with the matter.
"Your father seems to be on good terms with the fellow," he remarked.
"Yes; it puzzles me. However, I suppose he is forced to deal with all
kinds of people----"
She paused, and Grahame changed the subject. He might have obtained some
information by judicious questions, but he could not take advantage of
the girl's frankness by leading her to reveal anything she knew about
her father's affairs. This would taint their friendship, which he
valued.
After a time, she looked at him with a twinkle of amusement.
"I watched a little comedy shortly before dinner."
"Did you?" said Grahame. "Comedies are not unusual when one knows how to
look for them, but they don't catch everybody's eye."
"This one was rather obvious; I mean the transformation of a staid
Scottish engineer into a Cuban sugar-planter of convivial habits."
"Mack isn't really staid. It looks as if you didn't quite understand the
Scottish character. Under its surface sobriety one's apt to find a very
reckless humor. I'm a Borderer, and rather proud of it, you know. But
how did the beginning of the first act strike you?"
"It seized my interest. The plot was not unusual; confused identity is a
favorite theme, but I noticed some histrionic cleverness. The rake of
the _sombrero_ and the hang of the big cloak were good. They carried a
hint of mild dissipation; one recognizes artistic talent in these light
touches."
Grahame laughed.
"I'm not sure it was all art; experience may have had something to do
with it. Mack's not an ascetic."
"But how did the play go off?"
"It was a success, I think."
"In one act?"
"No," said Grahame thoughtfully. "I imagine it isn't played out yet, and
the other acts may not be in so light a vein."
"As you didn't expect an audience, perhaps I'd better promise not to
talk about your play. You may have felt some diffidence about asking
that."
"Thank you," said Grahame quietly. "You're very quick."
Evelyn smiled. There was something about the man which appealed to her.
Perhaps it was the mystery that seemed to shroud him and the
_Enchantress_. She noticed now that he was casting furtive glances about
the dining-room.
As a matter of fact, Grahame was worried about Don Martin. The flowers,
plates of fruit, and tall wine carafes obstructed his view, but he could
see that Sarmiento had not come in. Gomez was talking to Cliffe, but his
eyes wandered about the table. For a moment they rested on Blanca, and
Grahame felt angry, as if the fellow's glance were an insult to the
girl. Then it was fixed observantly upon himself, and he hid his
antagonism.
Dinner was a lengthy function, but the last course was served, and some
of the guests were smoking and some leaving their places to speak to
their friends, when Sarmiento came in. He walked toward Grahame, who was
glad of the general movement, which might help him to deal with the
situation. Looking round quickly, he noted that Gomez had turned to
Cliffe; and then, getting up carelessly, he stood between the secretary
and Don Martin. He faced Sarmiento, and the latter stopped when he saw
Grahame's frown. A life of political intrigue had made him keen-witted,
and with a negligent movement he turned and went back, speaking to a
waiter as he passed.
Evelyn rose and waited by her chair. Something she did not understand
was going on, and the hint of intrigue excited her. She trusted Grahame,
and she thought his object was good. Moreover, she guessed that it had
something to do with thwarting Gomez, and she meant to help him if she
had an opportunity.
The secretary suddenly pushed back his chair, and Grahame felt his heart
beat. Sarmiento was not far from the door, and his back was toward his
enemy, but he would have to turn at the end of the table, and that would
bring his profile into view. It seemed that he recognized the danger,
though Grahame did not think he had seen Gomez, for he bent down,
turning his head as he tightened his sash. His face was still hidden
when he reached the door, but Grahame, looking round, saw Gomez walk
quickly down the room. Other people were now leaving, and Grahame joined
them, hoping that he might get out before his antagonist. He was unaware
that Evelyn, who guessed his intention, was close behind him.
There was more room on Gomez's side of the table, and Grahame was
delayed by several ladies whom he could not push aside. He would have
risked some apparent rudeness, but dared not make a disturbance. Gomez
had almost reached the door when a man collided with him and barred the
way, and Grahame smiled as he heard an apology in bad Castilian, for he
saw that Macallister had given Sarmiento a few more seconds' start.
Evelyn had slipped round the group of women while Grahame was trying to
avoid one of them, and she was now in front of Gomez, who was hurrying
along the passage. The man was close to her when she stopped and bent
down with a warning cry.
"Take care, senor! I have dropped a ring."
Gomez could not get past her, and his eyes blazed with fury. His polish
was superficial, and Evelyn saw something of the savagery beneath. She
flinched, but plucked up her courage.
"It is a valuable ring, and will break if you tread on it," she said.
"Move then!" Gomez commanded harshly; and when she stepped back her
dress uncovered the ring. Its setting was of small emeralds and
diamonds, and might easily have been crushed.
Gomez picked up the ring and gave it to her with a bow. Then he hurried
on; but when he reached the _patio_ it was empty, and Grahame, standing
at the other end of the passage, heard his ugly exclamation. The next
moment Evelyn passed him, coming back, but her manner indicated that she
did not wish to speak.
After a time Grahame strolled out from the front of the hotel, and
looked round as he turned a corner. Nobody followed him; and, as he
expected, he found Sarmiento waiting in the shadow some distance farther
on.
"What was the danger?" the Spaniard asked.
"Gomez was in the dining-room."
"Ah!" said Sarmiento. "Did he recognize me?"
"I don't think so, but I can't be sure. He was suspicious. But it's
hardly prudent to stand talking in the street."
They entered a shabby cafe, and, choosing a quiet corner, ordered wine.
"If our friend's suspicions are aroused, he'll lose no time in following
them up," Sarmiento said; and Grahame noticed that although the cafe was
almost empty he avoided the secretary's name. "A Pinillo boat sails at
daybreak and passengers go on board to-night. It seems to me that I'd
better embark."
"But the Pinillo liners don't call at your port!" Grahame said.
Sarmiento smiled.
"It may puzzle our friend if he watches the mole. When I have been on
board I will return quietly, but not to the hotel. I know this city,
where I have trustworthy acquaintances. I may be able to learn the
business that has brought him here."
"But what about your daughter?"
"I do not think our friend knows her, and our name is not on the hotel
book. There is a Cuban lady I can leave her with."
"One would imagine that watching the fellow might be dangerous. There
are half-breed rascals in the port who wouldn't hesitate about
sandbagging or stabbing you for a few dollars. But, after all, you run
some risk at Rio Frio."
"I am safe there, for a time," said Sarmiento. "The opposition dare not
arrest me, and the citizens would have to be satisfied if I disappeared.
There would be a riot, and the Government is not ready to use force
yet."
"I see," said Grahame. "It's evident that you are popular; but the
leaders of movements like yours are sometimes willing to sacrifice a
comrade for the good of the cause. It might not suit them to have their
hand forced by a tumult."
"Such things happen. But my hold is on the people. They would not be
appeased."
"May I ask how you got that hold?"
"I will tell you, senor. My family is of some importance, and at first I
was not an active liberator. The peons on my father's estate were, in a
sense, his subjects: ignorant, superstitious people with childish
passions; but they trusted him, and it was our tradition that they
should be treated well. As I grew up, however, I saw that much had not
been done. They wasted effort, suffered needless pains, and died of
diseases that might be stamped out. In my inexperience I resolved that I
would teach them to live healthily and well."
"I dare say you found it hard."
Sarmiento smiled.
"That is very true. I was young and an enthusiast, and it hurts to be
misunderstood. Even the poor I tried to benefit regarded me with
suspicion; but this was not the worst. One is not supposed to be
disinterested in my country; the man who works for others is a dangerous
person. His aim is to gain power, and those who have it watch him with a
jealous eye. Well, I found my schemes thwarted by corrupt officials,
money one could do much good with must be spent in bribes, and at last I
saw that before improvement was possible our government must be
reformed. I am not naturally a politician, senor; I was forced to become
one."
Grahame made a sign of agreement.
"I think I understand," he said.
"It was uphill work, but the peasants I had helped began to trust me,
thoughtful men gave me their support, and some joined because they hated
all in authority. I was becoming an influence, and it was supposed I
could be bought. Petty honors were offered and an official post. When it
was found that these things did not tempt me, I became a danger to the
State."
"And the President tried a different plan!"
"Sometimes I feared for my liberty, and sometimes for my life. I have
had to take refuge in Cuba and the United States; much of my money has
been spent. But the determination to win freedom and good government
spreads. We are growing strong, and soon the reckoning with our
oppressors will come."
"Will things be very much better afterward?"
Sarmiento spread out his hands.
"Who can tell? One strives and hopes for the best. It is all that is
possible. Some day, perhaps, comes a small instalment of what one fights
for."
Grahame did not answer, and his companion sank into the melancholy that
often characterized him. He was engaged in an arduous struggle, and
Grahame suspected that disappointment would meet him even in hardly won
victory. The man was sincere, and had sacrificed much for his country's
sake; but he could not work alone, and it might happen that his helpers,
tasting power, would restore the abuses he had destroyed. It looked as
if he knew this, but did not let it daunt him.
After a long silence Sarmiento took out his watch.
"I think I had better go on board the Pinillo boat now," he said. "Our
business is done, and it is well that you sail to-morrow. When we are
ready for the next cargo, you will hear from us."
Pulling down his hat, he left the cafe with his cloak thrown loosely
over his shoulder, but Grahame noticed that he was careful to keep his
right hand free.
CHAPTER XIV
SMOOTH WATER
There was no wind except the draught the steamer made as she lurched
across the dazzling swell. Cuba floated like a high, blue cloud over the
port hand, cut off from the water by a blaze of reflected light, and the
broad Yucatan Channel, glimmering like silver, stretched ahead. The deck
had been holystoned and well sluiced before sunrise and was not quite
dry, and there was a slight coolness in the air where Evelyn Cliffe sat
under the awning.
Macallister leaned on the rail near by, wearing a white cap with a mail
company's badge, and a blue jacket over his greasy duck. He had given
his dress some thought since the passengers came on board. Miguel stood
at the wheel, barefooted, tall, and picturesque in spotless white, with
a red cap and a red sash round his waist. A few big logs of hardwood
that gave out an aromatic smell were made fast amidships.
"I suppose that lumber's valuable," Evelyn remarked.
"It depends upon whether ye want to buy or sell," Macallister replied.
"They telt us good logs were scarce in Cuba, but I doubt we'll find
demand is slack when we come to part wi' them."
"Then the trade can't be very profitable."
"It's just changing a shilling. Sometimes ye get a ha'penny over."
Evelyn laughed.
"Which one of you looks after business matters?"
"I'm thinking it will have to be Walthew. The lad shows a natural
ability."
"But he's younger than Mr. Grahame--and probably has not had as much
experience."
Macallister gave her a half-amused glance.
"The skipper's no' a fool, but when he makes a bargain he's frank and
quick. States the fair price and sticks to it. He will not spend time in
scheming how he can screw a few more dollars out o' the other man. Yon's
a gift ye must be born with."
"Do you mean Mr. Grahame rather despises money-making?"
"No' that exactly," Macallister replied in a confidential tone. "But, ye
see, he's a Grahame o' Calder Ha'."
"Oh! Is that a great distinction?"
"It depends on how ye look at things. His branch o' the family is maybe
no' o' much importance noo, but in the old wild days the lairds o'
Calder Ha' were chiefs on the Border. They guarded the moss roads, they
kept the fords, and the kings at Stirling and Westminster noo bought
their goodwill with presents and noo hanged a few o' the clan."
"And Calder Hall? Is it one of the rude stone towers you see pictures
of?"
Macallister smiled.
"Calder Ha's bonny. The old tower stands, with the coat o' arms above
the door, but a low, gray house with stone-ribbed windows runs back
where was once the bailly wall. Below's a bit ragged orchard, the bent
trees gray with fog, and then the lawn dropping to the waterside. Nae
soft Southern beauty yonder; but ye feel the charm o' the cold, rugged
North." He paused, and resumed with a reminiscent air: "I mind how I
went to Calder Ha' when I was a young and romantic laddie fired by Scott
and him who taught the wandering winds to sing; the tales o' the Ettrick
shepherd were thought good reading then. After a bit plain speaking to
the foreman o' a Clydeside engine shop, I was fitting spinning gear in a
new woolen mill, and I left the narrow Border town on a holiday dawn.
"There was mist along the alders and a smell o' wet dust where the white
road followed the waterside, but as the sun came ower the hills I took
to the moor. Red it was like crimson velvet with the light upon the
ling, rolling on to Cheviot-foot, with the brown grouse crying and the
clear sky above. At noon I came down a bit water that tumbled in a linn,
where rowans grew among the stones and the eddies were amber with the
seeping from the peat. The burn got wider, the bare hills closed in; and
then I came on Calder Ha' at a turning o' the glen. Black firs behind
it, standing stiff like sentinels; the house with the tower in the
middle on the breast o' the brae, and the lawn running doon to a pool.
Then I kent why the Grahames loved it and would never sell, though many
a rich man would have bought the place from them."
"Did you tell Mr. Grahame this?" Evelyn asked.
"Maybe it makes things easier that he thinks I dinna ken," said
Macallister.
Evelyn agreed, for she saw that his reticence was caused by tactful
sympathy. Afterward she was silent for a time. The Scot's admiration for
the old Border house appealed to her. He had shown a taste and a
half-poetical imagination that she had not suspected when they first
met; but it was not of Macallister she was thinking. After all, it must
be something to belong to a family with such traditions as clung about
Calder Hall; but she must not dwell too much on this.
"Aren't we going slowly?" she asked.
"Coal's dear in the West Indies, and the slower ye go the less ye use.
But if ye are tiring o' the trip, I might drive her a bit faster."
Evelyn glanced across the long undulations that were deep-blue in the
hollows, and touched upon their summits with brilliant light. She liked
to feel the easy lift as the _Enchantress_ shouldered off the swell; the
drowsy murmur at the bows and the rhythmical throb of engines were
soothing. Then there was a pleasant serenity in the wide expanse. But
she was honest with herself, and she knew that the beauty of the calm
sea did not quite account for the absence of any wish to shorten the
voyage.
"Oh," she said, "please don't burn more coal than is necessary. I'm
quite content. I love the sunshine and the smooth water."
Macallister strolled away, but she saw his twinkling smile and wondered
whether he was satisfied with her excuse.
Evelyn lay back in her steamer-chair, looking out over the glistening
water and idly watching the white-caps far out at sea. She felt, rather
than saw, Grahame approach. When she turned to him, smiling, he was
close beside her, leaning against the rail. His pose was virile, and his
expression marked by the quiet alertness she had learned to know. It
suggested resolution, self-reliance, and power of command. These
qualities were not obtrusively indicated, but Evelyn recognized them and
wondered how much he owed to his being a Grahame of Calder Hall.
Hereditary influences must be reckoned on.
"This is the first chance I've had to see you alone," he said. "I want
to thank you for your help at the International."
"Was it useful?"
"Very useful. Your quickness and resourcefulness were surprising."
"That's a doubtful compliment," she laughed. "To me the affair was quite
exciting. To feel that you're engaged in a conspiracy gives you a
pleasant thrill."
"I wonder!" Grahame remarked rather grimly. "But may I ask----"
"Oh, I can't dissect the impulses that prompted me. No doubt, the hint
of intrigue was attractive--and perhaps friendship counted too."
"And you took the excellence of my intentions on trust?"
"Well, there really was no time to question you, and judge if they were
good. As a matter of fact, I'm no wiser now."
"No," he said. "On the whole, I think it's better that you shouldn't
know."
"It looks as if I'm more confiding than you."
Grahame, studying her face, suspected disappointed curiosity and a touch
of pique.
"Your confidence is yours, to give or withhold as you think best. Mine,
however, belongs to others."
"Then there are a number of people in the plot!"
Grahame laughed.
"If it's any comfort for you to know, when you came to our rescue that
night in Havana you helped a man who has made many sacrifices for a good
cause."
"As you're too modest to mean yourself, you must be speaking of the
gentleman with the pretty daughter."
"Yes, Dona Blanca is pretty; but I prefer the Anglo-Saxon type. There's
a charm in tropical languor, but one misses the bracing keenness of the
North." He quoted with a smile,
"Oh, dark and true and tender----"
"We may be true; one likes to think so. But I'm not sure that tenderness
is a characteristic of ours."
"It's not lightly given, but it goes deep and lasts," Grahame answered.
When he left her a few minutes afterward, Evelyn sat thinking languidly.
She found him elusive. He was frank, in a way, but avoided personal
topics. Then, remembering the scrap of verse he had quoted, she
reflected that he was certainly a Northerner in feeling; but was truth,
after all, an essential feature of the type? To be really true, one must
be loyal to one's inner self and follow one's heart. But this was risky.
It might mean sacrificing things one valued and renouncing advantages to
be gained. Prudence suggested taking the safe, conventional course that
would meet with the approval of one's friends; but Romance stood,
veiled and mysterious, beckoning her, and she thrilled with an
instinctive response. Now, however, she felt that she was getting on to
dangerous ground, and she joined Cliffe, who sat in the shade of the
deckhouse, talking to Walthew; but they did not help her to banish her
thoughts. Her father was a practical business man, and Walthew had
enjoyed a training very similar to hers. It was strange that he should
now seek adventures instead of riches, and stranger still that her
father should show some sympathy with him.
An hour later Grahame found Macallister leaning on the rail, contentedly
smoking his pipe.
"She's only making seven knots; you're letting steam down," he said.
"Weel," rejoined Macallister, "we're saving coal, and we'll be in
Kingston soon enough. Then, Miss Cliffe's no' in a hurry. She's enjoying
the smooth water; she telt me so."
Grahame looked hard at him.
"You have a dangerous love of meddling, Mack," he said.
"I'll no' deny it. For a' that, I've had thickheaded friends who've been
grateful to me noo and then. What ye have no' is the sense to ken an
opportunity."
"What do you mean by that?"
Macallister's manner grew confidential.
"She's thinking about ye and when a lassie goes so far----"
Grahame stopped him with a frown.
"I'd sooner you dropped this nonsense. It's a poor joke."
"Weel, if ye have no ambition! Selling guns to revolutionists is no' a
remarkably profitable business, particularly if ye're caught, and I was
thinking ye might do better. The girl's no' bad to look at; I've seen ye
watching her."
"Not bad to look at!" Grahame checked himself. "We'll talk about
something else."
"As ye like!"
Macallister took out a small, tapered piece of steel.
"This, ye ken, is a cotter, and the dago from the foundry put it in. He
was a good fitter, but the pin's a sixty-fourth too small for the slot.
Maybe it was carelessness; but there would have been trouble when the
cotter shook out if Walthew hadna' heard her knocking. Yon lad has the
makings o' an engineer."
Grahame looked thoughtful.
"Gomez was in Havana, and I dare say he has his agents and spies. Still,
if he suspected anything, it would have been a better stroke to have
watched and seized us when we had the arms on board. I'd expect him to
see it."
"Weel," said Macallister grimly, "if I meet yon dago another time, I'll
maybe find out something before I throw him off the mole. A good
engine's nearer life than anything man has made, and wrecking her is as
bad as murder."
"I don't think our opponents would stick at that," Grahame replied as he
turned away.
Toward evening the barometer fell, and it grew very hot. There was no
wind, the sky was cloudless, and the sea rolled back to the horizon
without a ripple. For all that, there was a curious tension in the
atmosphere, and Evelyn noticed that soon after Macallister came up for
a few minutes and looked carefully about, thick smoke rose from the
funnel. The girl's head felt heavy, and her skin prickly; and she saw
that Grahame's hawk look was more noticeable than usual. He was,
however, not fidgety, and after dinner he sat talking to her and Cliffe
under the awning. The air was oppressively still, and a half-moon hung
like a great lamp low above the sea.
About nine o'clock Cliffe went to his cabin to look for a cigar, and
Evelyn and Grahame sat silent for a while, wrapped in the mystery of the
night.
Evelyn was the first to speak.
"I suppose you don't expect this calm to last?" she asked in a hushed
voice.
"I'd like it to last while you're with us. But I can't promise that,"
Grahame answered. "If we do get a breeze it will probably soon blow
itself out."
Evelyn glanced at the sea.
"It doesn't look as if it could ever be ruffled," she said. "One likes
smooth water--but it's apt to get monotonous."
"That's a matter of temperament, or perhaps experience. When you've had
to battle with headwinds, you appreciate a calm."
"I don't know. So far, I've had only sunshine and fine weather, but then
I've always clung to the sheltered coast. It's nice to feel safe, but
one sometimes wonders what there is farther out."
"Breaking seas and icy gales that drive you off your course. Now and
then islands of mystic beauty, but more often surf-beaten reefs. On the
whole, it's wiser to keep in smooth water."
"Perhaps," Evelyn said skeptically. "Still, there's a fascination in
adventure, if it's only as a test of courage, and one feels tempted to
take a risk."
She rose with a laugh.
"I don't know why I talk like this! I'm really a very practical
girl--not a sentimentalist."
She moved away, and Grahame, calling one of the men to furl the awning,
went into the deckhouse and deliberately pored over a chart. There were
times when it was not safe to permit himself to think of Evelyn.
CHAPTER XV
THE TORNADO
Evelyn was wakened by a peal of thunder, and as she drowsily lifted her
head a blaze of lightning filled the narrow room. It vanished and there
was another deafening crash. The darkness was now impenetrable, but the
startled girl had seen that the deck was sharply slanted and her clothes
hung at a wide angle to the paneling of the bulkhead. It was obvious
that the _Enchantress_ was listed down nearly on her beam ends. A
confused uproar was going on, and Evelyn thought she could distinguish
the beating of heavy rain upon the deckhouse. This, however, was only
for a few moments, because the other noises swelled into an overwhelming
din.
Dropping from her berth, she began to dress in the dark, but found it
difficult to keep her footing on the slanted deck, which lurched and
threw her against the lockers, while the planking worked and shook with
the throb of engines. Evelyn could not hear them, but the strong
vibration showed that they were running fast.
It cost her an effort to refrain from rushing out on deck. Buttons
baffled her nervous fingers, the pins she tried to use instead doubled
up, but she persevered. She would not leave her room until she was
ready: if the worst came, she could not make an open-boat voyage in a
disheveled state. That this should seem of importance did not strike her
as curious then, but she afterward blushed as she remembered her
determination to look as well as possible.
At last she opened the door and stepped out, ankle-deep in water. She
was to lee of the deckhouse, and, seizing the hand-rail, tried to look
about. The rain did not seem so heavy now, and the house sheltered her,
although clouds of spray were flying across its top. A few feet away,
the low bulwark was faintly distinguishable, but outside this there was
only a dim glimmer of foam in the dark. The _Enchantress_ had the wind
and sea on her broadside. This surprised Evelyn, because it was not a
safe position if the gale were as bad as it seemed. Then a shower of
sparks leaped from the funnel and by the momentary light they gave she
saw a white streak, cleanly cut off and slanting downward, at the crown
of the escape pipe. Evidently, Macallister had raised more steam than he
could use.
Wondering why Grahame had not brought the vessel head to wind, she moved
aft cautiously, clinging to the rail, until she saw that the awning had
broken loose from its lashings. Part of it thrashed about the deck,
making a furious noise, but the rest, blown forward, had fouled the
foresail boom, and was stretched tight, but distended like a half-filled
balloon. Acting as a sail, it prevented the steamer from answering her
helm. One or two very indistinct figures struggled with the canvas, but
they seemed unable to master it, and Evelyn crept on until she could
look through the skylight into the engine-room. It was here the real
battle must be fought, for the cylinders that strained under top
pressure were the vitals of the ship. She could see them shake, as if
about to burst their fastening bolts and leap from the columns, as the
big cross-heads banged up and down.
The iron room was well lighted, though the lamps hung at an alarming
angle to the beams, and there was a confused glimmer of steel that
flashed through the light and plunged into shadow. A half-naked man lay
on a narrow grating, leaning down and touching a ponderous mass of metal
as it swept past. In the momentary intervals before it came back he
rubbed the bright slide it traveled on with a greasy swab, and the girl
knew how important it was that nothing should get hot. The work was
dangerous, because the least clumsiness might cost him his arm. When he
stopped and turned sideways on the grating the light touched his face,
and Evelyn started as she recognized Walthew.
He had enjoyed all the comforts and refinements to which she was
accustomed, and it was from choice and not necessity that he was doing
this rough, hazardous work. There were obviously people who did not
attach an undue value to the ease that wealth could buy; this boy, for
example, had left the safe, beaten track, and now, when still weak from
fever, was taking the consequences without dismay. It looked as if there
might be something wrong with her mother's philosophy; but she could
think of this better when there was less risk of the steamer's
foundering.
A man came along the deckhouse and put his arm round her waist as the
ship gave a wild lurch. Evelyn laughed as she recognized her father. For
a moment she had thought it was Grahame. Holding her tight, Cliffe
moved on a yard or two, and then stopped at the corner of the house,
where they could see something of what was going on.
It was lighter now that the rain had stopped, and presently a ray of
moonlight traveled across the sea and touched the laboring vessel. Hove
down by the pressure of the wind on deckhouse and awning, she had buried
her lee bulwarks and lifted her weather side. Sheets of water blew
across her, and the sea looked white as snow. It was not running high:
the heavy rain had beaten down the swell; but it would soon rise, and
unless the vessel could be brought head to wind the combers would sweep
her deck.
As the beam of moonlight widened, the figures of the toiling men grew
clear. One was clinging to the top of a tall stanchion in a grotesque
monkey-like attitude, trying to cut loose the awning, for a knife
sparkled in his hand. Another crouched on the deck with folds of the
canvas in his arms. Miguel was bent over the wheel. The tenseness of his
pose and his hard-set face suggested heavy muscular strain.
Grahame stood near by, his hand on a stay, swaying with the movement of
the steamer. He was bareheaded and the spray lashed his face, but there
was something that reassured the girl in his tranquillity.
It was useless to speak. The voice would have been drowned by the roar
of the gale, while wire-shroud and chain-guy shrilled in wild harmonies.
Evelyn stood fascinated, watching the quick, tense movements of the
crew.
Presently Grahame turned his head, and, seeing them against the
deckhouse, pointed toward the sea. Following his gesture, Evelyn saw a
blurred object leap out of the dark. It grew suddenly into definite
form as it drove across the belt of moonlight: a small wooden barque
with a deck-load of timber, staggering before the hurricane.
Fluttering rags showed where her maintopsail had blown from the ropes;
curved ribands, held fast at head and foot, marked what was left of her
fore-course, and puny f
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