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Then she got up, smiling, and advanced to meet Chisholm and Flora, who came up the garden path.
Wyndham urged Marston to go with him, and a week or two afterwards Flora and Mabel stood on the deck of a paddle tug crossing a busy river mouth. The day was dull and a haze of smoke from two towns hung about the long rows of warehouses and massive river walls. Out in the stream, a small steamer with a black funnel and a row of white deckhouses moved seawards with the tide. The figures grouped along her rail got indistinct, but Flora's eyes were fixed upon two that stood away from the rest, until they faded. Then the African boat vanished behind the towering hull of an anchored liner.
Flora turned and lowered her veil, for her eyes were wet. Chisholm was on board the tug, but he was some distance off. Mabel was near, and her look was strained.
"In a way, it's only a long yachting trip," the latter remarked.
"No," said Flora; "we both know it is not. It's a rash adventure; Harry is going South, as his people all have gone, and some did not come back."
"Of course he'll come back! Travel's safe and easy now. They'll have no adventures, except perhaps, at sea."
"I'm not afraid of the sea," Flora said in a quiet voice. "It's the tropic coast; the big muddy rivers that get lost in the forest, and the dark lagoons among the mangrove swamps. The country's insidious; its influence is strong."
Mabel forced a smile. She thought Flora was not disturbed about the physical dangers, such as fever and shipwreck. It looked as if she knew her lover.
"Anyhow, Bob is going with Harry, and Bob is not romantic," she remarked. "In fact, he's the steadiest, most matter-of-fact man I know. Nothing excites Bob much. It's very hard to carry him away."
Flora gave her a grateful look. Since she must not criticize Harry, they could not be altogether frank, but she saw Mabel understood. The men they loved had very different temperaments, and Bob would be a useful counterbalance. He was sober and practical: one could trust him. It was hard to own that, in a sense, she could not trust Harry. He was rash, and Flora did not like the stories about the Wyndhams who had not come back. However, Bob was going, and she imagined she owed Mabel much.
"I like Bob," she said. "I expect it cost you something to send him with Harry."
"He wanted to go."
Flora put her hand in the other's arm. "But you might have stopped him."
"He's Harry's friend," said Mabel. "I am yours. After all, that counts for something, but we won't talk about it now. Your promising to marry Harry has drawn us closer. It's an extra tie, because all Bob's friends are mine."
The tug's whistle shrieked as she swung across the tide to the landing stage and Flora looked down the river. In the distance, where granite walls and warehouses got small and indistinct, the African boat melted into the smoke and mist. Flora felt strangely forlorn and half afraid.
CHAPTER IV
THE MAN WHO VANISHED
Moonlight glittered on the West African river and it was very hot; the air was heavy, humid, and tainted by miasmatic vapors. Inside the lonely factory, moisture dripped from the beams and the big bare room that opened on the veranda smelt of mildew. Across the river, tangled mangroves loomed through drifting mist that hid the banks of mud about their long, arched roots. Wyndham's schooner, Columbine, rode in midstream, her tall masts and the graceful sweep of her rail cutting black against the silver light. Somebody on board was singing a Kroo paddling song with a strange monotonous air. In the distance one heard the rumble of heavy surf.
The factory was old and ruinous and the agent's hair was going white. He sat opposite Wyndham, at the end of a table about which documents were scattered; a cocktail jug and some glasses occupied the middle. Ellams was haggard and his skin was a jaundiced yellow. Marston lounged in a deck chair, with the perspiration running down his face, and smoked a cigarette.
"I think I have told you all you want to know, and I'm willing to give up my post," Ellams remarked. "Indeed, I'm beginning to feel I'm too old for the job. Few white men have lived as long in the fever swamps; as a rule an agent's run was very short when I first came out. We didn't bother about mosquitoes then. The tropical-diseases people hadn't discovered the mischievous habits of anopheles."
"You were here with my uncle, I think?" said Wyndham.
"I was with him for a year or two," Ellams answered, in a reminiscent tone. "A strange man, in some ways! I expect it's long since you saw him?"
"He came to England when I was a boy."
Ellams smiled. "When I saw you cross the compound, I thought Rupert Wyndham had come back. Wait a moment; I have his portrait."
He brought a faded and mildewed photograph. Wyndham studied it, without speaking, and then gave it to Marston, who made a little gesture of surprise. He imagined Rupert Wyndham was about his comrade's age when the portrait was taken, and the likeness was strange. There was in both faces a hint of recklessness and unrest, although the hint was plainer in the portrait. It indicated that Rupert would venture much and take paths sober men did not tread. Somehow it disturbed Marston.
"I suppose you know he vanished in the West Indies?" Wyndham remarked.
"Yes," said Ellams quietly. "I half expected something like this – "
"Ah!" said Wyndham. "Well, we've done with business for to-night. Tell me about my uncle."
Ellams drained his glass and Marston noted that his hand shook. The man had obviously suffered much from ague and fever.
"Rupert Wyndham was here before me," Ellams began. "Procter was agent when he arrived and Procter had got some native habits. That's a risk men who indulge their curiosity run in Africa. There's danger of forgetting one is white. I imagine it was unlucky Rupert began with Procter; his was a strange, adventurous temperament – "
"I'm told I have some of Rupert's characteristics," Wyndham remarked. "But go on."
"When your uncle came out, there was no rule but the negro headman's. British authority stopped a few miles from the outpost stockade, and traders made their own laws; they lived and drank hard. In some ways, things are not very different yet. We kill mosquitoes and dig drains, but Africa doesn't change.
"Well, Procter had gone the way some white men go, and when he died your uncle got a jar. Rupert had only known England and he was young, but I don't mean he was daunted. Rather he lost his balance and started on a line he ought to have left alone. Sometimes he talked about the thing. I suspect he knew the Leopards killed Procter."
"The Leopards?" Marston interrupted.
"The Ghost Leopards, a secret society. In this country, there are a number, run by the Ju-Ju priests. They're supposed to use magic, but they're a power in native politics and have given the British government trouble. Perhaps the Leopards are the strongest. The bushmen believe they can take the form of the animals, and when they like make themselves invisible. Anyhow, the headman they don't approve seldom rules very long – "
Ellams paused for a few moments and resumed: "It was a hot night when Rupert Wyndham thought he heard Procter call. He said his voice was choked and faint. He got up; he occupied the room yonder – " Ellams indicated a door opposite and went on: "There was no light, but the moon shone through the window behind us. Rupert had only been awake a few moments and heard nothing but the faint cry. He ran out in his pyjamas and found Procter on the floor. Procter's body was warm, but when Wyndham tried to lift him he saw he was dead. He lay across the cracked board where Mr. Marston sits."
Marston half-consciously pushed back his chair. "But what indicated the Leopards?"
"There were strange marks on Procter's throat. Wyndham thought they looked like the marks of claws."
Marston pondered while Ellams filled his glass. He pictured the huddled figure in pyjamas lying across the rotten boards, and the marks on the throat. As a rule his nerve was good, but the picture daunted him and he did not like his comrade's strange, fixed look. In a sense, the story was ridiculous; that is, it would have looked ridiculous in England, but Africa was different. Theatrical tragedy was not strange there, and he did not think Ellams had exaggerated much.
"Well," said the latter, "in the morning Wyndham found the factory boys had gone. He was alone with Procter and could get no help; besides, he had a dose of fever and when malaria grips you, your imagination works. He said perhaps the worst was the quietness and the buzzing of the flies. He dug a grave, but could not get Procter down the steps; fever makes one very limp, you know. Well, he sat there all day, keeping the flies off Procter, and in the evening a Millers' launch came up stream."
"A ghastly day!" said Marston, but Wyndham signed to Ellams.
"You haven't told it all. Go on."
"I'm an old servant and you're the head of the house," Ellams replied meaningly. "Well, I think that day left a mark on Rupert Wyndham. When I arrived he was moody and often brooded, but it looked as if he had a talent for managing the bushmen. They seemed to understand him and the business was growing fast. He began to go up river, although I imagine no other trader had reached the native market then. It was good for business; our oil was first quality and we got stuff, skins and sometimes ivory, Millers' and the Association couldn't buy. Besides, there were bits of pottery, brass, and silver work, the Fulah brought across the desert. Wyndham said the patterns were Sarascenic and the stuff was hundreds of years old. The house knew where to sell the goods at home. Once or twice we got Aggri beads."
"I didn't know about that," Wyndham remarked and turned to Marston. "In Africa, Aggri beads are worth almost any price you like to ask. We can't imitate them and don't know how they are made. It's very rare for a negro headman to let an Aggri go."
Ellams made a sign of agreement, and gave Wyndham an apologetic glance. "You see what this implies?"
"I think I see. My uncle was getting native habits; he was getting an influence – "
"He stopped away from the factory longer. Men with tattoo marks I didn't know came down and talked to him, and sometimes brought no trade. I thought he ran risks and warned him, but he laughed. It went on, and we were getting rich when the change began. Our trade did not fall off much, but one felt a difference – "
Ellams paused, and looked thoughtful when he resumed: "I can't altogether make things plain; there was a feeling of insecurity, and Wyndham's moodiness got worse. He did not go away so much, and locked his room door at night. I think he did not sleep and took some draught; not drugs white men use, but stuff the negroes make. When he did sleep, he was strangely hard to rouse. He was cool and as nearly fearless as any man I knew, but he began to look haggard and start at unexpected sounds. One morning I could not wake him and went round to the veranda window. Wyndham was fast asleep and a gun lay across his bed. He was a good shot with a pistol, but this was a heavy duck-gun that threw an ounce and a quarter of shot. Well, I was getting nervy, and the factory boys would not stop – it looked as if they knew something was wrong. I began to wonder how long Wyndham could keep it up."
The others were quiet when Ellams reached for the cocktail jug and finding it empty filled his pipe. Marston had spent some weeks on the African coast and sympathized with the agent. When one had seen the country and breathed the foul miasma that saps the white man's strength, one could understand the strain Ellams talked about. It was a daunting country and the gloom of its steamy forests was the shadow of death.
"After all," said Ellams, "there was no theatrical climax. One day a launch brought us a cablegram. Wyndham was wanted at home, the ebb tide was running and a mailboat was due to call at Takana lagoon. In an hour Columbine dropped down stream and my notion is it was a relief to Wyndham the cablegram arrived. If it had not arrived, he would have stayed. He was that kind of man."
"Had you trouble afterwards?" Marston asked.
"I had not. It was as if a shadow had melted. The strain had gone."
"Then it looks as if my uncle, alone, were threatened." Wyndham remarked.
Ellams nodded. "Yes. I think it was, so to speak, a personal thing. For all that, our trade got slack and has not since touched the mark it reached in your uncle's time. Well, I think that's all, and perhaps I have talked too much."
"If you'll mix another cocktail, we'll go to bed," Wyndham replied and when, a few minutes afterwards, he went to his room stopped at the door.
"This is where Rupert Wyndham slept with the gun beside him, I suppose?" he said. "I wonder what he dreamed about!"
For some time Marston did not sleep. As a rule, he did not indulge his imagination, but he had been disturbed by the agent's tale and there were strange noises. Some he thought were made by cracking boards and falling damp; others puzzled him and he found them daunting in the dark. They were like footsteps, as if somebody stole about the rooms. Marston had had enough of Africa and yet he owned the country had a mysterious charm. White men stayed, knowing the risk they ran and without much hope of money reward, until they died of fever or their minds got deranged. The latter happened now and then. In order to keep sane, one must concentrate on one's business and refuse to speculate about the secret life of the bush. After all, there was much to speculate about —
Marston pulled himself up. He was a sober white man and had nothing to do with the negro's fantastic superstitions. Magic and witchcraft were ridiculous, but in a country where they were a ruling force it was not easy to laugh. He thought Rupert Wyndham had made rash experiments and had dared too much, and although this was perhaps not important, Harry had his uncle's temperament. The trouble was there. Still they would leave the river soon and it would be a relief to go to sea. The sea was clean and bracing.
Three or four days afterwards Columbine dropped down stream on the ebb. A big naked Krooboy held the wheel, another in the fore-channels swung the lead and called the depth in a musical voice. The white factory got indistinct and melted into the swamps, the puffs of wind were fresher, and Marston was conscious of a keen satisfaction as the dreary mangroves slipped astern and yellow sand and lines of foam came into view ahead.
Wyndham, smoking a cigarette, leaned against the rail. He wore white duck without a crease and a big pale-gray hat. Marston thought he looked very English, with his keen blue eyes, light hair, and red skin, but his gaze was contemplative.
"You're not sorry to get away?" he presently remarked. "I wonder whether Rupert Wyndham was."
"I wonder why he stayed," said Marston. "Unless, of course, he was earning money."
"A plausible explanation, but I'm not sure it's good," Wyndham replied with a smile. "The head of our house was often extravagant but never, I think, a miser. We're not a greedy lot."
"You were traders; the object of trading is to get rich."
"I doubt if this was my uncle's, or some of my other ancestors' object, I think they valued money for what it would buy. Anyhow, they seldom kept it long."
"Since most of us value money for what it will buy, I don't understand," Marston rejoined.
"You bought a country house, a sober sportsman's life, and the liking of honest friends. Well, your investments were sound, but there are men of other temperaments they mightn't satisfy. I don't think they would have satisfied Rupert Wyndham."
"Then what did he expect to get in the swamps?"
"I don't know," said Wyndham, with a curious smile. "Perhaps strange experiences; perhaps knowledge and power. I imagine he knew he must buy them and was willing to pay."
"Power over tattooed bushmen!" Marston exclaimed. "What could they teach him?"
"Things we have begun to experiment with and their Ju-Ju men knew long since. The white man who knows the meaning of their tattoo marks has gone some distance; they're not all tribal signs. However, I don't know what Rupert Wyndham learned and it looks as if I shall not find out. Our object's very matter of fact; to earn as much money as possible."
"That is so. I mean to stick to it," said Marston firmly.
Wyndham laughed. "I expect you mean to see I take your line! Well, it's a good line. But we're getting near the bar. Suppose you fetch the chart?"
CHAPTER V
THE TORNADO
The night was hot and nearly calm, and Marston, sitting on the cabin skylight, languidly looked about. A Krooboy held the wheel, and his dark figure cut against the phosphorescent sea. Columbine's bulwarks were low and when she rolled the long, smooth swell ran level with their top. A dim glow came from the compass binnacle, but the schooner was close-hauled and the Kroo steered by the faint strain on the helm. The wind was light and baffling and Columbine beat against it as she worked along the coast.
She carried all her canvas and her high gaff-topsail swung rhythmically across the sky, shutting out the stars. Her dark mainsail looked very big and every now and then shook down a shower of dew as its slack curves swelled. A small moon touched the tops of the undulations with silver light, and when the bows went down the foam that leaped about the planks glimmered with green and gold. Booms and blocks rattled and timbers groaned.
Marston could not see the land, which was hidden by the sour, hot mist that at sunset rolls off the African coast. He did not want to see it; he hoped he had done with Africa, but he doubted. Columbine was on the track the keels of the old slavers plowed, and he felt that the shadow of the dark country might follow him across the sea. Long since, Africa had peopled South America and the West Indies; Wyndham's ancestors had helped in that. One found mangrove swamps, fever, and negro superstition on the Caribbean coast, and it was significant that Rupert Wyndham had vanished there. The trouble was Harry had inherited something of his uncle's temperament. All the same, Marston had undertaken to stand by him and meant to do so.
The breeze got lighter, the wet canvas flapped, and Columbine hardly made steerage way. She rolled until her bulwarks touched the water and threw off fiery foam. One could not stand on her slanted deck, and blocks and spars made a hideous din. In the distance, the roar of surf rose and fell with a measured beat. Somewhere in the mist the big combers crashed upon a hammered beach. It did not matter if there was wind or not; the white band of surf had fringed the coast since the world was young.
Marston found his watch dreary. There was nothing to do; nothing, that he could see, threatened, and the scattered light clouds hardly moved across the sky. He was filling his pipe when he heard a step and saw Wyndham by the wheel. He knew him by his white duck; the negro crew did not wear much clothes.
"Hallo!" he said. "My watch is not up."
"I was awake," Wyndham replied. "Felt I ought to get on deck. The glass is falling."
"Did you feel you ought to come after you noted this?"
"Before," said Wyndham, dryly. "I didn't know the glass had dropped until I got a light, but it looks as if I might have stayed below. However, since I have turned out, we'll haul down the main-topsail."
He gave an order and two Krooboys got to work. There was no obvious reason for lowering the sail, but when Wyndham ordered the negroes obeyed. Although they grinned with frank good-humor when Marston talked to them, he knew he did not share Wyndham's authority. Yet Harry was not harsh.
When the sail was lowered Wyndham looked about. Some of the scattered clouds had rolled together and the sky was black over the land. One could scarcely feel the light wind, but the surf had got louder. Its roar came out of the dark as if heavy trains were running along the coast.
"It looks ridiculous, particularly since I'd like to edge her farther off the beach, but I think we'll stow the mainsail and fore-staysail," Wyndham remarked.
Marston agreed. Although he could see no grounds for shortening sail, he trusted Wyndham's judgment, and the Krooboys got to work again. The ropes, however, were stiff and swollen with the dew, and the mainsail came down slowly. The heavy folds of canvas caught between the topping-lifts; the gaff-jaws jambed on the mast. Wyndham sent a man aloft to sit upon and ride down the spar, but this did not help much, and the boom along the foot of the sail lurched with violent jerks. Blocks banged and loose ropes whipped across the deck. The sweat ran down Marston's face; he wanted to finish the job. For one thing, Columbine was unmanageable while the half-lowered canvas flapped about.
Stopping a moment for breath, he glanced over the rail. The long swell sparkled with small points of light that coalesced in sheets of green flame when the undulations broke against the schooner's side. The deck was spangled with luminous patches by the splashes and the wake that trailed astern was bright. Columbine stole through the water although the wind had nearly gone. It was not worth while to bring her head-to when they shortened sail.
Then the helmsman shouted and Marston felt one side of his face and body cool. The loose canvas flapped noisily. Its folds shook out and swelled, and Marston seized a rope. His skin prickled; he felt a strange tension and a feverish desire to drag down the sticking gaff. A few moments afterwards, something flickered behind the sail and a peal of thunder drowned the noise on board. When it died away, rolling hull, slanted masts, and the figures of the men stood out, wonderfully sharp, against a dazzling blaze that vanished and left bewildering dark. The next peal of thunder deafened Marston, who thought Wyndham shouted but heard no words. This did not matter, because he knew they must secure the sail before the tornado broke, and he pulled at the downhaul. He could not hear the wind for the thunder, but it had begun to blow.
The sail swelled between the confining ropes, there was a noise on one side of the yacht, water foamed along the planks, and she began to swing. It looked as if the steersman were putting up the helm. The peak of the gaff was nearly down; with another good pull they could seize it and lash it to the boom. Then a dazzling flash touched the deck. Marston saw Wyndham run aft and push the Kroo from the wheel, but this was the last he saw clearly for sometime. He imagined the fellow had meant to run the yacht off before the squall; one could ease the strain of a sudden blast like that, but if the squall lasted, they could not shorten sail while she was before the wind. Now she was coming round. Wyndham had put the helm down. It looked as if he were too late.
The tornado broke upon her side and she went over until her lee rail was in the sea. There was a noise like a thunder-clap forward as a sail blew away; Marston thought it was the jib. He could see nothing. It had got impenetrably dark, but he had a vague notion that water rushed along the deck and the mainsail had broken loose and blown out between the ropes. Unless they could master it, the mast would go. He heard another report forward and thought somebody had loosed the staysail halyards and the sail had blown to rags. Although his eyes were useless, he knew what was going on.
But they must secure the main gaff, and clutching at the boom above his head, he swung himself up and worked along to its outer end, which stretched over the stern. A footrope ran below the spar; one could balance oneself by its help and he vaguely distinguished somebody close by. It was, no doubt, Wyndham, because his clothes looked white. There was no use in shouting. The uproar drowned one's voice; besides, their job was plain. They must get a rope round the end of the gaff and lash it fast.
Marston's waist was on the boom; his feet stuck out behind him, braced against the rope. In front there was a dark gulf. This was, no doubt, the hollow of the sail, and the indistinct slanting line above was the gaff. He threw a rope across the latter, but the end did not drop, so that he could seize it under the sail; the wind blew it out, straight and tight. He tried again, farther aft, jostling against the figure that looked faintly white, and leaning down across the boom, caught the end of the rope. The other man helped him and when they had got a loop round the end of the gaff he stopped for breath. He was shaky after the effort, his heart thumped painfully, and his chest rose and fell. He imagined other men were on the boom, but he and his companion were all that mattered. They must lash the peak down before the sail blew out again. When this was done, the others could master the distended folds.
The wet rope tore his hands; he felt them get slippery with blood, but he held on and the man beside him helped. Marston knew he was not a Kroo. The Kroos were bold sailors, but their resolution had a limit. When a job looked hopeless they gave up; the man beside Marston was another type. While there was breath in his body he would stick to his task. The sail must be conquered.
Lightning played about them and Marston's eyes were dazzled by the changes from intolerable glare to dark. He trusted to the feel of things and his seaman's knowledge of what was happening. He did not think, but worked half-consciously. They made the gaff fast, and then something broke and the heavy boom swung out over the sea. The jerk threw Marston's feet from the rope and his body began to slip off the boom. He saw fiery foam below, but as he braced himself for the plunge the next man seized him. It looked as if they must both slip off, for Marston found no hold for his hands on the smooth, wet spar. Perhaps the pressure of the wind saved them by forcing their limp bodies against the boom, for the other man steadied Marston until his foot touched the rope again.
For a moment or two they hung on, not daring to move and waiting until they gathered strength. Then they carefully worked their way to the inner end of the spar and dropped, exhausted, on the deck. There was however, no rest for them. The massive boom must be dragged back and dropped into its crutch. It could not be left to lurch about and smash all it struck. Marston was vaguely conscious that a gang of Krooboys ran to the mainsheet and Wyndham directed their efforts. He, himself, could do no more, and he leaned against the rail, breathing hard.
As his exhaustion vanished he began to note things. The men had secured the boom; but the schooner's bows looked bare and he remembered the jibs had blown away. The foresail was torn and half-lowered, and the gaff at its head was jambed. The torn canvas kept the vessel from falling off the wind, but would not bring her up enough for her to lie to. Masts and deck were horribly slanted, the windward bulwark was hove high up, and luminous spray drove across its top. It looked as if she were going over and there was an appalling din, for the scream of the tornado pierced the thunder.
Then lightning enveloped the yacht and ran along the water. For an instant Marston saw Wyndham's white figure at the wheel, and then he groped his way towards him in the puzzling dark. Harry would need help, for Marston knew what he meant to do. Since Columbine would not come up, he was going to run her off before the wind in order to ease the horrible pressure that bore her down. The trouble was, the tornado blew from sea, and land was near. Marston seized the wheel, and using all his strength, helped Wyndham to pull it round. She felt her rudder and began to swing, lifting her lee rail out of the water. Then she came nearly upright with a jerk, and although the tornado was deafening, Marston thought he heard the water roar as it leaped against her bows.
The speed she made lifted her forward and a white wave curled abreast of the rigging. She was going like a train and Marston sweated and gasped as he helped at the wheel. There was nothing to do but let her run, although it was obvious she could not run long. A glance at the lighted compass indicated that she was heading for the land, where angry surf beat upon an inhospitable beach. If they tried to bring her round, the masts would go and she might capsize.
