Wyndham's Pal

By-and-by Marston's boot began to gall his foot. The smart got worse and sometimes he limped. When he did so, he dropped behind Wyndham, and setting his mouth tight he trod squarely. One could not walk fast on the side of one's foot; he must push on and bear the pain. It was ridiculous that he should lose time because his boot scraped his toe. Yet long afterwards he remembered the effort to keep up his speed.

When the first white houses of the town came out of the gloom his clothes were sticking to his skin and his wet hair was flat on his head. He stopped and sat down in a dusty gutter.

"I've got to take off my boots. There's a pavement of sorts," he gasped.

Wyndham nodded and looked about. The houses were indistinct and the sky was dark. He could not see his watch, but he calculated it was about four o'clock and day would not break for two hours yet. Puffs of wind touched his wet face and he heard it in the trees behind the town. They were in time, but had none to waste.

"Be quick!" he said. "We're a mile from the harbor."

Marston got up and they set off. Straight and nearly blank walls now shut them in, for the houses got light from the patios. Wyndham's steps echoed in the dark, but except for this all was quiet. It looked as if nobody were about. A strange smell hung about the houses, for the street was narrow and the land-breeze did not sweep it clean.

By-and-by they crossed a square and kept back from a lamp at the end of another street. To meet one of the armed police would be awkward, for although the fellow's curiosity might be appeased by a bribe, to persuade him would occupy some time. They met nobody, but after some minutes Wyndham thought it prudent to cross the alameda, where shady paths wound among tall trees. The gloom would hide them and from one end a dark street ran down to the harbor. Marston agreed and set his lips as he struggled on, for the walks were covered by sharp, fresh gravel. Stealing along the dark street, they reached the mole and stopped for a moment. So far as they could see, the tug had not arrived, and although they distinguished Columbine's masts against the sky, she was moored to a buoy some distance from the wall. Wyndham had warned the crew to keep a watch, but there was a risk in hailing them.

"One of the port-guards is generally about this side of the harbor," he said.

They listened, but only heard the sea splash against the wall and the wind in a neighboring vessel's rigging. The land-breeze was fresh and blew down the harbor. If they could get on board, it would not be long before Columbine was at sea.

"We might swim," Marston suggested.

"I think not," said Wyndham. "There's a nasty, splashing ripple that would break in our faces; besides, the gig would be quicker. We must chance a hail."

He shouted and Marston clenched his fist when no answer came. It was unthinkable that they should be stopped by the negligence of a sleepy look-out. Before long the port-guard would walk up the mole, and if they were not gone, would take them to the captain's office. One must get leave to go on board, because the port was closed at night.

They waited for two or three minutes, since Wyndham dared not shout again, and then a soft rattle came out of the dark. Marston started and thrilled.

"I believe that's somebody jumping into the gig," he said.

"It is," said Wyndham softly, and after a few moments added: "She's coming."

They could not see the boat and she made very little noise. There was no splash; it looked as if somebody sculled her cautiously. By and by a dark object glided out of the gloom beside the wall and they went to the steps.

"Go back softly, softly," Wyndham said to the indistinct figure in the stern as they got on board.

In a few minutes they reached the schooner and Marston's spirits rose. He had done with tracks and plots; now his job was straightforward. Moreover, he knew it well.

"I'll cast off the bow mooring," he said when Wyndham got on board. "Give me a line and you can haul the chain up quietly. It mustn't run through the pipe."

Shoving the gig forward, he jumped out on the buoy; then he unscrewed the shackle and, fastening on the line he brought, waved his hand. The chain slipped gently into the water and did not make much noise when the men on board pulled it up. Columbine was free now and had begun to drift when Marston seized her rail. He made the gig's painter fast and left her alongside, because the blocks on the Burton tackle would clatter if they tried to hoist her in. It was something to feel the schooner's deck under his galled feet, but there was much to be done before he could indulge his relief. Although they could not see the tug, she might have reached the port, and they must pass the three-mile limit before they would be safe. In the meantime, Columbine was drifting slowly down the harbor.

"We must chance hoisting the staysail," Wyndham remarked. "Get it up handsomely; stop if the chain clinks much."

The staysail had chain halyards and Marston sent a man aloft with a grease-swab. For all that, the halyard made some noise and the sail thrashed in the fresh breeze, until they hauled the sheets and Wyndham got her round. Columbine, with a small triangle of canvas set, stole down the harbor, and if the port-guards did not keep a keen look out, she might get away.

Marston, sitting on the bowsprit loosing the jib, watched the shadowy wall move back. They were passing the Cuban barque and she was not far from the end of the mole. Columbine moved faster; he heard the water ripple at her bows, and the beam of the lighthouse ahead got near. It was a sector light, screened on one bearing, and they could keep outside its illumination.

In a few minutes they would clear the end of the mole, and when the jib was loose Marston looked aft. Shadowy figures moved about the deck, getting the canvas ready to hoist. Not long since, he had doubted if they could steal out of the harbor. When one studied the plan coolly, it looked ridiculous, but they had tried and he began to hope they would succeed. Then he turned his head and thrilled as he saw the end of the mole slip by.

"Hoist the outer jib," said Wyndham when Marston joined him. "We must be cautious. The captain's launch has steam up and could catch us yet."

They got to work. The blocks rattled as the jib went up, but the wind blew the noise away. The splash at the bows was louder, and Wyndham waited, measuring the distance from the receding mole.

"Boom-foresail," he said sharply.

The tall dark canvas rose and swelled. Columbine began to list and trailed a white line astern. The mole faded and the light looked farther off.

"Mainsail next," said Wyndham. "Hoist handsomely."

The winch by the mast began to clink; the big sail shook and thudded while its slack folds blew out, and the Kroos started a wild paddling song. The tension was over; they were running out to sea and nobody could hear them now. The song, however, soon got breathless; it was hard to drag up the heavy canvas while she was before the wind and Wyndham would not round her to. He braced himself against the wheel and steered off-shore for the three-mile limit.

They set the sail, and got more wind as they left the land. She rolled and foam ran level with her dipping rail. The long main boom lurched up and groaned; one heard the masts creak and the rigging hum. Her wake ran back into the dark like a white cataract.

"Hoist gaff-topsail," said Wyndham. "Trim the squaresail-yard."

Marston gave him a quick glance and then got to work. He doubted if the gear would stand the strain, but Harry knew the boat. Although the Krooboys looked surprised, it was obvious that they trusted him. It cost them a struggle to cover her with sail, and she drove along almost too fast to roll. A white wave stood up above her waist, another curled astern, and the hollow squaresail swelled like a balloon. Although the sea was smooth, water foamed on board and spray swept the deck in savage showers. The men crouched behind the bulwarks and when Marston went aft he got an exhilarating sense of speed.

"Do you want help?" he asked. "Can you hold her?"

"I think I can," said Wyndham, with an exultant note in his voice. "We have sailed some hard races, Bob, but none for a stake like this. If the masts will stand, she must go to-night!"

Marston nodded. "Looks as if we ought to win! I imagine the tug is not in harbor and Don Ramon is comfortably persuaded we're asleep at the mission. When he finds we're not, we'll be a long way off. I don't suppose they can march the troops to the port and embark them before it's dark." He paused and laughed when he resumed: "His promise to send the port-captain orders to let us go if we told him when we wanted to sail was clever. He knew, of course, we couldn't do so."

He sat down on a coil of rope and lighted his pipe. Now the long strain was over, a reaction had begun. His head was heavy; he felt very tired and limp. Showers of spray blew about and when he began to get wet he thought he would go to the cabin and study the chart. It was plain that they could not leave the schooner at the lagoon; besides a little mental exercise might rouse him.

When he lighted the lamp he found he could not see the small figures on the chart. His eyes and brain were dull, for two nights and a day of effort and suspense had worn him out. The coast-line, however, was clearly marked and indicated a number of bays and inlets. So far as Marston could remember, they were bordered by mangrove swamps with dark forest behind. Looking up at the compass, which was fixed in the skylight and allowed the glow of the binnacle lamp to shine through, he tried to calculate where Wyndham was steering. He could not fix the course within two or three points and presently gave it up. Then his head dropped forward, the chart fell on the floor, and sinking down on the locker cushion, he fell asleep.

CHAPTER X

THE BAT OWNS DEFEAT

At daybreak Wyndham entered the cabin and wakened Marston. The latter yawned, stretched his arms, and glanced at the compass.

"It's getting light. I expect I've been asleep," he said. "Where are we heading?"

Wyndham picked up the chart and indicated a spot. "This bay. She has made a good run, although the wind has nearly gone."

"You know where to find the Bat, I think?"

"I have a notion," Wyndham replied, indicating another spot some distance from the coast. "But come up on deck. The sun will soon rise and I must try to get our bearings."

Marston went up. The wind had dropped and was now very faint. Columbine, carrying all the sail they could set, scarcely crept across the smoothly heaving sea. Ahead, a bank of mist hid the low coast; farther back, vague mountain tops rose against the pale sky. In places, rippling streaks lined the gray water. The picture had a strangely flat and lifeless touch that reacted on Marston. He felt dull, and shivered, although it was not cold. Turning to the galley, he saw a plume of smoke trail from the bent funnel.

"I'll get some coffee and then we'll talk," he said.

Coming back in a few minutes with a jug, he sat down on the stern-gratings.

"To begin with, can you hide the boat?" he asked.

"Not properly. There are one or two creeks, but they'd, so to speak, invite examination. On the whole, I'd sooner trust an open beach. Columbine's low hull and masts won't be very distinct against a background of forest. I'm steering for an anchorage behind some shoals."

Marston signed agreement. "Larrinaga can't keep the tug searching the coast; he'll send her back for supplies. I expect he knows how to reach the Bat."

"It's possible. He has spies and the German Colonel has, no doubt, made careful plans. There are two routes; east and west of the high ground, and I reckon he'll send the cazadores up in two columns. The first will probably try to get behind the Bat's position."

"Then, we'll strike one column's line of march," said Marston, thoughtfully. "In fact, since we must come back, we'll strike it twice."

"Yes. I see some advantage in this. Our taking their path won't matter when we go up, because we'll be in front, and we agreed that the time of our arrival is important. We must give the Bat just long enough to reach the coast before the soldiers turn back and cut us off. I expect it will mean our pushing across the hills for some distance. When we cross their line we'll be in front again."

Marston signified his agreement by a nod. It was plain that they must leave much to luck, and lighting his pipe, he leaned against the rail. As the sun rose the mist ahead began to melt. Wooded heights rose out of the streaming vapor and presently Wyndham found the marks he wanted and went off to sleep while Marston kept his anxious watch. It was now nearly calm. Sometimes a puff of wind ruffled the water; sometimes the sails hung slack and the ripple at the bows died away. The sun got hot, the smooth swell shimmered with reflected light, and nothing indicated when the sea-breeze would begin.

The calm, however, would not stop the tug, and Marston pictured her steaming up from San Cristobal with engines thumping hard and the empty lighters astern. News of Columbine's departure had, no doubt, reached the mission; bugles would be calling and the cazadores strapping on their equipment ready to start. Still it was a long march to the harbor and Marston hardly thought the troops would embark before nightfall. If wind would come, Wyndham might keep in front of them, but in the meantime Columbine hardly moved. Marston wondered whether they ought to hoist out the gig and tow, although the labor would be exhausting and they could not make much progress.

A dark streak broke the glittering surface, a cool draught touched Marston's face, and the slack sails swelled. Columbine began to move, and presently gathering speed, listed over to the fresh sea-breeze.

After an hour or two, he wakened Wyndham, who got another bearing and changed the course. At dusk they steered for the coast and towards morning anchored behind a shoal. There was nothing but the background to hide the vessel and Marston knew the risk when they landed with four of the crew. In the steamy heat of the forest, exertion soon wears a white man out, and the negroes were needed to carry food and some shelter from the dew at night.

After dark on the second evening, they reached the Bat's headquarters, in the company of a gang of savage negroes. They were exhausted by the journey, their clothes were torn, and they did not know if the negroes were their captors or their guides. So far as one could see, the village looked mean. A few small mud huts stood among mahogany trees and big cottonwoods. There was no light in the huts, but a fire burned outside one, and although the night was warm, indistinct figures crouched about the blaze. They vanished and appeared again when the light leaped up, and Marston remembered the factory boys squatting round the fires in Africa. But the Kroo laborers sang, and these fellows were strangely silent. In fact, a daunting quietness brooded over the spot.

The Bat's hut was larger than the rest and a rude veranda occupied the front. There was no furniture except some mats and stools, and a badly-cleaned paraffin lamp gave a dim light. The Bat sat on a carved stool and wore a striped tennis jacket over his dirty white clothes. His legs and feet were bare; his lips stuck out and his nostrils were wide, and Marston felt that to fear and shrink from him was ridiculous. Yet he did shrink. Then he noted with some surprise that Father Sebastian occupied a mat in the corner. Next moment the Bat looked up with a mocking grin.

"Why you lib for my village? It d – poor place," he said.

"We'll explain that later," Wyndham replied. "In the meantime, why is Father Sebastian here?"

"I take care of him," said the Bat. "Fool black man rob his church." He paused and added with a cruel smile: "Them fool man pay."

Wyndham turned to the priest. "Will you give us a few minutes, padre? We will send for you soon."

Father Sebastian got up and the Bat nodded, as if he gave him leave to go. He went out and Wyndham sat down on a mat.

"Now," he said, "suppose you drop this negro mummery and talk like an Englishman. I want to remember you are Rupert Wyndham. No doubt you meant to keep the missionary for a hostage, but it's not important. I imagine you did not expect to see us?"

Rupert's face changed. Something of its coarseness vanished, his lips straightened, and he looked less like a mulatto.

"I did expect you. Anyhow, I heard white men were coming, although I could only account for one," he said and added with an ominous smile: "I sent to meet you because I did not want you to lose your way."

Marston knew that in Africa the negroes can signal news across the bush with remarkable speed. It looked as if Rupert had learned how this was done and taught his people.

"Whom did you expect?" he asked.

"Peters. He is a fool, but he has pluck. Some pluck is needed when one tries to blackmail me!"

"I imagine Peters will come later, but not to bargain with you," Marston said dryly. "We have some grounds for believing he means to sell you to the Government."

Rupert's glance got very keen. "Ah," he said, "this is interesting! Perhaps it explains your visit, which rather puzzled me."

"Before long you will get some fresh news," Wyndham interposed. "Larrinaga and the German colonel, with two or three companies of cazadores, have landed and are marching for your village."

For a few moments Rupert did not move and his face was inscrutable. Then he looked up and the red veins in his eyes were very plain.

"Is this true? You will find it dangerous to cheat me!"

Wyndham told him what they had found out and stated the conclusions they had drawn. When he stopped Rupert nodded.

"It looks plausible; you are cleverer than my spies, but we will wait. If the soldiers have landed, I will soon know."

"You may wait too long!"

"If there's a risk, you share it," said Rupert meaningly. "You were rash when you came to see me without being asked. However, the entrance of the lagoon is shallow and the surf is often bad. Can Larrinaga find the channel?"

"Pepe, the pilot, is with him. I expect he'll steer the tug."

"Ah!" said Rupert. "I rather trusted Pepe, but he has been bribed. Well, it is possible he will get his reward. However, I imagine you have made some plans for me."

Wyndham braced himself. Although luck had given him strong arguments, Rupert was bold and cunning. Since his situation looked desperate, he might try some desperate remedy that would ruin them all. He must be persuaded to use the obvious way of escape.

"You can't fight; it's too late," he said. "If you start now and we push across the hills between the two columns, we may cross one detachment's line after they have passed. When they find out you have gone, we will have got a start and ought to travel faster than loaded soldiers. The schooner is ready and would sail in a few minutes after we got on board. I don't see another plan, and if you're caught Larrinaga will shoot you. His men are well equipped and drilled. He has been getting ready for some time."

Rupert pondered for a minute or two, and the others waited anxiously. Then he said, "If I go, I leave people who trusted me in Larrinaga's power. It is not a very heroic exit."

"Does this count for much?"

"On the whole, it does not," said Rupert coolly. "After all, my followers can take care of themselves. They are an elusive lot and Don Ramon would soon wear out his troops hunting them in the bush. All the same, to slink away is something of an anti-climax."

"We didn't run a big risk in order to help you save your dignity," Wyndham rejoined, and Rupert gave him a mocking smile.

"Your object's plain and I owe you nothing. You hope to mend the family's fortunes, and see an awkward chance of its getting known that a leader of negro rebels is your relation. However, what do you reckon to do with me if I go? You proposed, another time, that I should return to England."

"We don't propose it now. We'll land you at an American port and I will try to pay you a small allowance so long as you stay in the United States. The South might suit you and one could trust the Americans to see you didn't make trouble there."

"For guests, you take a bold line. It's rather strange you imagine I'm forced to agree. You don't seem to understand that there's not much to prevent my leaving you here and going off with your yacht."

"We thought about this," Wyndham replied. "If we don't return by a stipulated time, Columbine will sail and carry a statement I left with the mate to the British officers at Kingston, Jamaica. The cable is ready for slipping, the sails are loose, and if strangers try to board her, the boat will go to sea."

"One must approve your caution," said Rupert dryly. "Well, I think my plans were good, and but for two things they might have been carried out. Our robbing Father Sebastian's church forced Larrinaga to move, but I was not responsible for this. The other's more important and the mistake was mine." He turned to Marston as he went on: "When you were ill with fever I ought to have poisoned you. Instead I tried a cure civilized doctors would hesitate to use."

"Ah!" said Marston, "you saved my life?"

"I don't want thanks. To some extent, I thought it policy. It did not seem worth while to bother about your antagonism then. Afterwards, when we tried to drown you, we were too late. You had persuaded your partner; your work was done. If you had not meddled, I'd have led him where I wanted."

"I think that is so, Bob. I owe you much," Wyndham interposed.

"If Harry had brought me the supplies I needed, I could have fought the President's troops," Rupert resumed, fixing his bloodshot eyes on Marston. "Well, you spoiled the plot, and if I'm beaten now, it is not Larrinaga but you who wins. You ought to be flattered. For such a man as you are, it's a remarkable victory!"

There was something sinister in his sneering voice and Wyndham said sharply, "It will be prudent for you to see Bob does not fall ill again. If I meet with any misfortune, he will make you accountable."

Rupert shrugged. "We will let it go and wait until news about the soldiers arrives. In the meantime, I have some preparations to make. You can sleep until I come back. Nobody will disturb you."

"I have a pistol, but don't expect to use it," Wyndham replied. "Your need of our help is our best protection, and so long as the need is obvious I think we are pretty safe."

When Rupert went out they lay down on the mats. Although they were near physical exhaustion, it was impossible to sleep. The tension they had borne had not relaxed, because until the news of the soldiers' advance was signalled the situation was not free from danger. The tug might strand among the shoals, a strong breeze and breaking surf might stop her entering the lagoon to land the troops, and delay would give Rupert time to form fresh plans. Marston did not trust him yet. If Rupert could escape without their help, he would not leave them at liberty to meddle again.

They heard nothing from outside and the hut was very quiet. The silence began to wear Marston's nerve. He could not wait much longer, but it might be rash to go out, and he forced himself to smoke, although the tobacco burned his tongue and his mouth was parched. It looked as if Rupert were not coming back. Perhaps he had cheated them and gone off alone. Marston pictured his malicious grin as he stole off through the bush and left them to wait for Larrinaga.

At length, however, Rupert returned to the hut. "I have got news," he said coolly. "Your boys are ready and we will start. Father Sebastian is an embarrassment; you will see that we cannot leave him behind."

"Send for him," said Wyndham. "You had better understand that I'm accountable for his safety."

Father Sebastian came in, and Wyndham asked if he would promise to say nothing about their visit and departure with the Bat.

"No," said Father Sebastian, "I will not promise. I do not know what is happening, but it looks as if the punishment this man deserves were overtaking him. I will not help him to escape."