Wyndham's Pal

Marston pondered. He wanted to help Wyndham and had sometimes felt his sportsman's life was rather objectless. For one thing, he might provide himself with an occupation and perhaps stop Harry's embarking on rash adventures. To invest his money would give him some control.

"Could you make the business pay if you had a larger capital?" he asked.

"There are pretty good grounds for imagining so," Wyndham replied.

"Very well! I have more money than I need and have been looking for a chance to use my talents. So far I've kept them buried, and if I don't dig them up soon, they might rust away. If you agree, I'd like to make a start now and try a business speculation." He named a sum and added: "You promised you'd take my help when you saw how you could use the money."

"You're generous, Bob," Wyndham remarked with a touch of feeling, and then smiled. "However, I know you pretty well and think I understand your plan. You want to keep me out of trouble and see I take the prudent line. But was the plan yours or Mabel's?"

"Mine," said Marston, rather shortly. "All the same, I imagine Mabel would approve. But this has nothing to do with it and you needn't invent an object for me. I'm looking for a good investment. My lawyers only get me three or four per cent."

"Then you make no stipulation?"

"I do not," said Marston. "You will have control and command my help. If I couldn't trust you with my money, I would not have gone to Africa with you. I won't grumble if you lose the lot. The thing's a speculation."

Wyndham knitted his brows for a few moments and then looked up.

"You're a very good sort, Bob. I'll take the loan."

"It's not a loan," said Marston firmly. "I'm buying a partnership."

"A partner is responsible for all losses and liabilities. A lender is not; he only risks the sum he invests."

"Of course," said Marston. "I understand that."

A touch of color came into Wyndham's face, but he smiled.

"Oh, well, I knew you had pluck!"

Marston got up. "Now we have agreed, we'll get to work. Let's see if the telegraph office is open. To begin with, we'll buy the lot of ballata your agent at the other port talked about."

Wyndham laughed and they set off up the hot street.

CHAPTER VIII

THE LAGOON

After a few days, Columbine sailed west, and one night lurched slowly across the languid swell towards the coast. There was a full moon, but Marston, standing near the negro pilot at the wheel, could not see much. Mist drifted about the forest ahead and he heard an ominous roar of surf. Although no break in the coast was distinguishable, the schooner was obviously drifting with the tide toward an opening. The wind was light and blew off the land, laden with a smell of spices and river mud. Marston did not like the smell: he had known it in Africa and when one felt the sour damp one took quinine. He had studied the chart, which did not tell him much, and since there were no marks to steer for he must trust the negro pilot.

There was a risk about going in at night and Marston would sooner have hove to and waited, but the tide rose a few inches higher than at noon, and Wyndham seldom shirked a risk when he had something to gain. By and by he jumped down from the rail where he had been using the lead.

"I expect we'll get in, but I don't know about getting out if we're loaded deep," he said.

"Do you expect much of a load?" Marston asked, because the chart did not indicate a port.

"It depends on our luck. Small quantities of stuff come down; scarce dyestuffs, rubber, and forest produce that manufacturing chemists use. We have a half-breed agent. White men can't stand the climate long, and the natives are rather a curious lot."

"Negroes?" said Marston thoughtfully.

Wyndham laughed. "There are negroes. I understand the population's pretty mixed, with a predominating strain of African blood. I expect you don't like that, but trade's generally good at places where steamers don't touch. Profits go up when competition's languid."

Marston did not like it. He had thought his giving Wyndham money would limit their business to trading at civilized ports. He imagined Harry knew this and ought to have been satisfied, but he banished his feeling of annoyance. After all, he had made no stipulation and was perhaps indulging an illogical prejudice. He must, of course, trust his partner.

The yacht stopped with a sudden jar and her stern swung round. The sails flapped and her main boom lurched across and brought up with a crash. She bumped hard once or twice, and then floated off and went on again. The misty forest was nearer and a dim white belt indicated surf. It looked as if they were steering for an unbroken beach. Then a wave of thicker mist rolled about them and the forest was blotted out. Wyndham jumped on the rail, and Marston heard the splash of the lead. After that there was silence except for the roar of the surf, and Marston went forward to see if the anchor was clear, but Wyndham said nothing and the schooner stole on. Although the breeze was very light, the tide carried her forward and Marston felt there was something ghostly about her noiseless progress. By and by, however, Wyndham threw the lead on the deck.

"Another half-fathom! We're across the shoals," he said. "I expect the pilot trusts the stream to keep us in the channel."

Marston nodded. He saw trees in front, and in one place, a dark blur, faintly edged by white, that he thought was a bank of mud, but all was vague and somehow daunting. The trees got blacker, although they were not more distinct, the sails flapped and then hung limp. The pilot called out, and when Marston gave an order the anchor plunged and the silence was broken by the roar of running chain. This died away when Columbine swung, and except for the languid rumble of the surf all was quieter than before. The pilot got on board his canoe and vanished in the mist, and a few minutes afterwards Marston went to the cabin. It was very hot, but when malaria lurks in the night mist one does not sleep on deck.

When he awoke in the morning the cabin floor slanted, and going on deck he saw why the pilot had told them to let the boom rest on the port quarter. The tide had ebbed and although its rise and fall was not large, belts of mud and channels of yellow water occupied the bed of the lagoon. All round were dingy mangroves that overlapped and hid the entrance. A little water flowed past the yacht, but it was plain that her bilge rested on the ground. The bottom shelved, but the heavy boom inclined her up the bank. There was nobody about and nothing indicated that anybody ever visited the spot. Marston frowned, because it was hard to persuade himself he was not in Africa.

About noon a canoe arrived with two negroes on board and Marston and Wyndham were paddled to a village some miles up a creek. It was a poor place; small, whitewashed mud houses, a rusty iron store, and a row of squalid huts occupied a clearing in the forest. Wyndhams' agent had a house by the creek and received his visitors in his office. Outside the sand was dazzling, but the office was dark and comparatively cool. A reed curtain covered the window, which had no glass, there was no door, and little puffs of wind blew in. Don Felix was a fat and greasy mulatto, dressed in soiled white duck, with a broad red sash, in which an ornamental Spanish knife was stuck.

He brought out some small glasses and a bottle of scented liquor and they began to talk and smoke. The agent's English was not good and he now and then used French and Castilian words. Marston noted that he talked about a number of unimportant matters before he touched on business, and seemed unwilling to come to the subject.

"I can give you a load, but trade is bad," he said at length, and turned to the window with a gesture that seemed to indicate the forest. "The people up there are lazy and for some time have not brought much produce down."

"It's natural produce, I suppose? Stuff that grows itself," Marston remarked. "There isn't much cultivation in the bush?"

Don Felix shrugged. "Quien sabe? Who knows what they do up yonder? These people they are drôle. Sometimes they bring me cargo. Sometimes they come to beg; there is a fiesta in their village, they make fandango, jamboree. The trader pays for the fiesta and gets back nothing."

"Then why do you pay?"

"It is better," Don Felix replied and looked at the door, as if to see there was nobody about. "They are bête, the Mestizos, but when one is wise one does not make enemies. There is much Obeah in the bush."

"Obeah's something like African Ju-Ju? Magic of a sort?" Marston suggested.

"Something like that," Wyndham agreed. "I don't know much about it." He looked at the agent. "Do you?"

Don Felix made the sign of the cross. "Me, I am good Catholic; I know nothing. They are drôle in the bush. When I think about their folly I laugh."

"Not always, I imagine," Wyndham remarked dryly. "However, we must persuade these folks we have goods they'd find useful. That's the beginning of trade. When a man sees he needs things somebody else has got, he gets to work and looks for something to sell. Now let's consider – "

Marston listened while his comrade talked. Harry sometimes surprised people who did not know him well. He was romantic but he had a calculating vein. Harry could plan and bargain, and Marston reflected that while the Wyndhams had long been adventurers they were traders, too. After an hour's talk he had arranged much that promised to help the agent's business and they went back to the creek.

"In a way, we're lucky," Wyndham observed while they paddled down stream. "The people we're going to deal with are nearly pure Africans and we know something about negroes."

Marston said nothing. He did not know if they were lucky or not and rather doubted.

They returned to the schooner and in the morning cargo began to arrive. Two or three days afterwards Wyndham went off to the village with some of the crew and Marston gave the others leave to go ashore. Neither the boys nor Wyndham came back at dark, but this did not matter. Although the schooner rose upright for a few hours when the tide flowed, she would not float until the new moon, and the muddy lagoon was as smooth as a pond.

In the evening Marston sat in the little stern cabin. It was very hot and his brain was dull but he did not want to go to bed until the crew arrived. Moisture dripped from the ceiling and flies hovered round the lamp that hung at an angle to the beams. The skylight was open a few inches and although the opening was covered by mosquito gauze one could not keep out the flies. Marston hated their monotonous buzzing, for there is something about a mangrove swamp that frays a white man's nerves. Water lapped against the planks and now and then there was a splash in the mud. The tide was flowing and Marston imagined the water round the vessel was three or four feet deep. It looked as if Wyndham meant to stay away all night, and Marston wondered with a slight uneasiness what was keeping him.

A mahogany medicine chest stood on the small swing table. It was of the type supplied to British merchant ships, but larger, and the London chemists had fitted it with the latest drugs used in the tropics. There was a book about them and Marston had meant to re-arrange the bottles and packets, which had got displaced. He was not a doctor, but he had studied the book and found it interesting. Tropical diseases were strange and numerous, and he had made some cautious experiments on the crew. Now his head ached rather badly and he wondered whether he would take some quinine.

Presently he put down the book and listened. Something had disturbed him, but for a few moments he only heard the splash of the tide. Then the scuttle over his head opened and a naked foot felt for the ladder. The foot was white underneath, but although he was somewhat startled, Marston did not think this strange. He had noted that negroes' and mulattos' soles are often lighter in color than the rest of their skin.

He sat still until a half naked man, who came backwards down the ladder, turned and confronted him with an apologetic smile. The fellow was old and his face was wrinkled and a curious yellow color. Marston had in Africa seen badly jaundiced white men look something like that, although the sickly tint was not so dark. A network of red veins covered his eyes but they looked as if they had been blue. His hair was all white. He put a small carved calabash on the table and then squatted on the cabin floor.

Marston frowned and waited. The carving had an African touch and it was an African custom for a visitor to bring a present. The negroes called it a dash.

"Cappy lib for village?" the mulatto remarked and Marston nodded.

He had not heard a canoe and wondered how the fellow got on board, since his thin cotton clothes were dry. Moreover, although the half-breeds Marston had met generally used creole French or uncouth Castilian, the other said lib for, like a West African.

"Bad country; white man sick too much. You sick now?" the mulatto resumed, glancing at the chest.

Marston made a sign of agreement. His head ached and he felt languid. It was possible he had a mild dose of fever.

"I fix you," said the mulatto, who pulled out a small brass box and emptied some brown powder on the table. "You drink him in hot water."

"Thank you," said Marston and scraped the stuff onto a piece of paper, thinking he might experiment with it. The fellow could have no object for trying to poison him and he understood the half-breeds knew some useful cures.

"Now you dash me a drink," said the other, looking at a bottle of whisky in the rack, and Marston rather wondered why he took down the bottle. The whisky was extra good; he did not like mulattoes, and knew no reason for his entertaining his uninvited guest. Yet he put a glass on the table; one glass.

He imagined the other understood the significance of this, for his eyes momentarily narrowed. It was strange, but they now looked blue. For all that, he poured out a liberal measure of whisky and drank slowly, like a connoisseur.

Marston studied him with some curiosity and on the whole felt repelled. The old fellow looked cunning and greedy, but not debased. One got a hint of cruelty and power, and his manner was very calm. In West Africa, Marston would perhaps have kicked him out, but pure white men are not numerous on the south and west coasts of the Caribbean and the distinction of color is relaxed. Besides, he reflected, he was engaged in trading with the natives.

"You lib for here for buy thing," the other remarked presently. "What thing you want?"

Marston mentioned some articles Wyndham had talked about, and the other nodded. "You go make me dash and you get them thing. Agent man fool man; him no savvy black man's way in bush."

"If the stuff comes along, we'll talk about the dash," Marston answered cautiously, although he did not like his visitor and wondered when he would go.

"When white cappy come back?" the old fellow asked.

"In the morning, I expect," said Marston with a yawn.

The other got up as if he were going, and turned sideways in order to pass between the swing-table and the locker. There was not much room, for one does not lean against a swing-table, which keeps its level by a counterbalance underneath when the vessel rolls. It looked as if the mulatto knew this, and Marston thought it strange. Next moment, however, he struck his naked foot against the fastenings in the deck and, stumbling, put his arm on the table. The table tilted and the medicine chest slipped off. It turned over as it fell and emptied bottles, packets, scales, and measures on the deck.

The mulatto looked at the disordered pile and made for the ladder. Marston did not stop him, although he was angry, and kneeling down began to pick up the articles. The bottles were strong and had not broken, and in a minute or two he replaced them and the other things in the box. Then he went up the ladder and looked out on deck. A lamp hung on the forestay as a beacon for the boats and one could see the sweep of planks and line of the rail. There was nobody about and nothing broke the silence. Beyond the feeble glimmer of the lamp it was very dark, but the night was calm and Marston knew the splash of a paddle would carry far.

He crossed the deck and looked over the rail. The water caught a faint reflection and he saw muddy foam and weed float past. The tide was rising and running up the lagoon. One could hardly wade to land and it was obviously impossible to do so without making a noise. Yet his visitor had vanished and he had not heard him go. Marston remembered stories about the Ghost Leopards he had heard in Africa, and laughed, but the laugh was forced.

He went back to the cabin and, shutting the hatch, examined the medicine chest. He did not know if he was surprised to find two articles had gone; one was a bottle of laudanum and the other a packet of new and powerful drugs. The book warned one to be careful about their use. Marston lighted a cigarette and pondered. He was not certain the bottle and packet were in the box when he got it down, although he thought they were; he had sometimes taken things out when he dosed the crew and he had used laudanum. Moreover, it looked impossible that the mulatto had picked them up. So far as Marston remembered, he did stoop down or stop. Then, supposing he had taken the stuff, it was hard to see why a man who was half a savage should steal laudanum and the other drug.

If Obeah was like West African Ju-Ju, there were no doubt men who used poison to support their claim to magical power; but strange and virulent poisons could be extracted from tropical plants. Besides the fellow had given Marston a cure for fever. Perhaps he was making a dangerous experiment, but his curiosity conquered his caution and he resolved to try the stuff. Going to the galley, he found some hot water, and as he came back noted that one could see into the cabin through the half-opened skylight. He wondered whether the mulatto had looked down and noted the medicine chest. The brown powder melted, and he swallowed the draught. Then he got into his bunk, and blowing out the lamp, presently went to sleep.

CHAPTER IX

DON FELIX'S REVOLT

When Marston woke in the morning his headache and languidness had gone. It looked as if the powder the mulatto had left had cured him, and although he did not find the laudanum and packet of drugs, he resolved he would not bother about their loss. In a day or two, small lots of rather valuable cargo began to arrive and one afternoon Marston and Wyndham lounged under the awning and watched the Krooboys transfer goods from a big canoe to the yacht. Four or five negroes from up river put the fiber packages in the hoisting slings.

The men worked slackly, for although the sun was hidden the heat was extreme. A yellow haze covered the sky, but the oily surface of the lagoon shimmered with subdued light. On the other side, the reflection of the mangroves floated motionless, without a leaf quivering. Dark shadow lurked in the caves under the high roots, and here and there the massed foliage was touched by dirty white. Marston thought the trees looked as if they were blighted by some foul disease. He hated the mangroves and the smell of mud that hung about the vessel.

"The tides are beginning to get higher," he said. "It will be a relief to leave this dismal spot and go to sea."

"Calling here has paid us," Wyndham rejoined. "We are getting stuff for which dyers and chemists give high prices; stuff I wanted but hardly expected to obtain. In fact, I'll own your mysterious visitor has earned his dash. No doubt he'll turn up again and ask for it."

"D'you reckon he had much to do with our getting the goods?"

Wyndham shrugged. "I understand he promised you the articles you talked about, and they have arrived. If he comes again, I'd like to see him. Perhaps he could be persuaded to send us something else."

"He asked for you," said Marston, and wondered whether his remark was rash when he saw Wyndham was pondering. Although Bob felt he was perhaps illogical, he did not want Harry to persuade the fellow.

"I think you said his eyes were blue," Wyndham resumed presently. "Well, one does meet a mulatto with blue eyes now and then, and it's perhaps not important that the bottom of his feet was white – "

Wyndham stopped, for a splash of paddles broke the silence, and when a canoe stole out of the shadow across the lagoon Marston said. "We may learn something about him now. Here's your agent, Don Felix."

He thought Wyndham was going to reply, but he hesitated and then crossed the deck as the agent and another man came on board. Marston called the steward, who put a small table under the awning and brought out a bottle of choice liquor they had bought at the last port. The party sat down and Marston studied his guests. On the whole, he liked Don Felix and thought him honest. The fellow's greasy fat face was frank and his black eyes met one's glance squarely. For all that, he thought he did not look well; there was a hint of strain about him and his hand shook when he greedily drained his glass. The climate, however, was unhealthy, and Marston turned to their other guest.

Father Sebastian was white, although his skin was dark and wrinkled. He was very thin and his threadbare clothes were slack; his hair was white and his eyes were sunk. He looked about with a frank curiosity and Marston imagined it was long since he had been on board a ship and had met civilized white men.

By and by Don Felix began to talk about the cargo and declared that he was puzzled, because he had not received so large a quantity of valuable goods for some time.

"It looks as if the people in the bush were working," he remarked and added dryly: "They work when they are forced."

Marston told him about the mulatto's visit, and Don Felix's face got dark. He drained his glass and turning to Father Sebastian repeated Marston's story in awkward French.

"I do not like it," he said, "This foul Bat! I think he is plotting again."

Father Sebastian made a sign of agreement and addressed Marston, whose curiosity was obvious. He spoke slowly, as if it cost him an effort to remember words, but Marston thought his French was good.

"An evil man! He is called the Bat because he likes the dark. Moreover they talk about bats that drink human blood."

"If there are such creatures, why don't you kill them?" Marston asked and glanced at Wyndham. He was smoking a cigarette and looked rather bored, but Marston knew his friend and doubted.

"The Bat is hard to kill. Some have tried, but perhaps I may be luckier," Don Felix answered, and his fat, nervous fingers touched his Spanish knife. Then he shrugged. "All the same, it is possible he kills me!"

The others said nothing. Don Felix was rather theatrical, but Marston thought him strongly moved by anger or fear. By and by Don Felix went to the hatch and examined one or two of the packages the Krooboys were putting in the hold.

"What is this?" he asked. "These packages have a mark I know but I did not buy the goods."

"The shipper will, no doubt, come to you for payment and we'll engage to meet the bill," Wyndham replied. "The stuff is getting very scarce and ought to sell for a good price."

"No!" exclaimed Don Felix angrily. "I buy nothing with that mark! You must stop the boys loading the lot. Send it all back."

"Isn't this ridiculous?" Wyndham asked. "Why do you want us to refuse the goods?"

Don Felix sat down and gripped the arm of his chair hard. "The man whose mark that is is a friend of the Bat's," he said, and his voice got hoarse. "I do not know if the goods are his or the other's, but I will not buy the stuff. Bad luck would go with the money one earned by handling it."

He said something to Father Sebastian in rapid creole French and the priest turned to Wyndham.

"It is better that you send back this cargo," he remarked quietly. "Don Felix is an honest man. He has given you advice that may cost him much." Marston pondered, with his eyes on his guest. Father Sebastian was old and shabby; he had obviously lived long with his savage flock, but he was white. His glance was calm and thoughtful and he had a touch of dignity. Marston thought he knew much about human nature and could be trusted. Don Felix, however, got up and clenched his fist. It looked as if the company of the priest and the others had given him some resolve.