CHAPTER VI
A SAIL IN THE DARK
Columbine's gig rubbed against the landing steps and Wyndham and Marston lounged about the end of the mole. The sun had sunk behind a high, black range and the land-breeze had begun to blow in gentle gusts that crisped the greasy water and dropped again. When the crew were trimming ballast in the hold, a man shouted that some chain Wyndham had ordered had arrived, and he and Marston pulled the gig to the steps. After putting the chain on board, they strolled to the town, where they drank a glass of wine and bought a newspaper; and then went back to the mole. For the last few nights they had slept on board, but it was early in the evening and the top of the wall was cooler than the deck of the yacht. Besides, a Spanish liner was steering for the port and they waited to watch her passengers land.
Presently Wyndham looked up from the newspaper. "It's lucky we bought the Diario. It declares the report that the Sta Catalina mission was recently plundered is not confirmed."
"Isn't that Father Sebastian's station?" Marston asked.
Wyndham nodded. "A few mud huts, and a small, thatched church! Still, it belongs to a famous Order and pious folk no doubt sent gifts, because the Diario's remarks indicate that the Virgin's jewels were supposed to have been stolen. If this is true, the thing's significant. The most part of the people here are pretty staunch Catholics."
"But the newspaper states the report is not confirmed."
"It is not denied," said Wyndham, meaningly. "I imagine the Government had given the editor a hint. You see, the desecration of a church by negroes would rouse the citizens' feelings and lead to a popular demand for swift punishment. If the President complied, the Bat would know about it, and the republicans would lose the advantage of surprise. All the same, they must strike soon, because the Bat will now get ready."
"Then, why do you think he let his people rob the mission?"
"I don't think he did so. Perhaps some were too keen and got out of control; perhaps some meant to force Larrinaga to put him down. They're a treacherous lot and given to intrigue. However, there's another bit of news. The gunboat, Campeador, has gone into Anagas, damaged, after stranding, and will need extensive repairs. I expect this is true, because folks at Anagas could see the boat."
"It's important," Marston declared. "If the gunboat's damaged, Don Ramon can't use her to carry his troops. Still I suppose the Government tug could tow them along the coast on board the lighters. They are overhauling her at San Cristobal. Looks as if we had better find out when they'll finish the job."
Wyndham nodded. San Cristobal was some distance off; a small town with a good harbor, where there was a foundry and a coaling wharf. Yet it would be dangerous to make open inquiries about the tug or to visit the place, because Wyndham had grounds for imagining they were watched. Indeed, one of the port-guards was lounging near them. When a whistle screamed he looked up and saw the liner circle outside the mole. Foam broke about her side as the screw turned astern, a row of lights flashed into brightness, and big electric hatch lamps blazed up on deck. She stopped, the anchor splashed, and the doctor's noisy launch went off. Then the yellow flag came down and shore boats crowded about the ship.
It was nearly dark when the returning boats pulled towards the mole. A steamer was anchored near the entrance, and Columbine rode between her and the wall, leaving a narrow channel through which the boats must pass. When the first was close by Wyndham glanced carelessly at the passengers, but after a few moments his glance got fixed. Among the row of faces there was one he thought he knew and as the boat drew level with him he clenched his fist.
"Look at the third man in the stern-sheets, Bob," he said.
Marston looked and started. "It's Peters! This is going to make things awkward. The brute has lost no time. D'you think he knows we're here?"
"He knows Columbine," said Wyndham. "I imagine he sees her." Peters turned his head and his movements indicated that he was talking to the sailor who rowed on the thwart in front.
"That is enough," Marston remarked. "He'll try us again in the morning, and if we're firm, he'll see what he can do with Larrinaga. We are going to be firm. I won't buy off the brute."
"Then we had better get to sea, but we must find out about the tug before we start. On the whole, I think we'll get about it now."
Marston was surprised. "San Cristobal's a long way off, and I don't know if we could hire horses. Then I doubt if we could return by noon to-morrow, and one of the port-guards might board Columbine in the morning. Larrinaga would guess our object if he found out where we'd gone."
"Exactly," said Wyndham. "We can't go by road, but the gig is here and we'd shorten the distance by sailing across the bay. In fact, if we're lucky, we ought to have an hour or two to look about and then get back by daybreak. The land-breeze will soon blow fresh; a fair wind both ways."
"By George!" said Marston. "The thing can be done!"
Running down the steps, they pushed off the gig. She was a well-built boat, twenty feet long, and on the African coast Marston had got a Fanti carpenter to fit her with a centerboard. She carried a big sail when she had a crew on board, and now the heavy chain would make good ballast. When they had got a compass, a lantern, and some food from Columbine, they pulled off among some shore boats going to the liner, and vanished into the darkness round her stern.
"If the port-guard saw us, he'd reckon we meant to board the mailboat, but it's possible he didn't pick us out from the others," Wyndham remarked. "Well, the breeze is freshening. Let's put up the mast."
They were occupied for some minutes, and then Wyndham sat down at the tiller and the gig, leaning over, gathered speed. Marston had had the lugsail and jib made in England by a famous yacht-chandler, and the boat was fast. Foam piled up at her lee bow, lapped the gunwale at her waist, and boiled round her stern. The breeze came down in gusts from the high land, and now and then the boat, listing sharply, shipped some water. Wyndham might have avoided this by slackening the sheet, but he held on to the rope and kept his course. Although the night was dark, he could see the hills against the sky and for a time he followed the coast. Then, when the shore curved back in a wide bay, he told Marston to put the compass on the thwart and light the lantern.
"Get out the baler and bucket, afterwards," he said. "There's room enough for the wind to knock up the sea, and she'll take some water on board as we reach across. Time's valuable and we must hold her to it, without shortening sail."
Marston crouched behind the lifted weather gunwale and lighted the lantern; then he saw that halyards and sheets were clear, and afterwards pulled up the well-board in the stern flooring. Sitting down with the baler in his hand by the hole, he waited and looked about. The sea began to break as they drew out from the land. Showers of spray beat into the hollow of the jib and the splashes that blew across the weather bow got heavier. The wind was not, as they had hoped, abeam, but a point or two ahead, and Marston lowered the centerboard, which jolted in its trunk when she plunged. She was not shipping much water yet and he wondered whether he could light his pipe. Then Wyndham said, "Look out!"
A white comber rose to windward, there was a thud, and jib and short bowsprit vanished. A white cloud hid the mainsail and foaming water flooded aft. As he used the baler Marston heard the sheet-blocks rattle. Wyndham was easing her while he threw the water out. It was hard to fill the bucket because the flood washed to and fro, but he knew the job was urgent. He was wet and breathless when he looked up.
"A nasty one!" he gasped.
"Here's another," said Wyndham, and flying water whipped Marston's face.
After this he was kept occupied. Sometimes he used the bucket and sometimes the baler, for water came on board fast. Now and then he imagined Wyndham slackened the sheet to ease a plunge that might swamp the boat, but this was Harry's business and he must not neglect his. Balancing himself against the lurching, he scooped up the splashing flood. When a gust heeled the boat over it gained on him, and then as the pressure slackened he held his own, but while he used his best efforts he could not bale her dry. At length, when his arms ached and he was very wet, he stopped for a few moments.
"Don't know if I can keep it up for long; I'm horribly cramped," he said. "Can't we drop the lug and tie in a reef?"
"I doubt if she'd hold her course with sail shortened," Wyndham replied. "The breeze has drawn another point ahead and we'll lose time we can't spare if we're forced to tack. Stick it out, Bob. We'll get smoother water when we pick up the land again."
He stopped and jerked the tiller, a moment too late, for a sea came over the bow. The water foamed about Marston's knees, the lantern went out, and he thought he felt the compass strike his legs.
"Bale!" said Wyndham, sharply. "She'll capsize if she ships another before you get this lot out."
Marston did his best, while the lantern and compass washed against the bucket. There was no use in stopping to pick them up, since he could not get a light and Harry was now steering by the wind. He must keep her as near it as she would point until they crossed the bay and found the land again. Marston hoped this would be soon. For some time he did not look up and afterwards wondered how Wyndham kept her afloat, but at length the plunges got easier and the water did not come on board so fast. By degrees, he got it under, and stopping to stretch his cramped limbs, looked to windward. The sea was smoother and the breeze not so fresh. There was a vague dark line not far off and he knew they were approaching the beach.
"We'll be round the point in a few minutes," said Wyndham. "Bale her dry, and then look out for the red light at San Cristobal."
Soon after he stopped baling, Marston saw a red twinkle. The gig was sailing very fast, swaying down and recovering buoyantly as the gusts came and went. The lug-yard bent in a strained curve and showers of spray blew into the sail. Marston, stooping behind the gunwale, managed to strike a match and told Wyndham the time when he had looked at his watch.
"We have made a good run, but she'll beat it going back, when we'll have the wind a point or two aft," he added. "This ought to give us an hour, or perhaps an hour-and-a-half, at the port."
"It will be enough. Unluckily, the tide is ebbing yet, and although there's not much rise and fall, I don't know if we can both leave the boat. It would be awkward if she grounded and we couldn't shove her off."
Marston nodded. The gig was heavy and he doubted if they could launch her down a beach. It would be risky to tie her to landing steps, because the port-guards watched the harbors at night. Vessels were not allowed to enter after dark. Yet he did not want to be separated from Harry.
In the meantime, they were fast coming up with the light, and when a high, dark wall ran out in front Wyndham luffed the boat and they lowered sail and took down the mast. Marston sculled her past the wall, and the narrow harbor opened up. A few anchor lights swung languidly inside, and the indistinct, dark shape of a steamer shut out part of the wall. When they got near her Marston stopped sculling.
"The repairing slip is up at the top by the foundry," he said. "I expect the brigantine to starboard has a rope out. If we try to get across, we might make a splash. If we go the other side, we'll pass close under the steamer's rail. She's a pretty big boat; they'll have a Sereno on board, and keep harbor watch. If somebody hailed us, it might bring the port-guard."
Wyndham nodded and for a few moments they looked about. The harbor was long and narrow. For the most part, the town at its end was dark, but two or three big electric lamps threw a silver gleam across indistinct masses of foliage. Marston thought these were trees on the marina at the water's edge. If so, the faint light lower down came from the office of the port-captain. Turning to the wall abreast of the gig, he imagined he saw some steps.
"Perhaps you had better land me and wait while I try to find the tug," he said. "I ought to get back in an hour."
"The awkward part is going along the mole," Wyndham replied. "You'll have to pass two or three vessels and somebody may speak to you. This must be risked one way, but instead of coming back, it might be prudent to cross the land end of the mole and join me on the beach in front of the marina. There's not much surf to bother us, but it will make some noise and if anybody is about you won't be heard."
Marston agreed, and sculling to the steps, jumped out. He pushed off the gig, and Wyndham picked up the oar. In another few moments the boat vanished in the dark.
CHAPTER VII
THE TUG
When he had climbed the steps Marston stopped. Now he had started on his adventure he saw its difficulties. To begin with, he must pass two or three vessels, and the lights that burned on the steamer touched the mole. She came from Cadiz and Spanish passenger boats carried a Sereno, whose particular duty was to keep watch at night. Marston was afraid the man might hail him. Although he had laboriously studied Castilian, he did not speak it well, and his accent would indicate that he was a foreigner. If the Sereno were curious and kept him talking, the port-guard might come up. Anyhow, there was some risk of his meeting the latter and he would then be asked to account for his wandering about in the dark. It was obvious that he could not do so satisfactorily, and there was a telephone to the Government office at the Capital.
Marston doubted if Larrinaga could imprison him for spying, but it did not matter much. If he were found at San Cristobal, Don Ramon would know his object and would not let him go until he had sent off his soldiers to put down the Bat. If the latter were not warned, he would probably be surprised and captured. This was unthinkable, and Marston saw he must not be caught, although to run away from the port-guard might lead to his getting shot. The fellows carried pistols, which they were empowered to use. Caution was plainly needed, and he crept past the steamer, keeping close to the high parapet of the mole.
Nobody hailed him, and he went on until he came opposite a small marque. She had no lights, but as he stole by his foot struck a mooring rope and he fell. He lay flat on the ground for some moments, and then, hearing no movement on board, got up and crept away, looking out for the next rope. The mole was long and he had not gone far when he heard the splash of oars. A boat came out of the dark, and a break in the wall indicated a row of steps. Marston did not want to turn back, and it was possible the men were going to one of the vessels. If they were going to the town, he had better get past the steps before they landed. A pile of goods forced him to leave the gloom of the parapet and it looked as if his figure cut against the sky, for the splash of oars stopped.
"Ola compañero!" somebody shouted.
Marston saw he must trust his luck and asked gruffly: "Que quiere?"
The man said they were coming to let go a schooner's rope but he might throw it down, and Marston dragged the heavy warp to the edge.
"Coje-le," he said in a hoarse voice and threw down the rope.
He imagined it fell upon the others' heads, for somebody said, "Mal rayo! Esta borracho."
Then the boat pulled away and Marston went on. If the fellows thought him drunk, so much the better. This would account for his brevity and uncouth accent. He wondered whether the shouting had excited the port-guards' curiosity, but although he stopped to listen he heard nothing.
By-and-by he got near the end of the mole and distinguished the repairing ship, which ran down obliquely to the water. The trees on the marina rose behind it, touched in places by the glow from two big electric lamps, and a blurred, dark mass cut against the illumination. This was, no doubt, the tug and he wondered, rather anxiously, whether the crew were on board. Stopping where the gloom was deepest, he looked carefully about.
The tug's bow rose high above him, but he doubted if the tide had left her stern. So far as he could feel with his feet, the stones were covered by broken shells, and he smelt paint. In the tropics, the bottom of an iron vessel soon gets crusted with shells and weed, and it looked as if the crew had scraped the boat. When the plates were clean they would paint her with red-oxide before applying the anti-fouling coat. It was important for him to find out which they had put on, because, since they could only work at low-water, this might mean a difference of a day or two in the time needed to finish the job. All the same, he could not take it for granted that she would be ready for sea when the last coat was dry. He understood her engines were being overhauled, and must ascertain if the work were done.
Marston moved lower down the inclined slip. The tug was a big propeller boat and rested, upright, on heavy shores. When he was level with the engine-room he saw a ladder against her side and his foot struck something that tinkled. Stooping down, he felt about and found a number of short tubes, some of which had torn ends. They had obviously come from the condenser, and re-tubing a condenser might be a long job. It looked as if he would have to get on board, but, to begin with, he had better see how far the men had gone with the painting.
He rubbed his hand along the plates. Although they were pretty smooth, this did not tell him much and he got no plainer hint when he used his nose. There was a strong smell of paint, but he could not tell if it was the priming coat, or the anti-fouling that would finish the work. Perhaps he could find the drum that had held the paint and he began to feel about as he moved down the slip. He had not gone far, however, when he trod on a piece of iron that tilted up and dropped with a sharp rattle. To continue the search might be dangerous and he stopped and listened.
All was quiet on board the tug; the trees on the marina tossed in the wind and the surf rumbled behind the mole. A clinking noise came up the harbor and Marston imagined the men whose rope he had thrown down were getting ready to go to sea at sunrise; vessels were not allowed to leave or enter port in the dark. This reminded Marston that it was some time since he had left Wyndham and they must reach the schooner before daybreak.
He went back up the slip, hoping he might be able to see the tug's deck. Now he was on higher ground, he noted a faint and rather puzzling illumination behind her bulwarks. Its position indicated that it came from the engine-room and he imagined the skylight was open but somebody had thrown a tarpaulin across the frames. The hinged lights opened from the bottom, and perhaps the engineer wanted to dry his paint and yet keep the heavy dew off the machinery. Anyhow, since there was a light in the engine-room, one could see below.
Marston hesitated at the bottom of the ladder. It would be very awkward if he were caught on board the tug; but he must find out if she were ready for sea and he wore light, rubber-soled deck shoes. The ladder was not fastened, for the top began to slip along the plates when he climbed, and he was forced to reach up and seize the rail. Next moment he stepped cautiously down on deck. Nobody seemed to have heard him and all was dark but for the glow from the skylight, which only shone for a few feet on the damp planks. As Marston made for the engine-room his foot struck an iron drum and he stopped. It was a paint-drum, but he must discover if it were empty and what paint the crew had used.
He tilted the drum and its lightness indicated that there was not much inside. Then he turned it round carefully until he could see the brass label on the top. The letters were obscured by paint, but he distinguished JES – and was satisfied. He knew the famous anti-fouling composition; the crew had put on the last coat and, so far as her being painted went, the tug was ready for sea. Now he must look at her engines, and he put back the drum. Its rim jarred on the deck and Marston thought he heard a movement below. Stooping down, he looked under the tarpaulin and got something of a shock.
A man stood on the floor plates in the engine-room, with his face turned up towards the skylight as if he had been disturbed. Marston could not see him well, because the bars of the top platform were in the way, but the fellow carried a small, bright piece of steel and a ball of waste. It looked as if he had been cleaning a valve-spindle, and his working at night was significant. Marston's heart beat, but after a few moments the other seemed to be satisfied and sitting down on a locker picked up a file.
When the fellow bent his head over his work Marston glanced carefully about the engine-room. He saw the condenser; the cover was on, which indicated that the repairs were finished. A chain tackle hung from the beams above the cylinders and some nuts lay about their heads. The pistons had obviously been lifted in order to put on new rings. Other things Marston noted implied that the engines had been given a thorough overhaul. He thought the work was nearly completed, but when one examined a vessel's engines the boiler was generally opened and he crept cautiously to the stokehold.
The ladder came up to a grating on deck and when he had gone down half way he struck a match. He could see the man-hole; the cover had recently been taken off and replaced, for smears of red-lead marked the joint, and Marston went cautiously back to the deck. He knew all he wanted to know. The tug had been put in first-rate order, as if in preparation for some important work, and he thought she could be floated off after another tide. He must now rejoin Wyndham as soon as possible. So far, he had been lucky, but when he went to the rail it looked as if his luck had turned.
A man, singing lustily, crossed the marina and his hoarseness implied that he was returning from a carouse. As he passed the port-captain's office somebody hailed him and Marston heard him answer, "Fogonero."
There was a short colloquy that seemed to get abusive, and then somebody said, "Vaya al diablo!"
The man laughed and came on unsteadily towards the mole. He was a ship's fireman, and Marston, who did not want to meet him, hoped he was not making for the tug. After a few moments he fell down and Marston thought he kicked something savagely when he got up. His figure was now faintly distinguishable and it was plain that he meant to board the tug. Marston crawled round the skylight and crouched against the bulwarks on the other side. A rope ran across the rail and he tried to feel if its end was fast. The rope might help him to reach the ground.
Then the awkward steps stopped at the tug and the ladder shook. Its upper end slipped and a noise below indicated that the fireman had fallen off.
"Pancho, Panchito!" he shouted. "Come out and help, little parrot!"
Marston heard the engineer clatter across the iron platforms and cross the deck. So far as Marston could understand, his remarks were grossly rude, but the other interrupted:
"What is a small bottle of caña to a fireman? It is the ladder that is drunk. If you will not hold it, little parrot, I must sleep in the cold."
To judge by the noise they made, Pancho seized the ladder while the other scrambled up. He jumped on deck, laughing boisterously, a door shut, and when the men's feet rattled on the platform bars in the engine-room Marston crawled across the deck. He found the top of the ladder, but had only gone down a few steps when it slipped across the side and threw him off. Although he did not fall far, the ladder struck the ground with a crash and he lay down in the gloom under the tug's bilge.
After waiting for a few moments he saw the others were not coming back on deck, and he got up and stole along the slip. Crossing the mole with a few quick steps, he climbed the parapet and dropped to the stones on the other side. When he had gone a hundred yards along the beach he whistled softly, and although the gravel rolled about in the languid surf heard Wyndham's answer. Then the gig's white hull appeared indistinctly among the streaks of foam, and he plunged into the backwash as a wave recoiled. Seizing the gig's bow, he pushed her off and got on board while Wyndham sculled her round. For two or three minutes they let her drift off-shore; and then stepped the mast and hoisted sail.
"Well?" said Wyndham. "Did you find the tug?"
Marston related his adventures and added: "I expect they'll float her off next tide, but some of the small jobs I noted would hardly be finished. Then she'll have to coal, fill her tanks, and get up steam. In fact, I don't imagine she could start until sometime after dark to-morrow. Five or six lighters were lying near the slip."
"She'll no doubt bring them across," said Wyndham thoughtfully. "I expect the skipper will go half-speed across the bay. Well, suppose she arrives in the morning? The sea-breeze will freshen as the sun gets high, and towing the loaded boats would be dangerous in broken water; perhaps we can take it for granted the troops won't leave until it's dark. At night they'd get smooth water, because the wind's off the land. This means we have about forty-eight hours' warning. But slack the jib sheet a little. Our first job's to get on board by daybreak."
As they opened up the bay the sea got rougher, but the wind was on the gig's quarter and they let her go. She rolled on the angry combers and the boom that stretched the lugsail's foot tossed up. If she fell off much and the sail lurched across, the shock would capsize her or carry away the mast. Wyndham, however, held her straight and she drove on, with curling foam piled about her side. It was a wild run and they were glad when they got near the land again and found shelter. The sea was smooth now, and the breeze moderate, although it blew in gusts that heeled the boat and set the water splashing against her planks. Once or twice Wyndham made Marston strike a match and look at his watch.
"We may get in, but we have not much time to spare," he said at length.
The breeze fell and the boat rose nearly upright. Marston put out an oar and began to pull, for when he looked east the sky was getting pale. The gig was sailing, but the splash at the bows was faint and at times the canvas hung slack. Half an hour afterwards they pulled down the mast and Wyndham took the other oar.
"A steady stroke! Don't force the pace. But you have got to row!" he said.
The need for speed was plain. The eastern sky was clearing and the mist began to roll back from the coast. Marston saw a belt of surf and shadowy rocks and woods. Ahead, a light marked the harbor mouth, but it was some distance off and the gig was a heavy boat for two men to row. Yet they must reach port before day broke, and, gasping and straining, they labored on. After his hasty glance about, Marston saw nothing but Wyndham's back, swinging to and fro in front with a regularity that he must emulate. He felt the bow lift as he dragged the heavy oar through the water; then there was a faint gurgle, and his heart beat as he swung forward again. His hands blistered and the sweat ran into his eyes.
At length, Wyndham said something hoarsely and a high wall, washed by languid surf, rose above the boat. They were entering the harbor, but Marston dared not turn to look ahead. The light was growing and the wall would guide them to Columbine. He must not miss a stroke, because the port-guard might be able to see them now. Three or four minutes afterwards, Wyndham stopped rowing and said, "Easy! Let her go!"
Marston fell forward with his oar and fought for breath. His heart beat like a hammer, his arms and legs trembled, and he felt he had not strength to lift his head. Then the end of his oar struck something and they were alongside Columbine. Rousing himself with an effort, he leaned out and seized a rope. Wyndham got up and began to lift the mast.
"Find the compass and lantern; then help me put the gear on board," he said.
When the gig was empty of all but the oars they got over the schooner's rail and pulled off their wet clothes. In the tropics, white men, as a rule, do not bathe in cold water, but the galley fire was not lighted and Wyndham filled a bucket over the side. The cool brine braced them, and going to the cabin, they began to take out dry clothes. Wyndham, however, stopped, as if listening, and Marston heard the splash of oars.
"Pyjamas, I think," said Wyndham. "Somebody's coming."
As they put on their pyjamas the oars stopped close by and a man shouted.
"One of us will be enough," Wyndham resumed. "Look as sleepy as you can."
Marston went up, with his pyjamas half buttoned, and leaned on the rail. It was daylight, for on the Caribbean dawn comes swiftly at about six o'clock. A boat carrying two men in the port-guards' uniform floated a few yards off. Marston thought they were looking at the gig, and he waited in keen suspense.
"A note from Señor Larrinaga," said one.
"Don Ramon gets up early," Marston remarked with a yawn, and when the man gave him the note added: "Wait a minute."
Opening the envelope he went to the cabin and said to Wyndham, "We are asked to breakfast at the mission and see the soldiers parade. I imagine we're expected to stop the day. Don Ramon is sending horses; they'll be ready in half an hour."
"Well," said Wyndham, "I suppose we must go."
Marston gave the men a bottle of caña and sent them off. Then he went back and sat down limply.
"If we had been ten minutes longer, they'd have found us out," he said. "I don't feel up to riding far, and their asking us to the mission now is awkward. Still I expect we couldn't sail until it's dark. It's lucky we got our clearance papers."