Wyndham's Pal

"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."

CHAPTER VIII

AT THE MISSION

Half an hour after the boat pulled away, Marston and Wyndham mounted the horses Larrinaga had sent. The mission was some distance off, but breakfast would not be served until about eleven o'clock and they rode slowly up the hill behind the town. Two soldiers followed thirty or forty yards in the rear, but Marston had found out that they knew no English. Wyndham was quiet and preoccupied.

"The horses are the best I've seen, and I suppose Don Ramon's sending an escort is something of a compliment," Marston said presently. "We are going to the mission like honored guests; I don't know about our coming back. Yet we must get back to-night."

"We calculated the tug would sail with the lighters to-morrow after dark and we need twenty-four hours' start," Wyndham replied. "It ought to be enough, if the breeze is strong; landing the troops will be a long job. However, we must not be late."

Marston agreed. Larrinaga was using every precaution to keep the dispatch of the expedition secret, and no doubt hoped to surprise the Bat. If they were too late, they might be captured with him. If, however, they brought him warning long enough beforehand, he might make a stubborn defense, and this would involve them in fresh entanglements.

"I'd feel happier if I knew the President's plans for to-day," Marston resumed.

"So would I," said Wyndham, smiling. "I imagine they will, to some extent, depend on the line we take. On the whole, his object for sending for us is plain; he wants to keep us away from the port as long as possible."

"If he thought we were spying for the Bat, he might lock us up."

"I think not. He would then have to inform the consul and state the grounds for our arrest. All the same, if he's not satisfied, he may tax us with cheating the customs or something of the kind and keep us until the tug has sailed. In the meantime, perhaps it's lucky we are not about the port, because I think Peters won't offer his help to the Government until he has seen us. If Larrinaga knew what Peters knows, we wouldn't reach the lagoon."

"I expect that is so," said Marston gloomily. "Well, it will be a big relief when all this intrigue is done with and we leave the coast for good."

For the most part they were silent until they reached the mission. The building was old and falling to ruin, but it had a touch of stateliness, for its foundations were laid when the Spanish conquerors were influenced by the austere beauty of Moorish art. The front was pierced by Saracenic arches that led to a cloistered walk on one side of the patio, from which an outside stair went up to the officers' rooms. The rest of the building was plainer and was now used for a barracks. Palms grew round the square in front and in the background dusky forest rolled back to the mountains that cut the sky. Two or three companies of cazadores were drawn up in the square.

The President and Larrinaga received their guests at the central arch, where chairs had been put in the shade. There was another gentleman, whom Wyndham imagined belonged to the President's cabinet, and he thought the minister quietly studied him and Marston. It was possible Señor Villar had joined the party with this object. If so, it looked as if the others had not yet decided if they were dangerous or not.

"Now you have arrived, we will go on with the drill," the President remarked. "Afterwards, Señor Marston will tell us what he thinks about my soldiers."

"My opinion is not worth much; I am a sailor," Marston replied with some awkwardness, because he thought the President was amused.

"You are modest," the latter rejoined. "Well, we cannot ask what you think about our fleet. Our gunboat, the Campeador, has stranded, and this only leaves us the tug."

"I have seen the tug," said Marston, and stopping for a moment, went on: "A very fine boat! She looks powerful and ought to steam fast."

Wyndham wondered whether the others had noted Marston's pause. It was not long and perhaps his frank admission would satisfy them.

"Let us try to turn kilometers into what you call knots," said the President. "It is a complicated sum; you must help me, Don Ramon."

"About twelve knots," Wyndham interposed when they began the calculation. "However, you must not indulge my comrade by letting him talk about ships. We came to see the soldiers."

The President signed to an officer, who shouted, and the cazadores wheeled and formed on a new front. The bands and muzzles of their rifles sparkled in the searching light and dust rolled about them as they moved. They were little, wiry men, and although they did not drill remarkably well and their white uniforms were not clean, Wyndham noted that their rifles were good. Moreover, their equipment was up to date and new.

The officer, shouting savagely, kept the men moving about, and when at length he dismissed them came back, hot and sprinkled by dust, with a look of disgust. Wyndham, allowing something for the German character, thought the disgust was rather marked.

"Then you are not satisfied yet?" the President asked.