Wyndham's Pal

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.