Bindloss Harold
Long Odds

CHAPTER XVIII
DOM CLEMENTE LOOKS ON

A little breeze blew in between the slender pillars delightfully fresh and cool, and Dom Clemente Figuera, who had taken off his heavy kepi, lay in a cane chair with a smile in his half-closed eyes. The ten o'clock breakfast had just been cleared away, but two cups of bitter black coffee still stood upon the table beside a bundle of cigars and a flask of light red wine. He was, as he now and then laughingly admitted, usually in an excellent humor after breakfast, and one could have fancied just then that he had not a care in the world. There were, however, men who said that in the case of Dom Clemente tranquillity was not always a favorable sign.

Opposite him sat the trader Herrero, who was not quite so much at ease as he desired to be. His manners were usually characterized by a certain truculence, which as a rule served him well in the bush, but he had sense enough to realize that it was not likely to have much effect upon his companion. There was something about the little smiling gentleman in the immaculate white uniform on the other side of the table which would have made it difficult for one to adopt an aggressive attitude towards him, even if he had not been one who held authority. Herrero had therefore laid a somewhat unusual restraint upon himself while he expressed his views, and now sat watching his companion anxiously. Dom Clemente lighted a cigar before he answered him.

"This Englishman," he said, "is apparently a turbulent person. I have just received a letter concerning him from the Chefe at San Roque, as you are, no doubt, aware."

There was a question in his glance which Herrero could not ignore, though he would have liked to do so. He felt it was unfortunate that he did not know exactly what was in the letter.

"I addressed my complaint to the Chefe in the first case," he said. "Since Ormsgill is believed to have traveled towards the coast it was to be expected that Dom Erminio should communicate with you."

"Exactly!" and Dom Clemente smiled. "The complaint, it seems, is a double one. The Englishman Ormsgill has, I am informed, abducted a native girl who was in your company, but one can not quite understand how he has offended in this, since it appears that she was content to go with him. In one case only you have a remedy. If you have any record of a marriage with this woman the affair shall be looked into."

"I have none," and Herrero made a little gesture. "There are, you understand, certain customs in the bush."

Dom Clemente reproachfully shook his head. "They are," he said, "not recognized by the law, and that being so your grievance against the Englishman is a purely personal one. It is no doubt exasperating that the woman should prefer him, and she is probably unwise in this, but it is not a matter that concerns any one else."

"It is not alleged that she preferred him," and the trader's face flushed a trifle.

"Still," said his companion, "she went with him. Now you do not wish to tell me that you had laid any restraint upon her to keep her with you, or that there was anything to warrant you doing so. For instance, you do not wish me to believe that you had bought her?"

Herrero did not, at least, consider it prudent. The law, as he was aware, did not countenance such transactions, and while he sat silent his companion smiled at him.

"Then," he said, "I am afraid I can only offer you my sympathy, and we will proceed to the next complaint. This Englishman, it is alleged, has also stolen certain boys from Domingo. Now the law allows a native to bind himself to labor for a specified time, and while the engagement lasts he is in a sense the property of the man he makes it with. The engagement, of course, can only be made in due form on the coast, but the man who brings the boys down and feeds them on the strength of their promise may be considered to have some claim on them. It seems to me that person was Domingo. Why did he not make the complaint himself?"

"He is busy, and it would necessitate a long journey. Besides, I have a share in his business ventures."

"That," said Dom Clemente reflectively, "is a sufficient reason. This Domingo seems to be an enterprising man. One wonders if he has many business associates up yonder."

Again Herrero did not answer. He did not like the little shrewd smile in his companion's eyes, for, as he was aware, the only white men in the forests Domingo frequented were missionaries and administrators, who were, at least, not supposed to participate in purely commercial ventures. He could not understand Dom Clemente at all, for it was very natural that it should not occur to him that he was an honest man, as well as an astute one who had been entrusted with a difficult task. He would, in fact, have been startled had he known what was in his companion's mind. Seeing he did not speak, Dom Clemente waved his hand.

"It seems," he said, "that Ormsgill will make for the coast with the boys in question, and you have come to warn me, partly because it is to your interest, and partly from the sense of duty. Well, with this knowledge in my possession it should be difficult for him to get them away."

He stopped a moment, but Herrero saw nothing significant in the fact that he glanced languidly towards the Palestrina. She lay gleaming white like ivory on the glittering stretch of water he could see across the roofs of the city, and, as it happened, he was going off that evening to a function which Desmond, who had brought her in the day before, had arranged.

"Steps will be taken to intercept him when we have news of his whereabouts, and in the meanwhile I have another question," he said. "There is discontent up yonder among the bushmen?"

His manner was indifferent, but Herrero was on his guard. "A little," he said. "If it becomes more serious it will be due to this Ormsgill, and, perhaps, to the missionaries. He and the American are teaching the bushmen to be mutinous."

Dom Clemente took up a letter which had, as it happened, been sent him by Father Tiebout, from the table, and read it meditatively. Then he rose with a little smile.

"The affair shall be looked into," he said.

Herrero withdrew, not altogether satisfied. Dom Clemente had been uniformly courteous, but now and then a just perceptible hardness had crept into his eyes. The latter, however, smiled as he poured himself out another glass of wine, and then turned quietly, as his daughter appeared in the doorway. She came nearer, and stood looking down at him.

"That man has gone away?" she said. "He is an infamous person."

Dom Clemente glanced at the little green lattice on the white wall behind her with a faint twinkle in his eyes. It was not very far away, and he remembered that Herrero had spoken distinctly.

"One would admit that he is not a particularly estimable man, but he has, like most of us, his little rôle to play," he said. "He does not, however, play it brilliantly."

Benicia made a gesture of impatience. "The Englishman is on his way to the coast. You are going to arrest him?"

"When we know where he is. What would you have me do? A man in authority has his duty."

"Is it a duty to bring trouble on a man who has done no wrong?"

Dom Clemente leaned forward with his arms on the table, and looked at her with a curious little smile.

"I almost think," he said reflectively, "if I was a great friend of this Englishman's I would prefer him to fall into the hands of – such a man as I am. In that case, he would, at least, be prevented from going back to the bush, which is just now unsafe for him."

Benicia felt her face grow hot under his steady gaze. "The difficulty is that there are men without scruples who would blame him for whatever trouble may be going on up yonder in the forest," she said. "You would have to listen to them. If their complaints were serious what would you do?"

"Ah," said Dom Clemente, "that is rather more than I can tell. When one is young one feels that he is always expected to do something. Afterwards, however, one becomes content to leave it to the others now and then. It is sometimes wiser to – look on. That may be my attitude in this case, but I am not sure that the affair is one that concerns you."

He made a little deprecatory gesture as he turned to the papers in front of him, and Benicia went out quietly. It was an affair that concerned her very much indeed, but she knew that Dom Clemente could be reticent, and she fancied that he had something in his mind. As it happened, this was the case with her. In the meanwhile he sat still, gazing thoughtfully at the sun-scorched town while he smoked another cigar. Then he rose with a little jerk of his shoulders, and buckling on his big sword went down the stairway.

When evening came he went off to the Palestrina with his daughter, her attendant Señora Castro, and one or two officials and their wives, and enjoyed an excellent dinner on board the yacht. He fancied Benicia was rather silent during part of it, and glanced at her once or twice, which she naturally noticed, and as the result of it roused herself to join in the conversation. Still, she was a trifle relieved when the dinner was over and Desmond led them up on deck. Clear moonlight streamed in between the awnings, and, as it happened, Desmond seated himself beside the rail at some distance from her Madeira chair. Twice she ventured to make him a little sign, which he apparently disregarded, but at last he rose and walked forward, and she turned to the black-robed Señora Castro, who had clung persistently to her side.

"The dew is rather heavy. I brought a wrap or two, but I think I left them in the saloon," she said.

The little portly lady waddled away, and a minute or two later Benicia rose languidly, and moved towards the companion door through which she had disappeared. Instead of descending the stairway, the girl slipped out by the other door, and flitted forward in the shadow of the deckhouse until she came upon Desmond standing beneath the bridge.

"You do not seem to notice things to-night. I signed to you twice," she said.

Desmond smiled. "I saw you," he said. "Still, I wasn't quite sure that another of my guests did not do so, too. You have something to say to me."

Benicia turned and glanced down the long deck. There was nobody visible on that part of it.

"Yes," she said a trifle breathlessly. "But nobody must know that I have talked to you alone."

Desmond opened the door of the little room beneath the bridge. A lamp burned in it, and he flung a shade across the port before he drew the girl in, and then closing the door, leaned with his back against it.

"I do not think we shall be disturbed," he said.

Benicia stood still a moment looking at him. It was in the case of a young woman from The Peninsula a very unusual thing she had done, but there was inconsequent courage in her, and a certain quiet imperiousness in her manner.

"You have coal and water on board?" she said.

"I have," said Desmond. "I have also clearance papers for British Nigeria, but we haven't steam up. You see, I expected to stay here at least a day or two."

"Then you must raise it. You must sail for the Bahia Santiago before to-morrow."

"You have word of Ormsgill?" and Desmond became suddenly intent. "He is a man who is never late, but on this occasion he is a week or two before his time. Well, I dare say we can sail to-morrow. You will tell me what you know?"

He leaned against the door with a quiet thoughtful face while she did so, and then the Celtic temperament revealed itself in the flash in his eyes.

"It will evidently be a tight fit, but we'll get him if I have to arm every man on board and bring him off," he said. "That there may be complications afterwards doesn't in the least matter."

"Ah," said Benicia, "you are one who would do a good deal for a friend."

Desmond looked at her with a little wry smile. "Miss Figuera," he said slowly, "I think I would gladly do a very great deal for you."

A just perceptible flicker of color crept into the girl's face. "But what you are about to do now is for your friend Ormsgill."

"Yes," said Desmond, still with the curious little smile. "In one way, at least, I suppose it is."

Benicia turned and faced him, with the color growing plainer in her cheeks, and for a moment there was hot anger in her, for she knew what he meant. Then the fierce resentment vanished suddenly, as she once more met his eyes. There was something that suggested a deep regret in them, and his manner was wholly deferential.

"I only wish you to understand that if I fail it will not be because I have not done all I can," he said. "You see, I would, at least, like to keep your good opinion, and in spite of every effort one can't always be successful. Still, if it is possible, I will bring Ormsgill safely off. As you say, he is my friend."

There was silence for, perhaps, half a minute, and during it each knew what the other was thinking. Then Benicia made this clear.

"Ah," she said, "you are a very generous man." She stopped a moment, and there was a faint tremble in her voice when she turned to him again. "You have come from Las Palmas?"

"I have," said Desmond. "I saw Miss Ratcliffe there. I think I may venture to tell you that Ormsgill will never marry her."

Benicia's face flamed, but the color died out of it again, and she looked at him quietly. "To no one else could I have forgiven that. Still, one can forgive everything to one who has your courage – and devotion."

Desmond made a little gesture. "Well," he said simply, "we sail before to-morrow, and I will do what I can. There is this in my favor – your friends probably don't know where Ormsgill is heading for."

Then the girl started suddenly with consternation in her eyes, for there was a tapping at the door, but Desmond's hand fell on her shoulder and she felt that he would do what was most advisable. Next moment he leaned forward and turned the lamp out before he threw the door open.

"Well," he said, "what do you want? I am, as you see, just coming out."

There was moonlight outside, though the awnings dimmed it, and just there the bridge flung a shadow on the deck, and he recognized with the first glance that it was one of his guests who had tapped upon the door which he flung carelessly to behind him.

"One wondered where you had gone to," said the man.

Desmond laughed, and slipping his hand beneath the inquirer's arm strolled aft with him, but he sighed with relief when, as they joined the others on the opposite side of the deck-house, he saw Benicia already sitting there. He did not know how she had contrived it, until he remembered that to slip through the companion would shorten the distance. It was, however, half an hour later when she found an opportunity of standing beside him for a moment or two.

"It seems that one is watched," she said. "You must be careful."

Desmond was on the whole not sorry when his guests took themselves away, and he laughed as he stood at the gangway shaking hands with them.

"I am afraid I shall not be ashore to-morrow," he said. "It is very likely that we shall be out at sea by then."

One or two of them expressed their regret, and the boat slid away, while some little time afterwards Dom Clemente glanced at his daughter as they stood on the outer stairway of his house. Beneath them they could see the Palestrina dotted here and there with blinking lights, and a dingy smear of smoke was steaming from her funnel.

"So he is going away again to-morrow," he said reflectively. "Well, I suppose one is always permitted to change his mind."

Benicia made no answer, and Dom Clemente stood still, glancing towards the steamer with a somewhat curious expression when she went into the house. Then he made a little abrupt gesture, as of one who resigns himself, before he turned away and went in after her.

"In the meanwhile I look on," he said.

CHAPTER XIX
THE DELAYED MESSAGE

It was a few days after the Palestrina had sailed when Dom Clemente once more sat behind the pillars in a basket chair looking thoughtfully at his unlighted cigar. He could when it appeared advisable move energetically and to some effect, but he was not fond of action, or conversation, for its own sake, and he seldom told anybody else what was in his mind. There are men who apparently find a pleasure in doing so, and in their case the task is as a rule a particularly easy one, but Dom Clemente had no sympathy with them. When the time was ripe he acted on his opinions, but otherwise he was placid, tolerantly courteous, and inscrutable. Still, there were men concerned in the government of his country who had confidence in him.

It happened that a little cargo steamer on her way north had crept in that morning with engines broken down, and her British skipper, who had certain favors to ask, had been sent to Dom Clemente. He had gone away contented a few minutes earlier, but he had incidentally supplied Dom Clemente with a piece of information which, although he was not altogether astonished at it, had made him thoughtful. At last he rose, and laying down his cigar strolled forward leisurely to where, looking down between the pillars, he could see his daughter in the patio below. She did not see him, for she was sitting with a book turned back upwards upon her knee and apparently gazing straight before her at a trellis draped with flowers. He would have greatly liked to know what she was thinking, but since he recognized that this was one of the wishes that must remain ungratified he turned away again with a little gesture which was chiefly expressive of resignation. He could deal with men, but he had already found that the charge of a motherless daughter was something of a responsibility. Then he called a negro whom he dispatched with a message, and leaned against one of the pillars until a man in uniform with a big sword belted to him came in.

"Sit down," he said, pointing to the table. "Write what I tell you."

The man did as he was bidden, and Dom Clemente nodded when he was shown the letter. "You will take it across to the Lieutenant Frequillo and tell him to send a few men direct to the Bahia if he considers it advisable," he said. "Then you will see the messenger Pacheco dispatched with it. The matter, as you will understand, is urgent. As you go down say that I should like a word with the Señorita Benicia if she is at liberty."

His companion went out with the letter of instructions which was directed to the officer in command of the handful of dusky soldiers who had been sent up to inquire for news of Ormsgill, and Dom Clemente who sat down again waited until his daughter came in. She stood looking at him expectantly until he turned and pointed to the little British steamer.

"The captain of that vessel has just been in," he said. "He told me with some resentment that a white steam yacht went by him two days ago, and took no notice of his signals. The captain, it seems, was very anxious to be towed in here."

"I do not think that concerns me," said Benicia.

"The yacht," said Dom Clemente, "had a single funnel, a long deck-house, and two masts, which, of course, is not unusual, but it is most unlikely that there are two yachts of that description anywhere near this coast. The point is that she was steaming very fast, and heading south, which is certainly not the way to Nigeria."

Benicia appeared to straighten herself a trifle, but save for the little movement she was very quiet, and she looked at her father with eyes that were almost as inscrutable as his own. Still, she recognized that she was at a disadvantage, since it was evident that the course he meant to take was clear to him, and she was in a state of anxious uncertainty.

"It is," he continued tranquilly, "a little astonishing how these Englishmen recognize the natural facilities of a country. There is down the coast a little bay which I have long had my eyes upon. Some day, perhaps, we will build a deep water pier there and make a railway across the littoral. No other place has so many advantages. It offers, among others, a natural road to the interior."

The girl could have faced a direct question better than this preamble, which Dom Clemente no doubt guessed.

"The Señor Desmond is not a commercialist," she said. "Why should this interest him?"

"Well," said Dom Clemente, "one could fancy that it does, for he is certainly going there." He stopped for a moment, and then his tone was sharp and incisive. "The question is, who sent him?"

Benicia saw the little glint in his dark eyes, but she met his gaze. She was clever enough to realize that there was only one course open to her.

"Ah," she said, "I almost think you know."

The man made a little gesture. "At least, I do not know how the affair concerns you."

Benicia sat down in the nearest chair, and a faint warmth crept into her face, for this was the last point she desired to make clear, and Dom Clemente's eyes were still fixed upon her. It was evident that he expected an answer, and it said a good deal for her courage that her voice was steady.

"You are aware that I have spoiled your plans?" she said.

"That," said Dom Clemente dryly, "is another matter. I am not sure that you have spoiled them. I would, however, like to hear your reasons for meddling with them."

It was the same question in a different guise, and she nerved herself to face it.

"The Señor Ormsgill is doing a very chivalrous thing," she said. "It is one in which he has my sympathy – one could almost fancy that he has yours, too."

This was a bold venture, but she saw the man's faint smile. "I have a duty here, and that counts for most," he said. "Then it was sympathy with this man Ormsgill that influenced you?"

"Not altogether. I hate the Chefe at San Roque. You know why that is natural, and, after all, it was you who had him sent there. Apart from that, is it not clear that he and the trader Herrero and Domingo play into each other's hands up yonder? The traffic they are engaged in is authorized, but the way in which it is carried out is an iniquity."

There were, as it happened, men in that country who held similar views, but the other reason the girl had proffered seemed to Dom Clemente the most obvious one, though he fancied it did not go quite far enough. It was conceivable that she should hate Dom Erminio, who had been sent up into the bush after bringing discredit upon himself as well as certain friends of hers. Still, he realized that this was a matter on which she would never fully enlighten him, and he recognized his disabilities. It was, perhaps, one of his strong points that he usually did recognize them, and seldom attempted the impossible. As the result of this he generally carried out what he took in hand. Dom Clemente was first of all a soldier, and not one who shone in civilized society or cared to scheme for preferment by social influence, which was probably why he had been sent out to a secondary command in Africa. He had friends who said he might have gone further had he been less faithful to his dead wife's memory.

"Well," he said, "it was certainly my intention to arrest this man Ormsgill. I admit that I have a certain sympathy with him, and that is partly why I am a little anxious to keep him from involving himself in useless difficulties."

"Do you think a man of his kind would be grateful for that?"

Dom Clemente made a little gesture of indifference. "I do not know. It is, after all, not a point that very much concerns me, though he is doing a perilous thing by meddling with our affairs, especially in the bush yonder."

"Ah," said Benicia, "then is nobody to meddle, and is this iniquity to go on?"

Dom Clemente smiled dryly. "I almost think," he said, "that when the time is ripe there will, as usual, be a man ready to take the affair in hand. In the meanwhile it would be a very undesirable thing that any one should point to you as a friend of this rash Englishman."

He rose, and buckling on his sword went down the outer stairway, while Benicia sat still with her cheeks burning. She fancied Dom Clemente had meant a good deal more than he had said, but, after all, that did not greatly trouble her. She was not one who counted the cost, and it was not quite clear that she had failed, though she knew troops had been dispatched to head off Ormsgill from the coast. It was possible that he had slipped past them, and the Palestrina would be waiting at the Bahia Santiago, and then it flashed upon her that it would not be difficult for her father to send the man in command of the troops instructions to proceed direct to the Bahia by a fast messenger. While she considered the point it happened that the officer he had handed the instructions to came up the stairway.

"I wonder if you know where the messenger Pacheco is, Señorita?" he said. "I have an urgent errand for him."

Benicia saw that he had a packet in his hand, and a swift glance at the table showed her that the writing materials were not exactly as they had been laid out an hour or two earlier. Somebody, it seemed, had written a letter, and she could make a shrewd guess at its purport. For a moment she stood looking at the officer, and thinking hard. It was evident that her father had a certain liking for Ormsgill, but she felt that he would probably not allow it to influence him to any great extent. He was apparently working out some cleverly laid plan of his own, and it was evident that she would incur a heavy responsibility by meddling with it, but after all Ormsgill's safety stood first with her.

"I am not sure, but I think he is in the house," she said.

She left the officer waiting, and entering her own room hastily wrote a note. Then she went down the inner stairway with it in her hand, and crossing the patio glanced up for a moment at the balustrade above. Fortunately, the officer was not leaning over it, and did not see her slip into a store room where a big dusky man was talking to the negress cook, with whom, as it happened, he was a favorite. Western Africa is indifferently supplied with telegraphic and postal facilities and messages are still usually carried by native runners. There were none of them anywhere about that city as fast or trusty as Pacheco, and Benicia smiled as she looked at him. He was lean and hard and muscular, a man who had made famous journeys in the service of the Government, which was exactly why she did not wish him to be available for another one.

"I have a message for the Señora Blanco," she said. "I should like her to get it before she goes to sleep in the afternoon, and you will start now, but if it is very hot you need make no great haste in bringing me back the answer."

Pacheco rose with a grin. "It is only two leagues to the plantation," he said. "Though the road is rough, that is nothing to me."

Then the plump negro woman caught Benicia's eyes, and, though she said nothing, there was comprehension in her dusky face. The girl went out in the patio satisfied, and stood waiting behind a creeper-covered trellis. She felt she could leave the matter in the hands of the negress with confidence. The latter turned to the messenger with a compassionate smile.

"You have the sense of a trek-ox. It is in your legs," she said. "The Señorita does not wish you to distress yourself if the day is hot."

"But," said Pacheco, "it is always hot, and no journey of that kind could weary me."

The woman made a little grimace. "The trek-ox is slow to understand and one teaches it with the stick. Sometimes the same thing is done with a man. It seems the Señorita does not wish to see how fast you could go."

At last Pacheco seemed to understand. "Ah," he said, "there are thorns in this country. Now and then one gets one in his foot."

"The Señorita would be sorry if you came home limping. Once or twice I have cut my hand with the chopper, and she was kind to me."

The man chuckled softly and went out, and Benicia standing in the shadow felt her heart beat as she watched him slip across the patio. There would probably be complications if the officer saw him from above. Nobody, however, appeared among the pillars, and the shadowy arch that led through the building was not far away. The negro's feet fell softly on the hot stones, and though the slight patter sounded horribly distinct to her nobody called out to stop him. He had almost reached the arch when a uniformed figure appeared between two of the pillars, and for a moment the girl held her breath. If the man moved another foot it was evident that he must see the messenger, but, as it happened, he stood where he was, and next moment Pacheco, who turned and looked back at her with a grin, slipped into the shadow of the arch. Then Benicia went back into the house a little quiver of relief running through her. It would, she knew, be possible to obtain other messengers, but none of them were so well acquainted with the native paths which traverse the littoral or so speedy as Pacheco, and she did not think he would be available until the evening.

In the meantime the officer waited above, until growing impatient, he summoned the major domo, who sent for the negress.

"Pacheco was certainly in the house because he talked to me, but he went out with a message, and I do not know when he will be back again," she said.

The officer asked her several questions without, however, eliciting much further information, and went away somewhat perplexed. He could not help a fancy that Benicia was somehow connected with the messenger's disappearance, but there was nothing to suggest what her object could have been. She was also a lady of influence, and he wisely decided to keep his thoughts to himself. As it happened, Pacheco did not arrive until late that night, and another messenger was dispatched in the meanwhile. He, however, became involved amidst a waste of tall grass which Pacheco would have skirted, and afterwards wasted a day or two endeavoring to carry out the directions certain villagers who bore the Government no great good-will had given him. As the result of this the handful of black soldiers had wandered a good deal further inland before he came up with them.