Bindloss Harold
Long Odds

In the meantime it happened the morning after he set out that Dom Clemente sent for Pacheco who was just then sitting in the cook's store nursing an injured foot. They exchanged glances when the major-domo informed him that his presence would be required in a few minutes, and after the latter had gone out the negress handed Pacheco a sharp-pointed knife.

"It is wise to make certain when one has to answer a man like Dom Clemente, and the scratch the thorn made was not a very large one," she said.

Pacheco took the knife, and looked at it hesitatingly.

"The thing would be easier if it was some other person's foot. It will, no doubt, hurt," he said.

"It will hurt less than what Dom Clemente may order you," and the negress grinned. "A man is always afraid of bearing a little pain."

Pacheco decided that she was probably right, and set his thick lips as he laid the knife point against the ball of his big toe. Still, for it is probable that there are respects in which the negro's susceptibilities are less than those of the civilized white man, he steadily pressed the blade in. After that he wrapped up his foot again, and rose with a wry face.

"I was given a bottle of anisado and a small piece of silver yesterday," he said. "I almost think I deserve a little more for this."

Then he limped up the stairway leaving red marks behind him, and made a little deprecatory gesture when he appeared before Dom Clemente. The latter looked at him in a fashion which sent a thrill of dismay through him.

"I hear you have hurt your foot," he said. "Take that bandage off."

Pacheco, who dare not hesitate, sat down and unrolled the rag. Then with considerable misgivings he did as he was bidden and held up his foot.

"Ah," said Dom Clemente dryly, "a thorn did that. The wound a thorn makes seems to keep curiously fresh. Well, you can put on the rag again."

Pacheco did it as hastily as he could while he wondered with a growing uneasiness what the man who regarded him with a little sardonic smile would ask him next. Dom Clemente, however, made him a sign to get up.

"One would recommend you to be more careful," he said. "You will have reason to regret it if the next time I have an errand for you you have a – thorn – in your foot."

Pacheco limped away with sincere relief, and Dom Clemente who sat still contemplatively smoked a cigar. While he did it he once more decided that it is now and then advisable to content oneself with simply looking on, and it was characteristic of him that when he next met Benicia he asked her no questions.

CHAPTER XX
DESMOND GOES ASHORE

It was a thick black night when Desmond brought the Palestrina into the Bahia, steaming at half-speed with the big smooth swell heaving in vast undulations behind her. The blinding deluge which had delayed him for half an hour had just ceased, and at every roll boat and deckhouse shook off streams of lukewarm water. A dripping man stood strapped outside the bridge swinging the heavy lead, and his sing-song cry which rose at regular intervals broke through the throb of slowly turning engines. A yard or two away from him Desmond leaned upon the rails peering into the darkness athwart which there ran a dim black line of bluff. A filmy haze that glimmered faintly white leapt up between him and it, and the stagnant air was filled with a great, deep-toned rumbling. It rolled along the half-seen bluff like the muttering of distant thunder, for, though the Bahia was partly sheltered, the vast heave of the Southern Ocean was crumbling upon the hammered beach that night. It does so now and then when there is not a breath of wind.

"It isn't exactly encouraging," he said to his mate. "The surf seems running unpleasantly steep. There's a weight in it. I'm rather glad the boat's a big one since we have to face it. Well, you had better get forward, and stand by your anchors. I'll bring her up in another few minutes."

The mate went forward with a handful of dripping men behind him, and left Desmond quietly intent upon the bridge. The latter was quite aware that it would have been prudent to wait for daylight, and recognized that he was doing a reckless thing, but that rather appealed to him. It is also possible to do a reckless thing carefully, and he was, at least, proceeding with a certain circumspection. When the bluff grew a trifle plainer he seized his telegraph, and raised a warning hand to the helmsman.

"Starboard!" he said. "Let her swing when she goes astern."

A gong tinkled beneath him, there was a sharper clank of engines, and the Palestrina swinging round rolled from rail to rail. Then a strident roar of running cable jarred through the rumbling of the surf, and was succeeded by a trumpeting blast of blown off steam when he rang the telegraph again. When this slackened a little he raised his voice.

"If you're ready there, Mr. Winthrop, will you bring your men along," he said.

There was a tramp of feet forward, and when half-seen figures clustered beneath the bridge Desmond leaned over the rails and addressed them.

"Boys," he said, "what we are going to do is in some respects a crazy thing, and while I don't know that we'll have trouble it's very probable. Now there'll be a bonus for the men who come with me, but I don't want any one to go against his will. If any of you would sooner stay here all he has to do is to walk forward, and I'll admit that he's sensible."

There was a little laughter, but nobody moved. Among those who heard him were shrewd, cold-blooded Scots from the Clyde, and level-headed Solent Englishmen, as well as boys from Kingston and Belfast Lough. Of these latter Desmond had no doubt. A hint that the thing was rash and might lead to trouble was naturally enough for them, but he recognized that there might be occasions when the colder temperament of the others was likely to prove, at least, as serviceable. It was not astonishing that these, too, evidently meant to go with him, for there are men who can apparently with no great effort bend others to their will, and, after all, one can not invariably be sensible. Perhaps, it would be a misfortune if this were possible.

"Sure," said one of them, and he was a Kingston man, "all ye have to do, sir, is to go straight ahead. We're coming with ye, if we have to swim, an' if we have to it's more than I can."

One or two of his comrades laughed, and Desmond raised a hand. "It's very probable that you'll have to try. We'll get the surfboat over, Mr. Winthrop."

It would have been a difficult task in the daylight, for the Palestrina rolled wickedly and the long slopes of water lapped to her rail, but they accomplished it in the dark, and when the big boat hove up beneath them dropped into her one by one. They had a few Accra and Liberia boys for the paddles, but not enough and white seamen perched among them on the froth-licked gunwale as they reeled away on the back of a swell. It swept them out from the steamer, and let them drop into a black hollow while the negro at the steering oar yelled as another dark ridge hove itself aloft behind them. They drove on with this one and several others that succeeded it, careering amidst a turmoil of spouting froth that boiled round the high, pointed stern, and there was spray all about them, stinging their eyes and in their nostrils, when at last the beach was close at hand. They could not, however, see it. There was nothing visible now but a dim filmy cloud, out of which came a thunderous rumbling that has its effect upon the stoutest nerves, for there are probably few men who can listen to the crashing charge of the great combers on an African beach quite unmoved, especially if it is their business to face them in the dark.

Desmond glanced astern a moment when the sable helmsman shouted, and then resolutely turned his eyes ahead. He had seen all he wished to, and it was with vague relief he felt the boat rush upwards under him, for that waiting in the hollow was not a thing one could bear easily. She went forward reeling, half-buried in tumbling foam, twisting in spite of the gasping helmsman in peril of rolling over, and out of the spray and darkness the dim line of bluff came rushing back to them. Then there was a crash that flung half of them from the gunwale, and the boat went up the beach with a seething white turmoil washing over her, until they swung themselves over and clung to her waist-deep in the wild welter when the sea sucked back. Straining every muscle they held her somehow, and a voice rose strained and harsh through the din.

"Where are those – rollers, boys?" it said.

Somebody produced them, and gasping and floundering they ran her up with another comber thundering out of the darkness behind them, and then flung themselves down breathless and dripping on the hot sand. Desmond let them lie awhile, and then leaving the negroes behind, the white men clambered up the face of the bluff. After that they stumbled amidst loose sand and tufts of harsh grass that now and then cut through their thin duck garments and twined about their legs, but they plodded on steadily, and when morning broke had made about a league which was, all things considered, excellent traveling. With the daylight, however, came the rain that beat the soil into a pulp and filled the steamy air. The grass they found in places bent beneath it, and the water flowed about their feet. Still, they held on, drenched, and bleeding from odd scars and scratches, until there broke out dazzling, blistering sunshine which in a few minutes sucked the moisture from their clothing.

Then Desmond, who had heard that littoral described as dry and parched, bade them lie down in the scanty strip of shadow behind a clump of thorns, and a twinkle crept into his eyes as he glanced at them. They were already freely plastered with mire. A few of them had sporting rifles – he carried one himself – and bandoliers, while some of the rest had the gig's ash stretchers, and one a big pointed iron bar, but he fancied they would scarcely pass for a big game expedition. For one thing, they had no carriers. Desmond desired only men who could be relied upon to say as well as do what he bade them, for he could without any great effort foresee that he might have to grapple with more than physical difficulties. He let them lie for half an hour, and then the rain came and drove them on again.

They floundered through it all that afternoon, lay down in wet sand when the sudden darkness blotted out the misty littoral, and rose with the swift dawn, cramped and wet and aching, to plunge into a thick white steam. There was a muggy warmth in it which relaxed their muscles and insidiously slackened the domination of their will. They wanted to lie down, and wondered vaguely why they did not do so, for there are times when man's resolution melts out of him in that land, and nothing seems worth the trouble of accomplishing. Still, they went on, and evening found them wearied in body and limp of will, as well as very wet and miry, on the edge of a belt of thorny vegetation amidst which there wound a native path. They slept beside it as best they could, and went on again for two more days under scorching sunshine until at last they reached a ridge of higher ground. There were a few palms on the crest of it, and they lay down between them amidst a maze of thorny vines.

Darkness was creeping up from the eastwards when Desmond sat poring over a section of a large-scale chart which had proved to be a reasonably accurate guide to the physical features of that littoral. The elevation of which the ridge formed a portion was duly marked, as was the creek they had cautiously waded through, and not far away there stood another rise which might be made out from a steamer's bridge. The dots that ran through them both indicated Ormsgill's path. He was a man who, at least, endeavored to provide for contingencies, and he had for Desmond's benefit plotted out the last stages of his march to the coast. The latter, however, remained in unpleasant uncertainty as to when he would arrive, which, in view of the fact that a handful of dusky troops were in all probability not very far away, was a question of some consequence.

When darkness swept down he posted two sentries and then lay down near the smoldering cooking fire. The strip of rubber sheeting he spread beneath him did not make a very efficient mattress, but worn-out as he was he fell asleep in spite of the mosquitoes, and so far as he could afterwards ascertain the men he had left on watch in due time did the same. When he awakened there was a half-moon in the sky, and a faint silvery light shone down upon the ridge. He could see the palm shafts cut against it darkly in delicately proportioned columns, and the ebony tracery of their great curved leaves. Now and then a big drop that fell from them splashed heavily upon the straggling undergrowth, but save for that everything was very still. The fire was red and low, but the smell of wood smoke and hot wet soil was in his nostrils. He was wondering drowsily why he had awakened when he fancied that a shadowy figure flitted behind a palm, and turning cautiously he reached out for the rifle that lay by his side. As his hand closed upon it another figure moved towards him quietly. The moonlight fell upon it and his grasp relaxed on the rifle as he saw that it was dressed in tattered duck. He scrambled to his feet, and Ormsgill stopped a pace or two away.

"You are a little ahead of time, but considering everything it's fortunate," he said.

Desmond blinked at him for a moment or two. The man's face was lean and worn, and his thin, dew-drenched garments were torn by thorns. One of his boots had also burst, his wide hat was shapeless, and sunbaked mire clung about him to the knees.

"There were reasons why it seemed advisable to divide my party and push on," he proceeded. "My few personal belongings are now reposing in a swamp."

Desmond shook hands with him. "Well," he said, "it's like you. Where are your niggers, and what's the matter with my – sentries? Still that's not exactly what I meant to say."

Ormsgill laughed, and sent a shrill call ringing across the belt of mist below. There was an answer from it, and while the men from the Palestrina rose clamoring to their feet a row of weary, half-naked negroes plodded into camp. Some of them had red scars upon their dusky skin, some of them limped, and when they stopped at a sign from Ormsgill the seaman clustered round and gazed at them. They were woolly-haired and thick-lipped, and their weariness had worn all sign of intelligence out of their dusky faces. They looked at the clustering seamen vacantly and without curiosity.

"Lord," said Desmond, "and these are the fellows you have done so much for! Well, it's evidently my turn. I suppose they can eat?"

Ormsgill laughed. "A good deal just now. We started soon after sunrise, and have scarcely stopped all day. In fact, we have been marching rather hard the last week or two."

Desmond turned to one of the men he had brought with him. "Stir that fire," he said. "Make these images something, then take them away and stuff them."

He touched Ormsgill, and pointed to the strip of sheeting. "Get off your feet. We have a good deal to talk about."

They sat down, and by and by one of the Palestrina's stewards served them with coffee and canned stuff while his comrades sat in a ring about the negroes patting them on their naked shoulders and encouraging them to eat. The black men's stolidity vanished, and they grinned widely, while by degrees odd snatches of different languages and bursts of hoarse laughter rose from them. In the midst of it one big man chanted a monotonous song. Ormsgill laid down his cup and listened with a little smile.

"He's improvising rather cleverly," he said. "It's almost a pity you don't know enough of the language to hear your praises sung. You see, he has so far only come across two white men who have even spoken to him decently."

Desmond grinned, and raised his voice. "If they understand what tobacco is let them have what you have with you, boys," he said. "You can come to me for more when we get back on board."

"That's all right, sir," said one man. "It's our dinner party. We've got most of a hatful for them ready."

"Sailors," said Desmond reflectively, "have some curious notions on the subject of making pets. So have you, for that matter, but, after all, that's not quite the question. Did you see anything that would lead you to believe Herrero's friends were after you?"

"I did," said Ormsgill. "Smoke, for one thing, and that was why I pushed on for the coast. Nares who was a little feverish and found it difficult to march fast insisted on turning back inland with half the carriers. I left two men I could rely on behind to investigate, and I expect some news before the morning. In the meanwhile what are you doing here? It's at least a week before I was due."

Desmond looked at him steadily, and, as it happened, the firelight fell upon them both. "Miss Figuera sent me."

"Ah," said Ormsgill, and a curious little glint crept into his eyes and faded out of them again. "Well, you have, no doubt, a little more to tell."

His companion told it tersely, and afterwards Ormsgill sat silent for awhile with a half-filled pipe in his hand. Many a time during his wanderings he had seen in fancy Benicia Figuera sitting in the shady patio, and on each occasion the longing to hear her voice and once more stand face to face had grown stronger. He had fought against it on weary march and when the boys were sleeping in the silent camp, but it had conquered him.

"It was very kind of her," he said at last. "Still, considering her father's status, one could wonder why she did it."

Desmond smiled curiously as he leaned forward and stirred the fire. "That," he said with an air of reflection, "is naturally one of the things I don't know. Still, there is a certain chivalrous rashness in the adventure you have undertaken which, although sensible folks would probably consider it misguided, might appeal to a young woman of Miss Figuera's description. You see, she is by no means a conventional person herself. Perhaps, it's fortunate there are young women like her with courage and intelligence enough to form their own opinions."

"Miss Figuera has certainly courage," said Ormsgill slowly.

Desmond laughed. "She has. She has also a wholesome pride, and sense as well as imagination, though the two don't always go together. With her at his side a man crazy enough to be pleased with that kind of thing might set himself to straighten up half the wrongs perpetrated by our civilization, and she'd see he was never wholly beaten. Somehow, she would, at least, bring him off with honor, and that is, after all, the most any one with such notions could reasonably look for."

He stopped for a moment, and when he went on again the firelight showed the little flush in his cheeks and the gleam in his eyes.

"Lord," he said, "how little some of us are content with when we marry – a woman to sit at the head of out table, and talk prettily, one who asks for everything that isn't worth while, and sees you never do anything her friends don't consider quite fitting. Still, there is another kind, the ones who give instead of asking, and who would, for the man they loved, face the malice of the world with a smile in their eyes. I think," and he made a little vague gesture, "I have said something of the kind before, but I have to let myself go now and then. I can't help it."

"One would almost fancy you were in love with the girl yourself," said Ormsgill quietly.

Desmond leaned forward a trifle, and looked hard at him. "No. I might have been had things been different. At least, she is certainly not in love with me."

Ormsgill said nothing, but he was sensible of a curious stirring of his blood. He would not ask himself exactly what his comrade meant, or if, indeed, he meant anything in particular, for it was a consolation to remember that Desmond now and then talked inconsequently. He sat still, vacantly watching the blue smoke wreaths curl up between the palms. The boys had lain down now, and only an occasional faint rustle as one moved broke the heavy silence. Then, and, perhaps he was a trifle overwrought and fanciful, as he watched the drifting smoke wreaths a figure seemed to materialize out of them. It was filmy and unsubstantial, etherealized by the moonlight, but it grew plainer, and once more he saw Benicia Figuera as he had talked with her in the shady patio. She seemed to be looking at him with reposeful eyes that had nevertheless a little glint in the depths of them, and now the desire to see her in the flesh took him by the throat and shook the resolution out of him. At last he knew. There could no longer be any brushing of disconcerting facts aside. There was one woman in the world whom he desired, and he had pledged himself to marry another one. Still, his duty remained, and he sat silent with one lean hand closed tightly and the lines on his worn face deepening until at last he became conscious that Desmond was watching him, and he roused himself with an effort.

"Well," he said quietly, "she has laid me under a heavy obligation, but we have other things to talk of."