Bindloss Harold
The Coast of Adventure
CHAPTER XI
A MODERN DON QUIXOTE
The dining-room of the International Hotel was modern, but while noisy, power-driven fans stirred the heavy air and the decoration was profuse, traces of more austere ancient art remained. Stone pillars and the fretted arch at one end had an Eastern grace and lightness; among the gaudy modern lamps hung one or two finely-modeled in copper and burning scented oil. The glass and nickeled knives were American, but curious old carafes filled with red and yellow wine stood among the flowers and fruit on the long table.
Evelyn, looking down the room from its opposite end, was conscious of faint displeasure when Grahame entered with a very attractive girl. The feeling could not be jealousy, but she studied Blanca with a curiosity that was half hostile. The girl was dressed in Parisian fashion, but she walked with a grace that only Spanish women show. There was no fault to be found with her supple figure, but her black hair was rather coarse and her blue eyes too languishing. Yet she was well bred, and the man in dark clothes who followed and was, no doubt, her father had an air of dignity. Grahame seemed to be on friendly terms with them, for they talked and laughed when they sat down and Evelyn noticed that the girl sometimes touched him coquettishly with her fan.
Walthew sat opposite with a thoughtful expression; and soon Macallister joined in the talk. It was obvious that he was amusing, for Evelyn saw those who sat near smile and then hearty laughter rose from his end of the table. The Spanish girl and Grahame no longer spoke to each other, and the engineer's voice came up through the clink of glass and the hum of conversation, sometimes in broad Scots and sometimes in stumbling and uncouth Castilian.
When the guests were leaving the dining-room Grahame met Cliffe in the corridor.
"Glad to see you. I didn't expect to find you in Havana," the American said cordially. "I want a smoke. Will you come along?"
They found a seat in the patio, and Cliffe gave Grahame a cigar.
"How's business?" he asked.
"We can't complain, so far," Grahame answered cautiously. "The boat, of course, does not carry much, but her light draught allows her to get into harbors that larger vessels can only enter on big tides, and we sold our last cargo at a satisfactory price. Just now I'm looking out for a few passengers to Kingston; there's no boat across for some time."
"I might go with you, if you have two good rooms to spare. There's a fruit-growing estate I want to look at in Jamaica."
The suggestion was welcome to Grahame. He promised to give Cliffe part of the deckhouse, and they afterward talked of something else.
In the meanwhile, Walthew was sitting with Blanca Sarmiento. He was quiet, for he still felt languid and the patio was hot; but he was conscious of his companion's charm. Indeed, he had thought of her often since he left Rio Frio, and she had had a place in the fantastic dreams the fever brought him.
"You do not speak much, but you have been ill," she said presently, with a sympathetic glance. "It was a grief to us to hear it; but you have suffered in a good cause."
"I'm not sure of that," Walthew answered. "You see I was out for money."
"And that was all!" Blanca exclaimed in a half-contemptuous tone.
"I think so," Walthew admitted. "My people are traders and I suppose money-making runs in the family. Still, I might claim to be a soldier of fortune, if you like that better. It's more romantic, anyhow."
"Ah!" she said with a sparkle in her eyes. "There were great soldiers of fortune among the liberators; one thinks of Bolivar, Lafayette, and Garibaldi. But the brave Italian had wounds and prison, not money, for his reward."
"These fellows are too near the top notch for me to follow. I know my limits," Walthew modestly owned.
"One should follow the highest, and chivalry is not dead; even commerce cannot kill it. There are still knights errant, who see visions and leave everything, to right the wrong and help the downtrodden. It has been my good fortune to meet one or two."
"Your Cervantes wrote about one such. Seems to me that although he meant well, Don Quixote did more harm than good."
"Ah, the sad, sad book! But you think like Cervantes? You sneer at romance?"
"I'm young, señorita, but I try to keep my head." He gave her a steady glance. "Sometimes I find it difficult."
She laughed with a sparkle of coquetry, and touched him with her fan.
"Then there is hope for you, and we will labor for your conversion. The man who always keeps his head never does anything great; the power that moves the world comes from the heart." Lowering her voice, she went on: "Our cause is just, señor, but we need trustworthy friends, even if they are not idealists. Quixote failed because he used rusty armor and the lance; we will use rifles."
Walthew was trying to be cautious, but was swept away. He had been attracted by the girl at their first meeting, though he had then felt something of the Anglo-Saxon's prejudice against the southern races, which is not unmarked in the United States. This had gone, however, and he now wondered whether Blanca meant to use him only to further her father's objects, or if she had any personal interest in him. Her patriotism was, he thought, a burning flame, and she would not stick at trifles where she saw a chance of serving her country. Still, it would be his fault if she were willing to get rid of him when he had done his work.
"I wonder why you thought I could be trusted?" he said.
"It is difficult to explain, señor, but one can tell, perhaps by instinct, when a man rings true."
"It would hurt to find you had been deceived?"
"It might be so," she answered slowly.
Walthew wondered if this were mere flirtation, designed to gain an end. Blanca was playing with her fan, which lay in her lap. He could not see her eyes. He felt that he had been given an opportunity, however, and he meant to seize it. Leaning forward toward her, he waited until she raised her eyes to his, and then he spoke in a low, tense voice.
"When I was leaving Rio Frio, I found a crimson rose on the pavement. I picked it up because I ventured to think it was meant for me."
Blanca was again playing with her fan, opening and shutting it slowly.
"Señor, it is possible the flower was dropped by mistake," she said, giving him a sidewise glance that made his heart beat fast.
"How – if it was really meant for me?"
She hesitated a moment, and then, raising her head, she met his insistent look with a curious smile.
"It was given because I thought you were perhaps, in a way, and as far as it was possible for you, like the great soldiers of fortune we talked about."
Walthew made her a ceremonious bow.
"You set me a pretty big task, señorita, but, as far as it's possible for me, I will try to make good."
He was thrilled by the look she gave him as she rose and held out her hand.
"Your conversion begins," she said, with a strange, new note in her voice. "It is a chivalrous resolve, and – you will live up to it, señor."
When she left him, Walthew found Grahame alone in the hotel lounge.
"I promised to let you know whether the malaria would send me home or not," he said. "I've made up my mind to see the business through."
Grahame grasped his hand cordially.
"I don't know that you are wise, old man; but I am glad to have you, just the same." He gave Walthew a whimsical look. "Haven't you come to a decision rather suddenly?"
"That doesn't matter," said Walthew, "I mean to stick to it."
CHAPTER XII
BAITING THE SMUGGLERS
It was late, and the dew was heavy. Macallister's thin clothes were getting damp as he walked impatiently up and down the mole. The Enchantress's gig lay near the steps, but her crew had not arrived, although Macallister had waited half an hour for them. This by no means pleased him, because, while not a tyrant, he expected his orders to be obeyed. Besides, he resented the ingratitude of the men. He had agreed with Grahame that it was prudent to moor the Enchantress out in the harbor and keep the crew short of money. They had behaved well, and during the afternoon Macallister had given them a few pesetas and allowed them a run ashore, although he imagined he had kept within a limit that would ensure their sobriety.
They had, however, not returned, and he felt disturbed as he watched the twinkling anchor-lights and the ripples flash in the silvery track the moon cast across the water. Boats were coming and going, and when one approached the landing Macallister drew back into the shadow. He had made the acquaintance of the captain and the engineer of the vessel from which the boat came, and he did not want to be found waiting for his unpunctual crew. The footsteps of those who landed were growing faint when he heard singing farther up the mole. The voice was unsteady, and the patter of bare feet that accompanied it suggestively uneven.
Macallister knew the song, and was not surprised that his men, who were obviously coming back the worse for liquor, should show a taste for good music, for this is common among Spanish-Americans. It was, however, difficult to understand how they had made the money he had given them go so far.
"Where kept ye, ye drunken swine?" he asked when they lurched into sight.
"No savvy," answered his fireman, Pepe, and Macallister explained what he thought of them in the most virulent epithets used along the Clyde.
This relieved his feelings and satisfied his sense of discipline, but he did not think it wise to translate his remarks: Spanish half-breeds have fiery tempers and carry knives.
"Get into the boat before I kick ye off the mole!" he concluded when he was breathless, and the men clumsily obeyed, though one came near to falling into the water. They had some trouble in getting out the oars, but at last they rowed away. Macallister noted that one man placed a small cane basket under a thwart, and he suspected what was inside.
When they reached the Enchantress he was first on deck, but he waited by the gangway until the man who carried the basket climbed up. Macallister held out his hand for the basket, and when the fellow gave it to him confidingly he hurried aft to examine it by the engine lamp. It contained two bottles of anisado, a spirit flavored with aniseed in favor in Spanish countries. He felt tempted to throw them overboard, but refrained because such waste went against the grain, and the liquor might be doled out when the men had been forced to work unusually hard. He imagined they had forgotten the matter, and was lighting his pipe when he heard them coming, and stepped out of the engine-room to meet them.
"There was a small basket, señor," one said civilly, though his voice was thick.
"It is possible you dropped it overboard," Macallister suggested in his best Castilian – which was very bad.
"No, señor. One does not drop such baskets over."
"What was in it, then?"
The man was obviously not sober, but it looked as if he had not lost his senses.
"A small present to me and the others, Don Andres. You will give it back to us."
"No," said Macallister sternly. "Presents of that kind are not allowed on board this ship."
He watched them while they murmured together. They were active, wiry fellows, obedient as a rule, but liable to passionate outbreaks, like most of their mixed race. Now they looked drunkenly determined, and he knew the strength of his fireman, Pepe.
"The basket is ours," said one. "We will take it."
"I think not," said Macallister shortly. "Stand back!"
Their half-respectful mood changed in a flash and they came at him with a rush. They could wrestle and use the knife, and Macallister knew that Pepe, who came first, must be stopped. He supposed that Miguel, whom he had left on board, was asleep; but to summon help would be subversive of authority and the affair would be over before Miguel arrived. Lunging forward, he put the weight of his body into his blow, and Pepe reeled when it landed on his jaw. Before he could recover, Macallister sprang upon him, and with a strenuous effort flung him backward through the gangway.
There was a splash in the water and the others stopped, daunted by the vigor of the attack; but Pepe did not strike out for the gig as Macallister expected. Indeed, for there was shadow along the vessel's side, he did not seem to come up, and after a moment's pause Macallister jumped into the sea. The water closed above him, but when he rose a white-clad figure was struggling feebly near by and he seized it. Pepe seemed unable to swim, and Macallister had some trouble in dragging him to the gig, into which the others had jumped. They pulled both men out of the water, and in another few minutes Macallister stood, dripping, on board the Enchantress, sternly regarding his fireman. The shock had apparently sobered him, and the others, with the instability of their kind, had become suddenly docile.
"Now," said Macallister, "where did you get the anisado?"
"A gentleman gave it to us in a café."
Macallister shook his head.
"Try again! A gentleman does not give drunken sailors bottles of liquor."
"We were not drunk then," one of them answered naïvely. "And he was a gentleman: he spoke Castilian like the Peninsulares."
"Ah," said Macallister thoughtfully, for the use of good Peninsular Spanish indicates a man of education. "So he gave you all some wine and put the bottles in the basket!"
"It was so, Don Andres," another answered with a readiness that invited belief.
"But why?"
"Who can tell?" Pepe rejoined. "Perhaps the señor was generous; then he said he liked sailors and tales of the sea."
"You told him some, no doubt," Macallister remarked dryly.
"We did, Don Andres. Herman told him of the great shark that bites off the fishermen's oars at Punta Anagan, and I about the ghost caravela that beats to windward in Jaurez Strait."
"And what else?"
Pepe shook his head.
"Then there was some cognac and afterward – I do not remember."
"Get below, except the anchor-watch!" Macallister said sternly. "We'll consider what's to be done with you to-morrow."
They slouched away, and while Macallister was talking to Miguel a splash of oars grew louder, and presently Grahame clambered up from a shore boat. He heard what had happened and then, sitting down, thoughtfully lighted his pipe.
"You must see what this points to," he remarked.
"It's no' difficult. Somebody has made the wasters drunk, and I ken what sea stories he would start them telling. A gran señor, they said!"
"One of President Altiera's spies! But why do you think he gave them the anisado afterward?"
"He might have wanted them to make trouble, so we'd put them ashore and he could get hold o' them again. Then it's possible it would have suited him if they'd knifed you or me."
"There may be something in that. Anyhow, your going overboard after Pepe ended the matter well. They're not ungrateful; it gives us a hold on them."
"I see that noo, but I did no' stop to think before I jumped," Macallister modestly admitted. "It was what ye might call a stroke o' natural genius. Then, ye see, I threw him in."
Grahame laughed.
"Well, we must keep our eyes open, and get away as soon as we can. I expect to finish with Don Martin to-morrow."
On the following evening Cliffe was sitting with Evelyn in his private room at the International when a mulatto boy brought him in a card.
"Señor Gomez!" he remarked. "The fellow has kept me hanging round three days, and I'd made up my mind to sail with Grahame to-morrow, whether he came or not."
"Who is Señor Gomez?" Evelyn asked.
"I understand his official title is Secretario General, and he's next in power to the President of the country I'm trying to do business with. My opinion is that they're both slippery rascals."
He broke off as the door opened and a dark-skinned gentleman came in. Gomez bowed ceremoniously to Evelyn and Cliffe, and then waited with his hat in his hand. He was dressed all in black except for his spotless linen. He wore a number of valuable rings, and Evelyn noticed that his nails were unusually curved and long. She shrank from the glance of bold admiration he gave her, but resentment and half-instinctive dislike conquered this feeling, and she returned his greeting politely when Cliffe presented him. She thought no better of him when she withdrew after some general talk.
"Now," Cliffe said when Evelyn had left them, "we'll get down to business. I've been waiting three days for you, and am not sure the deal is worth it."
Gomez spread out his hands with a deprecatory air.
"It was impossible to come sooner; affairs of state, you understand! May I suggest that the concessions we offer you are valuable?"
"So it seems!" Cliffe rejoined bluntly. "The price you asked was high enough, and now, when we have half fixed things, you want to raise your terms."
Gomez looked pained. He was rather stout and greasy, but his dress and manners were unexceptionable.
"Señor, that is a grief to us, but the affairs of my country necessitate the change. We only ask for a little more money in advance. It is to the advantage of all parties that you agree."
"I can't see how it is to my advantage to part with money I can make a good use of," Cliffe replied.
"I must speak frankly, señor." Gomez's manner became confidential. "These concessions have already cost you something, and there are dissatisfied people who are anxious to rob the President of his power."
"I've heard that some of them are anxious to shoot him; but that's not my business."
"With your pardon, señor, we must disagree. If the President loses office before the papers are signed, the concessions go. I imagined you understood this."
"I suppose I did understand something of the kind," Cliffe admitted. "Still, if the revolutionists prove too strong for you, I'll lose any additional money I may let you have."
Gomez smiled, a slow and rather cruel smile.
"If we can get the money there will be an end of the discontent; we know how to deal with it. And now, with apologies, I must remark that while we give you the first opportunity, there are others – "
"Ah!" said Cliffe sharply. "I'd thought this business wouldn't have much attraction for my rivals. Whom am I up against?"
Gomez gave him a letter from a German syndicate, and Cliffe examined it closely. He knew the principal, and recognized the signature.
"I see; they're bolder than I thought," he said. "If I don't come up to the line, you'll make the deal with them."
"We should be forced. The political situation demands it."
"You mean you must have the money. Well, you have got a good deal of mine already. What becomes of it if the thing falls through?"
"It was a gift," Gomez answered with an apologetic smile. "Your generosity will be gratefully remembered."
Cliffe was silent for a few minutes. He had not been tricked, because he had known that when one negotiates a transaction of that sort with a Spanish-American country, a certain amount of money must first be spent in clearing the ground, and this, going into the pockets of venal officials, offers no direct return. Gomez and his master had, however, been smarter than Cliffe thought, for, after exacting all they could from him, they had opened negotiations with another party, and would force him to come up to his rival's bid. They could do so, because if he drew back he would lose the money he had already put in. He distrusted them, but he thought he would be safe when he secured the concessions.
"I guess I'll have to meet you," he said, "but we'll get everything fixed up now."
Half an hour afterward he lighted a fresh cigar, and put some papers into his pocket. He was not altogether satisfied, and neither was Gomez, but they had by mutual compromise arrived at a workable arrangement and each had some respect for the other's astuteness.
"How will you get across to Jamaica?" Gomez asked.
"A little boat sails in the morning."
"The very small, lead-colored steamer? The señorita may find the accommodation rude. Why not wait for a passenger boat?"
"It's fine weather, and the man who owns her is a friend of mine."
Gomez was puzzled. He was suspicious of the Enchantress, and had taken trouble to find out something about her. It surprised him to learn that her owner and Cliffe were friends.
"Then he is in Havana?"
"He's in this hotel. I noticed him sitting, half asleep, in the far corner of the lounge just before you came in. Do you want to see him?"
"Oh, no," Gomez said in a careless tone, for he feared he had been incautious. "I imagined you meant he was somebody you knew in America."
He made an excuse for leaving, but Cliffe, noticing his interest, was not satisfied, and went out to the landing with him. Gomez, however, did not go straight to the lounge. He was afraid of rousing Cliffe's curiosity, and men of his stamp are seldom direct in their methods. It seemed wiser to spend a while sauntering about the patio, where Cliffe could see him. But Grahame in the meantime came up the stairs, and Cliffe beckoned him.
"Do you know Señor Gomez?" he asked.
"No," said Grahame, immediately on his guard. "I've heard about him. Clever politician, but a bit of a rogue, I believe."
Cliffe gave him a keen glance.
"I thought he was interested in you, but I may have been mistaken. Anyway, I told him you were taking a siesta in a corner of the lounge."
Grahame smiled carelessly.
"Inquisitiveness becomes a habit with fellows like Gomez, and I dare say it's needful. The cafés in these ports are full of political refugees and intriguers."
Seeing Macallister in the hall below, Grahame went down to him and told him what he had learned.
"Weel," said the engineer, dryly, "after that present o' anisado to the men, I'm thinking it would no' be desirable that ye should meet Señor Gomez. For a' that, I would not have him disappointed, and I'll daunder along to the lounge."
"It would be almost as bad if he saw you."
Macallister chuckled.
"He'll have hard work to recognize me afterward. Come away to the hat-rack."
Grahame followed him, feeling puzzled but suspecting that his comrade had some ingenious plan. Seeing nobody about, Macallister borrowed one or two articles from the rack; but neither he nor Grahame noticed that Miss Cliffe watched the proceedings with interest from a shadowy passage.
Shortly afterward, Gomez entered the lounge and saw only one person there, but this individual's appearance surprised him. As the light was not good, he strolled toward the drowsy gentleman who lay negligently in a big chair with a newspaper dangling from his hand. He wore a soft hat, pulled down upon his forehead as if to shade his eyes, and a loose dark cloak hung over his shoulder. He looked like a Cuban and although Gomez noticed that his nails were short and broken, this might be accounted for by his having something to do with sugar-making machinery.
"Perhaps you are not using the diario?" Gomez said.
The man did not look up, but held out the paper with a drowsy grunt.
Gomez was too clever to make a poor excuse for starting a conversation with a man who obviously did not wish to be disturbed, and, taking the paper, he moved away. After a few minutes he put it down and strolled out of the room. When he had gone, Macallister left by another door, and, replacing the things he had borrowed, rejoined Grahame in the patio.
"It worked," he said, chuckling. "If Señor Gomez was on our track, he's weel off it noo. But it's fortunate we sail the morn."
"He mustn't meet Don Martin," Grahame answered thoughtfully. "I'll go to his room and warn him."
He found that Sarmiento was out, and none of the hotel servants knew where he had gone. Grahame felt disturbed by this; but there was nothing he could do.
