Bindloss Harold
Wyndham's Pal

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.

"They are your Excellency's subjects," the other replied with a shrug. "I do my best, but we do not make much progress. Perhaps, with extra drill for two or three months – "

The President laughed. "One must use patience, and in this country one goes slowly. Besides, I do not know if speed is needed." He turned to Wyndham. "Now we will leave you to Don Arnoldo for a few minutes. I promised Señor Villar I would examine the quartermaster's books. There are people who grumble about our military extravagance."

He went off with the others and the officer sat down. Wyndham imagined him a soldier of fortune whose main object was to earn his pay. For all that, it looked as if he had been given a part in the plot and had played up well.

"I expect you find drilling these fellows a tiresome job," Marston said in English.

"It is so," the other agreed. "The President is too ambitious; I think he wastes his money. His people have no military feeling; they are stupid individualists and one cannot give them mass-consciousness. One might make them brigands, but not soldiers. Yet I think they would fight, and after all, the best school for soldiers is war."

"You don't want a war for the sake of drilling your men!" Marston exclaimed, and the officer laughed.

"In my country, we are no longer sentimentalists and I do not pretend to be humanitarian. In the meantime, there is no war, and I am satisfied to draw my pay. Playing with soldiers is expensive, and some of the people grumble, but so far the pay is regular. When it stops I give up my post."

Soon afterwards, the President came back and breakfast was served behind the pillars. For a time he talked to Marston about the soldiers and then remarked: "I understand you do not stop long."

"Our business is nearly finished and we expect to sail very soon," Wyndham replied. "Now our visit to the coast is over, I feel there is much for which we must thank you and Don Ramon."

"We hope your visit has been prosperous enough to bring you back," Villar interposed. "You paid us some duties. All foreigners are not so honest."

"I expect foreigners are something of a nuisance. It is strange, but when one goes abroad one feels justified in breaking rules."

Villar smiled. "This is illogical. Have you broken our rules?"

"Not many; my partner is scrupulous, and if I have given way to temptation, it was not from greediness."

"Then what persuaded you?"

"Perhaps it was British impatience with other people's regulations. In a way, we are rather an arrogant lot, and it flatters our self-importance to know that if we do get into trouble our Consuls will probably save us from the punishment we deserve. You cannot lock up a drunken British sailor without inquiries being made. Don Arnoldo's people are proud of their army, but our fleet is ubiquitous."

"Señor Wyndham is frank, although I doubt if he is just to himself," the President remarked with a twinkle. "I will confess it is sometimes hard to bear with foreigners philosophically, but we make the effort. My country is poor and we need the trade and money they bring. If we do not always love them, we make allowances." He paused and gave Wyndham a thoughtful glance. "There is, however, one thing about which we are firm; no stranger must meddle with our politics. It is our Monroe doctrine and is sternly enforced."

"A good rule," Wyndham agreed. "After all, your people do not need much help from strangers; they have some talent for political intrigue. How many antagonistic parties have you just now?"

"Six," said the President dryly. "They hate each other, but to gain an advantage all will combine against my Government. Moreover, in this country, the vote is not the only way of marking one's disapproval. But we will let this go. You will stop with us to-night and Don Ramon will give you some shooting when the evening gets cool."

Wyndham thought quickly. He had expected something like this and it was obvious that much depended on his reply.

"We ought to go back," he said, with pretended hesitation. "You see, we want to sail as soon as the wind is fair and must get water and stores on board. It might, however, help if you would let us leave port at night. The land-breeze would carry us some distance off the coast before it dropped when the sun got up."

"Very well," said Larrinaga. "I will send the port-captain orders, and if you tell him when you want to sail he will let you go."

Wyndham allowed himself to be persuaded, and soon afterwards the President went off and Larrinaga took them to a shady room. He said dinner would be served at four o'clock and then they would go to a lake and shoot. When he left them Marston looked at Wyndham.

"Why did you agree to stop?"

"I did not think there was much use in refusing. Their urging us to stop was an experiment. If I had insisted on going, they'd have known why."

"Then, d'you imagine they'd keep us by force?" asked Marston.

"It's possible. I studied the President when I made my boast about our British citizenship. He stated they would allow no meddling with their politics, and he meant this. Anyhow, if I'd shown him his suspicions were well-grounded, he would have found a plausible excuse for keeping Columbine in port."

"All the same, we have got to get away," said Marston in a resolute voice.

Wyndham nodded. "That's plain. Well, if we go to bed soon after shooting and are lucky, they won't miss us until somebody brings our early breakfast. I don't know if we can get the horses. Now I'm going to sleep."

He got into a hammock and Marston lay down in a long chair. They had been strenuously occupied all night and did not expect much rest the next. Nobody would bother them until dinner, and although they were disturbed and anxious they went to sleep.

After dinner Larrinaga took them to a lake, where they shot some ducks. The President was occupied when they returned at dark, and for a time they sat on the arcade, playing cards. The cards were Spanish and Marston could not remember their value and the rules of the game. Mosquitoes hovered about them, the night was gloomy and very hot. Something in the still air made one strangely languid. Moreover, he was tired and anxious, and he did not feel much relief when Villar put the cards away and they began to talk.

Marston suspected the others' remarks were not as careless as they looked and might lead him to some awkward statements. It was like fencing with a clever antagonist when all one could do was to stand clumsily on guard. For the most part, he left the talk to Wyndham, and although Harry played up well, Marston thought the effort was difficult. He wondered whether their companions saw this. There was one comfort; in the tropics, people got up early and he imagined their hosts would not sit very long.

At length Larrinaga pushed back his chair. "Time goes and my duties begin at sunrise. Then I think you would like to make an early start?"

Wyndham said they must get off as soon as possible, and Larrinaga nodded.

"Don Arnoldo will give the necessary orders about the horses. They belong to the soldiers and nobody else is allowed about the stable. I believe he posts a guard at night. The Germans are like that, and the mission is now under military rule. It has drawbacks, but the army is the President's hobby and we submit."

The officer laughed and said the horses would be ready soon after daybreak, and when the others went off Marston and Wyndham climbed the outside stairs to their room.

"Looks as if they meant to keep us. Don Ramon's hint was plain," Marston observed.

"It's lucky white men don't walk much in this country," Wyndham replied. "A pasear round the plaza while the band plays is about all the exercise people take, and I don't imagine anybody above the rank of a peon has ever walked from the mission to the port. In fact, it's very possible Don Ramon hasn't calculated that we might set off on foot." He paused and went to the window. "The night's dark but very calm. A noise would carry; we must wait for some time."

CHAPTER IX
COLUMBINE STEALS AWAY

All was quiet at the mission but for the soft rustle of the palms when a puff of wind came down the hill. The last light had gone out behind the narrow windows across the patio, and Wyndham, looking at his watch, got up.

"We must chance it now," he said. "If all goes well, we ought to reach the port two or three hours before dawn and our hosts won't miss us until the major-domo sends our breakfast."

Marston pulled himself together. The port was a long way off and since he had left England he had not walked much, but it was obvious that he must make good speed to-night. Opening the door quietly, they stole downstairs, carrying their boots, and stopped for a few moments in the gloom of an arch. It was very dark; the palms across the square hardly showed against the sky. There was a sentry on the terrace, but they could not see him and waited until they heard his measured steps.

When the sentry passed the arch, they crept out and started across the square. Small stones hurt their feet, but they went on as fast as possible, until they heard a soft rattle of leather and jingle of steel. The sentry had wheeled round at the end of his beat and was coming back, and they lay down on the sand and waited until the steps receded. They must reach the gloom of the trees before he turned again, and they pushed on, listening hard. Marston's heart beat and his hands trembled as he clutched his boots. The measured steps stopped for a moment and then began to get louder, but Bob drew a deep breath when he distinguished the long branches of the palms overhead. Nobody could see him now.

A few minutes afterwards they set off down hill at the fastest pace they could make. The road was rough, one could not see the holes, and Marston was soon wet with perspiration. He had got soft in the tropics and his legs began to ache, but he thought he was going nearly five miles an hour. Since time was valuable, he must try to keep it up. He had no breath to talk and Wyndham said nothing; with clenched hands and eyes fixed straight in front they labored on. Half-seen palms went by, but in places the gloom was impenetrable, and now and then they fell into a hole.

By-and-by Marston's boot began to gall his foot. The smart got worse and sometimes he limped. When he did so, he dropped behind Wyndham, and setting his mouth tight he trod squarely. One could not walk fast on the side of one's foot; he must push on and bear the pain. It was ridiculous that he should lose time because his boot scraped his toe. Yet long afterwards he remembered the effort to keep up his speed.

When the first white houses of the town came out of the gloom his clothes were sticking to his skin and his wet hair was flat on his head. He stopped and sat down in a dusty gutter.

"I've got to take off my boots. There's a pavement of sorts," he gasped.

Wyndham nodded and looked about. The houses were indistinct and the sky was dark. He could not see his watch, but he calculated it was about four o'clock and day would not break for two hours yet. Puffs of wind touched his wet face and he heard it in the trees behind the town. They were in time, but had none to waste.

"Be quick!" he said. "We're a mile from the harbor."

Marston got up and they set off. Straight and nearly blank walls now shut them in, for the houses got light from the patios. Wyndham's steps echoed in the dark, but except for this all was quiet. It looked as if nobody were about. A strange smell hung about the houses, for the street was narrow and the land-breeze did not sweep it clean.

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.