Bindloss Harold
Wyndham's Pal

CHAPTER X
THE BAT OWNS DEFEAT

At daybreak Wyndham entered the cabin and wakened Marston. The latter yawned, stretched his arms, and glanced at the compass.

"It's getting light. I expect I've been asleep," he said. "Where are we heading?"

Wyndham picked up the chart and indicated a spot. "This bay. She has made a good run, although the wind has nearly gone."

"You know where to find the Bat, I think?"

"I have a notion," Wyndham replied, indicating another spot some distance from the coast. "But come up on deck. The sun will soon rise and I must try to get our bearings."

Marston went up. The wind had dropped and was now very faint. Columbine, carrying all the sail they could set, scarcely crept across the smoothly heaving sea. Ahead, a bank of mist hid the low coast; farther back, vague mountain tops rose against the pale sky. In places, rippling streaks lined the gray water. The picture had a strangely flat and lifeless touch that reacted on Marston. He felt dull, and shivered, although it was not cold. Turning to the galley, he saw a plume of smoke trail from the bent funnel.

"I'll get some coffee and then we'll talk," he said.

Coming back in a few minutes with a jug, he sat down on the stern-gratings.

"To begin with, can you hide the boat?" he asked.

"Not properly. There are one or two creeks, but they'd, so to speak, invite examination. On the whole, I'd sooner trust an open beach. Columbine's low hull and masts won't be very distinct against a background of forest. I'm steering for an anchorage behind some shoals."

Marston signed agreement. "Larrinaga can't keep the tug searching the coast; he'll send her back for supplies. I expect he knows how to reach the Bat."

"It's possible. He has spies and the German Colonel has, no doubt, made careful plans. There are two routes; east and west of the high ground, and I reckon he'll send the cazadores up in two columns. The first will probably try to get behind the Bat's position."

"Then, we'll strike one column's line of march," said Marston, thoughtfully. "In fact, since we must come back, we'll strike it twice."

"Yes. I see some advantage in this. Our taking their path won't matter when we go up, because we'll be in front, and we agreed that the time of our arrival is important. We must give the Bat just long enough to reach the coast before the soldiers turn back and cut us off. I expect it will mean our pushing across the hills for some distance. When we cross their line we'll be in front again."

Marston signified his agreement by a nod. It was plain that they must leave much to luck, and lighting his pipe, he leaned against the rail. As the sun rose the mist ahead began to melt. Wooded heights rose out of the streaming vapor and presently Wyndham found the marks he wanted and went off to sleep while Marston kept his anxious watch. It was now nearly calm. Sometimes a puff of wind ruffled the water; sometimes the sails hung slack and the ripple at the bows died away. The sun got hot, the smooth swell shimmered with reflected light, and nothing indicated when the sea-breeze would begin.

The calm, however, would not stop the tug, and Marston pictured her steaming up from San Cristobal with engines thumping hard and the empty lighters astern. News of Columbine's departure had, no doubt, reached the mission; bugles would be calling and the cazadores strapping on their equipment ready to start. Still it was a long march to the harbor and Marston hardly thought the troops would embark before nightfall. If wind would come, Wyndham might keep in front of them, but in the meantime Columbine hardly moved. Marston wondered whether they ought to hoist out the gig and tow, although the labor would be exhausting and they could not make much progress.

A dark streak broke the glittering surface, a cool draught touched Marston's face, and the slack sails swelled. Columbine began to move, and presently gathering speed, listed over to the fresh sea-breeze.

After an hour or two, he wakened Wyndham, who got another bearing and changed the course. At dusk they steered for the coast and towards morning anchored behind a shoal. There was nothing but the background to hide the vessel and Marston knew the risk when they landed with four of the crew. In the steamy heat of the forest, exertion soon wears a white man out, and the negroes were needed to carry food and some shelter from the dew at night.

After dark on the second evening, they reached the Bat's headquarters, in the company of a gang of savage negroes. They were exhausted by the journey, their clothes were torn, and they did not know if the negroes were their captors or their guides. So far as one could see, the village looked mean. A few small mud huts stood among mahogany trees and big cottonwoods. There was no light in the huts, but a fire burned outside one, and although the night was warm, indistinct figures crouched about the blaze. They vanished and appeared again when the light leaped up, and Marston remembered the factory boys squatting round the fires in Africa. But the Kroo laborers sang, and these fellows were strangely silent. In fact, a daunting quietness brooded over the spot.

The Bat's hut was larger than the rest and a rude veranda occupied the front. There was no furniture except some mats and stools, and a badly-cleaned paraffin lamp gave a dim light. The Bat sat on a carved stool and wore a striped tennis jacket over his dirty white clothes. His legs and feet were bare; his lips stuck out and his nostrils were wide, and Marston felt that to fear and shrink from him was ridiculous. Yet he did shrink. Then he noted with some surprise that Father Sebastian occupied a mat in the corner. Next moment the Bat looked up with a mocking grin.

"Why you lib for my village? It d – poor place," he said.

"We'll explain that later," Wyndham replied. "In the meantime, why is Father Sebastian here?"

"I take care of him," said the Bat. "Fool black man rob his church." He paused and added with a cruel smile: "Them fool man pay."

Wyndham turned to the priest. "Will you give us a few minutes, padre? We will send for you soon."

Father Sebastian got up and the Bat nodded, as if he gave him leave to go. He went out and Wyndham sat down on a mat.

"Now," he said, "suppose you drop this negro mummery and talk like an Englishman. I want to remember you are Rupert Wyndham. No doubt you meant to keep the missionary for a hostage, but it's not important. I imagine you did not expect to see us?"

Rupert's face changed. Something of its coarseness vanished, his lips straightened, and he looked less like a mulatto.

"I did expect you. Anyhow, I heard white men were coming, although I could only account for one," he said and added with an ominous smile: "I sent to meet you because I did not want you to lose your way."

Marston knew that in Africa the negroes can signal news across the bush with remarkable speed. It looked as if Rupert had learned how this was done and taught his people.

"Whom did you expect?" he asked.

"Peters. He is a fool, but he has pluck. Some pluck is needed when one tries to blackmail me!"

"I imagine Peters will come later, but not to bargain with you," Marston said dryly. "We have some grounds for believing he means to sell you to the Government."

Rupert's glance got very keen. "Ah," he said, "this is interesting! Perhaps it explains your visit, which rather puzzled me."

"Before long you will get some fresh news," Wyndham interposed. "Larrinaga and the German colonel, with two or three companies of cazadores, have landed and are marching for your village."

For a few moments Rupert did not move and his face was inscrutable. Then he looked up and the red veins in his eyes were very plain.

"Is this true? You will find it dangerous to cheat me!"

Wyndham told him what they had found out and stated the conclusions they had drawn. When he stopped Rupert nodded.

"It looks plausible; you are cleverer than my spies, but we will wait. If the soldiers have landed, I will soon know."

"You may wait too long!"

"If there's a risk, you share it," said Rupert meaningly. "You were rash when you came to see me without being asked. However, the entrance of the lagoon is shallow and the surf is often bad. Can Larrinaga find the channel?"

"Pepe, the pilot, is with him. I expect he'll steer the tug."

"Ah!" said Rupert. "I rather trusted Pepe, but he has been bribed. Well, it is possible he will get his reward. However, I imagine you have made some plans for me."

Wyndham braced himself. Although luck had given him strong arguments, Rupert was bold and cunning. Since his situation looked desperate, he might try some desperate remedy that would ruin them all. He must be persuaded to use the obvious way of escape.

"You can't fight; it's too late," he said. "If you start now and we push across the hills between the two columns, we may cross one detachment's line after they have passed. When they find out you have gone, we will have got a start and ought to travel faster than loaded soldiers. The schooner is ready and would sail in a few minutes after we got on board. I don't see another plan, and if you're caught Larrinaga will shoot you. His men are well equipped and drilled. He has been getting ready for some time."

Rupert pondered for a minute or two, and the others waited anxiously. Then he said, "If I go, I leave people who trusted me in Larrinaga's power. It is not a very heroic exit."

"Does this count for much?"

"On the whole, it does not," said Rupert coolly. "After all, my followers can take care of themselves. They are an elusive lot and Don Ramon would soon wear out his troops hunting them in the bush. All the same, to slink away is something of an anti-climax."

"We didn't run a big risk in order to help you save your dignity," Wyndham rejoined, and Rupert gave him a mocking smile.

"Your object's plain and I owe you nothing. You hope to mend the family's fortunes, and see an awkward chance of its getting known that a leader of negro rebels is your relation. However, what do you reckon to do with me if I go? You proposed, another time, that I should return to England."

"We don't propose it now. We'll land you at an American port and I will try to pay you a small allowance so long as you stay in the United States. The South might suit you and one could trust the Americans to see you didn't make trouble there."

"For guests, you take a bold line. It's rather strange you imagine I'm forced to agree. You don't seem to understand that there's not much to prevent my leaving you here and going off with your yacht."

"We thought about this," Wyndham replied. "If we don't return by a stipulated time, Columbine will sail and carry a statement I left with the mate to the British officers at Kingston, Jamaica. The cable is ready for slipping, the sails are loose, and if strangers try to board her, the boat will go to sea."

"One must approve your caution," said Rupert dryly. "Well, I think my plans were good, and but for two things they might have been carried out. Our robbing Father Sebastian's church forced Larrinaga to move, but I was not responsible for this. The other's more important and the mistake was mine." He turned to Marston as he went on: "When you were ill with fever I ought to have poisoned you. Instead I tried a cure civilized doctors would hesitate to use."

"Ah!" said Marston, "you saved my life?"

"I don't want thanks. To some extent, I thought it policy. It did not seem worth while to bother about your antagonism then. Afterwards, when we tried to drown you, we were too late. You had persuaded your partner; your work was done. If you had not meddled, I'd have led him where I wanted."

"I think that is so, Bob. I owe you much," Wyndham interposed.

"If Harry had brought me the supplies I needed, I could have fought the President's troops," Rupert resumed, fixing his bloodshot eyes on Marston. "Well, you spoiled the plot, and if I'm beaten now, it is not Larrinaga but you who wins. You ought to be flattered. For such a man as you are, it's a remarkable victory!"

There was something sinister in his sneering voice and Wyndham said sharply, "It will be prudent for you to see Bob does not fall ill again. If I meet with any misfortune, he will make you accountable."

Rupert shrugged. "We will let it go and wait until news about the soldiers arrives. In the meantime, I have some preparations to make. You can sleep until I come back. Nobody will disturb you."

"I have a pistol, but don't expect to use it," Wyndham replied. "Your need of our help is our best protection, and so long as the need is obvious I think we are pretty safe."

When Rupert went out they lay down on the mats. Although they were near physical exhaustion, it was impossible to sleep. The tension they had borne had not relaxed, because until the news of the soldiers' advance was signalled the situation was not free from danger. The tug might strand among the shoals, a strong breeze and breaking surf might stop her entering the lagoon to land the troops, and delay would give Rupert time to form fresh plans. Marston did not trust him yet. If Rupert could escape without their help, he would not leave them at liberty to meddle again.

They heard nothing from outside and the hut was very quiet. The silence began to wear Marston's nerve. He could not wait much longer, but it might be rash to go out, and he forced himself to smoke, although the tobacco burned his tongue and his mouth was parched. It looked as if Rupert were not coming back. Perhaps he had cheated them and gone off alone. Marston pictured his malicious grin as he stole off through the bush and left them to wait for Larrinaga.

At length, however, Rupert returned to the hut. "I have got news," he said coolly. "Your boys are ready and we will start. Father Sebastian is an embarrassment; you will see that we cannot leave him behind."

"Send for him," said Wyndham. "You had better understand that I'm accountable for his safety."

Father Sebastian came in, and Wyndham asked if he would promise to say nothing about their visit and departure with the Bat.

"No," said Father Sebastian, "I will not promise. I do not know what is happening, but it looks as if the punishment this man deserves were overtaking him. I will not help him to escape."

"You are in his power yet," Wyndham remarked.

Father Sebastian smiled. "I am an old man and my work in the dreary swamps is hard. My life is not worth much; there are things I value more."

"I was wrong," said Wyndham quietly. "However, since you refuse, we must take you with us as far as the coast. It would help if you promised not to run away."

"I will run away, if it is possible. This man is bad and cruel; I think he killed your agent, and now he is stealing off, the soldiers must be coming. I will warn them if I can."

"After all, is this your business? You are a missionary," Wyndham urged.

"I am the Church's servant and a citizen of the country the Bat defies. Perhaps its rule is corrupt, but it is better than his. Its citizens are Christians and follow the light, although their steps are sometimes weak; these others would plunge the land in the dark of superstitious horror. I know, I have long watched the shadow deepen."

"You are a loyal servant," Wyndham replied. "I am afraid you must come with us, but we will try to make your journey easy."

"White man fool man! Black man fix them thing different," Rupert remarked with his cruel grin. Then he indicated Marston and added in good English: "This fellow is certainly a fool, but his boyish scruples have beaten my cleverest schemes."

He signed them to go out. The Krooboys from the schooner were waiting, and in a few minutes the party plunged into the woods.

CHAPTER XI
THE BAT'S EXIT

Columbine rolled heavily on the broken swell and the lamp that swung from a beam threw a puzzling light about the cabin. Now and then water splashed on the deck and the slack sails flapped. The fresh breeze had dropped, although the sea had not yet gone down, and Marston had set the topsail and the balloon jib. The light canvas would chafe and was not of much use, but he must reach Kingston as soon as possible. He was exhausted by physical effort and anxious watching, and when Rupert replaced the bandage on his comrade's face he leaned back slackly on the locker seat.

Wyndham lay in an upper berth, in the faint draught that came down through the open skylight. A wet cloth covered his face and the cabin smelt of drugs. He did not move and had not been altogether conscious for some time. Rupert wore Harry's white clothes and looked, in the unsteady light, like a rather haggard and jaundiced Englishman. Marston had noted his firm touch when he fixed the bandage and now he was methodically putting back some bottles in the medicine chest. When he finished he bent over the berth for a moment, as if he listened to Wyndham's breathing.

"I think he will live," he said. "Although he is very weak, we have got the fever down, and the wound is not as septic as it was. Anyhow, you must get him into hospital at Kingston soon."

Marston remembered afterwards that Rupert had said you, not we, and thought it significant. Now, however, he was dully pondering something else.

"If you had not been on board, Harry would not have lived," he said.

"You're puzzled about my saving him?" Rupert rejoined. "Well, I don't owe Harry much and I owe you less. On the whole, I hardly think our relationship accounts for my efforts. A bold experiment is interesting when somebody else is the subject, and one rather enjoys using one's skill."

Since there were only one or two very simple surgical instruments in the medicine chest, Marston thought Rupert's skill was remarkable. He had envied him his firm hand and nerve when he cut out the bullet that had pierced Harry's cheek and jaw and lodged in his neck. As he remembered the operation, in which he had been forced to help, Marston shuddered. After a few moments Rupert looked up.

"You need fresh air. Go and see how she steers. Harry will sleep, but if it's necessary I will watch."

Marston went on deck. It was a little cooler and the touch of the dew on his face was soothing. He put on an oilskin and sat down by the wheel. The night was clear and the tops of the broken swell shone with phosphorescence. Columbine rolled about, shaking her masts and booms with savage jerks. Blocks rattled and now and then the canvas banged. Yet she forged ahead and kept her course.

By-and-by Marston lighted his pipe and tried to fix the elusive pictures of their journey to the coast. To begin with, the night they left the hut Wyndham owned he had a dose of fever. In the morning he was worse, but time was valuable and they pushed on. Then, at evening when they came down from the hills to cut the soldiers' line of march, they saw two or three peons run out from a ruined village and plunge into the bush. Another, who was slower and was caught, stated that they had been left behind to wait until some more troops came up. The village was empty, but the peon took the party to a hut he had been ordered to watch. It was getting dark and when they went in Marston struck a match. Next moment he let it drop, for a white man lay on the floor and something strange about his attitude indicated that he was dead. Then Rupert picked up the burning match and lighted a lantern.

Marston shuddered as his memory recaptured the scene the dim illumination touched. The dead man had drawn up his legs and his face was distorted, but Marston did not want to remember this. It was Peters' face, and he knew the fellow had not met a peaceful death. Father Sebastian knelt down by the body; Rupert stooped and smiled.

"You cannot help him and I do not think you will find a mark. I doubt if he belonged to any flock, but it was not to yours. Anyhow, he is dead, and you need not bother about how he died."

"Yet you know," said Father Sebastian, fixing him with steady eyes.

Rupert nodded. "He meant to sell me, and it is possible he got his reward, although he did not enjoy it long. One could philosophize about it, but I leave this to you. Well, I think we will not wait until his friends arrive."

"I will wait," said Father Sebastian, firmly. "It is a duty to bury the dead."

Rupert shrugged and looked at Marston. Wyndham, shivering with ague, had sat down and rested his head in his hands, as if he did not know what was going on.

"Watching the padre did not run off has cost us some time," Rupert remarked. "However, it would be awkward if he sent the next detachment of cazadores after us. I expect he knows how I would meet the difficulty."

"We will leave you and not bother you for a promise," Marston said to Father Sebastian, who gave him his hand.

"There is much that puzzles me and I do not know why you help this bad man to escape, but I feel you are honest," he said. "Sometimes one must trust without understanding." He lifted his hand solemnly. "Vaya con Dios!"

Then they went out and left him in the dark with Peters.

Marston did not know if Father Sebastian sent the soldiers after them, but although he thought he did he bore him no grudge. The man was staunch, and from his point of view, was justified. In the morning, Rupert declared they must push on faster, and their march became a race for the coast. Now Marston could think about it coolly, he imagined Rupert feared some of the negroes had joined Larrinaga and were signalling news of the party's flight. Wyndham stumbled as they forced their way savagely in scorching heat across reedy swamps and through tangled bush, but he would not be carried and this would have delayed them dangerously. Marston recaptured with strange vividness the last scene.

It was dark when they broke out of the forest and saw the sea sparkle under a half-moon. The land-breeze blew fresh, and now and then belts of warm mist trailed across the beach. There were no mangroves, the beach was flat and open, but they were some distance off the spot where the schooner lay and they labored across the soft sand. Marston owned that the suspense had shaken his nerve. He was desperately anxious to get on board before he was stopped, but Wyndham could hardly walk. For half-an-hour Marston dragged him along.

When they were nearly level with the schooner, indistinct figures ran out from the bush. Wyndham turned, and shaking off Marston, drew his pistol. He fired two or three shots, but since the distance was long Marston thought he rather expected to warn the crew than stop their pursuers. The latter did not stop and Marston dragged Wyndham on again. A boat was coming, but he doubted if they could reach it before the others arrived. The sand was soft, he was exhausted, and Wyndham lurched about. Sometimes he nearly pulled Marston down.

Shots were fired behind them and bullets hummed overhead. The negroes were running hard close in front, and the boat plunged into the belt of surf. Then Wyndham fell and pulled Marston over. When he fell Marston got some sand in his eyes and could hardly see. Somebody seized his arm and dragged him to his feet; men were splashing in the foam about the boat. He stuck to Harry but did not know how they got on board. Then he felt the boat plunge and saw the half-naked Kroos were pulling for their lives. Wyndham leaned against him and Marston felt his jacket getting wet; he afterwards found that it was wet by blood. He put Harry down in the stern-sheets and seized the nearest Krooboy's oar, thrusting while the other pulled.

When they got on board the schooner the sails were going up and nobody else was hit. Marston and Rupert carried Wyndham to the cabin and Marston remembered his horror when they put him in his berth. A glancing bullet, turning over endways, had mangled the lower part of his face.

This, however, was some days since and Marston was getting over the shock. Rupert had told him Harry would live, although he would always wear the scar.

By-and-by Marston got up and walked about the deck. He dared not think about Flora yet; he must navigate Columbine to Kingston and get Wyndham into hospital. There was a little more wind now and the damp sails did not shake, but the rolling and lurching stopped the schooner. Although it was important to make Kingston soon, one could do nothing to help their progress and Marston presently returned to the wheel. He waited for a time, because he did not want to talk to Rupert. His shrinking from the fellow had not lessened, but he was very tired and limp, and at length he went down and got into his bunk.

In the morning the breeze was fresh and Columbine threw the spray about as she plunged across the white combers. At noon, Marston got his sextant to take the sun and sat for some minutes on the skylight calculating the schooner's position. Then he looked up and saw Rupert.

"I think the wind will hold," said the latter. "When do you expect to arrive?"

Marston told him and added: "You are not on the crew list and since Kingston's a British port we will have to comply with the usual formalities. We must think of a way of accounting for your being on board." He paused and added with a touch of embarrassment: "It may be some time before the doctors let me take Harry home and I don't know – "

"You don't know what to do about me?" Rupert suggested with the smile Marston disliked. "Well, suppose you wait until you get there. I imagine I won't bother you much. In the meantime, you haven't hauled your patent-log. Let's see what distance it marks."

Columbine's log was old-fashioned. In order to read the dial it was necessary to bring the torpedo-shaped instrument on board, and Rupert, jumping on a grating, put his foot on the low taffrail as he began to haul the line. The line was long, the log, with its spiral vanes, offered some resistance, and Marston, knowing it would be a minute or two before Rupert lifted it out of the water, studied the compass. Looking round, he saw the other's bent figure outlined against the foaming wake; and then he glanced ahead. The wind was fresh and Columbine sailed fast. White combers rolled up to windward and as she plunged across their tops she threw up clouds of spray.

In about a minute, Marston looked aft again and braced himself as he gazed at the slanted rail. He had heard no splash or cry, but Rupert had gone. He shouted, and signed to the Kroo steersman, who pulled round the wheel. Columbine shipped some water as, with sails flapping and banging, she came head to wind. The long booms jerked, blocks and ropes whipped to and fro, and the crew began to run about the deck. One or two hauled down the foresail, one or two trimmed the jibs aback, and Marston helped the others at the Burton tackle to hoist out the gig.

He jumped on board as she took the water. Four excited negroes leaped down from the schooner's bulwarks, and a white sea washed across the bows as they shoved her off. They got away without damage, and pulled obliquely to leeward while Marston tried to calculate how far Columbine had gone since he last saw Rupert. It was necessary to be accurate, because, except when the combers picked up the boat, he could see nothing but the white tops of the waves. Besides, rowing on an angry sea is hard and the men would soon get exhausted. Since they could not search long, he must reach the proper spot.

No floating object tossed among the foam, and after half an hour he gave it up. Rupert Wyndham had gone; he was old, and a good swimmer could not have lived long in such a sea, because a man, buffeted by breaking waves, may drown before he sinks. The boat had shipped much water, the crew were worn out, and had some trouble to row back to Columbine. When they had hoisted in the gig and put the schooner on her course, Marston went to the cabin and mixed a drink. He was wet, his hands shook, and his arms ached, for he had been forced to use his strength while he labored with the big sculling oar.

Moreover, he was strangely disturbed. He had shrunk from Rupert Wyndham with half-instinctive repulsion. In one sense, Rupert's drowning would relieve him and Wyndham from an awkward responsibility. Marston admitted that he had recognized this, although he hoped he had not allowed it to influence him. Indeed, because he did not like Rupert, he had made sterner efforts to reach the spot where he had gone overboard; but he wondered whether he had perhaps afterwards neglected means he might have used had the man been his friend. On the whole, he did not think so, and his tormenting doubts began to vanish. For all that, he was glad Wyndham was asleep.

When, some hours later, Marston went back to the cabin Wyndham's eyes were open. The lower part of his face was covered by the bandage and he could not talk, but Marston thought he missed Rupert and was curious. Although Harry was very weak, Marston felt he had better tell him now. If he did not, his unsatisfied curiosity might keep him restless and bring the fever back.

"I know what you want to ask," he said quietly. "Rupert's not here. He fell overboard when he was hauling up the log."

Wyndham's eyelids flickered and his hand moved under the blanket, but this was the only sign he gave.

"She was rolling," Marston went on. "He stood with his foot on the taffrail, leaning out to gather in the line. You see, there was nothing to save him if he lost his balance – "

He stopped, for he saw Wyndham was looking at him very hard. Then he resumed: "I think he did lose his balance, but I don't know. I was looking forward, wondering whether we ought to haul down a reef, and none of the boys saw him fall. There was not a splash."

A feeble movement of Wyndham's head urged him to go on.

"We got the gig over soon, but the boat had been going fast and head-reached some distance when we brought her round. Then there was a confused sea."

Marston saw Wyndham understood; he need not labor his explanation, but he wished Harry could talk. There was an assurance he wanted his comrade to give; Harry knew how he had felt about Rupert.