“WHERE IS THIS COCOS ISLAND?”
“WHERE IS THIS COCOS ISLAND?”
“Where is this Cocos Island?” he asked.
“Only two hundred miles from the coast of Costa Rica,” instantly answered Ramon. “You see, it is a short voyage through the Canal and into the Pacific. You will not have to climb a tree, like El Draque, to look at the great South Sea. You are wondering why I should have so much faith in this chart? I am easily fooled? Well, then, it will cost a great deal of money to pay for a ship and a crew to go to Cocos Island and dig up the treasure. Nobody ever saw Ramon Bazán spend a dollar unless he knew what he was doing. They call him the stingiest old tight-fist in Cartagena. To get ahead of him you must rise before the cock crows.”
“Yes, it will cost you a good many thousands,” agreed Cary. “Do you mind telling me why you feel you have a sure thing in this treasure chart?”
“It is fair to ask me that question, Ricardo. When did theMary Dearsail away from Lima? One hundred years ago, and a little bit more. One hundred and three years ago. This chart was given to me by my father. He lived and died in Cartagena, and he was eighty-six years old when he died in this house. It was alwaysmañanawith him, and he had business that tied him to the grindstone. He had dreams of going to Cocos Island. Figure it for yourself, Ricardo. This chart came to him just one hundred years ago. Will you laugh at me if I say this chart was given to him by Captain Thompson himself?”
“In Cartagena I believe anything and everything,” gravely acquiesced Richard Cary. “You couldn’t make me bat an eye to save you. The fever downed this Captain Thompson, I presume, while he was dodging under cover, and your father befriended him. That is how it should work out.”
“Exactly that! Truth is funnier than fiction,” cried Ramon Bazán, bobbing up from the desk. “My father had the kindest heart in the world. This stranger was dumped on the beach from a Mexican privateer which came in for fresh water. The man was ill and almost dead. My father took him into this house. He died in the room where you now sleep, Ricardo. A merchant captain, he said, whose ship had been wrecked off the Isle of Pines. Just before he died he told the truth, which is a proper thing to do, Ricardo. One should always make his peace with God. Then it was that my father received the chart and learned the whole story of Captain Thompson and theMary Dearand the partnership with the pirate Benito Bonito.”
“I’m in no position to pick flaws in it,” said Cary. “I could tell you wilder ones than that. And you actually have a ship in mind to sail for Cocos Island and you want me to take her there?”
Ramon Bazán seemed to have some sudden difficulty with his articulation. He opened his mouth. His eyes bulged. His gestures were aimless as he faltered in a high key:
“The ship will be ready—the ship will be—will be—will be—”
His voice died in his throat. His face was contorted in a spasm of agony. He toppled across the desk, his hands drumming against it.
Richard Cary stood dumbfounded. This was the devil of a new complication! The possible consequences raced through his mind. Ramon Bazán dead in his library—El Tigre Amarillo Grandehiding in the house—a fatal snarl of circumstances from which there could be no possible release! Fantastically it occurred to him that the old man could not die in this tragic manner because the galleon bell had not intoned its ghostly forewarning.
Delaying only an instant, Cary ran to the kitchen shouting for the black woman who might know what should be done. She took it calmly, waddling into the library, making the terrified young man understand that Papa Ramon was subject to such seizures. In a small cabinet she found a vial and shook out two capsules. These she rammed between the suffering man’s lips and crushed them against his teeth. Like a miracle, the acute anguish subsided. It was his heart,mucho malo.
The corpulent negress picked him up in her arms like a baby and laid him upon the bed in his room. With a menacing finger under Cary’s nose, she dared to berate him. Topics of conversation more soothing were necessary to the welfare of the fragile old Papa Bazán.
Shunted aside, Richard Cary retired to a wicker divan in a cool corner and smoked his pipe while he took account of stock. He was nervous. Said he to himself:
“Big as I am and hard to jolt, I can stand just about so much. Here is one bet that I did overlook. Why didn’t the old boy tell me he had a balky heart? Supposing his clock stops before he gets me out of this jam? Whew!”
After some time, he tiptoed into the stricken man’s room. It was delightful beyond words to find him propped up with pillows and sipping a stiff glass of rum and lime-juice. He was a forlorn little object, more shriveled and brittle than ever, but his eye was brightening again and he mustered a shadowy grin. Soothingly Cary suggested:
“Thinking it over, sir, you ought to turn this business of the voyage over to me as soon as you can. You don’t want to pop off before we even sight Cocos Island. I agree to go, of course. Now where is your ship and what is she like? I am competent to take hold.”
“Thank you, Ricardo,” murmured Papa Bazán, with a long pull at the rum. “It was too much excitement. Sit down, if you please. We can talk quietly, like two pigeons. I knew you would agree to go with me, whether you wanted to or not. I had you by the hair of the head. But unless I have won your confidence, unless you go willingly, you can desert the ship at Colon and then where am I? I am bright enough to see that far.”
“I promise to stand by,” said Cary. “In the first place, it is a matter of honor. Perhaps you did kidnap me to serve your own ends, but that doesn’t lighten my obligation. I have no intention of getting out from under it. You have made a pampered guest of me, and now you offer me the one chance of oozing out of Cartagena with a whole skin. In the next place, I’m eager to go to Cocos Island with you. We’ll see the thing through. And there’s that.”
“Then I am a well man, as spry as a tarantula,” sputtered Ramon Bazán. “Have you a master’s license, Ricardo? It will concern the insurance on my steamer. I can’t afford to risk heavy loss. All the money I can scrape together will be in this voyage.”
“Yes, I hold a master’s ticket. And I’m fed up with twiddling my thumbs, so let’s go to it. What do you say?”
“But I can’t turn the ship over to you until she is ready to go to sea, at the very last minute,” lamented the owner. “You will have to be sneaked on board at night and hidden until the steamer is ready to sail, or the Colombians in the crew will jump over the side. One look atEl Tigre Grandeand—adios! Ten hundred things have I had on my hands to arrange, and do you wonder at my bad heart kicking a flip-flop?”
“I shall pray for your health, believe me,” devoutly returned the nervous young mariner. “Now about this steamer—”
“She is very awful to look at,” was the frank admission. “A German tramp that was interned four years at Cartagena! I bought her cheap, Ricardo. Rusty and afflicted with heart disease and other things, she will not sink if the weather is kind. But you yourself could never make the mistake of thinking she was theTarragona. I have found a crew for my shabby harlot of aValkyrie. Not such men as you will love, Ricardo, for I must take what I find. They must hear not a whisper of Cocos Island. It is a trading voyage to the west coast. The ship will clear for Buenaventura, a Pacific port of Colombia.”
“We’ll drive that condemned old crock along somehow,” cheerfully responded Richard Cary. “When do we sail?”
“A few days more, my captain. A little coal to put in and boiler tubes to be plugged. Coal is cheaper at Balboa. We can fill the bunkers there. As Heaven hears my voice, Ricardo, unless we find the treasure this voyage will ruin poor old Ramon Bazán.”
The interview had taken a turn that was not good for a damaged heart. The owner of theValkyriewas growing excited. Cary thought it best to let the details rest. The old gentleman’s health interested him enormously. It was like carrying a basket of eggs along a very rough road.
The breakable Papa Bazán insisted on getting into his clothes next morning and seemed little the worse for wear. It was quite apparent that he had not been running around in aimless circles while preparing for his romantic voyage. He was amazingly capable of getting what he wanted, and without the eternal delays of his native clime. Those who now did business with him found his pertinacity as vexing as the itch.
TheValkyriewas a small vessel, of nine hundred tons, which had flown the German flag in the coasting trade of Colombia and Venezuela until gripped by the greedy hand of war. Corroded and blistering, a sad orphan of the sea, she had slumbered at an anchor chain in the lagoon of Cartagena until rashly purchased by Ramon Bazán after a season of dickering and bickering to make a New England horse-trader jealous. When he found how much repair work was unavoidable, his heart almost stopped forever. What made it beat again was the stimulus, more potent than capsules, of the six millions of treasure of the brigMary Dear, besides those seven hundred and thirty-three gold ingots piled in the cave by the arithmetical Benito Bonito.
A west coast trading venture to make his old age something more than dry rot and stagnation, publicly explained Ramon Bazán. A whim of this erratic old codger, the Cartagena merchants found it mirthful. A guardian should interpose before he squandered all his money. A few critics argued to the contrary. In his prime Ramon Bazán had been famous for shrewdness. Who could tell? He might have something up his sleeve. The problem of raking a crew together caused more speculation. Cartagena was a languid seaport. Most of the commerce had been diverted to Porto Colombia. The American beach-combers who drifted in from the Canal Zone were more or less of a nuisance. It was one of these that Ramon Bazán had put in charge of his ship as chief officer while fitting for sea. A captain would join theValkyrielater, he vouchsafed.
“What do you know about this chief officer, Señor Bazán?” asked Richard Cary.
“If I knew more I should like him less,” was the peevish reply. “He calls himself Captain Bradley Duff. Rough and tough, eh? He commanded ships, to hear him say so, but I think he lost his ticket somewhere. He had a job with the North American Mining Company at Calamar for a little while. A large, important man, Ricardo, with blossoms on his nose, and a very red face—his belly is round and his feet are flat. He has a big voice and a whiskey breath. But he knows a ship, and he can’t graft very much because I pay all the bills. He asks why he is not made captain of theValkyrie? You will understand why when you know him, Ricardo.”
“I don’t have to know him, thank you. You can find a frowsy Captain Bradley Duff in almost any port. They make a loud noise and throw a chesty front. Is your chief engineer the same kind?”
“No. I was lucky to find him. A long, thin boy, younger than you, Ricardo, and with manners courteous to an old man. He wandered to Colombia from Boston because he had the loose foot. You know. To take a look at the tropics. Nothing wrong with him. He was an assistant engineer in steamers between Boston and Norfolk. Down this way he was in charge of the ice plant at Barranquilla until his foot felt loose again. For two weeks he has been sweating with the engines of theValkyrie, always cheerful, and he says he will hammer seven knots out of the old contraption or blow her to the middle of next week. Contraption? He made me laugh. TheValkyrieis just that.”
For Richard Cary it was a game of blind-man’s buff, with such random echoes as these to make him call it a choice between being shot in Cartagena or drowned in a coffin of a ship. It was a mad world and daily growing madder. However, he liked it, and would not have exchanged lots with the spruce Captain Jordan Sterry and the immaculateTarragonapunctually running her lawful schedule.
One thing troubled him, and one thing only. He could not bear to go surging off into this uncertain escapade without sending some word to Teresa Fernandez. Wherever she might be, a letter would probably be forwarded if addressed in care of the Union Fruit Company’s offices in New York. He could not disclose his plans, but he could ask her to wait for him. So straitly was he fettered by circumstances that he felt bound to say to Señor Bazán:
“It is your secret, this voyage to Cocos Island. I have no idea of giving it away, but I must write Teresa before we sail. There is no harm in telling her that I have found a good berth in a ship in the west coast trade for two or three months. She knows how dull shipping is at home. I disappeared from theTarragona, you remember, and I want her to understand that it wasn’t my fault.”
“Write her that much, then,” cried her waspish uncle, “but no more, on your honor, Ricardo. Fill that girl with all the beautiful lies you like about love and separations, but not one word about theValkyrieand Ramon Bazán. By my soul and breeches, we must keep Teresa quiet. Nobody knows what she will do next. Put your letter on the desk with my letters. I will take them to the post-office when I go out to-morrow.”
For a young man naturally candid and unversed in evasions, it was a mortally difficult letter to write. He hated the web of secrecy which had inexorably enmeshed him. Besides this, he was writing his first love letter, and to a girl who had vanished from his ken, beyond horizons of her own. The situation was intricate, wretchedly confused. For the time he had given hostages to fortune and was not his own free man. To tell the whole truth, to explain to Teresa that, for love of her, he had sought a hiding-place in Cartagena with a price on his head and was now off for a fling at pirate’s gold to pour into her lap, this would have satisfied the normal impulses of a young man who desired to stand well in the eyes of his sweetheart.
With a sigh and a frown, and a smile now and then, he finished the task. The letter he laid on the desk of Uncle Ramon Bazán, as instructed. It was gone next morning, he was particular to notice, when the owner of theValkyriehastily departed in a carriage to pursue his harassing affairs.
What Richard Cary did not know was that his letter was not among those which Señor Bazán had casually tucked in a pocket after observing that all of them bore stamps. He may have inferred that the young man had changed his mind. At any rate, it was a detail which soon slipped from an aged and heavily laden mind. All the letters found on the desk were deposited at the post-office and this was the end of the transaction for Ramon Bazán.
The perversity of fate had assumed the guise of a little brown monkey of morbidly inquisitive habits. Early in the morning he had strayed in from thepatio. The library was forbidden hunting-ground and therefore alluring. No doubt he was searching for Cary’s briar pipe as the especial quest. From a chair he had easily hopped to the top of the flat desk. The pile of letters ready for mailing arrested his errant fancy. First he shuffled them as though playing solitaire. Then he selected an envelope at random. It crackled as he squeezed it.
The stamp in the corner caught his eye. A paw with sharp nails peeled off a corner of the stamp. He tasted it. The flavor was agreeable. Some sound in the hall just then disturbed his pastime. He tucked the one letter under his arm and took it along for leisurely investigation. It might be worth chewing for more of that pleasant flavor.
Lightly the little brown monkey frisked from the library and galloped across thepatio. In a far corner were two large tubs, painted green, which held young date palms. Behind them was a secluded nook where the astute monkey had often hidden such objects as appealed to his fickle fancy.
Into this snug retreat he retired with the crackling envelope. Gravely intent, he tore the envelope open. He crammed a piece of it into his cheek. The taste was disappointing. He was angry. He had been hoaxed. He chattered profanely. With a grimace he tore the sheets of paper into strips. Then he tore the strips into very little bits of paper. They fluttered down behind the green tubs.
The brown monkey looked pleased. He raked the bits of paper together and tossed them in air. They floated down like petals of the white flowers when he shook a bush in thepatio. Some of them stuck to his hairy hide. Very carefully he picked them off. He scooped another handful of these bits of paper and flung them up.
Soon tiring of this frolic, he swept all the bits of paper into a wide crack of the masonry wall behind the tubs. He had learned to be discreet. It was unwise to leave any traces of a foray into that forbidden library. Once it had resulted in a little brown monkey with a very sore head. Papa Bazán had used the flat of a brass paper-cutter.
CHAPTER XIII
It was the opinion of Señor Bazán that the bell of the galleonNuestra Señora del Rosarioshould be mounted on the deck of his own vessel. The ancient bell had once sounded the watches from the forecastle-head of another treasure ship in these same seas. Also, it possessed a legendary virtue which was not to be overlooked, that of ringing its ghostly warning when fatal disaster impended. From what he could learn of the rusty relic of a tramp steamer, Richard Cary felt inclined to endorse the old man’s whimsy. It would be handy to know in advance when theValkyrieintended plunging to the bottom of the Caribbean or the Pacific.
“I am too wise to believe all kinds of nonsense, Ricardo, like the ignorant people of Cartagena,” said Papa Ramon, “but this bell of the galleon—how can I doubt it? And there is no bell on theValkyrie, so I save some good dollars. These Colombian thieves stole the brass fittings while my steamer was empty and anchored during the war. And the galleon bell had the blessing of the Holy Church and the favor of Our Lady of Rosario so we make no mistake in carrying it on our voyage.”
Richard Cary reflected, quite logically, that it was no more fantastical than pinning one’s faith and fortune to a pirate’s chart of Cocos Island. The whole thing might be unreal, but it had the texture of consistency. Like a satisfactory fairy tale, the improbable and the absurd were made entirely plausible. The twentieth century had very little to do with it.
And so the chief engineer of theValkyriesent two of his native helpers with a mule-cart. They unbolted the heavy bronze bell from the weather-darkened frame of Spanish oak. It clanged as they bore it out of thepatio, a mellow note that throbbed and lingered like a phantom voice. A carpenter was instructed to set up another frame, on the roof of the forward deck-house.
The residence of Señor Bazán was to remain closed during his absence. This he had announced to the black woman in the kitchen and the faithful Indian lad. It was uncertain when their master would return. Two months’ wages in advance he was generous enough to pay them, although it made him wince, and they could enjoy a vacation among their own people. They would be notified when to reopen the house. The señor who lived next door had consented to receive the green parrot and the little brown monkey. The key also would be left with him.
His energy phenomenally sufficient for his needs, Ramon Bazán made the final arrangements for departure. Richard Cary admired the tenacious sagacity with which one obstacle after another was ridden over. He himself felt more and more like a big, useless lump of a man, to have to sit and look on. Give him a ship under his feet and he would be quit of this foolish trance.
He wondered how the old man proposed to set him aboard theValkyrieand hide him there until the harbor was astern. It was a nut to crack. He forbore to ask too many questions. They annoyed Papa Ramon. He was his own strategist. An uncannily strong finish he was making of it. The adventure was like a magic draught of the elixir of youth. It enabled him to hold decrepitude at arm’s length, for a little while to grin in the face of the old devil of death that had so often jumped out at him from the dark.
The journey from the house to the quay was boldly and simply contrived. At eleven o’clock at night, themuchachowaited in the alley with a one-horse carriage. The top had been raised. Richard Cary was directed to double himself on the rear seat. He slid down as far as possible with his knees almost up to his chin. Around and over him were piled the personal luggage, rolls of blankets, canvas bags filled with clothing, folded hammocks, two or three valises, until they filled the back of the carriage to the roof.
Señor Bazán conspicuously hunched himself in front with the driver. This was the factor of safety. The old man was the passport through the streets of Cartagena where he was as well known as the Church of San Pedro Clavér and almost as much of an antiquity. Cary perceived this. Alone he had been hemmed in and helpless. Before the carriage rolled out of the alley, Ramon Bazán turned to say very softly:
“Hold out your hand, Ricardo. Here is a pistol I forgot to give you. If anything trips our plans, I don’t want you to be caught like a rat. Never mind me. You just shoot your way out if you can. Run for La Popa. The lame Palacio may help you to flee to the coast or the mountains. I sent him money yesterday as a gift from you. It was your wish.”
“Bless your heart, that would leave you a fine chance to square yourself with the police,” gratefully replied Cary. “If I have to leg it I’ll put you in my pocket. We have to see this thing through together. Cast off,muchacho, and full speed ahead.”
The carriage rattled through the silent, galleried streets and provoked no curiosity until it approached a gateway in the city wall. A police officer in a white uniform was strolling out of a wine-shop. In the light from the windows the carriage attracted his attention. It was moving too rapidly, the horse at a gallop. Even a young Indian driver had nerves. They were feeling the strain. He was anxious to get through that gateway. It had been much less trying to haulEl Tigre Amarillo Grandeinto Cartagena under a load of wood than to haul him out again in a hired carriage.
The lieutenant of police jumped from the curb and raised his sword as a peremptory signal to halt. The despairingmuchacho, a slave to a military uniform, laid back on the reins and jerked the horse to its haunches. The carriage stopped so abruptly that Richard Cary bounced beneath his mountain of luggage. He knew that something had gone askew. He made elbow room to free the heavy pistol. Then he heard the petulant voice of Ramon Bazán upbraiding the officer. It was asinine to meddle with the owner of a ship in haste to go aboard and enjoy a few hours of sleep, a ship which was to sail at dawn.
The lieutenant was a young man of polished manners who now recognized this abusive old gentleman. He was about to offer a laughing apology, with a caution to drive with more care, when Ramon Bazán swayed forward, a hand plucking at his breast. He stuttered something in a queer, frightened little voice.
Richard Cary heard and comprehended. In a flash he saw the library and a frail figure toppled across the desk, face contorted, eyes bulging. Before he could toss the luggage aside, oblivious of his own predicament, the quick-wittedmuchachohad thrown an arm around the drooping old man to hold him in the carriage. A twitch of the reins, a chirrup, and the horse was in motion. It broke into a quick trot.
The lieutenant of police stared for a moment and strolled homeward from the wine-shop. Señor Bazán was getting quite feeble, he said to himself. Silly of him to be bothering with a ship. Greedy to make more money even if it killed him!
The frightened driver steered the horse through the gateway in the wall, one arm still supporting the flaccid, silent shape of his master. In the wide, open space between the wall and the quay, the lad halted the carriage and wailed a “mucho malo.” Richard Cary instantly crawled out and lifted poor Ramon from the front seat. Themuchachothrew a roll of blankets and a canvas sack on the ground. They laid the stricken man down very gently.
Cary put a finger on his pulse. It was not stilled, but the beat was faint and slow. The one hope was to search his pockets for the precious vial. Thank God, it had not been forgotten! The lad held a small flash-lamp while Cary pried open Ramon’s jaw and crushed two capsules in his mouth.
They waited a few minutes. The excruciating pain was eased. The sufferer was able to whisper a few words. Ricardo was to carry him to the beach near the quay where a boat would be found. There was to be no turning back. It was a command.
Some of the luggage was shifted to the front of the carriage. This made room in the rear so that Cary could sit and hold the old gentleman in his arms. Thus they came to the deep sand at the edge of the deserted beach. The Indian lad indicated the skiff which, earlier in the night, he had placed in readiness for the stealthy embarkation. Then he stood waiting for orders. First they made a bed on the sand for Ramon Bazán. He was too weak to lift his head. Cary mercifully refrained from questions concerning the plan of action. It had been withheld from him. Childish vanity and secretiveness had made it enjoyable to lead the big Ricardo by the nose.
It was not in the mind of Ricardo, however, to let the voyage be delayed or thwarted. He would use his own wits. He tried to conjecture just how the crafty Papa Bazán had expected to turn the trick of smugglingEl Tigre Amarillo Grandeon board. It was something very deceptive and complicated, no doubt.
“I am not in his class when it comes to hocus-pocus,” said the dubitating young man. “He was going off to the ship first, I imagine, leaving me on the beach until he could signal with a flash-light. Most of the crew must be ashore, for a last night in port. Well, it’s up to me to play it alone. And I did hope to get clear of Cartagena without any more rough stuff. My reputation can’t stand it.”
Having finished this brief debate with himself, the brawny seafarer moved with an alert and easy confidence. He helped themuchachostow the luggage in the skiff. Then they made a comfortable nest for Señor Bazán who manifested no more than a glimmering interest in this, the supreme exploit of his life. Richard Cary was made to feel forgetful of himself. Once at sea, Papa Ramon might rally and live to enchant himself with the pirate’s chart amid the volcanic cliffs of Cocos Island. He deserved to win.
With the Indian lad in the stern of the skiff, Cary picked up the oars and drove ahead. A few hundred yards out in the dusky harbor floated theValkyrie, an uncouth blotch against the stars. Here and there a light gleamed from a round port or a deck-house window. Cary aimed the skiff to come up under the steamer’s stern, as the course least likely to be detected. As soon as he was close aboard he used an oar as a paddle. The skiff stole under the overhang and then slid along the vessel’s side until it nudged the steeply slanting gangway steps.
Cary made fast with a turn of line and motioned the lad to stay where he was. Then he gathered Ramon Bazán from the blankets and deftly doubled him over his shoulder. It was like carrying a helpless infant. With one hand free, Cary awkwardly footed it up the steps, steadied by a shifting grip of the side-rope. It made him puff, but the fatigue amounted to nothing.
Quietly he stepped on the deck, which was unlighted. No one hailed him. It was wisdom to look about and find his bearings. The impromptu capture of a seagoing steamer had not been contemplated in his darkest hours as a fugitive. It required some care.
The first thought was to deposit Ramon Bazán in a place where he might rest undisturbed. The living quarters would be forward of the saloon. Presumably they included a vacant room for the owner and another for the captain. On tiptoe Cary bore his burden along the deck. He found a darkened passage and entered it. The pocket flash-lamp showed him his own room, identified by a desk and the rolls of charts in the racks overhead.
This was good enough. He rolled Ramon Bazán into the bunk, after removing his coat and shoes. The old man mustered breath to thank him and then fell asleep. At a guess, he was no worse off than when he had been bowled over in his library.
Closing the door, Captain Richard Cary returned to the deck. For so heavy a man his tread was light and quick. He ran down the gangway steps and bade themuchachofetch up the luggage and leave it on deck. Then he was to shove off in the skiff and go back to his horse and carriage on the beach.
Captain Cary climbed on board again and stood listening. He heard, down below, the clatter of a shovel, the pulsations of a pump, and the hiss of a leaky steam-pipe. This was heartening. He would take the vessel to sea with daylight enough to find the channel. Pilot be hanged! There were marks and buoys enough.
In the crew’s quarters, up in the bows, two or three men were quarreling over a game of cards, or it sounded like that. They could be left to their own devices. The saloon was lighted, the door open. A husky voice was bawling to the steward.
Richard Cary had to stoop to enter the small saloon. At the table sat his chief officer, Bradley Duff, and a plump, flashy young man with kinky hair and a flattened nose. An elderly mulatto in a dirty apron just then emerged from the pantry with a tray.
The late supper was interrupted, but not rudely. “Big Dick” Cary intruded his soothing presence with the air of a man who disliked violence. He received no greetings, for the reason that the three men in the saloon had suddenly forgotten what speech was for. They were as dumb as three oysters.
The blustering Bradley Duff blew a long breath through his ragged mustache. The kinky-haired young man in the pink silk shirt showed the whites of his eyes and slid lower in his chair. He seemed to be ebbing under the table. The glasses on the steward’s tray jingled together. His feet were riveted to the floor.
The large, pleasant-featured visitor could not help smiling as he said:
“Good-evening,MisterDuff. I am Captain Cary, master of this ship.”
The spell was broken. The plump young man slid lower as he murmured, “Madre de Dios! Está El Tigre Amarillo!” The steward wrenched his feet from the floor. They would have retreated swiftly to the pantry, but Captain Cary crooked a finger at him. He obeyed and joined the others at the table.
Mr. Bradley Duff had not slid down inhischair. His mottled cheeks were puffed out. His pimpled nose was redder, if that were possible. He was a beefy, truculent figure, a man who had been valorous in his prime, before some hidden flaw had broken him. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he hoarsely burst out:
“Like hell you are the master of this ship, you big buckaroo! I know whoyouare—the guy that busted loose and fooled the town into thinking he was a badhombre. I’m no kid to be scared by a bogeyman. You make me laugh. Master, my eye! You’ve gone clean bughouse. Wait till the owner comes off to-night. He’ll throw a fit. I am waiting for his pet skipper.”
“The owner is on board,” said Cary, “but he is to be left alone until I say so. He is a sick man. We shall get under way at four-thirty, Mr. Duff. What’s the word from the chief engineer?”
“You bumped into old Ramon Bazán on the beach and knocked him on the head, that’s what you did,” retorted the inflamed Mr. Duff. “Youareaddled if you figure on putting this stuff over on me. If you don’t want to be thrown overboard, beat it. What I ought to do is put you in irons and turn you over to the police. I’ll go see if Ramon Bazán is really aboard and what you did to him. If you turn out to be just a harmless boob of a lunatic, I don’t want to be too rough with you.”
“Stay right here in the saloon, Mr. Duff, and please keep your hands on the table. If you swell up any more, you’ll break a blood vessel and then I am shy a chief officer. You will have to brace up to-morrow. You keep a rotten lookout and the ship is slack and filthy. How many men are ashore?”
“None of your bloody business,” was the savage reply. “Here, I’ve stood enough silly play-acting from you.”
Pot-bellied beach-comber though he was, Bradley Duff refused to strike his colors. He was honest in his belief that this was an unlawful invasion. There were men enough on board if he could get word to them. And at any minute a boat-load was due to arrive from the wharf. He kicked his plump companion as a signal for action. One of them might succeed in breaking for the deck to summon help.
Snatching a bottle from the tray, Mr. Duff hurled it with a mighty swing of his thick arm. Cary ducked his head. A miss was as good as a mile. To his sincere regret, he was in for a disturbance.
Before the enraged Mr. Duff could fling another bottle, Cary jumped forward and tapped him over the head with the butt of the heavy pistol. Too bad, but it had to be done! The blow was not meant to be deadly. It was enough to put the unlucky chief officer to sleep.
A pink silk shirt was streaking it for the saloon door. Captain Cary thrust out a foot and the plump young man fell. He rebounded like a ball. Catching him on the rebound, Cary called to the elderly steward:
“Do you talk English? What’s your name?”
“Rufus Pilley, sah. I’se a British subjec’ f’um Jamaica, if you please, Cap’n, an’ I stands on mah rights to be treated right. You don’t have to blam me with no pistol. At yo’ service, sah.”
“Bully for you, Rufus. Your views are sound. Who is this hot sport that I hold in my hands? Does he belong on board?”
“Th’ secon’ mate, Mr. Panchito, Cap’n, sah. You done scared him till he’s green as a lizard.”
“Lock him up, Rufus. The pantry will do. Step lively.”
Mr. Panchito offered no resistance. It was a thing to be thankful for that the Yellow Tiger had spared his life. Having tucked him away, Captain Cary exclaimed:
“Now, Rufus Pilley, help me lug Mr. Duff to his room. He will wake up with a headache. Sorry, but it couldn’t be helped.”
“Thank you, sah. When you gits done an’ finished with disciplinin’ the crew, kin I serve you a tasty suppah, Cap’n? It looks like it’s hungry wuk a-conquerin’ all hands like th’ way you started off.”
“You are a sensible man,” grinned Cary. “We’ll get on well.”
They left Mr. Duff in his room. He displayed no interest. Cary looked in at Señor Ramon Bazán. It was like being in charge of an infirmary. The aged treasure-seeker was awake. He demanded a nip of rum and lime-juice. It was an auspicious symptom. Rufus Pilley, very sympathetic, volunteered as a nurse for the night. He trotted off to mix the drink.
“I was afraid you were fighting, Ricardo,” said Papa Ramon. “If you will bring the chief officer here, I can explain it so he will understand you are the captain.”
“Oh, Mr. Duff is quiet enough,” was the careless reply. “He has just turned in. You heard something smash? Mr. Duff dropped a bottle. You turn over and go to sleep again as soon as the steward brings the toddy. We are off for Cocos Island in the morning, with a westward ho and a rumbelow!”
“I am a very happy old man, Ricardo. Yes, I will sleep like a child. The ship is safe with you.”
With two officers mutinous and the crew yet to deal with, Captain Cary was not as happy as Señor Bazán. He went into the wheel-house and found the voice tube to the engine-room.
“Is this the chief?” he asked.
“Yes. Who the dickens are you?”
“The master, Captain Cary. Come to the saloon right away, if you please.”
“Right away, sir.”
“Can you kick her out of harbor at daybreak?”
“She can do that much, Captain Cary. Come down here later and I’ll make you weep.”
It was the tired voice of a Yankee from down east, rare music to Richard Cary’s ears. Presently the youthful chief engineer came dragging his lank frame into the saloon. A greasy cap was pulled over a shock of brown hair. The boiler suit was black with oil and coal dust. His face was besmirched like a burnt-cork minstrel. The white teeth gleamed in the smile of a rover who could not be daunted by life’s rough roads. He was a tropical tramp because he liked it.
“You look to me as if old Daddy Bazán knew where to find the right skipper,” said he, reaching for the water pitcher. “This is one pie-eyed voyage to the west coast, believe me. My name is Charlie Burnham, sir, and it takes a good deal to give me the yips or I’d be raving right now.”
“Burnham?” said Cary. “You sound like a letter from home. There are lots of Burnhams in my New Hampshire village of Fairfield.”
“Cousins of mine, I guess. Shucks, I was raised in Tobey Center, only thirty miles from Fairfield. I’m a hick from a rock-ribbed farm. It was the darned chores that made me run away, cows to milk and wood to chop and snow to shovel, and stone walls to break your back.”
“Shake hands on that,” grinned Captain Cary. “Is there such a place as New Hampshire on the map?”
“Gosh, you wouldn’t think so. It was never like this. Say, there can’t be two men like you on this coast. You must be the bird who got mad and cleaned up Cartagena a while ago. You sure did make yourself hard to find. This looks like a nice get-away for you. I’m not butting in on your affairs, am I?”
“Not a bit, Charlie Burnham. I’m the bird. Now tell me about this unholy old hooker. What have you got for a black gang?”
“Two assistants. That’s what they signed on as. Colombians. Eight nigger firemen and a couple of oilers. I can cuss in Spanish so we’re doing pretty well. Short-handed, but I couldn’t scrape up another damn man.”
“What about the deck force? Did Mr. Duff have any better luck?”
“Half a dozen black-and-tans, Indians and such. I guess I can steal one or two of ’em at a pinch.”
Charlie Burnham gulped another glass of water and fished a cigarette from a damp packet. He was eyeing the tall, fair-haired skipper with a certain grave concern. Cary noticed the change of manner and missed the brave twinkle. Something worried his valiant Yankee engineer.
“What’s on your mind, Charlie?” he asked. “You can’t be getting cold feet. It’s a great life if you keep calm. I’ll be glad to help you handle your crowd.”
“Oh, I can ride those ginks, Captain Cary. I got wise to their curves when I was running the ice plant at Barranquilla. But look here, I don’t want to be a false alarm, so don’t kid me. You may have a lively time getting this ship away. For one thing, this rummy of a chief officer has made no hit with me.”
“I made a hit with him,” gravely replied Cary, “but it may not last long. What else is in your noddle?”
“A dozen of these men are ashore, Captain Cary, and most of ’em will be pickled when they come off to-night. They were having a pow-wow on deck yesterday. It meant nothing in my young life, but it popped into my mind just now. It was this crazy dope aboutEl Tigre Amarillo—they swore he was still hiding in Cartagena—and the main gazabo of the police had offered a thousand dollars reward for the outlaw, dead or alive. One of the firemen had a poster and was reading it to the bunch. They got all jazzed up over it. You know how they go up in the air. Every mother’s son of ’em was all set to grabEl Tigrewith his bare hands and get the thousand dollars.”
“Flattering, I call it,” said Cary. “I hadn’t heard about the reward. They will try to cash in before we sail, Charlie?”
“It may be a flivver, sir, but I thought I ought to tip you off. They won’t have the nerve unless they see a chance to rush you in a mob.”
“Then I must keep them from getting their heads together,” said Cary. “And my two deck officers are of no use to me. That is unfortunate.”
“I’ll say so,” replied the chief engineer, “but I’ll do my best to make that thousand dollars hard to collect. Sorry I must go below, sir. Be sure to give me a call when the party begins.”
CHAPTER XIV
The master of theValkyrieprowled on deck for some time. The two or three men in the forecastle had ceased their noise and were presumably in their bunks. The steamer was quiet. Cary regretted that he had been compelled to tap Mr. Duff on the head, but there had been no other way out of it. Quick action had been demanded or the dandyish second mate, Mr. Panchito, might have escaped from the saloon to raise an alarm.
First impressions of Mr. Bradley Duff had been more favorable than expected. He amounted to more than a rum-eaten shell of a man. There had been no cowardice in his violent rebellion. His sense of the fitness of things had been outraged, that a chief officer left in charge of a ship should be challenged by a crazy vagabond with no credentials.
On shore Mr. Duff might be a blatant ruin. To such men, however, the sea is often the breath of salvation, and its austere traditions have power to restore, for the time, the habits of courage and fidelity.
To Richard Cary the whole adventure had taken a disagreeable slant. The flavor was spoiled. He was out of the frying-pan into the fire. The tidings of that thousand-dollar reward stuck in his throat. It hadn’t occurred to him that this Colombian crew might regard him as a treasure to be hunted with murderous enthusiasm. The shoe was very much on the wrong foot. If Señor Bazán was aware of this excessively awkward aspect, he was not letting it fret him. His confidence in the colossal Ricardo who plucked iron bars from windows and walked out of prisons was either sublime or senile.
Could anything be attempted during the night? It would be easy enough to stay under cover until after the boat-load of firemen and sailors had returned from the town. But this would not get the steamer to sea unless—unless—yes, there was a fighting chance.
Richard Cary walked the deck, trying to fit together this detail and that. He had no fatuous intentions of storming through the ship and crushing mutiny single-handed. The chief engineer, willing as he was, ought to be left below with his invalid machinery. And any disturbance on board would be certain to attract attention on shore.
While Captain Cary, with deliberate scrutiny, was weighing and testing his plans, he heard the splash of oars and the cadenced thump of thole-pins. The ship’s boat presently bumped alongside with much loud mirth and gusty argument. Cary withdrew to the wheel-house where he could watch them go forward to their quarters. They lingered in a noisy group, evidently surprised at finding no officer on watch. What was to be done with the boat? Should they hoist it to the davits or leave it in the water? One of the mates ought to be somewhere about to give orders. However, these returning mariners were weary after much liquor and dancing with the girls. They forgot the boat and stumbled forward, weaving this way and that, arms around one another, singing sentimentally.
Richard Cary counted them as well as he could. A dozen or so! Charlie Burnham must have kept a couple more on watch in the fire-room. The two or three already in the forecastle accounted for the lot. There was this to be said for this scratch crew of Colombians. They had not run wild ashore. It had been a harmless spree.
Cary went to the gangway and turned the boat adrift. It was a needless hazard to leave it tied alongside. There should be no scrambling out of the ship in the morning to arouse the police of Cartagena. One hornet’s nest was enough. Next he stole into the chief officer’s room and flashed the light on him. Alas, Mr. Duff was indisposed to be an active partner. He slumbered heavily, his crimsoned nose trumpeting like a bugle. His gray hair was slightly clotted, but the pistol butt had no more than scratched it. The effect had been more soporific than serious.
Shaking his shoulder failed to stir him, although he grunted and muttered a very profane desire to be let alone. This was disappointing. Captain Cary turned his steps to the room which harbored Señor Ramon Bazán. The steward nodded in a chair. He put a finger to his lips and whispered:
“Sleepin’ like he was rocked in a cradle, Cap’n. What kin I do foh you, sah?”
“Produce that supper you promised me, Rufus. I shall be kept up all night.”
“Right away, sah. I didn’t hear you blam no more people,” hopefully observed the steward as he ambled aft. “Th’ reason I has lived a long while an’ kep’ mah health is, ’cause I abstained mahself from fool questions. But what does you aim to do wid th’ second mate, Mr. Panchito? You done lock him in mah pantry. How kin I find suppah foh you, Cap’n?”
“Sure enough, Rufus. How careless of me! What is your opinion of Mr. Panchito?”
“He ain’t so worse, sah, tho’ dese Colombia yaller men don’t class with us Jamaica folks, in mah jedgment. Mr. Panchito was in th’ Colombia navy till th’ navy filled up an’ sunk one night, right smack in dis yere harbor, Cap’n. It got tired of stayin’ afloat. Th’ one gunboat was all the Colombia navy done was, so Mr. Panchito had to go git him another job. Um-m-m, when you come bulgin’ in to-night he was so skeered his hair mighty near unkinked. It was jes’ like a nightmare bustin’ in on him—wid all dis say-so ’boutEl Diabloprancin’ an’ ravin’ through Cartagena.”
“That sounds better,” heartily exclaimed the skipper. “You have seen the owner of the vessel, Señor Bazán, and you know I am the lawful master. Can you talk to Mr. Panchito in his own lingo?”
“Yes, Cap’n. I was two years in a gen’leman’s house in Cartagena, an’ then he ups an’ dies on me.”
“Then make Mr. Panchito savvey that I am easy to get along with if he jumps lively.”
Mr. Panchito was released from the pantry, anticipating sudden death. Nothing like this had ever happened in the navy of Colombia. When invited to sit at table with a good-humoredEl Diablowho smiled often, he plucked up spirit and found his own voice. In his heart was dismay at the thought of losing this position as second mate, with its excellent wages, and he was anxious to do anything in his power to hold it. To annoy this giant of a captain was to be rapped on thecabezawith a pistol butt. Mr. Panchito had not the remotest idea of collecting any thousand-dollar reward.
After a refreshing supper, Captain Cary and Mr. Panchito went arm-in-arm to the wheel-house. The chief engineer sent up the information that the first assistant, two firemen, and an oiler were on watch, to keep steam in readiness for morning.
“Hold them down there, Charlie,” was the order. “Have you got a gun?”
“A sort of a one. All right, sir, I’ll hold ’em here. What’s the big idea?”
“Fetch me a hammer and spikes and some short pieces of scantling. I won’t need the rest of the crew in the morning. Can you manage to shove her as far as the Boca Chica?”
“Sure! I sling a mean shovel myself. Nail ’em up? That’s a corker.”
Soon Captain Cary went forward, with Mr. Panchito, to reconnoiter. A wooden house with large windows had been built, at Mr. Duff’s suggestion, to give the crew lodgings more livable in the tropics than the noisome kennels under the deck of the vessel’s bow. These were so leaky that rough weather would flood them, and they were foully dark. It had been cheaper to build a shelter than to make the necessary repairs.
Mr. Panchito was eager to assist the captain’s hasty carpentry by discouraging with a pistol any attempts to break out. The doors had hasps and padlocks, but these could not withstand much battering from within. Richard Cary spiked them fast with swift, powerful blows of a machinist’s hammer. The noise awoke the dozen sailors and firemen. For the moment they imagined the mate was pounding to call all hands on deck. They tumbled from the bunks, crowded to the doors, and couldn’t push them open.
Caramba!There was a commotion in this stout wooden coop. Bare toes could not kick through obstinate doors. The terrific hammering dinned at them. It was like being inside a bass drum. Fearfully they flew for the windows.
And now the rotund Mr. Panchito exhibited a frenzied agility. He bounded from one window to another, flourishing the pistol, pushing a head back, belaboring a wriggling pair of shoulders. It was like a multiplied jack-in-the-box. He caught one limber fellow by the leg as he dived for the deck. Into the window he stuffed him by main strength. Mr. Panchito was magnificent. As a second mate he was already deserving encomiums.
Laughter made Richard Cary miss a spike as often as he hit it. He too had to gallop round and round the wooden structure which seemed to have a hundred windows and as many frantic men trying to spill out of them. Never had he heard the Spanish language so molten that it actually threatened to set a building on fire. As fast as he rammed a man inside, he slapped a piece of board across a window and whacked the spikes into it.
Mr. Panchito was running himself to death. He sounded like a whistling buoy. There was no leisure for him while those infernal heads were popping out, andEl Diablowas at his heels. One by one the windows were made secure enough to check the eruption. Then Captain Cary had time to spike more boards across the windows. Even if the captives should pull the bunks to pieces for battering-rams, they were safely caged for the present. In their own tongue Mr. Panchito informed them through the cracks that if they cared to live longer it was essential to be as still as mice and to beseech the goodness of God on their sinful knees.
“Mucho bueno, Capitan Cary,” exclaimed this excellent second mate whose pink shirt stuck wetly to his skin.
“One hundred per centbueno,” was the hearty verdict. “If the Colombian navy hadn’t dropped out from under you, it would have been Admiral Panchito some day.”
“Si, señor.Now ees what?”
“Now is what? That is as bright a remark as I ever had put up to me, Mr. Panchito.” (Cary held up two fingers.) “Dos hombres!Just the two of us. We must make the old steamboat,el vapor, vamoose from Cartagena.”
“Dos hombres? Si, señor,” instantly agreed the second mate to whom nothing was now incredible.
They adjourned to the saloon where the steward was waiting with food and drink.
“Seems like I heard yo’ conquerin’ somebody else, Cap’n Cary.”
“You did, Rufus. Now I’ve knocked off. I forgot to ask you—is there a cook to be accounted for?”
“Yes, sah. He come aboard with th’ men an’ is sleepin’ it off.”
“Please turn him out for an early breakfast. Does he have to be conquered?”
“Not him. I showed one nigger who was boss yestiddy. Um-m-m, I’se his speshul brand of Yellow Tiger.”
“Then we are all checked up,” said Cary. “Now, Mr. Panchito, you can siesta yourself on those cushions for an hour or two. I’ll be on deck.”
Dawn had no more than touched Cartagena with rosy fingers when Mr. Panchito was lifted from the cushions and stood upon his feet. Captain Cary was holding a steaming cup of coffee under his nose. The second mate rubbed his kinky head with both hands, yawned, and sighed a long “Si, señor.” Gently but firmly he was led forward and escorted into the wheel-house. Did he know the channel out through the lagoon? To Cary’s gestures he nodded confident assent. Through the voice tube the chief engineer assured them that she could flop her propeller over if nobody spoke harshly to her. Leaving Mr. Panchito propped against the steering-wheel, Cary ran to the bow to handle the anchor winch himself.
He opened the valves and grasped the lever. Steam hissed from rusty connections, but the piston began to chug back and forth. Anxiously he threw the winch into gear. With a frightful clamor the drum very slowly revolved, dragging in the links of the cable. If the winch didn’t fly into fragments or pull itself out of the deck, the anchor would have to break out of the mud.
A series of protesting shrieks from the laboring winch, a dead stop, another effort, and it was taking hold in grim earnest. The cable was coming home link by link. Cary jumped to look overside. The huge ring of the anchor came surging out of the water. TheValkyriewas free. Her master let the winch revolve until the anchor hung flat against the bow. This was good enough. It could be stowed later.
He waved his hand to Mr. Panchito who had drooped himself over a window ledge of the wheel-house. The pink shirt moved over to the steering-wheel. The whistle of theValkyrieblew no farewell to the port of Cartagena. It would have been a foolish waste of steam.
The steamer sluggishly gathered headway, riding light in ballast. It was odd to see her heading for sea without any visible crew. Twohombreswere in the wheel-house. Not a soul moved on deck.
Safely she avoided the shoals and made the wide circuit to swing into the narrow fairway of the Boca Chica between the mouldering, grass-grown forts. By now Captain Richard Cary was pacing the bridge in solitary grandeur. His brow was serene with contentment. The ship was heaving under his feet as she felt the swell of the wide Caribbean. He was gazing ahead.
“ ‘Now ees what?’ ” he said to himself. A rumbling cough made him whirl about. Mr. Bradley Duff was clinging to a stanchion with one hand. The other tenderly caressed his scalp. On his puffy features was written a bitter resentment. The night’s rest had not sweetened his temper. Cary was quick to offer amends.
“I hated to have to do it, Mr. Duff. Señor Bazán was near dying in my room, and I didn’t dare jolt him with any more excitement. You refused to listen to me—”
“I went in and saw the old gentleman just now,” grumpily replied the chief officer. “He set me straight about you. I didn’t air my troubles. He has chirked up quite a bit. But what was the sense in all the hush stuff? Why didn’t the old coot tell me you were coming aboard to take command? Do you think I’d ’a’ blabbed it ashore? It was nothing to me if a big Yankee sailorman had enjoyed beating up the town.”
“You wouldn’t have blabbed when you were sober,” said Cary. “It was the Colombian crew that made Señor Bazán nervous. They had some foolish notions about me.”
“And so you boxed up the crew, Captain Cary? That is a new one on me. And now you will have to turn ’em loose. How about that?”
“Not a thing to worry about, if you feel like turning to, Mr. Duff,” was the cheery assurance.
This compliment so astonished Mr. Duff that he blew his mustache like a walrus. He tried, with no great success, to push his chest out and pull his stomach in. His bleary eye brightened as he ripped out:
“Hell’s bells, young man, we’ll show ’em who runs this ship. Of course they may refuse duty and try to make you put back. Seems to me I heard some mention of a thousand dollars reward for you. It went in one ear and out the other. I never needed money bad enough to dirty my hands by crimping a fellow Yank in a foreign port. You’ll take my word for that.”
“I believe you, Mr. Duff. Then I will release the men and set the watches, if they behave themselves.”
“One moment, Captain Cary,” growled the beach-comber. “You bent a gun over my crust last night, and I’m willing to forget that, which is very handsome of me. But you insulted me professionally and I feel hurt. You called it a filthy ship. Let me tell you, I was commanding smart vessels when you were a clumsy pup. You don’t know what I have had to contend with in this blistered old scow that ought to be scrapped. The owner hollers murder when you ask him for paint. Now you back me up and I’ll make this ship so clean you can eat off her decks. You can’t tell me one bloody word about a chief officer’s job.”
“I apologize,” smiled Cary. “It was unfair of me. I snapped it out before I thought. Go to it. Between us we’ll shake the crew down.”
The swag-bellied Mr. Duff was pacified. He looked almost pleasant. His professional instincts had been not dead but dormant. Presently he trudged forward to pull the spikes from the doors of the forecastle house. The men came piling out, hungry and hostile. Mr. Duff’s fist smote the first one under the chin. The others took the hint. They were not so rampant.
On the bridge they happened to descry the figure of a very tall and broad young man with a thatch of yellow hair that shone in the sun like spun gold. In every way he was a most unusual young man. He was looking at them with steady, untroubled eyes, as if they were no more than so many noisy insects.
This was a great surprise. The young man could be none other than the dreadedTigre Amarillowhose capture they had so gayly discussed for the fun of spending an imaginary fortune. Last night, when the boards had been mysteriously nailed on the windows, there had been frightened surmises—the man with the hammer had been ever so much bigger and more powerful than Mr. Duff—but they had later agreed that they were drunk and their vision was untrustworthy.
Swiftly now their startled minds were adjusting themselves. Their emotions were easy to read. Sixteen men in all, if they could unite—the ship was still within sight of the Boca Chica—if they couldn’t manage to take her all the way back to Cartagena they could anchor inside and send a boat once they had gotten the upper hand of the threeAmericanos. The second mate and the assistant engineers were Colombians. They would be glad to aid the cause of justice. This yellow-haired monster of a man had been guilty of crimes to make one shudder.
Captain Richard Cary saw them hesitate and crowd together. He jumped down the iron ladder and shoved into the group. A knife flashed. He slapped the hand that held it. The sailor clasped a benumbed wrist. The chief officer was bravely collaring them. It was no more than a flurry. They were given no time to organize and act cohesively.
“Hustle ’em along, Mr. Duff,” said Cary. “Breakfast be hanged! Send the firemen below. Put your sailors at work. Keep all hands moving. Give me a good man to relieve the second mate at the wheel. We are too short-handed to stave any of them up. So be as easy as you can.”
“Here is a quartermaster, sir,” panted Mr. Duff, jerking his thumb at a chunky fellow with a boil on his neck.
“Aye, I’ll just take him along,” said the skipper.
With this he grasped the quartermaster around the waist, deftly flipped him head down and heels up and, thus reversed, tucked him under one arm. Encumbered in this manner, Captain Cary strode for the wheel-house where he stood his spluttering quartermaster right end up and cuffed him erect. He was shown the course on the compass card in the binnacle. He gripped the spokes with the most zealous sincerity. He had no other thought in the world than to steer an absolutely correct course. Neither to the right nor left did he glance.
The steamer’s speed increased to five knots. The chief engineer, still at his post, called through the tube:
“All the firemen came tumbling down at once, Captain Cary. They are awful sore about no breakfast. This bunch of mine would sooner eat than fight.”
“I’ll send grub and coffee down, Charlie. Can you stand by two or three hours longer? Things are smoothing out.”
“Sure I can. These engines interest me. I just sit and wonder what makes ’em go. Come down when you get a minute.”
“Right-o, Charlie boy. It looks like a happy voyage, even if we did get off to a bum start.”
Soon Mr. Duff lumbered to the bridge to report:
“I am going to feed my animals directly, sir. They are washing down with the hose and scrubbing for their lives. A smart ship, by the time we slide into the Pacific! The second mate refused to go off watch. He bounces after the men and damns their eyes if they turn their heads to spit. The only moment Mr. Panchito took off was to shift into a purple silk shirt and a necktie with yellow spots.”
The routine set in motion, Richard Cary went in to visit the invalid Señor Ramon Bazán. He was sitting up in bed. Joyously he piped:
“A life on the ocean wave, Ricardo! I am a man ten years younger. And the ship has sailed with no trouble at all. How is my fine ship and my great captain?”
“Not a care in the world,” was the genial reply. “Everybody earning his wages and the course set for the Isthmus.”
“Bend your ear down, Ricardo mine. Softly now. There is no whisper of our secret plans? They know nothing about the treasure chart and Cocos Island?”
“Not a suspicion, Papa Ramon. To Buenaventura for orders and thence with cargo.”
“What kind of a crew is it to trust when we find the six million dollars and the gold ingots? This is the only thing that has worried me, Ricardo. I could do no better for a crew in Cartagena. This chief officer, Bradley Duff. Will he be a bad egg?”
“Right as can be. You can’t always judge a man by his looks and manners. As for the crew, there will be no trouble with them.”
“El Draque has come again to the Spanish Main,” said Ramon Bazán, fondly regarding his commander. “Remember now! The treasure chart is wrapped in the rubber cloth, under my shirt, Ricardo. Now take me into my own room and you get yourself all settled comfortably in here where you belong.”
To theValkyriecame a breathing spell. Outwardly she was an unlovely little ocean tramp which had seen much better days, plodding along the Colombian coast on some humdrum errand to earn a pittance by begging cargoes from port to port. Her discolored sides rolled to the regular impulses of the sea and the propeller blades flailed the water into foam. A banner of black smoke trailed from the shabby funnel and spread behind her in a dirty smudge.
The early morning weather had been kind to these argonauts. During the forenoon, however, Mr. Duff cocked a knowing eye at the barometer and sniffed the warm breeze. It was damper than he liked. His feet pained him more than usual. His broken arches had warned him of more than one sudden gale of wind and rain. He mentioned his misgivings to Captain Cary who received them with respect. They set about doing what they could to make things secure, swinging the boats inboard and lashing them, covering hatches, attending to odds and ends neglected in the haste of departure.
Even while they toiled, the sky grew overcast and the sea lost its sparkle. The wind veered this way and that before it began to blow strongly out of the east. It threatened to blow much harder. The crew realized that theValkyriewas ill-prepared to endure furious weather. They laid aside all ideas of plotting mutiny. It was more essential to save themselves from drowning.
By noon the steamer was wallowing in a gray waste of raging water. She rolled with a sickening motion as if about to turn bottom up. The seas broke solid on her decks and poured through smashed skylights, through the leaky joints of deadlights, through weather-cracked doors. When pounded and submerged like this, the ship was not much tighter than a basket.
Leaving Mr. Duff on the bridge, Richard Cary went down to the engine-room. He found a red-eyed, haggard Charlie Burnham hanging to the throttle valve with both hands to ease her or to jam ahead when the indicator bell whirred like an alarm clock. Water was slashing over the greasy floor plates. The first assistant was up to his waist in the filth of the bilge, trying to clear the pumps of the loose coal which had choked the suction pipe. He was a small man limp with seasickness and bruises. When he stooped over to try to claw the coal away and free the suction strainer, the water boiled over his head as the ship rolled far down.
Cary crawled over and pulled him out of the bilge. Here was a job for a man of more height and strength. He plunged in himself and was working with the energy of a dredge when Charlie Burnham slid across the floor to yell in his ear:
“The pumps are drawing a little, sir. You can clear it if anybody can. If you don’t, it’s good-night. We’ve got to keep the water down or it will put out the fires.”
Cary wiped the floating grease from his eyes and grunted:
“I’ll do my best to clear it, Charlie, if I have to stand on my head. How is she steaming?”
“Like a dizzy old miracle. Better than she knows how. It’s lucky I held all the firemen below. They are working short shifts, but it’s banging ’em around something awful.”
Twenty minutes later, Captain Cary hauled himself out of the bilge. The pumps were sturdily pulling water, and the flood in the engine-room had been checked. He went into the stokehold. Half-naked men were staggering and tumbling to and fro in a fog of steam from the hot ashes and salt water. Red coals spilled out when a furnace door was opened. Frequently the wretched toilers lost their footing and were flung headlong. Arms were seared with burns, bodies contused.
When the captain of the ship suddenly loomed among them, they cowered from him, dropping slice-bars, letting coal fall from their shovels. Their nerves were already rasped to breaking. They were disheartened men dumbly struggling for survival against the obliterating ocean. Instead of striking and cursing them, this mighty captain was smiling like a friend. He snatched a shovel from a half-dead fireman with a bleeding shoulder and pushed him out of the way. The shovel ate into a pile of coal on the floor and swiftly fed it into a furnace door.