"Sometimes I feared for my liberty, and sometimes for my life. I have had to take refuge in Cuba and the United States; much of my money has been spent. But the determination to win freedom and good government spreads. We are growing strong, and soon the reckoning with our oppressors will come."
"Will things be very much better afterward?"
Sarmiento spread out his hands.
"Who can tell? One strives and hopes for the best. It is all that is possible. Some day, perhaps, comes a small instalment of what one fights for."
Grahame did not answer, and his companion sank into the melancholy that often characterized him. He was engaged in an arduous struggle, and Grahame suspected that disappointment would meet him even in hardly won victory. The man was sincere, and had sacrificed much for his country's sake; but he could not work alone, and it might happen that his helpers, tasting power, would restore the abuses he had destroyed. It looked as if he knew this, but did not let it daunt him.
After a long silence Sarmiento took out his watch.
"I think I had better go on board the Pinillo boat now," he said. "Our business is done, and it is well that you sail to-morrow. When we are ready for the next cargo, you will hear from us."
Pulling down his hat, he left the café with his cloak thrown loosely over his shoulder, but Grahame noticed that he was careful to keep his right hand free.
There was no wind except the draught the steamer made as she lurched across the dazzling swell. Cuba floated like a high, blue cloud over the port hand, cut off from the water by a blaze of reflected light, and the broad Yucatan Channel, glimmering like silver, stretched ahead. The deck had been holystoned and well sluiced before sunrise and was not quite dry, and there was a slight coolness in the air where Evelyn Cliffe sat under the awning.
Macallister leaned on the rail near by, wearing a white cap with a mail company's badge, and a blue jacket over his greasy duck. He had given his dress some thought since the passengers came on board. Miguel stood at the wheel, barefooted, tall, and picturesque in spotless white, with a red cap and a red sash round his waist. A few big logs of hardwood that gave out an aromatic smell were made fast amidships.
"I suppose that lumber's valuable," Evelyn remarked.
"It depends upon whether ye want to buy or sell," Macallister replied. "They telt us good logs were scarce in Cuba, but I doubt we'll find demand is slack when we come to part wi' them."
"Then the trade can't be very profitable."
"It's just changing a shilling. Sometimes ye get a ha'penny over."
Evelyn laughed.
"Which one of you looks after business matters?"
"I'm thinking it will have to be Walthew. The lad shows a natural ability."
"But he's younger than Mr. Grahame—and probably has not had as much experience."
Macallister gave her a half-amused glance.
"The skipper's no' a fool, but when he makes a bargain he's frank and quick. States the fair price and sticks to it. He will not spend time in scheming how he can screw a few more dollars out o' the other man. Yon's a gift ye must be born with."
"Do you mean Mr. Grahame rather despises money-making?"
"No' that exactly," Macallister replied in a confidential tone. "But, ye see, he's a Grahame o' Calder Ha'."
"Oh! Is that a great distinction?"
"It depends on how ye look at things. His branch o' the family is maybe no' o' much importance noo, but in the old wild days the lairds o' Calder Ha' were chiefs on the Border. They guarded the moss roads, they kept the fords, and the kings at Stirling and Westminster noo bought their goodwill with presents and noo hanged a few o' the clan."
"And Calder Hall? Is it one of the rude stone towers you see pictures of?"
Macallister smiled.
"Calder Ha's bonny. The old tower stands, with the coat o' arms above the door, but a low, gray housewith stone-ribbed windows runs back where was once the bailly wall. Below's a bit ragged orchard, the bent trees gray with fog, and then the lawn dropping to the waterside. Nae soft Southern beauty yonder; but ye feel the charm o' the cold, rugged North." He paused, and resumed with a reminiscent air: "I mind how I went to Calder Ha' when I was a young and romantic laddie fired by Scott and him who taught the wandering winds to sing; the tales o' the Ettrick shepherd were thought good reading then. After a bit plain speaking to the foreman o' a Clydeside engine shop, I was fitting spinning gear in a new woolen mill, and I left the narrow Border town on a holiday dawn.
"There was mist along the alders and a smell o' wet dust where the white road followed the waterside, but as the sun came ower the hills I took to the moor. Red it was like crimson velvet with the light upon the ling, rolling on to Cheviot-foot, with the brown grouse crying and the clear sky above. At noon I came down a bit water that tumbled in a linn, where rowans grew among the stones and the eddies were amber with the seeping from the peat. The burn got wider, the bare hills closed in; and then I came on Calder Ha' at a turning o' the glen. Black firs behind it, standing stiff like sentinels; the house with the tower in the middle on the breast o' the brae, and the lawn running doon to a pool. Then I kent why the Grahames loved it and would never sell, though many a rich man would have bought the place from them."
"Did you tell Mr. Grahame this?" Evelyn asked.
"Maybe it makes things easier that he thinks I dinna ken," said Macallister.
Evelyn agreed, for she saw that his reticence was caused by tactful sympathy. Afterward she was silent for a time. The Scot's admiration for the old Border house appealed to her. He had shown a taste and a half-poetical imagination that she had not suspected when they first met; but it was not of Macallister she was thinking. After all, it must be something to belong to a family with such traditions as clung about Calder Hall; but she must not dwell too much on this.
"Aren't we going slowly?" she asked.
"Coal's dear in the West Indies, and the slower ye go the less ye use. But if ye are tiring o' the trip, I might drive her a bit faster."
Evelyn glanced across the long undulations that were deep-blue in the hollows, and touched upon their summits with brilliant light. She liked to feel the easy lift as theEnchantressshouldered off the swell; the drowsy murmur at the bows and the rhythmical throb of engines were soothing. Then there was a pleasant serenity in the wide expanse. But she was honest with herself, and she knew that the beauty of the calm sea did not quite account for the absence of any wish to shorten the voyage.
"Oh," she said, "please don't burn more coal than is necessary. I'm quite content. I love the sunshine and the smooth water."
Macallister strolled away, but she saw his twinkling smile and wondered whether he was satisfied with her excuse.
Evelyn lay back in her steamer-chair, looking out over the glistening water and idly watching the white-caps far out at sea. She felt, rather than saw, Grahame approach. When she turned to him, smiling, hewas close beside her, leaning against the rail. His pose was virile, and his expression marked by the quiet alertness she had learned to know. It suggested resolution, self-reliance, and power of command. These qualities were not obtrusively indicated, but Evelyn recognized them and wondered how much he owed to his being a Grahame of Calder Hall. Hereditary influences must be reckoned on.
"This is the first chance I've had to see you alone," he said. "I want to thank you for your help at the International."
"Was it useful?"
"Very useful. Your quickness and resourcefulness were surprising."
"That's a doubtful compliment," she laughed. "To me the affair was quite exciting. To feel that you're engaged in a conspiracy gives you a pleasant thrill."
"I wonder!" Grahame remarked rather grimly. "But may I ask——"
"Oh, I can't dissect the impulses that prompted me. No doubt, the hint of intrigue was attractive—and perhaps friendship counted too."
"And you took the excellence of my intentions on trust?"
"Well, there really was no time to question you, and judge if they were good. As a matter of fact, I'm no wiser now."
"No," he said. "On the whole, I think it's better that you shouldn't know."
"It looks as if I'm more confiding than you."
Grahame, studying her face, suspected disappointed curiosity and a touch of pique.
"Your confidence is yours, to give or withhold as you think best. Mine, however, belongs to others."
"Then there are a number of people in the plot!"
Grahame laughed.
"If it's any comfort for you to know, when you came to our rescue that night in Havana you helped a man who has made many sacrifices for a good cause."
"As you're too modest to mean yourself, you must be speaking of the gentleman with the pretty daughter."
"Yes, Doña Blanca is pretty; but I prefer the Anglo-Saxon type. There's a charm in tropical languor, but one misses the bracing keenness of the North." He quoted with a smile,
"Oh, dark and true and tender——"
"Oh, dark and true and tender——"
"We may be true; one likes to think so. But I'm not sure that tenderness is a characteristic of ours."
"It's not lightly given, but it goes deep and lasts," Grahame answered.
When he left her a few minutes afterward, Evelyn sat thinking languidly. She found him elusive. He was frank, in a way, but avoided personal topics. Then, remembering the scrap of verse he had quoted, she reflected that he was certainly a Northerner in feeling; but was truth, after all, an essential feature of the type? To be really true, one must be loyal to one's inner self and follow one's heart. But this was risky. It might mean sacrificing things one valued and renouncing advantages to be gained. Prudence suggested taking the safe, conventional course that wouldmeet with the approval of one's friends; but Romance stood, veiled and mysterious, beckoning her, and she thrilled with an instinctive response. Now, however, she felt that she was getting on to dangerous ground, and she joined Cliffe, who sat in the shade of the deckhouse, talking to Walthew; but they did not help her to banish her thoughts. Her father was a practical business man, and Walthew had enjoyed a training very similar to hers. It was strange that he should now seek adventures instead of riches, and stranger still that her father should show some sympathy with him.
An hour later Grahame found Macallister leaning on the rail, contentedly smoking his pipe.
"She's only making seven knots; you're letting steam down," he said.
"Weel," rejoined Macallister, "we're saving coal, and we'll be in Kingston soon enough. Then, Miss Cliffe's no' in a hurry. She's enjoying the smooth water; she telt me so."
Grahame looked hard at him.
"You have a dangerous love of meddling, Mack," he said.
"I'll no' deny it. For a' that, I've had thickheaded friends who've been grateful to me noo and then. What ye have no' is the sense to ken an opportunity."
"What do you mean by that?"
Macallister's manner grew confidential.
"She's thinking about ye and when a lassie goes so far——"
Grahame stopped him with a frown.
"I'd sooner you dropped this nonsense. It's a poor joke."
"Weel, if ye have no ambition! Selling guns to revolutionists is no' a remarkably profitable business, particularly if ye're caught, and I was thinking ye might do better. The girl's no' bad to look at; I've seen ye watching her."
"Not bad to look at!" Grahame checked himself. "We'll talk about something else."
"As ye like!"
Macallister took out a small, tapered piece of steel.
"This, ye ken, is a cotter, and the dago from the foundry put it in. He was a good fitter, but the pin's a sixty-fourth too small for the slot. Maybe it was carelessness; but there would have been trouble when the cotter shook out if Walthew hadna' heard her knocking. Yon lad has the makings o' an engineer."
Grahame looked thoughtful.
"Gomez was in Havana, and I dare say he has his agents and spies. Still, if he suspected anything, it would have been a better stroke to have watched and seized us when we had the arms on board. I'd expect him to see it."
"Weel," said Macallister grimly, "if I meet yon dago another time, I'll maybe find out something before I throw him off the mole. A good engine's nearer life than anything man has made, and wrecking her is as bad as murder."
"I don't think our opponents would stick at that," Grahame replied as he turned away.
Toward evening the barometer fell, and it grew very hot. There was no wind, the sky was cloudless, and the sea rolled back to the horizon without a ripple. For all that, there was a curious tension in the atmosphere, and Evelyn noticed that soon afterMacallister came up for a few minutes and looked carefully about, thick smoke rose from the funnel. The girl's head felt heavy, and her skin prickly; and she saw that Grahame's hawk look was more noticeable than usual. He was, however, not fidgety, and after dinner he sat talking to her and Cliffe under the awning. The air was oppressively still, and a half-moon hung like a great lamp low above the sea.
About nine o'clock Cliffe went to his cabin to look for a cigar, and Evelyn and Grahame sat silent for a while, wrapped in the mystery of the night.
Evelyn was the first to speak.
"I suppose you don't expect this calm to last?" she asked in a hushed voice.
"I'd like it to last while you're with us. But I can't promise that," Grahame answered. "If we do get a breeze it will probably soon blow itself out."
Evelyn glanced at the sea.
"It doesn't look as if it could ever be ruffled," she said. "One likes smooth water—but it's apt to get monotonous."
"That's a matter of temperament, or perhaps experience. When you've had to battle with headwinds, you appreciate a calm."
"I don't know. So far, I've had only sunshine and fine weather, but then I've always clung to the sheltered coast. It's nice to feel safe, but one sometimes wonders what there is farther out."
"Breaking seas and icy gales that drive you off your course. Now and then islands of mystic beauty, but more often surf-beaten reefs. On the whole, it's wiser to keep in smooth water."
"Perhaps," Evelyn said skeptically. "Still, there's afascination in adventure, if it's only as a test of courage, and one feels tempted to take a risk."
She rose with a laugh.
"I don't know why I talk like this! I'm really a very practical girl—not a sentimentalist."
She moved away, and Grahame, calling one of the men to furl the awning, went into the deckhouse and deliberately pored over a chart. There were times when it was not safe to permit himself to think of Evelyn.
Evelyn was wakened by a peal of thunder, and as she drowsily lifted her head a blaze of lightning filled the narrow room. It vanished and there was another deafening crash. The darkness was now impenetrable, but the startled girl had seen that the deck was sharply slanted and her clothes hung at a wide angle to the paneling of the bulkhead. It was obvious that theEnchantresswas listed down nearly on her beam ends. A confused uproar was going on, and Evelyn thought she could distinguish the beating of heavy rain upon the deckhouse. This, however, was only for a few moments, because the other noises swelled into an overwhelming din.
Dropping from her berth, she began to dress in the dark, but found it difficult to keep her footing on the slanted deck, which lurched and threw her against the lockers, while the planking worked and shook with the throb of engines. Evelyn could not hear them, but the strong vibration showed that they were running fast.
It cost her an effort to refrain from rushing out on deck. Buttons baffled her nervous fingers, the pins she tried to use instead doubled up, but she persevered. She would not leave her room until she was ready: if the worst came, she could not make an open-boatvoyage in a disheveled state. That this should seem of importance did not strike her as curious then, but she afterward blushed as she remembered her determination to look as well as possible.
At last she opened the door and stepped out, ankle-deep in water. She was to lee of the deckhouse, and, seizing the hand-rail, tried to look about. The rain did not seem so heavy now, and the house sheltered her, although clouds of spray were flying across its top. A few feet away, the low bulwark was faintly distinguishable, but outside this there was only a dim glimmer of foam in the dark. TheEnchantresshad the wind and sea on her broadside. This surprised Evelyn, because it was not a safe position if the gale were as bad as it seemed. Then a shower of sparks leaped from the funnel and by the momentary light they gave she saw a white streak, cleanly cut off and slanting downward, at the crown of the escape pipe. Evidently, Macallister had raised more steam than he could use.
Wondering why Grahame had not brought the vessel head to wind, she moved aft cautiously, clinging to the rail, until she saw that the awning had broken loose from its lashings. Part of it thrashed about the deck, making a furious noise, but the rest, blown forward, had fouled the foresail boom, and was stretched tight, but distended like a half-filled balloon. Acting as a sail, it prevented the steamer from answering her helm. One or two very indistinct figures struggled with the canvas, but they seemed unable to master it, and Evelyn crept on until she could look through the skylight into the engine-room. It was here the real battle must be fought, for the cylinders that strainedunder top pressure were the vitals of the ship. She could see them shake, as if about to burst their fastening bolts and leap from the columns, as the big cross-heads banged up and down.
The iron room was well lighted, though the lamps hung at an alarming angle to the beams, and there was a confused glimmer of steel that flashed through the light and plunged into shadow. A half-naked man lay on a narrow grating, leaning down and touching a ponderous mass of metal as it swept past. In the momentary intervals before it came back he rubbed the bright slide it traveled on with a greasy swab, and the girl knew how important it was that nothing should get hot. The work was dangerous, because the least clumsiness might cost him his arm. When he stopped and turned sideways on the grating the light touched his face, and Evelyn started as she recognized Walthew.
He had enjoyed all the comforts and refinements to which she was accustomed, and it was from choice and not necessity that he was doing this rough, hazardous work. There were obviously people who did not attach an undue value to the ease that wealth could buy; this boy, for example, had left the safe, beaten track, and now, when still weak from fever, was taking the consequences without dismay. It looked as if there might be something wrong with her mother's philosophy; but she could think of this better when there was less risk of the steamer's foundering.
A man came along the deckhouse and put his arm round her waist as the ship gave a wild lurch. Evelyn laughed as she recognized her father. For a moment she had thought it was Grahame. Holding her tight,Cliffe moved on a yard or two, and then stopped at the corner of the house, where they could see something of what was going on.
It was lighter now that the rain had stopped, and presently a ray of moonlight traveled across the sea and touched the laboring vessel. Hove down by the pressure of the wind on deckhouse and awning, she had buried her lee bulwarks and lifted her weather side. Sheets of water blew across her, and the sea looked white as snow. It was not running high: the heavy rain had beaten down the swell; but it would soon rise, and unless the vessel could be brought head to wind the combers would sweep her deck.
As the beam of moonlight widened, the figures of the toiling men grew clear. One was clinging to the top of a tall stanchion in a grotesque monkey-like attitude, trying to cut loose the awning, for a knife sparkled in his hand. Another crouched on the deck with folds of the canvas in his arms. Miguel was bent over the wheel. The tenseness of his pose and his hard-set face suggested heavy muscular strain.
Grahame stood near by, his hand on a stay, swaying with the movement of the steamer. He was bareheaded and the spray lashed his face, but there was something that reassured the girl in his tranquillity.
It was useless to speak. The voice would have been drowned by the roar of the gale, while wire-shroud and chain-guy shrilled in wild harmonies. Evelyn stood fascinated, watching the quick, tense movements of the crew.
Presently Grahame turned his head, and, seeing them against the deckhouse, pointed toward the sea. Following his gesture, Evelyn saw a blurred objectleap out of the dark. It grew suddenly into definite form as it drove across the belt of moonlight: a small wooden barque with a deck-load of timber, staggering before the hurricane.
Fluttering rags showed where her maintopsail had blown from the ropes; curved ribands, held fast at head and foot, marked what was left of her fore-course, and puny figures dotted the yards, struggling futilely with clewed-up canvas that bulged out as if inflated hard. She had a torn jib and topsails set—strips of sail that looked absurdly small by comparison with the foam-lapped hull, but they were bearing her on at tremendous speed. Caught, no doubt lightly manned, by the sudden gale, they had had no time to shorten sail and bring her head to sea. She must run with what canvas was left her until the tornado broke, unless she broached to and her heavy deckload rolled her over.
So far, Evelyn had not felt much fear. There was something in the mad fury of the elements that, for a time, banished thought of personal danger. She was overwhelmed and yet conscious of a strange excitement; but the sight of the helpless ship had a daunting effect. Belted with leaping foam, bows up, poop down, the dripping hull drove by, plowing a snowy furrow through the tormented sea. When she plunged into the dark Evelyn was glad that she had gone. She wondered what could be done in this wild weather if theEnchantresswould not come round. But she had confidence in Grahame. As she looked at him he commandingly raised his hand.
Two men scrambled forward and a dark patch rose at the bows. It swelled and emptied, but the canvasheld, and Grahame struggled forward to help the others. The sail might stand if they could hoist it before it split. It ran higher up the stay; theEnchantressslowly fell off before the wind, and then leaped ahead with her bows lifted out of the foam.
Evelyn drew a deep breath of relief, for the immediate danger was over, and the vessel might run out of the worst of the storm. Cliffe nodded when she looked at him, and with some trouble they made their way into the house, where, with the door shut, they could hear themselves speak. Evelyn was wet with spray, but there was a high color in her face and her eyes shone. As she sat down, the house shook beneath a blow, and there was a savage flapping on the roof. Then something seemed driven across it, and they could hear only the wind and the sea again.
"The awning!" Cliffe said. "They've managed to cut it loose now that she's before the wind. I guess Grahame would rather have brought her head-on, but he won't have much trouble if they can keep her from broaching to. Were you scared?"
"No," Evelyn answered thoughtfully. "I suppose it was so appalling that I couldn't realize the danger. I really feel that I'd be sorry if I'd missed it."
Cliffe made a sign of comprehension.
"Well, this is the first time you've seen men hard up against a big thing. It's an illuminating experience; though a large number of people never get it. Some of them seem to imagine things go right of themselves, and there's no call now for strength and nerve. Anyhow, I was glad to feel that Grahame knew his business."
Evelyn was silent for a few moments. Her clotheswere wet and ought to be changed, but the tension on her nerves had not slackened much, and she felt restless and unwilling to be alone. Besides, there was a mild satisfaction in doing something imprudent, and she thought the storm had roused her father into a talkative mood. While indulgent to her, he was often marked by a certain reserve, which she had noticed her mother never tried to penetrate.
"I wonder why you decided to cross in this little boat, when we could have gone by one of the big passenger liners?" she said.
"Saved waiting, for one thing," Cliffe answered in a deprecatory tone. "Then I'll confess that I felt I'd like to do something that wasn't quite usual."
Evelyn laughed.
"It isn't a wish one would suspect you of."
"Well," Cliffe said with a twinkle, "I guess it was boyish, but we all have our weaknesses, though I don't often indulge mine. I find it doesn't pay. I'm a sober business man, but there's a streak of foolishness in me. Sometimes it works out and I feel that I want a frolic, for a change."
"Then you must have exercised some self-control."
"When I was a young man, I found my job square in front of me. I had to sit tight in the office, straighten out a business that had got rather complicated, and expand it if possible. It wasn't quite all I wanted to do, but I'd a notion that I could make my pile and then let myself go. It took me some years to get things straight, the pile was harder to make than I reckoned, and your mother had a use for all the money I could raise. Her ambition was to put the family high up in the social scale—and she's done it."
"So you stifled your longings and went on making money that we might have every advantage!" Evelyn said with a guilty feeling. "I feel ashamed when I realize it."
"I've been repaid," Cliffe replied. "Then, after a time, my job became congenial and got hold of me. The work became a habit; I didn't really want to break away." He paused and resumed with a humorous air: "It's only at odd moments I play with the notion that I'd like something different. I know it would jar me if I got it; and I'm getting old."
Evelyn mused. Her father's story had its pathetic side. Though they had not much in common, he had been her mother's willing slave: toiling in the city to further plans which Evelyn suspected he would not have made. In a sense, his life had been bare and monotonous; there was something he had missed. Evelyn thought that he recognized this, though not with regret.
She started as Grahame came in. Salt water dripped from him and gathered in a pool on the floor, but he turned to them with a smile.
"The wind is dropping fast, and the sea hadn't time to get up. We had some trouble at first when the awning blew out of its lashings and stopped her coming round, but she steered all right as soon as we got her before the sea."
"We were on deck most of the time," Evelyn said.
Grahame laughed as he recalled their conversation in the early evening.
"After what you must have seen," he asked, "don't you agree that there are advantages in keeping in smooth water?"
"Oh, one can't deny it. For all that, my experience to-night strengthens my belief that there's something very exhilarating in taking a risk."
She went out on deck and stood for a minute or two, holding on by a shroud. There was now no fury in the wind, and the moon was bright. The swell had gathered itself up into tumbling combers that shook their crests about the rail as theEnchantresslurched over them. A few torn clouds drove across the southern sky, but the rest of the wide sweep was clear and the scene was steeped in harmonies of silver and dusky blue. By daybreak the vessel would be steaming on an even keel, but Evelyn knew that she would not again be content with glassy calm and languorous tranquillity. The turmoil of the storm had made a subtle change in her; it was as if she had heard a call in the elemental clamor and her heart had answered.
Cliffe and his daughter were landed at Kingston, and three weeks later Grahame put into a Central-American port. The propeller was not running well, and Macallister, suspecting it was working loose on the shaft, declared that he must put the vessel on a beach where she would dry at low-water. Grahame had a few days to spare, for he could not land his cargo before the time Don Martin had fixed; but as the arms were on board he would have preferred to wait at sea, outside the regular steamers' track.
It happened that there was no repair-shop in the town, but while Macallister thought over the difficulty a tramp steamer dropped anchor, and he went off to her, remarking that he might find a friend on board. In an hour or two the gig came back, and Grahame, hearingMy boat rocks at the pier o' Leithsung discordantly, saw that Macallister's expectations had been fulfilled. This did not surprise him, for the Scots engineer is ubiquitous and to have "wrought" at Clydebank or Fairfield is a passport to his affection.
Macallister's face was flushed and his air jaunty, but the tall, gaunt man who accompanied him looked woodenly solemn. He began by emptying a basket ofgreasy tools on theEnchantress'swhite deck with the disregard for the navigating officers' feelings which the engine-room mechanic often displays. After this, he went down a rope and sat on the sand under the boat's counter, studying the loose screw while he smoked several pipes of rank tobacco, but without making any remark. Then he got up and slowly stretched his lanky frame.
"Weel," he said, "we'll make a start."
It was eleven o'clock on a very hot morning when he and Macallister lighted a blow-lamp, the flame of which showed faint and blue in the strong sunshine, and they labored on until dusk fell between six and seven in the evening. Offers of food and refreshment were uncivilly declined, and Watson ignored Grahame's invitation to spend the evening on board.
"I'll be back the morn," was all he said as he was rowed away.
"A new type!" Grahame laughed.
"He's unique," Walthew agreed. "Only addressed me twice, and then in a very personal strain. But the fellow's an artist in his way. Spent two hours softening and filing up a taper key, but it fitted air-tight when we drove it in. Something Roman about that man; means his work to last forever."
Operations were resumed the next morning, and Grahame had no doubt of the excellence of the job when the Scots seemed satisfied late in the afternoon. Then Watson said he would come back to dine when he had cleaned himself and would bring his skipper, and Grahame dubiously inspected his small stock of wine. He imagined it had not sufficient bite to please his guests.
The tramp skipper presently arrived: a short, stout man, with a humorous eye. When dinner was over and the wine finished, the party adjourned to the café Bolívar, but Grahame went with misgivings. He knew something about the habits of tramp captains, and had seen trouble result from the eccentricities of Scotch engineers. The garrison band was playing in the plaza they crossed, and citizens promenaded up and down with their wives and daughters. The clear moonlight fell upon gayly-colored dresses and faces of various shades, while here and there a jingling officer, lavishly decorated with gold-lace, added an extra touch of brightness. Nobody, however, showed a friendly interest in Grahame's party, for Americans and English were not just then regarded with much favor in the ports of the Spanish Main. Indeed, Grahame fancied that a group of slouching soldiers meant to get into his way, but as a brawl was not desirable, he tactfully avoided them.
The café was situated at the end of the square, and the party, sitting at a small table among the pillars that divided its open front from the pavement, could look down upon the moonlit harbor. The inlet was long and shallow, with an old Spanish fort among the sands at its outer end and another commanding it from a height behind the town. A cathedral stood opposite the café; and narrow, dark streets, radiating from the plaza, pierced the square blocks of houses.
Walthew and Grahame drank black coffee; but this had no attraction for the rest. The tramp captain, soon becoming genial, put his feet on a chair and beamed upon his neighbors, while Macallister, as usual, entered into talk with them. He discoursed at randomin very bad Castilian, but his remarks were humorous and in spite of the citizens' prejudices, laughter followed them. Watson sat stonily quiet, drinking fierycañaand frowning at the crowd.
"Ye were aye a dumb stirk at Clydebank," Macallister said to him. "Can ye no' talk instead o' glowering like a death's-head?"
"I can when I'm roused," Watson replied. "Maybe ye'll hear something frae me when I'm through wi' this bottle."
"It's the nature o' the man," Macallister informed the others and then, addressing the company, asked if anybody could sing.
No one offered to do so, and, beckoning a dark-complexioned lounger who had a guitar hung round his neck, he brought him to their table and gave him wine. Then he borrowed the guitar, and, somewhat to Grahame's surprise, began a passable rendering of a Spanish song.
The captain beat time with a bottle, some of the company sang the refrain, and, after finishing amidst applause, Macallister tried the music of his native land. In this he was less successful, for the wild airs, written for the bagpipes, did not go well upon the melancholy guitar.
"It's no' the thing at all," Watson remarked. "Ye're just plodding through it like a seven-knot tramp against the tide. Can ye no' open the throttle and give her steam?"
Before Macallister could answer, a neatly dressed gentleman brought a bottle of vermouth from a neighboring table and joined the group.
"You like a drink?" he asked politely.
Watson nodded, and, taking the small bottle, emptied half of the liqueur into his glass.
"Yon's no' so bad," he commented when he had drained the glass.
The stranger smiled as he poured out the rest of the vermouth for Watson.
"You mend the steamboat screw?" he asked carelessly.
"Yes, my friend," Watson replied, regarding the stranger out of sleepy looking eyes.
"How it come loose?"
"Tail-nut slacked up when the engines ran away in heavy weather."
"You get bad weather, then?"
"Bad enough," Watson answered.
Grahame gave him a cautious glance, but his face was expressionless. It was obvious that the stranger had mistaken him for theEnchantress'sengineer. Watson must have realized this, but he had given the fellow misleading answers, and Grahame thought he need not run the risk of trying to warn him. He wondered, though, how far Macallister had taken Watson into his confidence.
"Small boat," said the stranger; "you find her wet when it blow. What you load?"
"Mahogany and dyewood, when it's to be got."
"Then you go to Manzanillo; perhaps to Honduras. But she not carry much; not room for big logs below."
"The big ones sit on deck," said Watson stolidly.
The man ordered some cognac, but Grahame imagined that he was wasting his hospitality. Though the Scot's legs might grow unsteady, his head would remain clear.
"There is cargo that pay better than wood," his companion suggested with a meaning smile.
"Maybe," agreed Watson. "But ye run a risk in carrying it."
"Ver' true. And when you go to sea?"
"I canna' tell. The high-press' piston must come up. She's loosened a ring."
The stranger made a few general remarks and then strolled away. He had learned, at the cost of a bottle of vermouth and some brandy, that Watson was theEnchantress'sengineer, and the vessel would not sail for a day or two.
Grahame chuckled. He meant to leave port the next morning.
Having spent some time at the café, he felt that he could now leave his guests. They might, perhaps, indulge in boisterous amusements but he did not think they would come to harm. Indeed, if anybody were hurt in a row it would more likely be the citizens who came into collision with them.
"All right; I've had enough," Walthew said when Grahame touched him. "Mack's going to sing again, and I can't stand for that."
The moon had sunk behind the white houses as they crossed the plaza, and Grahame kept down the middle, avoiding the crowd near the bandstand and the narrow mouths of the streets.
"Who was that fellow talking to Watson?" Walthew asked.
"I don't know, but he was interested in our affairs. They have a good secret service in these countries, and we're open to suspicion. We're obviously notyachtsmen, and the boat's too small for a regular trader."
"Do you think the man's an agent of the government we're up against?"
"I don't know. I'd hardly expect them to send their spies along the coast; but, then, these States may keep each other informed about the movements of dangerous people. Anyway, there'd be an excuse for trouble if they searched us and found the rifles."
"Sure," said Walthew thoughtfully. "It's fortunate we light out to-morrow."
He looked round as they reached the end of the plaza. The band had stopped, and the ring of lights round its stand was broken as the lamps went out, but a broad, illuminated track extended from the front of the café. The thinning crowd moved across it: a stream of black figures silhouetted against the light. Everything else was dark, and except for the soft patter of feet the city was quiet; but it had a sinister look, and Walthew instinctively kept away from the trees in the smallalamedathey skirted. He was an Anglo-Saxon, and would not shrink from a danger that could be faced in daylight, but he hated the stealthy attack in the dark and the hidden intrigues the Latin half-breeds delight in.
When they reached the beach he stumbled over a small anvil lying near high-water mark, and after another few steps trod upon a hammer.
"They have left all their tools about," he said. "Shall we call the boys and put the truck on board?"
"I think not," Grahame replied. "It's the marine engineer's privilege to make as much mess as he likes,and he generally resents its being cleaned up without his permission. Besides, their leaving the things suggests that the job's not finished."
They pushed off the dinghy and boarded the steamer. The tide had flowed round her, but she would not float for an hour or two, and Walthew, sitting on the rail, glanced down the harbor. It was now very dark, but the water had a phosphorescent gleam. TheEnchantress'scable was marked by lambent spangles, and there was a flicker of green fire along the tramp's dark side. Her riding-lights tossed as she swung with the languid swell, and away at the harbor mouth two bright specks pierced the dark. A small gunboat had anchored at dusk, and as the fort had fired a salute she was evidently a foreigner. Walthew felt curious about her nationality, and wondered why she lay where she commanded the entrance instead of mooring near the town. Grahame, however, did not seem disturbed, and they presently sat down to a game of chess in the saloon.
Although the ports were open, it was very hot, and when the kerosene lamp flickered in the draughts an unpleasant smell filled the room. The men felt languid and their attention wandered from the dragging game. At last Walthew threw the pieces roughly into the box.
"You'd have seen what I was getting after with the bishop if you hadn't been thinking of something else," he said. "It's been a mighty long game; Mack ought to have come back."
Grahame nodded agreement, and they went out on deck. The town was quiet, and, so far as they could see, only one light burned in it, between the plaza and thealameda. Then an uproar broke out, the clamor reaching them distinctly over the night water. Grahame, running to the engine-room, shook the drowsy half-breed on watch and ordered him to stir the fires, which had been lighted and damped. Then he dropped over the rail into the dinghy with Walthew, and as soon as they jumped ashore they started for the plaza on a run.
"Sounds like ajamboree," Walthew said. "When things begin to hum you'll find Mack somewhere around; and that tramp captain looked as if he could get on a jag."
"He had a wicked eye," Grahame breathlessly agreed.
As they entered the plaza, a noisy crowd, which seemed to be getting larger rapidly, surged toward them. In the background the café Bolívar was still lighted, and close at hand a lamp burned at the top of a tall pole. For all that, it was difficult to make out anything except a mass of people pressing about a smaller group, and Grahame roughly flung two or three excited citizens aside before he could see what was going on. Then he was not surprised to note a party of three Britons retreating in good order before an obviously hostile mob. The tramp captain had lost his hat and his jacket was torn, but he carried a champagne bottle like a club, and his hot, red face had a pugnacious look. Macallister trailed the leg of a broken iron chair, and Watson seemed to have armed himself with part of the chair's back. He was hurling virulent epithets at the throng, while Macallister sang a sentimental ballad in an unsteady voice.
As Grahame and Walthew drew nearer, the crowd closed in as if to cut off the others' retreat, but a shout from Watson dominated the growing uproar.
"Oot o' the way, ye dirt! Drap yon deevil wi' the knife!"
Macallister, still singing, swung the leg of the chair and a man went down upon the stones, the knife he held flying from his hand. There was a thud as the captain's champagne bottle descended on somebody's head; and Watson sprang forward, whirling the broken casting. The crowd gave back before his rush and then scattered as Grahame and Walthew appeared in the gap. The fugitives stopped; and during the moment's breathing space Grahame noticed that a smashed guitar, adorned with gaudy ribbons, hung round Macallister's neck.
"It was yon fool thing made the trouble," Watson explained. "He racked her till she buckled, but she would not keep the tune, and we had to pit her owner below the table. Then an officer wi' a sword would interfere and when he got a bit tap wi' a bottle we were mobbed by the roomful o' swine."
He paused as somebody threw a stone at him, and then addressed the crowd in warning:
"We'll no' be responsible for what may happen til ye if we lose our tempers!"
The mob had been closing in again, but it fell back when two white-uniformed rural guards with pistols drawn pushed through. Grahame spoke to them in Castilian, and they stopped. While they asked him questions, another man, whom they saluted with respect, joined them.
"It is not permitted to make a disturbance in this city," the official said to Grahame. "We will inquire into the matter to-morrow. You will go on board your vessel now."
"I'm no' going," Watson declared when Grahame translated the order. "Took a room at Hotel Sevillana, and I want to see the dago who would pit me oot."
"Better humor him," advised the captain. "Obstinate beast when he gets a notion into his head. If he's not on board in the morning, I'll send a boatful of deckhands for him."
Grahame explained that the engineer wished to spend the night ashore, and the official looked thoughtful.
"Very well," he said. "One of the guards will see him to his hotel. It is necessary for him to go now."
"Ye can tell him I'm ready," Watson replied, and added in a low voice as he passed Grahame: "Get away to sea as soon as she floats!"
He went off with his escort and the official said something aside to the remaining guard, who saluted and told the others to follow him. The crowd had scattered, and nobody interfered with the party on their way to the harbor.
"I will wait until I see you go on board," the guard said when they reached the beach. "You will be called upon some time to-morrow."
"They'd have been wiser if they had begun their investigations now," Grahame remarked as they launched the dinghy. "She'll be afloat in half an hour. Do you feel up to running the engine, Mack? If not, Walthew must do the best he can."
"I could take her oot if I was drunk and I'm far frae that," Macallister declared. "Looks as if ye had no' allooed for the steadiness o' the Scottish head. Noo, there's Watson, and I'll no' say he was quite sober,but he could spoil yon dago's game. Maybe ye're beginning to understand why he would sleep ashore. They think ye canna' get away withoot him."
"I see that," said Grahame. "Better send your fireman to collect your tools when Miguel looses the stern mooring. And try to restrain your feelings if things are not quite right below. It's important that we should get away quietly."
They reached theEnchantress, and preparations for departure were silently begun.
They must first slip past the watching fort, and then elude the foreign gunboat. They knew the consequences if they were caught.
The night was very dark. Here and there a lone star peeped out bravely, but it could shine but faintly through the heavy mist that was settling down over theEnchantress.
Grahame, the leadline in his hand, leaned anxiously on the rail, watching the foam boil about the vessel's side. Her keel stirred in the sand and the propeller was beating hard; but she did not move. To make things worse, the disturbed water broke noisily on the beach and the thud of engines could be heard at some distance. Grahame had not complied with the formalities required before leaving port, but he carried a dangerous cargo and he feared that he might be detained unless he got away at once. TheEnchantress, however, was not yet afloat, and he reluctantly signaled for steam to be shut off.
Walthew came up when the engines stopped, and Grahame sat down on the ledge of the door. It was very quiet when the splash of water died away, and the darkness and silence reacted upon the men's tense nerves. They found inaction singularly hard.
"You have got to take her out the minute she's off the ground," Walthew said. "To be caught getting ready to leave would give us away."
"Sure thing! The Port Captain's guard watches the beach; they've sentries at the fort and a wire to the town; and there's a gunboat in the entrance. Our job doesn't look easy."
"Ye have quarter o' an hour yet, but that's all," Macallister said as he joined them. "If I canna' give the engines steam then, she'll blow off and rouse the town."
They waited anxiously, Grahame glancing at his watch and walking to the rail, where he felt the leadline; but the water rose with exasperating slowness. Then suddenly a jet of steam broke with a muffled throb from the escape-pipe, and Macallister jumped up.
"Ye have got to start her noo!" he said.
Walthew followed him below; the engines clanked; the propeller spun; and Grahame hauled the lead in with a breath of relief, for the line grew taut as the vessel moved. Then he stood in the main rigging, where he could see better and where Miguel, at the helm, could watch his signaling hand. With screw throbbing gently, theEnchantresscrept away into the dark. Her gray hull would be invisible from the shore, but phosphorescence blazed about her bows and her wake was a trail of fire.
The tramp steamer rode not far ahead, a mysterious shadowy bulk, with the gleam of her anchor-lights on the water, but as theEnchantressstole past a voice called out to her:
"Good luck!"
Grahame did not answer, but he was grateful. The tramp captain understood why his engineer had stayed ashore. Macallister's friends were staunch; the Scots stood by one another.
The light in the plaza grew dim astern, and the blurred, dark beach was rapidly slipping by. There was a lift on the water as they drew near the harbor mouth; but the fort had yet to be passed, and Grahame searched the shore with his glasses. Little by little he made out a formless mound, which grew more distinct. There was no light in the building, but he knew that sentries were supposititiously keeping watch beside the guns. One or two of these were modern and no vessel was allowed to leave port at night without official permission and a notification to the commandant. If the steamer were seen, refusal to stop would be followed by the roar of a gun. But Grahame did not mean to stop so long as she was not struck.
For the next few minutes he felt his nerves tingle, but the fort was dark and silent and only the soft splash along the beach broke the stillness. The shadowy building dropped astern and he turned his glasses upon the harbor mouth. Two lights showed where the gunboat lay, and, some distance beyond them, a dim, pulsating radiance glimmered. This marked where the open water swell broke upon the shoals. Grahame hoped that it would cover theEnchantress'sluminous wake; besides, the roar of the surf might drown the thud of engines, which carries far on a calm night.
Jumping down from the rigging, he rapped sharply on the engine-hatch, and Walthew ran quickly up the ladder.
"Throttle her down," Grahame said. "If I knock once, stop her; if twice, give her all the steam you can."
Walthew nodded to show that he understood, for it might be dangerous to use the telegraph gong; andthen he disappeared below while Grahame stood still, steadying the glasses on the deckhouse top.
With screw spinning slowly, theEnchantressglided on, and the gunboat's hull grew into shape against the sky. Grahame was glad that he had the land behind him and his vessel was small, but he beckoned Miguel to let her swing inshore. There was a shoal on that side, marked by a line of foam; but he must take the risk of going too close.
A phosphorescent flicker played about the vague blackness of the gunboat's bows; the light from the lamp on her forestay showed part of the deck, and then receded as she rolled. Grahame could make out an anchor hanging ready to let go and a man standing by her rail, until the light reeled and the figure was lost in gloom. It seemed to him that theEnchantressmust be seen, and he wondered whether the other vessel had her boats in the water. He suspected that she belonged to the government which Don Martin meant to overthrow, and it would be difficult to get away from her if she had steam up. She was now abreast of him, but there was no sign of activity on board. TheEnchantresscrept on. The gunboat dropped back to her quarter. Then there was a sudden harsh rattle, and Grahame gasped. But a splash relieved the tension, because he knew it was only the ash-hoist bringing up furnace cinders.
She drew further aft and began to fade; but Grahame now saw danger ahead. TheEnchantresswas throwing fiery spray about her bows and rolling as she forged slowly through broken water. The shoal was close ahead and, taking a sounding, he found scarcely a fathom under the keel. This was enough, however,and, beckoning to Miguel, he let her go until the darkness astern was broken only by the gunboat's lights. Then, finding deeper water, he struck the engine-hatch.
"We're clear!" he called down in an exultant voice. "Drive her, but make no sparks!"
TheEnchantressbegan to tremble, and a few moments later loose stanchions rattled and deck-planks shook as she leaped through the long swell with green fire blazing in the wake of her thudding screw. Grahame laughed softly, and sat down to light a cigarette. He imagined that when morning came there would be several badly disappointed intriguers in the port he had left.
He thought it best, however, not to proceed directly to his destination, and it was three days later when he ran in behind a point, and anchored in shallow water. It was daylight, but theEnchantress'sgray hull and slender spars would be hard to see against the land, and there was no sign of habitation on the sweep of desolate coast. A cliff rose behind the steamer, and then for some miles the dazzling sea broke in a fringe of lace-like foam on a beach of yellow sand. On the landward side of this, glossy-green jungle rolled away and merged into taller forest that was presently lost in haze. No smoke streaked the horizon, and there was not a boat on the beach, but while Grahame carefully watched, two appeared from behind a reef, and he put down his glasses with a smile.
"Our friends!" he said to Walthew. "You might get the winch ready while we take the hatches off."
An hour later a small party sat in the shade of the new stern awning. The boats had gone away loaded,but they had left Don Martin and three companions on board. Father Agustin, whose rusty black cassock jarred upon the blaze of light and color, leaned back in a canvas chair with a wineglass in his olive-tinted hand.
"I'm surprised to find you in such company, Father," Grahame said to him.
The priest's eyes twinkled.
"It is not only the rich and respected we are sent out to seek, though I think they need us as much as the others."
"You might find their help useful," Walthew suggested.
"True, if one could buy it! As a rule, they do not give, but sell, and the price they ask is often high."
"Some bribes are hard to resist when they are offered in the name of charity; for example, hospitals founded and new churches built," Grahame interposed. "These are things you can make good use of."
Father Agustin looked at him steadily.
"An honest man does not take a bribe, as you, my son, should know," he said.
"Ah!" Grahame returned carelessly. "I did not think you had heard of—a certain affair."
Walthew gave him a surprised glance, but Father Agustin smiled.
"I hear many curious things. Besides, my companions take precautions. Sometimes they find them needed."
"I suppose if I had done what I was asked and pocketed the reward, I should have met with an accident shortly afterward?" Grahame suggested.
"One does not talk of such matters, señor, among trusted friends," one of the men interposed.
"Your intelligence department seems to be well organized, but there's ground for believing the opposition's is quite as good," Grahame said, and related what had happened at their last port.
"Care will be needed after this," said Don Martin. "Now that they know your boat, it is fortunate we changed the landing place; but you are safe here. This coast is low and unhealthy; the President's friends are prosperous and do not live in the swampy jungle."
"One can understand that," Grahame responded. "Your appeal is to those who must live how and where they can. No doubt, they suffer now and then for helping you."
"Ah!" exclaimed one of the Spaniards, "howthey suffer! If you give me leave, señores, I can tell you startling things."
They listened with quickening interest, and he kept his promise well, for there is in southern peoples, contaminated by darker blood, a vein of sensual cruelty that sometimes leads to the perpetration of unutterable horrors. Grahame's face grew quietly stern, Walthew's hot and flushed, and Macallister clenched his hand, for the tales they heard fired their blood.
"You have told us enough," Walthew said at last. "I went into this business because I was looking for adventure and wanted to make some money—but I mean to see it through if it costs me all I have!" He turned to his comrades. "How do you feel about it?"
"Much as you do," Grahame answered quietly, and Macallister put his hand on Sarmiento's arm.
"I'm with ye, if ye mean to make a clean sweep o' yon brutes."
"I believe their reckoning will come, but our bargain stands," said Don Martin. "We need arms, and will pay for all you bring. Still, I am glad your hearts are with us. It is sentiment that carries one farthest."
"How have you been getting on since we last met?" Walthew asked.
"We make progress, though there are difficulties. One must fight with the purse as well as the sword, and the dictator's purse is longer than ours. Of late, he has been getting money and spending it with a free hand."
"Do you know where he gets it?" Grahame asked thoughtfully.
"So far, we have not found out. But it is foreign money, and he must give what belongs to the country in exchange."
"An easy plan!" Walthew said. "Makes the country pay for keeping him in power. I guess you'll have to meet the bill when you get in."
"That is so," Don Martin agreed. "It forces our hand. We must get in before he leaves us no resources at all."
Grahame thought of Cliffe, and wondered about his business with Gomez; but he decided to say nothing of this.
"Is Castillo still at liberty?" he asked.
"He is watched, but we have been able to protect him. A man of passion and fervor who will rouse the people when the right time comes."
"But perhaps not a good plotter?"
Father Agustin gave Grahame a shrewd glance.
"We do not all possess your northern self-restraint, though one admits its value. Señor Castillo follows a poetical ideal."
"So I imagined. Cold conviction sometimes leads one farther."
They were silent for a minute or two, and then one said:
"We have been anxious about Castillo. It is not that we doubt his sincerity."
"You doubt his staying power?"
Father Agustin made an assenting gesture.
"Our friend is ardent, but a fierce fire soon burns out. The danger is that when warmth is needed there may be no fuel left."
"I think you should try to guard him from pressure he is unfit to stand," Grahame suggested. "One cannot always choose one's tools, but if you are careful he may last until his work is done."
"It is so," Father Agustin agreed. "One loves the ring of fine, true steel, but it is fortunate that metal of softer temper has its use, though it sometimes needs skillful handling."
"He kens!" exclaimed Macallister. "Ye may rake stuff that will serve ye weel from the scrap heap o' humanity, and there's times when it's a comfort to remember that. But I'm surprised to find ye meddling with politics."
"I am not a politician; it is not permitted. But I may hate injustice, and there is no canon that bids me support what is evil. I came here as your guest with other friends, and if they honor me with their confidence I cannot refuse; nor do I think it a grave offense to give them a word of advice."
"Good advice may prove more dangerous to their enemies than rifles," Grahame said.
Father Agustin mused for a few moments.
"Our friends' real task begins with their triumph," he said gravely; "for that, at best, can but mean a clearing of the ground. Man builds slowly, but to destroy is easy, and many see no farther."
"But when the building is tottering and rotten?"
"Sometimes it may be repaired, piece by piece, but that is not your plan." Father Agustin spread out his hands. "If you build on a sound foundation, your new work will stand; but the edifice of the State cannot be cemented with hatred and envy. This responsibility is yours and not your enemies'. But one looks to the future with hope as well as doubt."
They then discussed the landing of the next cargo, and the general course of operations, but while they plotted with Spanish astuteness Grahame imagined that the quiet priest was the brain of the party.
After a time, the boats came back for another load, and when sunset streaked the water with a lurid glow the guests took their leave and theEnchantresssteamed out to sea.