The Coast of Adventure

"What do you reckon has been going on inland?" he asked. "The fellows who took the guns ashore didn't seem to have much news, but they believed you were right in thinking this might be the last important cargo we'd have to run."

"The Government has arrested Castillo, and no doubt brought pretty strong pressure to bear on him. I'm afraid he couldn't stand up against it, and has given his fellow conspirators away. The President seems no fool, and Gomez is a cunning rascal, but I'm not sure they could keep their plans dark because the opposition have their spies and sympathizers everywhere. The consequence is that both parties may be driven into prompt action instead of quietly finishing their preparations."

"I expect that's so," said Walthew thoughtfully. "I wish I knew, because I must see Don Martin and make a trip to Rio Frio before we leave the coast for good."

"You know best; but I imagine it means trouble with your people when you go home."

"It may, for a time," Walthew answered with a dogged look. "Still, they'll come round, and I'm glad to think that, considering this job as a business proposition, we have done pretty well. That will appeal to the old man. Gun-running's not the line he wanted me to take, but he'll be tickled when he sees that I've made good at it."

"I wouldna' say but he might like Miss Sarmiento as weel as yin o' they hussies at the Florida hotel," Macallister remarked encouragingly. "There was yin in blue, but no' much o' it, with a flagpole in her hat, that gave me what I've heard ye call the googly eye – "

Walthew chuckled.

"That girl has roomsful of money."

"Then she might hae bought some clothes," the Scotsman retorted.

They were silent for a few minutes, and through the quietness they heard the splash of canoe paddles.

"We may get some news," Walthew said.

The canoe ran alongside, and a half-breed handed up a dirty note. Grahame opened it, and his jaws set and a curious glint came into his eyes when he read Evelyn's message.

"Where did this come from?" he called sharply to the waiting half-breed. In his anxiety he had spoken in English.

The messenger shook his head.

"No entiendo."

Grahame repeated the question in Spanish, and added: "Tell me quickly!"

"A man brought it down from the hills a half-hour ago. That's all I know," the half-breed explained.

"All right; you may go."

Grahame turned to Walthew and Macallister and showed them the crumpled note.

"I don't think our partnership agreement covers a risky private undertaking of this kind, and you can turn me out, if you like, but I'm going," he said.

"And I'm coming with you," Walthew replied cheerfully. "I've some business of my own at Rio Frio."

"You can't come! How is Mack to run the boat alone?"

"Weel," said Macallister, "I'm thinking that's no' impossible. Onyway, ye'll take him. We'll quarrel about who's to command her if ye leave him on board."

Grahame saw they were both determined; his comrades meant to stand by him, if it cost them the vessel. He was touched, but there was no time to indulge in sentiment.

"We'll talk of it later. Start the windlass and stir the fires. I'll want all the steam you can give me."

"Ye'll get it," Macallister replied, and vanished below, while Grahame went forward when the windlass began to clank and the cable tightened.

Speed was urgently needed. It was several days since the note had been written, and he dared not speculate about what might have happened in the meanwhile. Evelyn was not easily frightened; she would not have sent for him unless the danger was imminent. Then, the postscript stated that a guide would look out for him between midnight and three o'clock in the morning, at a place mentioned, and the Enchantress must be driven hard to get there in time. If she arrived too late, he must steam out to sea before dawn broke and wait for another night.

The windlass rattled faster, the chain ran in as the anchor left the ground, and, seeing Miguel ready with the tackle at the cathead, Grahame went aft to the wheel. The gong clanged the signal "Full ahead," and the screw began to throb. There was a crash forward as the swinging anchor struck the bow, but Miguel had men enough to stow it, and Grahame fixed his eyes ahead as he turned his wheel. Rolling across the broken swell, the Enchantress stemmed the strong flood-tide; bending palms and shadowy beach were sliding past, and the turmoil on the shoals drew nearer. Ahead was a narrow channel with about a fathom of water to the good, but the leading marks were obscured and Grahame doubted if he could find it. If the boat struck, she would be washed up, badly damaged, among the sands; but the tide was rising, and before long Macallister would have raised full steam. It was unthinkable that they should lose time, and Grahame meant to take his chance.

Spray flew about her forward; as the swell got steeper she dipped to the knightheads, and Miguel, running aft, began to use the lead. Grahame did not stop him, although sounding was a matter of form, because she would drive aground before he could bring her head round if he missed the narrow deep.

She crept past the point, rolling wildly and lifting out her screw, while the air got thick with spray and the thud of engines was drowned by the turmoil of the sea. Some distance off, white ridges leaped out of the gathering dark, but nearer at hand they were broken by the shoals and raged in foaming confusion. The Enchantress must cross this belt without much steam to help her, but it was obvious that Macallister was hard at work below, for thick smoke with fiery sparks in it poured from the funnel.

Miguel's white-clad figure, swaying in the channels, cut against the gloom, but Grahame could not hear his hail. Though he glanced at the compass now and then, he was feeling his way rather by instinct than definite guidance, and so far the upward sweep of the bows showed there was sufficient water under the vessel. Sometimes a sea came on board and poured aft in a frothing flood, but she was steadily forging ahead, and a few minutes would take her across the worst of the shoals.

Suddenly she stopped with a crash, lurched sideways, and lay still while a foam-tipped mass of water rolled up ahead. It broke on board, burying her forward half, and the next moment Grahame was wet to the waist; but she lifted as the roller surged by; and then struck the shoal again. A few more blows of that kind would crush in her bilge, but Grahame set his teeth and clung grimly to his wheel. There was nothing to be done but wait; the crash would warn Macallister what was required of him, and if he could not drive her off, they must cut the boats adrift and leave her to her fate.

Another sea came tumbling in, but while its crest broke across the rail it picked her up and she moved on slowly with the water sluicing aft down her inclined deck. For a few seconds Grahame held his breath, waiting for the shock; but she went on, and lifted her head buoyantly as the next comber rolled up. When she had lurched over it and the spray had blown away, he saw that the sea was more regular and the worst of the turmoil lay astern. Five minutes afterward, she reeled out into open water, and Macallister came on deck.

"We've started the bilge-pump, but it's no' drawing much," he said. "I dinna think she's the waur for the knocks she got."

"That's satisfactory. You know what you have to do."

Macallister smiled with quiet enjoyment.

"We've no' had the need to drive her yet, but noo I'll let ye see."

He went below, and Grahame gave Miguel an order, for in swinging round after leaving the lagoon the Enchantress had brought the wind on her quarter, and she carried a good spread of sail. He would not, however, luff her off her course to make the work easier; the crew must hoist the canvas as best they could, and there was a furious banging and clatter of flying blocks as fore-staysail, foresail, and mainsail went up. Then she listed down with her rail in the white surges that boiled up to lee, while tall, hollow-fronted combers ranged up astern and sped after her.

Wire shrouds, strung to the breaking-point, shrieked in wild harmonies as the blasts struck them; chain funnel-guys roared in deeper tones, and there was a confused groaning of masts and booms. Spray swept her, lashing Grahame's back and blowing past his head in clouds, and now and then a sea-top broke on board; but she drove on furiously before the wind.

After a while Grahame called Miguel to the helm and stood in the lee of the deckhouse, pipe in mouth, for he had now time to think. He could make no plans until he landed, but it was plain that he must go to Rio Frio; and, if possible, he must leave Walthew behind. He could not allow the lad to run the risk, and Macallister would need him. Some help might be had from the revolutionaries, and he must try to find Don Martin. If he failed to do so, much would have to be left to chance.

Grahame looked at another side of the matter. Suppose he rescued Miss Cliffe, what then? Though the gun-running had been profitable, he was an adventurer with very limited means. He could not trade upon Cliffe's gratitude, though he loved the girl. He did not know when he began to love her, but he had for some time made stern efforts to drive the thought of her out of his mind. Perhaps he might have succeeded had nothing unusual happened, for he knew his disadvantages; but now his determination suddenly had been swept away. Evelyn was in danger; somehow this made clear the strength of the feelings with which he had grappled. The future was clouded; there were difficulties to be faced; but he felt that if she had any love for him he could not give her up.

The gale freshened; but Grahame would not shorten sail. There was not much time to spare, and the gear was standing well. He could trust the helm to Miguel and might have slept, but, although he imagined his strength might be severely taxed during the next few days, it was impossible for him to rest. In spite of his anxiety, he was sensible of an exultant excitement. The girl he loved was in danger, but she had sent for him. Then, the adventure he was embarking on had a fascination of its own, and he smiled as he remembered that his ancestors had often in past days ridden across the dark marches, leading the Border Spears. It was not for nothing the hot blood of the old mosstroopers ran in his veins.

Swept by the seas on her quarter, the Enchantress drove on, and Grahame lurched about the slanted deck and stood amidst the spray that whirled across her stern. She was going fast; his glances at the recording log astonished him, for he had not believed her capable of the speed it showed. His fierce impatience seemed to have inspired thudding engines and quivering hull, and he thrilled when a great, white-topped comber rolled up and swept her on. Flame blew from the funnel, wet canvas, straining in black curves, reeled through the dark, and the sea sped back, snowy white, toward the plunging bows.

At last, however, lights shone in the gloom, and Grahame ordered the canvas to be lowered. It cost the crew an arduous struggle, but they made all fast, and Grahame, ringing for half-speed, took the wheel. There was a point a short distance from the town that would break the sea, and by steaming in behind it he might get a boat away. Landing would be difficult, and it was important that he should find the right spot.

He watched the beach with his glasses as the Enchantress swung inshore, and when presently the combers changed to a steep, troubled swell that ended in a white band of surf, he stopped the engines and told Miguel to hoist out the gig. The navigation lights had been extinguished, but he thought that anybody carefully watching for the steamer could see her. The men had some trouble in lowering the boat, but as soon as she was in the water Grahame jumped on board and told the men to push off. Then, as they got out their oars, a dark figure leaped from the steamer's rail and Walthew, alighting in the sternsheets, turned to his comrade with a grin.

"I'm here, and you'll smash the boat if you try to send me back," he said. "You see, I suspected what you were getting after when you put me at a job it was awkward to leave."

"Well, I did my best, anyway," Grahame laughed.

Walthew took an oar, for the swell was high enough to make progress difficult, but they found smoother water near the land, and stopped pulling just outside the fringe of surf. Waiting for a slacker interval in the shoreward rush of hissing rollers, they drove her in as fast as she could go, and jumped overboard when she touched the sand. A wave broke into her, but they ran her up safely, and Grahame turned to Walthew after they had emptied the water out.

"I don't think I'm straining my authority by telling you to go off with Miguel," he said.

"Anyhow, I'm not going," Walthew replied doggedly. "Our association is a partnership, and I mean to come along. I don't know that I'll be of much help to you, but the job you've undertaken is too big for one."

Grahame saw that objections would be useless, and, feeling that his pistol was loose, he walked up the beach, with Walthew following a few yards behind.

CHAPTER XXVI

TRAPPED

For a few minutes the men toiled silently across loose, wet sand, and then, on reaching a belt of shingle near high-water mark, stopped to look about. Lights gleamed in the town across the bay, but except for that it was very dark. A clump of trees that fringed the end of a ridge of higher ground could barely be distinguished, but Grahame decided that this must be the spot Evelyn had mentioned in her note. Though the shingle rolled beneath his feet, the sound it made was lost in the roar of the surf upon the point. Dry sand blew past, pricking his face, and when he turned toward the sea he saw a group of indistinct objects still standing about the boat.

"What are they waiting for?" he asked. "I told them to push off."

"I guess old Miguel takes an interest in us and wants to see we're all right. He knows something about these fellows' tricks, and may not share our confidence."

"Well, I guess those are the trees where we should meet our guide."

"The fellow might have come down to the beach," Walthew remarked. "I was busy helping Mack during the run and hadn't much time to think, but it now strikes me as curious that Miss Cliffe was able to send the note and arrange for a guide when she was a prisoner."

"She must have got into touch with some of Don Martin's spies, and his friends would be ready to help. But we had better get on."

They crossed the shingle, seeing nothing that suggested there was anybody about, but Walthew grew uneasy as they approached the trees. The belt of timber was wrapped in gloom, and rolled back up the rising ground in shadowy masses that rustled in the wind. It had somehow a forbidding look, and the nearer he got the less he liked it. He was not daunted, and meant to go on, but his nerves were highly strung and his glances suspicious as he tried to pierce the dark.

They found a trail through tall grass and reeds, and followed it across a patch of boggy soil until it led them to an opening in the trees. Here a shadowy object rose out of the gloom, and Walthew instinctively felt for his pistol. The abrupt movement dislodged a small bundle of clothes which he carried by a strap across his shoulder, and it fell to the ground. Then he saw the man come forward, waving his hand.

"This way, señor!" he called to Grahame, who was some yards in front.

Walthew felt tempted to leave the bundle. He wanted to watch the man; but there was a packet of cartridges among the clothes he had dropped, and he thought they might prove useful. Stooping down, he felt among the grass, but had to move once or twice before he found the bundle; then, springing to his feet, he saw that Grahame and the other had vanished. The next moment his comrade's voice reached him, hoarse and breathless:

"Run!"

That Grahame said nothing more was ominous; but Walthew did not run back to the boat. Drawing his pistol, he plunged in among the trees, but as he reached them he felt a stunning blow on his head. He staggered and fell into a thicket, blinded by blood that ran into his eyes. A struggle seemed to be going on near by, and, getting upon his knees, he fired at random. He thought a man ran toward him, and he fired again, but his mind was confused and he could hardly see. For all that, he got upon his feet and stumbled forward, dazed but determined to rescue his comrade.

A few moments afterward it dawned on him that he was going the wrong way, for he seemed to have come out on the beach. Two or three men were hurrying toward him, but the pistol would not go off. Stumbling on with his hand clenched on the barrel, ready to use the butt, he tripped and fell among the rattling shingle. Then his senses left him.

The next thing of which he was conscious was a cool splash on his face, and while he wondered what it was, he felt that he lay upon something that moved in an erratic manner. It was not shingle, for it was smooth when he touched it, but a minute or two passed before he realized that he was lying in the sternsheets of the gig. She was plunging sharply, the spray flew aft in showers, and when he wiped his eyes he saw that the men were pulling hard. With some trouble he got to his knees, and the top of a wave that washed across the gunwale struck his face.

"Where is the señor Grahame?" he asked faintly.

"Who knows!" somebody answered. "It seems the rurales have him. We came too late."

Walthew groaned, for his head was getting clearer. His comrade had fallen into a trap.

"Pull her round," he said. "We're going back!"

For a moment or two nobody replied. The gig lurched wildly, and a sea-top broke on board. Walthew dimly saw the men swing to and fro at the oars. Their blurred figures cut the sky as the bow went up, and then stood out against white foam as the craft plunged into a hollow.

"It is not possible, señor," Miguel said breathlessly.

Walthew scrambled to his feet, and stood swaying awkwardly with the violent motion, in danger of going overboard. The sea had got worse, and the savage wind lashed his wet face. It was blowing very hard, and the turn of the tide had brought broken water nearer inshore; he could hear the roar of the surf upon the beach. It would now be dangerous to land; but he must try to rescue his comrade. He seized the oar the man nearest to him pulled. The fellow pushed him back and, losing his balance as the boat plunged over a comber, he fell heavily upon the floorings.

"We will smash the boat if we land, and there are rurales on the beach," he heard Miguel say. "The sea is bad; perhaps we cannot reach the steamer."

Walthew realized that Miguel was right. The men were unarmed, except for their knives, and something had gone wrong with his pistol. Even if they escaped being swamped by the surf, it would be impossible to cross the beach in face of a hostile force. He lay still with a groan. He felt faint, his head ached excruciatingly, and blood still trickled into his eyes. He had not seen the Enchantress when he stood up, and the desperate way the men were rowing showed that they found it hard to drive the boat offshore.

After a while, however, a hail came out of the dark, the men pulled furiously, and then threw down their oars. There was a crash and a rope fell into the boat, which surged violently forward, grinding against the steamer's side. Walthew did not know how he got on board, and he imagined that he fainted soon afterward, for the next thing he remembered was trying to get up from the top grating in the engine-room, where Macallister sat beside him, holding a rag and a can of hot water.

"Keep still while I tie up the cut," he said.

"But they've got Grahame!" Walthew exclaimed, trying to rise.

Macallister gently pushed him back.

"I ken. A bad job, but we might have lost ye both." Then he took up a piece of linen. "It's lucky ye'll no' need stitching, but maybe this will nip."

Walthew's head smarted intolerably after the bandage was applied, but the dazed feeling left him when Macallister gave him something to drink, and he began to ask questions.

"Miguel heard a shot and ran back up the beach with the others," Macallister told him. "They found ye reeling aboot and brought ye down to the gig, with two or three rurales no' far behind; the rest must have gone off with Grahame before our men came up. They had just time to launch her before the rurales began to shoot, but nobody was hit. Looks as if ye had been knocked oot with a carbine butt."

"Where are we now?" Walthew asked.

"Steaming back to the lagoon as fast as I can drive her, and that's aboot four knots against the gale. The best thing we can do is to send Don Martin word, but ye'll go to sleep in the meanwhile. I canna' look after ye; I hae my hands full."

The clanging of hard-driven engines, which quickened to a furious rattle when the screw swung out, made the need for watchfulness plain, and Walthew crept away to his berth. He wanted to help, but knew that to attempt this would probably result in his falling among the machinery. Dazed by the blow on his head, he soon fell asleep, and when he wakened the vessel was at rest. There was no pounding of engines, and the water no longer gurgled along her side, but he heard voices behind the bulkhead.

Scrambling awkwardly out of the berth, he made his way on deck with some difficulty. The fresh air revived him, and he saw that the Enchantress was anchored in the lagoon, but he opened a door close by instead of stopping to look about. Two or three of the revolutionaries whom he knew were sitting round a table in the saloon, and as Walthew came in, white-faced, with staring eyes and a red bandage round his head, one of them threw up his hands.

"Ave Maria!" he exclaimed.

Walthew sat down with a jerk and nodded to Macallister.

"I'm better."

Then he turned to the others.

"What are we going to do?"

"Nothing, until to-night," said one. "We must wait for dark before it is safe to move. They will not keep your comrade at Valverde, and we must try to find out where they have taken him."

"I'll be quite well in a few hours," Walthew declared. "But what is likely to happen to Grahame?"

The man shrugged.

"Who knows! The regular course would be to try him for smuggling arms, but I do not think the President will follow that plan. They may send him to Rio Frio, because it is some distance from the coast, and it is possible he will be given a chance of escaping on the way."

"Do you mean that they may let him go?" Walthew asked eagerly.

"He would not go very far. You must understand that the rurales have authority to shoot a prisoner who tries to escape, and the Government finds this useful. Sometimes they arrest a man whom they think the court could not convict, and an excuse is found for not watching him very closely when he is being taken to the nearest jail; perhaps a guard is called away when they stop for food. There is cover near, and the prisoner makes a dash for freedom; then the guard, who has been hiding, fires and the administration is rid of an enemy. Sometimes the rurales break into the house of an obnoxious person and, taken by surprise, he gets angry. A threatening movement is enough; he is shot down. It is simpler than taking him before a judge who may be bribed to let him go."

"A gang o' bloodthirsty scoundrels! I'm thinking it's time ye turned on them," Macallister said, while Walthew sat silent with a tense face and fury in his eyes. "But, so far as we ken, they havena' shot Mr. Grahame."

"No, señor," said another. "I think he is safe, for a time. He might prove too useful for them to shoot, at least, not until they have tried other means."

"If ye believe they can frighten or buy him – " Macallister began savagely; but the man waved his hand.

"Señor, I only think we must set him free as soon as possible, and you will agree about the need for that."

"I'm coming with you," said Walthew grimly. "If I'm not satisfied with your plans, I'll do the thing in my own way."

Macallister gave him a sharp glance. Walthew did not look fit to travel, but Macallister knew that objections would be futile. The boy had grown older and sterner in a night.