The Coast of Adventure

"Then I'll take the gig and get the coal on board."

"If you feel equal to it," Grahame answered.

Walthew got into the boat with a sense of elation. His eyes had met Grahame's while they spoke, and a pledge of mutual respect and trust had passed between them. But this was not quite all. He felt he had won official recognition from a leader he admired; he was no longer on trial but accepted as a comrade and equal. The thought sustained him through a day of murderous toil, during which his worn-out muscles needed constant spurring by the unconquered mind. It was not dainty and, in a sense, not heroic work in which he was engaged, but it must be done, and he dimly saw that human nature rose highest in a grapple with obstacles that seemed too great to overcome. Whatever the odds against him were, he must not be beaten.

The heat was pitiless in the afternoon, but Walthew pulled his oar and carried the hundred-pound coal bags across a stretch of mire that grew broader as the tide ebbed. He could scarcely pull his feet out and keep the load upon his aching back, and he sometimes sank knee-deep in the softer spots. The air was heavy with exhalations from the swamps; he had thrown off his jacket and the coal wore holes in his shirt and rubbed raw places on his skin. He was wet from the waist downward and black above, while the gritty dust filled his eyes and nostrils. Still he held out until the work was finished, when the Enchantress's cargo-light began to twinkle through the dusk; and then, losing his balance, he fell forward into the boat with his last heavy load. Miguel pushed her off, and with oars splashing slackly she moved downstream. When she ran alongside the steamer, Grahame saw a limp, black figure lying huddled on the floorings. The others lifted it gently, but Walthew did not speak when he was laid on deck, and Macallister, bending over him, looked up at Grahame.

"Fever and exhaustion! I allow that ye were right about the lad. But we must do the best we can for him."

They washed off the coal-dust, and when Walthew, wrapped in thick blankets, lay unconscious in his berth, they debated earnestly over the medicine chest before administering a dose that experience in the unhealthy swamps of the tropics alone justified. They forced it, drop by drop, between his clenched teeth, and then Macallister waited with a grimy finger on his pulse, while Grahame sat down limply on the edge of the berth. His hands were bruised, his thin clothes were torn, and he felt the reaction after the day's strain. He had now an hour or two in which to rest, and then he must pull himself together to take the vessel down the creek.

When at last Macallister nodded, as if satisfied, Grahame went wearily up on deck. Except for a faint hiss of steam, everything was quiet. Tired men lay motionless about the deck, and the mist that clung to the mangroves did not stir. After a while the lap of the flood-tide against the planks made itself heard, and the moon, which was getting large, rose above the trees.

Grahame, sitting limply on the grating, half dozing while he waited, suddenly jumped to his feet, startled. Out of the semi-darkness came distinctly the splash of oars, faint at first and then nearer.

Miguel lay nearest him. The Spaniard, quickly grasping the danger, shook his men awake while Grahame ran below to Macallister.

"The government spies!" he said briefly. "Our pilot's turned traitor!"

CHAPTER X

THE PEON PILOT

Grahame and Macallister stood on deck, peering into the moonlit jungle of mangroves. So far as they could judge, there was only one pair of oars making the splashes that had aroused them; but they could hear the blades dig deep into the water with an intense effort that could mean only haste on the part of the boatsman.

They waited; and presently the small boat appeared in the moonlight and they saw a single figure, who dropped one oar and crossed himself religiously.

"Gracias a Dios!" he said.

"The pilot!" Macallister gasped.

Grahame waited, tense and alert, until the pilot climbed on board. The instant the half-breed touched the deck he began gesticulating wildly and talking so rapidly that Grahame had difficulty in grasping his meaning. Miguel, who was more at home in the peon Spanish, explained – in English, for Macallister's sake.

"The government men catch him; make him tell; he escape; take short path – Indian senda; get here first. Soldados coming. We hurry!"

Miguel had worked himself up to a state of great excitement, and when he finished, his bare feet went pattering off across the deck almost before Grahame could give the order.

Tired as the men were, they realized the necessity for haste, and they lost no time in getting under way. There was a clatter in the stokehold as the fires were cleaned, the dinghy crept across the creek, and half-seen men forward hurriedly coiled in a wet rope. Then the boat came back and the windlass rattled while the propeller floundered slowly round. The anchor rose to the bows and the Enchantress moved away against the flood tide.

The pilot took the wheel while Grahame stood beside him. There were broad, light patches where the water dazzled Grahame's eyes, and then belts of gloom in which the mangroves faded to a formless blur. Still, they did not touch bottom; miry points round which the tide swirled, rotting logs on mud-banks, and misty trees crept astern, and at last they heard the rumble of the swell on beaten sand.

She glided on, lifting now and then with a louder gurgle about her planks. When a white beach gleamed in the moonlight where the trees broke off, the Enchantress stopped to land the faithful pilot, who had first betrayed and then saved them.

"It was a risky thing he did," Grahame said, as the half-breed, standing easily in his boat, swaying with the rhythm of his oars, rowed off into the moonlight. "Suppose they had caught him coming to us – or with us!"

"I'm thinking yon pilot's a bit of a hero," Macallister responded laconically. "Albeit a coward first!"

"Oh, it was all for Don Martin's sake that he risked his own hide to warn us. Don Martin has a wonderful hold on those peons. They'd go through fire and water for him."

The Enchantress skirted a point where two sentinel cedar-trees stood out blackly against the sky; then the spray leaped about the bows as she dipped to the swell, and the throb of engines quickened as she left the shore behind.

Two weeks later the Enchantress was steaming across a sea that was flecked with purple shadow and lighted by incandescent foam. Macallister lounged in the engine-room doorway, Grahame sat smoking on a coil of rope, and Walthew, wrapped in a dirty blanket, lay under the awning. His face was hollow, his hair damp and lank, and his hands, with which he was clumsily rolling a cigarette, were very thin. The deck was piled with a load of dyewood, which they had bought rather with the object of accounting for their cruise than for the profit that might be made on it.

"It's good to feel alive on a day like this, but I suspect it was doubtful for a time whether I'd have that satisfaction," Walthew remarked languidly. "Guess I owe you both a good deal."

They had stubbornly fought the fever that was wasting him away, and had felt that they must be beaten, but Macallister grinned.

"I'll no' deny that ye were an interesting case and gave us a chance o' making two or three experiments. As ye seem none the worse for them, ye must be tougher than ye look."

"I thought tampering with other people's watches was your specialty."

"What's a watch compared with the human body?" Macallister asked.

"You do know something about springs and wheels, but it's different with drugs. I expect you gave way to an unholy curiosity to see how they would work."

"Maybe there's something in the notion. An engineer canna help wanting to find out how things act. It's a matter o' temperament, and there's no' a great difference between watching the effect o' a new oil on your piston-rings and seeing what happens when a patient swallows your prescription. I'll say this for ye: ye were docile."

"I've survived," said Walthew. "From my point of view, that's the most important thing."

"And now you had better think about the future," Grahame interposed. "Some people are practically immune from malaria; others get it moderately now and then, and some it breaks down for good. At first it's difficult to tell which class one belongs to, but you have had a sharp attack. There's some risk of your spending the rest of your life as an ague-stricken invalid if you stick to us."

"How heavy is the risk?"

"Nobody can tell you that, but it's to be reckoned with. I understand that your father would take you back?"

"He'd be glad to do so, on his terms," said Walthew thoughtfully. "Still, it's hard to admit that you're beaten, and I suspect the old man would have a feeling that I might have made a better show. He wants me to give in and yet he'd be sorry if I did."

"Suppose you go home in twelve months with a profit on the money he gave you?" Grahame suggested.

"Then I'm inclined to think he'd welcome me on any terms I cared to make."

"Think it over well and leave us out of the question," Grahame said.

"You can't be left out," Walthew answered with a gleam in his eyes. "But I'll wait until I feel better. I may see my way then."

They left him and he lighted his cigarette, though the tobacco did not taste good. Hardship and toil had not daunted him, the risk of shipwreck and capture had given the game a zest, but the foul mangrove quagmires, where the fever lurks in the tainted air, had brought him a shrinking dread. One could take one's chance of being suddenly cut off, but to go home with permanently broken health or perhaps, as sometimes happened, with a disordered brain, was a different thing. Since he took malaria badly, the matter demanded careful thought. In the meanwhile, it was enough to lie in the shade and feel his strength come back.

A few days later they reached Havana, where they sold the dyewood and had arranged to meet Don Martin Sarmiento, whose affairs occasionally necessitated a visit to Cuba.

One evening soon after his arrival, Grahame stood in the patio of the Hotel International. The International had been built by some long-forgotten Spanish hidalgo, and still bore traces of ancient art. The basin in the courtyard with the stone lions guarding its empty fountain was Moorish, the balconies round the house had beautiful bronze balustrades cast three hundred years ago, and the pillars supporting them were delicately light.

The building had, however, been modernized, for part of the patio was roofed with glass, and wide steps, tiled in harsh colors, led to a lounge through which one entered the dining-room, where everything was arranged on the latest American plan. There was a glaring café in the front of the building, and an archway at the back led to the uncovered end of the patio, where porters, pedlers, and the like importuned the guests.

Just then this space was occupied by a group of Chinamen, half-breeds, and negroes, and Grahame was watching them carelessly when he heard a step behind him. Turning abruptly, he stood facing Evelyn Cliffe. He imagined that she looked disturbed, but she frankly gave him her hand.

"You!" she exclaimed. "This is something of a surprise."

"That's what I felt," he answered. "I hope the pleasure's also mutual. But you see, I get my meals here and Walthew has a room. He has been down with fever and isn't quite better yet."

"And I've just arrived with my father, who has some business in the town," Evelyn said and laughed. "I nearly missed meeting you, because I thought you were a stranger and I meant to slip past, but you were too quick. Do you generally swing round in that alert manner when you hear somebody behind you?"

"I admit it's a habit of mine – though I must have been clumsy if you noticed it. A number of people go barefooted in these countries, and the business I'm engaged in demands some caution."

"Then it's lucky you have self-control, because you might run a risk of injuring a harmless friend by mistake."

"One does not mistake one's friends. They're not too plentiful," he replied, smiling.

"But what is the business that makes you so careful?"

"I think I could best call myself a general adventurer, but at present I'm engaged in trade. In fact, I'm living rather extravagantly after selling a cargo."

Evelyn gave him a quick glance. His manner was humorous, but she imagined he wished to remind her that he did not belong to her world. This jarred, because there was an imperious strain in her, and she felt that she could choose her acquaintances as she liked. Besides, it was mocking her intelligence to suggest that the man was not her equal by birth and education. For all that, she had been disconcerted to find him in the hotel. He had exerted a disturbing influence when they first met, and she had had some trouble in getting free from it. That the influence was unintentional made things no better, because Evelyn did not want her thoughts to center on a man who made no attempt to please her. Yet she felt a strange pleasure in his society.

"I suppose you are waiting for dinner now?" she said.

"Yes," he answered. "Shall we look for a seat here? A fellow who sings rather well sometimes comes in."

He led her to a bench near the marble basin under the broad leaves of a palm. Evelyn noticed that the spot was sufficiently public to offer no hint of privacy, and she admired his tact. It got dark while they engaged in casual talk, and colored servants lighted lamps among the plants and flowers. Then the soft tinkle of a guitar and a clear voice, trilling on the higher notes with the Spanish tremolo, came out of the shadow. One or two others joined in, and Evelyn listened with enjoyment.

"The Campanadas," Grahame said. "It's a favorite of mine. The refrain states that grapes eaten in pleasant company taste like honey."

"Isn't that a free translation? I'm not a Spanish scholar, but I imagine it means something more personal than company in general."

"Yes," said Grahame slowly. "It really means – with you."

The music changed to a plaintive strain, which had something seductive and passionate in its melancholy.

"Las aves marinas," said Evelyn. "That means the sea-birds, doesn't it? What is the rest?"

"I won't paraphrase this time. The song declares that although the sea-birds fly far across the waves they cannot escape the pains of love. These people are a sentimental lot, but the idea's poetical."

"I wonder whether it's true," Evelyn said with a smile. "Perhaps you ought to know."

"The sea-birds are fierce wild things that live by prey. One associates them with elemental strife – the white tide-surge across desolate sands and the pounding of the combers on weedy reefs – and not with domestic peace. That's the lot of the tame land-birds that haunt the sheltered copse."

"And cannot one have sympathy with these?"

"Oh, yes. I've often stopped to listen while a speckled thrush sang its love-song among the bare ash-boughs in our rain-swept North. The joyful trilling goes straight to one's heart."

"And lingers there?"

"Where our thrushes sing, you can, if you listen, hear the distant roar of the sea. It's a more insistent call than the other."

"But only if you listen! Cannot you close your ears?"

"That might be wiser. It depends upon your temperament."

Evelyn was silent for the next minute or two, and Grahame mused. He had felt the charm of the girl's beauty, and suspected in her a spirit akin to his. She had courage, originality, and, he thought, a longing, hitherto curbed by careful social training, to venture beyond the borders of a tame, conventional life. It was possible that he might strengthen it; but this would not be playing a straight game. For all that, he was tempted, and he smiled as he recalled that in earlier days his ancestors had stolen their brides.

"Why are you amused?" Evelyn asked.

"An idle thought came into my mind," he said awkwardly.

Evelyn smiled.

"My father has come to look for me; but I shall see you again. You will be here some time?"

"A few days."

He watched her join Cliffe in the archway that led from the patio, and then he sat down again on the bench under the palm-tree. But he no longer heard the strum of the guitars nor the tinkle of the mandolins: he was thinking of Evelyn. There seemed to be some peculiar bond of sympathy between them; he felt that she understood him even when nothing much was said.

"Mooning all alone?" came Walthew's voice.

Grahame laughed, and joined his comrade and Macallister, who had entered the patio with Don Martin and Blanca.

CHAPTER XI

A MODERN DON QUIXOTE

The dining-room of the International Hotel was modern, but while noisy, power-driven fans stirred the heavy air and the decoration was profuse, traces of more austere ancient art remained. Stone pillars and the fretted arch at one end had an Eastern grace and lightness; among the gaudy modern lamps hung one or two finely-modeled in copper and burning scented oil. The glass and nickeled knives were American, but curious old carafes filled with red and yellow wine stood among the flowers and fruit on the long table.

Evelyn, looking down the room from its opposite end, was conscious of faint displeasure when Grahame entered with a very attractive girl. The feeling could not be jealousy, but she studied Blanca with a curiosity that was half hostile. The girl was dressed in Parisian fashion, but she walked with a grace that only Spanish women show. There was no fault to be found with her supple figure, but her black hair was rather coarse and her blue eyes too languishing. Yet she was well bred, and the man in dark clothes who followed and was, no doubt, her father had an air of dignity. Grahame seemed to be on friendly terms with them, for they talked and laughed when they sat down and Evelyn noticed that the girl sometimes touched him coquettishly with her fan.

Walthew sat opposite with a thoughtful expression; and soon Macallister joined in the talk. It was obvious that he was amusing, for Evelyn saw those who sat near smile and then hearty laughter rose from his end of the table. The Spanish girl and Grahame no longer spoke to each other, and the engineer's voice came up through the clink of glass and the hum of conversation, sometimes in broad Scots and sometimes in stumbling and uncouth Castilian.

When the guests were leaving the dining-room Grahame met Cliffe in the corridor.

"Glad to see you. I didn't expect to find you in Havana," the American said cordially. "I want a smoke. Will you come along?"

They found a seat in the patio, and Cliffe gave Grahame a cigar.

"How's business?" he asked.

"We can't complain, so far," Grahame answered cautiously. "The boat, of course, does not carry much, but her light draught allows her to get into harbors that larger vessels can only enter on big tides, and we sold our last cargo at a satisfactory price. Just now I'm looking out for a few passengers to Kingston; there's no boat across for some time."

"I might go with you, if you have two good rooms to spare. There's a fruit-growing estate I want to look at in Jamaica."

The suggestion was welcome to Grahame. He promised to give Cliffe part of the deckhouse, and they afterward talked of something else.

In the meanwhile, Walthew was sitting with Blanca Sarmiento. He was quiet, for he still felt languid and the patio was hot; but he was conscious of his companion's charm. Indeed, he had thought of her often since he left Rio Frio, and she had had a place in the fantastic dreams the fever brought him.

"You do not speak much, but you have been ill," she said presently, with a sympathetic glance. "It was a grief to us to hear it; but you have suffered in a good cause."

"I'm not sure of that," Walthew answered. "You see I was out for money."

"And that was all!" Blanca exclaimed in a half-contemptuous tone.

"I think so," Walthew admitted. "My people are traders and I suppose money-making runs in the family. Still, I might claim to be a soldier of fortune, if you like that better. It's more romantic, anyhow."

"Ah!" she said with a sparkle in her eyes. "There were great soldiers of fortune among the liberators; one thinks of Bolivar, Lafayette, and Garibaldi. But the brave Italian had wounds and prison, not money, for his reward."

"These fellows are too near the top notch for me to follow. I know my limits," Walthew modestly owned.

"One should follow the highest, and chivalry is not dead; even commerce cannot kill it. There are still knights errant, who see visions and leave everything, to right the wrong and help the downtrodden. It has been my good fortune to meet one or two."

"Your Cervantes wrote about one such. Seems to me that although he meant well, Don Quixote did more harm than good."

"Ah, the sad, sad book! But you think like Cervantes? You sneer at romance?"

"I'm young, señorita, but I try to keep my head." He gave her a steady glance. "Sometimes I find it difficult."

She laughed with a sparkle of coquetry, and touched him with her fan.

"Then there is hope for you, and we will labor for your conversion. The man who always keeps his head never does anything great; the power that moves the world comes from the heart." Lowering her voice, she went on: "Our cause is just, señor, but we need trustworthy friends, even if they are not idealists. Quixote failed because he used rusty armor and the lance; we will use rifles."

Walthew was trying to be cautious, but was swept away. He had been attracted by the girl at their first meeting, though he had then felt something of the Anglo-Saxon's prejudice against the southern races, which is not unmarked in the United States. This had gone, however, and he now wondered whether Blanca meant to use him only to further her father's objects, or if she had any personal interest in him. Her patriotism was, he thought, a burning flame, and she would not stick at trifles where she saw a chance of serving her country. Still, it would be his fault if she were willing to get rid of him when he had done his work.

"I wonder why you thought I could be trusted?" he said.

"It is difficult to explain, señor, but one can tell, perhaps by instinct, when a man rings true."

"It would hurt to find you had been deceived?"

"It might be so," she answered slowly.

Walthew wondered if this were mere flirtation, designed to gain an end. Blanca was playing with her fan, which lay in her lap. He could not see her eyes. He felt that he had been given an opportunity, however, and he meant to seize it. Leaning forward toward her, he waited until she raised her eyes to his, and then he spoke in a low, tense voice.

"When I was leaving Rio Frio, I found a crimson rose on the pavement. I picked it up because I ventured to think it was meant for me."

Blanca was again playing with her fan, opening and shutting it slowly.

"Señor, it is possible the flower was dropped by mistake," she said, giving him a sidewise glance that made his heart beat fast.

"How – if it was really meant for me?"

She hesitated a moment, and then, raising her head, she met his insistent look with a curious smile.

"It was given because I thought you were perhaps, in a way, and as far as it was possible for you, like the great soldiers of fortune we talked about."

Walthew made her a ceremonious bow.

"You set me a pretty big task, señorita, but, as far as it's possible for me, I will try to make good."

He was thrilled by the look she gave him as she rose and held out her hand.

"Your conversion begins," she said, with a strange, new note in her voice. "It is a chivalrous resolve, and – you will live up to it, señor."

When she left him, Walthew found Grahame alone in the hotel lounge.

"I promised to let you know whether the malaria would send me home or not," he said. "I've made up my mind to see the business through."

Grahame grasped his hand cordially.

"I don't know that you are wise, old man; but I am glad to have you, just the same." He gave Walthew a whimsical look. "Haven't you come to a decision rather suddenly?"