Kitabı oku: «The Coast of Adventure», sayfa 9

They must first slip past the watching fort, and then elude the foreign gunboat. They knew the consequences if they were caught.

CHAPTER XVII
ELUDING THE GUNBOAT

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 the Enchantress.

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. The Enchantress, 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, the Enchantress crept 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 the Enchantress stole 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 the Enchantress's luminous 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; and then he disappeared below while Grahame stood still, steadying the glasses on the deckhouse top.

With screw spinning slowly, the Enchantress glided 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 the Enchantress must 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. The Enchantress crept 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. The Enchantress was 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!"

The Enchantress began 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 the Enchantress's gray 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, "how they 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 the Enchantress steamed out to sea.

CHAPTER XVIII
THE TEST OF LOVE

The hot summer day was over and the light beginning to fade when Evelyn came down the steps of a country house in northern Maine. Banner's Post stood at the foot of a hillside among the dark pines, and the murmur of running water echoed about its walls. It belonged to Mrs. Willans, Mrs. Cliffe's sister, for Willans, who had bought the house at his wife's command, seldom came there and did not count. Mrs. Willans wanted a peaceful retreat where she and her friends, when jaded by social activities, could rest and recuperate in the silence of the woods. She had many interests and what she called duties, but she had of late felt called upon, with her sister's full approval, to arrange a suitable marriage for her niece. Henry Cliffe was not really rich.

Evelyn was dressed in the latest summer fashion, and the thin, light clothes became her. The keen mountain breezes had given her a fine color, and she looked very fresh and young by contrast with the jaded business man at her side. Cliffe wore an old gray suit that Evelyn had never seen and shabby leggings. A creel hung round his shoulders, and he carried a fishing-rod. His face was lined and pale, but when they left the garden and entered the woods Evelyn was surprised to note that his thin figure harmonized with the scattered boulders and the ragged pines. To some extent, this might be accounted for by the neutral tint of his clothes, but he somehow looked at home in the wilderness. Though he had once or twice gone off with an old friend on a shooting trip, she had never thought of her father as a sport.

"It is curious that you make me feel you belong to the bush," she said.

"I used to go fishing when I was a boy," Cliffe replied with a deprecatory smile. "I've never had much time for it since; but there's nothing I'm fonder of."

Evelyn found something pathetic in his answer. He had very few opportunities for indulging in the pastimes he liked, and now he was going out to fish with a keen eagerness that showed how scarce such pleasures were. His enjoyment was essentially natural; her friends' enthusiasm for the amusements Mrs. Willans got up was artificial and forced. They had too much, and her father not enough.

"I hope the trout will rise well," she said. "We were surprised to hear that you were coming down."

"I found I could get away for the week-end. Have you been having a good time?"

"Yes, in a way. I have everything I ought to like; something amusing to do from morning to night, the kind of people I've been used to about me, and Aunt Margaret sees that nobody is dull."

She had had more than she mentioned, for Gore was staying at Banner's Post, and had devoted himself to her entertainment with a frank assiduity that had roused the envy of other guests. Evelyn admitted feeling flattered, for Gore had many advantages, and his marked preference had given her an importance she had not always enjoyed.

"And yet you're not quite satisfied?" Cliffe suggested with a shrewd glance.

"Perhaps I'm not, but I don't know. Is one ever satisfied?"

"One ought to be now and then when one is young. Make the most of the pleasures you can get, but aim at the best."

Evelyn mused for a few minutes. She could treat her father with confidence. He understood her, as her mother seldom did.

"What is the best?" she asked.

"To some extent, it depends on your temperament; but it goes deeper than that. There's success that palls and gratification that doesn't last. One soon gets old and the values of things change; you don't want to feel, when it's too late, that there's something big and real you might have had and missed."

"Have you felt this?"

"No," Cliffe answered quietly; "I get tired of the city now and then and long for old clothes, a boat, and a fishing-rod, but these are things it doesn't hurt a man to go without. I have a home to rest in and a wife and daughter to work for. An object of that kind helps you through life."

"My trouble is that I don't seem to have any object at all. I used to have a number, but I'm beginning now to doubt whether they were worth much. But I'm afraid you have made a sacrifice for our sakes."

Cliffe looked at her thoughtfully.

"My belief is that you always have to make some sacrifice for anything that's worth while." He laughed. "But right now fishing is more in my line than philosophy!"

He followed the little path that led to the stream, and Evelyn turned back slowly through the quiet woods. Her father's remarks had led her into familiar but distasteful thought. It was perhaps true that one must make some sacrifice to gain what was best worth having; but she had been taught to seize advantages and not to give things up. Now she could have wealth, a high position, and social influence, which were of value in her world, and in order to gain them she had only to overcome certain vague longings and the rebellious promptings of her heart. Gore wanted her, and she had been pleasantly thrilled to realize it; perhaps she had, to some extent, tried to attract him. It was foolish to hesitate when the prize was in her reach; but she did not feel elated as she went back to the house.

She lingered among the last of the trees. They lifted their black spires against the sky, the air was filled with their resinous scent, and faint, elfin music fell from their tops. Far above, the bald summit of Long Mountain shone a deep purple, though trails of mist that looked like lace were drawn about its shoulders. Then the pines rolled down, straggling at first, but growing thicker and taller until they merged into the dark forest that hid the giant's feet. The wild beauty of the scene and the calm of the evening reacted upon the girl; she felt it was a trivial life that she and her friends led.

Rousing herself with an effort, she left the woods and entered the well-kept garden. It had an exotic look; the bright-colored borders that edged the lawn jarred upon the austere beauty of the wilderness. Banner's Post was tamely pretty, and Nature had meant the spot to be grand. Still, the nickeled sprinklers that flung glistening showers across the smooth grass, and the big gasolene mower, belonged to her world, in which Nature was kept in her place by civilized art.

She saw Gore at the bottom of the steps in the midst of a group which included two attractive girls, and she was conscious of some satisfaction when he left his companions and came toward her.

"Luck has been against me all day," he said when he came up. "It seemed impossible to find you except in the center of what was going on. Now we'll run away for a little while."

His manner suggested a right to her society, and he turned toward the woods without waiting for her consent, but Evelyn thought he would have acted more wisely had he chosen a quiet nook on the veranda. Reggie was a product of his luxurious age; he was in his right place in a comfortable chair or moving gracefully about a polished floor with smartly dressed people in the background. Though not wholly artificial, and having some force of character, he failed to harmonize with the note of primitive grandeur struck by the rugged pines.

It was different with Evelyn when they sat down on a boulder. Her dress was in the latest fashion, but she had the gift of revealing something of her real personality through her attire. Its blue-gray tint matched the soft coloring of the lichened rock, and the lines of her tall figure were marked by a classical severity of grace. Then, her eyes were grave and her face was calm. It was her misfortune that she had not yet realized herself, but had accepted without much question the manners of her caste and the character Mrs. Cliffe had, so to speak, superimposed upon her.

"It's good to be quiet for a change," Gore said. "When I'm with you I feel that I needn't talk unless I want to. That's a relief, because it's when I feel least that I talk the most. You're tranquilizing."

"I'm not sure you're complimentary. Nowadays a girl is expected to be bright if she can't be brilliant."

"That's not your real line. Brilliance is often shallow, a cold, reflected sparkle. One has to get beneath the surface to understand you."

"Perhaps it's true of everybody," Evelyn answered with a smile. "Still, we're not taught to cultivate virtues that can't be seen."

"You can't cultivate the best of them; they've got to be an inherent, natural part of you. But I'm getting off the track – I do now and then."

Evelyn guessed what he meant to say, but although it would mark a turning-point in her life, and she did not know her answer, she was very calm. While she had, for the most part, allowed her mother to direct her actions, she had inherited Cliffe's independence of thought and force of will. So far, she had not exerted them, but she meant to do so now.

Looking up, she saw Long Mountain's towering crest cut in lonely grandeur against the fading green and saffron of the sky. The mist upon its shoulders shone faintly white against blue shadows; the pines had grown taller and blacker, and the sound of running water alone broke the silence. The resinous smells were keener, and there was a strange repose in the long ranks of stately trees. Nature had filled the stony wilds with stern beauty, and Evelyn instinctively felt the call of the strong, fruitful earth. One must be real and, in a sense, primitive, here.

"This," she said, indicating the shadowy landscape, "is very grand. We don't give much thought to it, but it has its influence."

"I guess it's all quite fine," Gore agreed absently. "It would make a great summer-resort if they ran in a branch-railroad. In fact, I've imagined that Willans had something of the kind in view; he has a genius for developing real estate."

"An unthinkable desecration!" Evelyn exclaimed.

"Well," he said in a quiet voice, "if it would please you, I'd buy Banner's Post and all the land back to the lake, and nobody but my game-wardens should disturb it except when you let me come up here with you. Then you could teach me to appreciate the things you like."

The girl was touched, for he belonged to the cities, and had nothing in common with the rocky wilds, but she knew that he would keep his word and indulge her generously. Nor was she offended by the touch of commercial spirit, though she would rather he had offered something that would cost him effort of body or mind.

"I'm afraid you wouldn't find me worth the sacrifice you would have to make," she said. "Your tastes don't lie that way."

He made a gesture of dissent.

"None of them are very strong, and I know that you go farther in everything than I can. You're elusive, but I've felt, for a long time, that if I could reach and win you, you'd help me along. That's my strongest argument and what I really meant to say. Surely, you have seen that I wanted you."

Evelyn felt guilty, because she had seen this and had not repulsed him. She did not love the man, but love was not thought essential in her circle and she had never been stirred by passion.

"I felt that I couldn't get hold of you," he went on; "you were not ready. We were friends and that was something, but I was looking for a change in you, some hint of warmth and gentleness."

"And do you think I am ready now?"

"No; I only hoped so. I feared I might be wrong. But I began to find holding myself back was getting too hard, and I was afraid somebody else might come along who had the power to rouse you. I believe you can be roused."

"I wonder!" she said in a curious tone.

"You make people love you," he broke out. "That's a proof that when the time comes you're capable of loving. But I only ask to be near you and surround you with what you like best. There's a rare aloofness in you, but you're flesh and blood. When you have learned how I love you, you can't hold out."

Evelyn was silent, hesitating, with a troubled face. She liked him; he was such a man as her mother meant her to marry and, until the last few weeks, she had acquiesced in her obvious fate. Now, however, something prompted her to rebel, although prudence and ambition urged her to yield.

As he watched her in keen suspense, Gore suddenly lost his head. The next moment his arm was round her and he drew her forward until she was pressed against him with her face crushed against his. At first she did not struggle, and he thought she was about to yield, until he felt her tremble and her face was suddenly turned away. Then she put her hand on his shoulder and firmly held him back while she slipped from his relaxing grasp. Gore knew that he had blundered. Letting his arms drop, he waited until she turned to him, without anger, although her eyes were very bright and her color was high.

"I'm sorry, Reggie, but it's impossible for me to marry you."

"You are sure?" he asked rather grimly. "This is important to me, you know."

"Yes," she said with signs of strain; "I am sure. I think I wish it had been possible, but it isn't. You have convinced me."

He was silent for a moment.

"It cuts pretty deep," he said slowly. "I've been afraid all along that even if you took me you'd never be really within my reach. I guess I've got to bear it and let you go."

He rose and stood looking at her irresolutely, and then, with a gesture of acquiescence, abruptly turned away.

When he had gone, Evelyn sat still in the gathering dusk. She had, at first, submitted to his embrace, because she wished to find in any emotion he was capable of arousing an excuse for marrying him. But she had felt nothing except repulsion. Then in a flash the truth was plain; any closer relationship than that of friend would make her loathe the man she in some ways admired. This was disturbing, but little by little she began to realize that his touch had a strange after-effect. It had stirred her to warmth, but not toward him. Longings she had not thought herself capable of awoke within her; she was conscious of a craving for love and of a curious tenderness. Only, Reggie was not the man. He had roused her, but she did not know whether she ought to be grateful for that. She blushed as she struggled with her rebellious feelings, and then resolutely pulled herself together. Her mother must be told.

Mrs. Cliffe was resting before dinner when Evelyn entered her room and sat down without speaking.

"What is the matter?" Mrs. Cliffe asked with a premonition that something had gone wrong. "Why do you come in, in this dramatic way?"

"I didn't mean to be dramatic," Evelyn answered quietly. "Still, perhaps I was rather highly strung. Reggie asked me to marry him, and I told him I could not."

Mrs. Cliffe sat up suddenly, and there was an angry sparkle in her eyes.

"Then I think you must be mad! What led you to this absurd conclusion?"

"It's hard to explain," Evelyn answered with a faint smile. "I suppose I couldn't give you any very logical reasons."

"Then it may not be too late to put things right!" Mrs. Cliffe saw a ray of hope.

"I'm afraid it is. I think Reggie knows that – he was very considerate. There is no use in your trying to do anything; I must have my own way in this."

Mrs. Cliffe was painfully surprised. The girl had suddenly developed and revealed unsuspected capacities. She had grown like her father, who, for all his patience, was sometimes immovable. There was inflexibility in Evelyn's attitude; her face was hard and determined.

"Very well," she acquiesced. "Your father must be told, and I don't know what he will do about it."

"I would rather tell him myself," Evelyn said.

This was not what Mrs. Cliffe wanted, but the girl moved to the door as she finished speaking, and her mother sat down, burning with indignation. Her authority had been outraged, she felt overcome, and did not leave her room all evening.