ONE WAY TO GET TO CUBA.
“Whew!” For the nineteenth time John Barker gives utterance to the
expressive exclamation, as he mops his perspiring forehead.
The detective is seated in the parlor car of the Florida express, which
has just left Jacksonville, and is being whirled along toward Tampa Bay.
He soon indulges in a nap, while the train rumbles on, by the scattered
negro huts, with their ebon-hued occupants drawn up in solemn array to
watch the flying cars, through the dense forests of moss-entwined trees,
across the trestle-spanned marshes and mud-colored rivers.
Barker is dreaming of a hand-to-hand encounter with Cyrus Felton,
wherein the latter has succeeded in clasping the handcuffs about his
(Barker’s) neck and is slowly but surely rendering futile his breathing
apparatus, when the porter’s voice calling out “Tampa Bay” recalls him
to his senses.
The single hotel at Tampa Bay, Barker subsequently finds, is not a
half-bad institution, judged by the midnight inspection, and
ascertaining from the clerk that the steamer for Key West does not sail
until 3 o’clock the following afternoon, the detective retires in the
confident belief that he has overtaken Mrs. Harding at least.
Barker is right in his surmise. He has nearly finished his breakfast the
next morning, when the striking figure of Mrs. Harding enters the
dining-room and is escorted by the obsequious waiter to the table at
which the detective is seated. The latter lingers long over his coffee
and muffins, while he improves the opportunity of studying his
vis-a-vis.
“Handsome as a queen,” is his conclusion, as the glorious black eyes
glance idly into his. But there is a tinge of melancholy in her face, a
preoccupation in her manner, that does not escape the observation of the
detective, and at which he wonders.
“It cannot be that the military chap has given her the go-by,” he
thinks.
He has not, for at this moment the soldierly form of the Spaniard enters
the room and he is directed to a seat beside Mrs. Harding.
“Nothing very lover-like in their greeting,” ruminates Barker, as the
two exchange salutations. “Since they are to be fellow-passengers on the
boat to Key West and Havana I will postpone my interview until then.”
Barker strolls out upon the hotel veranda.
“How long does it take to run to Havana?” he inquires, casually, of the
porter.
“About a ten hours’ sail from Key West, when the steamers are running,”
he is told.
“When the steamers are running? Are they not running now?”
“No, sir; they run only as far as Key West now, since the blockade was
declared.”
Barker paces slowly up and down the veranda.
“Well, I must be hoodooed,” he mutters; “that does settle it. Here I’ve
raced 1,700 miles to head off my game, only to be foiled by a measly
blockade. I can’t stand it to charter a ship, and it looks mightily as
if Cyrus Felton was going to slip through my hands. But how are my lady
and the Spanish-looking chap to get there? I will go to Key West at any
rate. There may be some way to cross the channel from there.”
The detective is not in cheerful spirits as he boards the steamer, but
he feels a shade of satisfaction while noting Mrs. Harding and her
cavalier ascend the gang-plank just before the signal for departure is
given.
“We will have a little tete-a-tete by and by, my lady,” he murmurs. But,
greatly to the detective’s disappointment, Mrs. Harding does not emerge
from her stateroom until the steamer has sighted the yellow stretch of
sand that marks the entrance to the harbor of Key West.
“Well, we shall either be fellow-voyagers again, or ‘on a tropical isle
we’ll sit and smile,’” reflects Barker, philosophically.
Determined that he will not lose sight of the charming Mrs. Harding
again, Barker loiters about the steamer until she trips across the
gang-plank, the last passenger to disembark. Her traveling companion has
preceded her nearly half an hour, and Barker wonders again if they have
parted company. Their baggage, he observes, is still on the pier, and
even as Mrs. Harding steps ashore Barker sees the Spaniard coming
rapidly toward her. He conducts her to the opposite side of the wharf,
where is moored a neat little steam launch, manned by a number of
sailors in the uniform of the Spanish navy. The baggage upon which
Barker’s watchful eyes are fixed is quickly conveyed aboard the launch,
Mrs. Harding follows, still escorted by the military-appearing stranger,
and a moment later the little craft shoots out from the dock and makes
for a man-of-war lying at anchor in the harbor and flying the Spanish
colors.
Mr. Barker’s last opportunity for a tete-a-tete with “my lady” has
vanished.
The detective watches the launch until it vanishes behind the bow of the
warship, but words fail utterly to express his feelings. He mechanically
picks up his grip and suffers himself to be conducted by an enterprising
Bahaman to the American hotel, picturesquely surrounded by tropical
shrubs and plants.
“Well, Barker,” the detective communes with himself, “it looks decidedly
as if my lady possessed a slight advantage in having a man-of-war at her
call. But with all that fleet of boats in the harbor it does seem that
there should be one bound for Cuba. How to hit that particular one is
the question.”
He strolls down the broad street to the harbor front, and from a wharf
wistfully gazes at the Spanish man-of-war now nearly hull down on the
horizon bearing away his fair fellow-voyager. A tanned and
weather-beaten son of Neptune is making fast a small sloop, whose name
Barker notes with idle curiosity is emblazoned in generous letters on
her stern, “Cayo Hueso.”
“Say, my good fellow,” he says, “you don’t happen to know of any way to
reach Havana, do you? Are any of these vessels likely to sail for that
port within a day or two?”
He of the weather-beaten face finishes making fast the little sloop
without answering, and then slowly turns and looks at Barker. The gaze
is a long and searching one, but apparently it is satisfactory.
“There’s one way to reach Cuba, I reckon,” he says, with a pronounced
nasal twang. “That is, if you are sailor enough to stand that sloop and
wise enough to keep your mouth shut on occasions.”
Barker surveys the little craft doubtfully. She is of perhaps five tons’
burden, and looks old and risky.
“I could stand the sail if the boat is seaworthy, and I am anxious to
reach Havana,” he finally says. “When do you sail?”
“At 6 o’clock. The Cayo don’t go clear to Cuba, only about half-way
across the channel. But we can put you aboard another craft that will
land you in Havana. Got any baggage?”
Barker meditates a moment. “How long will it take to make the passage?”
he inquires.
“Wall, if this wind holds you ought to be in Havana by to-morrow night.
It will cost you—say, $25.”
Barker’s decision is made. “I’ll chance it,” he says. “I’ll be here at 6
o’clock.”
On his return to the Cayo Hueso, the detective finds the crew of three
already aboard and his sailor friend preparing to cast off. He ruefully
surveys the small craft and thinks of the 120-mile trip, but there is no
alternative and he clambers aboard.
As the sails are hoisted Barker is amazed by the rate at which the
little craft speeds out of the harbor. There is always a breeze on the
keys, the captain of the Cayo tells him.
Soon the sea begins to growl a bit and Barker does not like it. As the
breeze freshens, the commotion beneath his vest increases.
“Just the kind of a breeze for a run across, eh?” remarks the man at the
tiller, with a voice that sounds to Barker like the rasp of a new saw.
“I dunno,” replies the detective, whose face is rapidly becoming
“sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought.”
But the little vessel continues to spin over the waters, as darkness
settles upon the sea.
The stars are paling in the heavens and the gray dawn is creeping
athwart the sloop, when Barker awakens from a troubled nap and struggles
into a sitting posture. He sees only the bare horizon, the ocean lying
black and leaden and wrinkled like an old man’s face. There is no boat
in sight, he thinks; they are not yet half-way to the Cuban shore.
But there is a boat in sight. Hull down to the east, imperceptible to
his untrained eye, a delicate pearl shaft hangs like a pendant just on
the horizon. For a time it seems dim and visionary; then even Barker,
did he possess sufficient ambition to lift his head again, could see a
duplicate of the sloop lazily crawling toward her, and, within half an
hour, come alongside the Cayo Hueso.
At once certain mysterious boxes and casks, chiefly the latter, are
transferred from one boat to the other. Then Barker laboriously and
disconsolately steps from the Cayo Hueso to the strange boat, while his
weather-beaten friend communes with the captain of the latter. His
destination is a matter of supremest indifference to the detective. He
manfully strives to hold up his head while the exchange of salutations
is made, fails and sinks passively into the bottom of the boat.
The sun is gilding Maro castle as the little craft enters the harbor of
Havana.
“A remarkably quick passage,” says the captain in Spanish, as the sloop
is being moored to a dilapidated wharf in an obscure portion of the
water front.
Barker struggles to his feet. “Are we in Havana?” he inquires in
Spanish, a trifle rusty, but still intelligible.
“Si, senor.”
“Thank heaven!” is the pious ejaculation of the detective. “I’ll live
and die in Cuba before I’ll every trust myself in a cockleshell like
that again.”
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