A VICTORY, AND A DEFEAT
I arose silently to my feet, conscious of possessing no weapon, yet
fully aware that all hope of thwarting this villainy lay in immediate
action. But I must await the right moment. Even with the advantage of
surprise, there would inevitably be the noise of struggle. I had in
the past despised Sanchez, but I had never yet tested him as a
fighting man, and, indeed, no longer considered the fellow to be a
mean antagonist. Remembering who he was, I now realized fully the
desperate nature of my attempt, the need of quick, remorseless action.
Nevertheless I dared not attack until assured that those men he had
just dispatched were safely beyond ear-shot. I could hear or see
nothing of them; they had vanished utterly, and the soft sand returned
no echo of their footsteps. Time alone gave me judgment as to the
distance they would travel. If I yielded too much of this, they might
attain the sloop before I could sound an alarm; while if I moved too
quickly the noise would bring them back to the rescue. The moments
were agony, as I bent tensely forward, poised for a leap. God! I could
wait no longer!
Sanchez had turned slightly, apparently immersed in thought, and stood
with his face toward the Bay. Even in that darkness his position was
that of a man intently listening for the slightest sound to reach him
out of the black night. I ventured a cautious step forward, and stood
on the open sand, scarcely a yard to his rear, every nerve throbbing,
my lips still silently counting the seconds. I could not, I dared not
wait longer. Some vague sense of my presence must have influenced the
man, for he swung suddenly about, uttering a stifled cry of startled
surprise, as we met face to face. For an instant we were locked so
closely within each other's desperate grip, his head bent beneath my
arm, with my fingers clutching at his throat to block any call for
help, that he possessed no knowledge of his assailant's identity. But
the man was like a tiger, possessed of immense strength encased in a
wiry frame. The surprise of attack was to my advantage, yet almost
before I realized what was being done, he had rallied, broken my first
hold, and his eyes were glaring straight into mine. Then he knew me,
signaling his discovery with an oath, his free hand instantly grasping
at the knife concealed beneath his loose cloak. Even as he jerked it
forth, I crushed his wrist within my fingers, forcing his fore-arm
back. Breast to breast we wrestled for mastery, every muscle strained,
our feet firm planted on the sand. There was no outcry, no noise,
except that of our heavy breathing, and trampling feet. Personal
hatred had ascendancy in both our hearts--I doubt if he ever thought
of aught else but the desire to kill me there with his own hands. Only
once did he even utter a word, hissing out the sentence as though it
were a poison:
"To hell with you, you sneaking English cur!"
"Then I travel that road not alone," I muttered back. "There will be
one less of the devil's brood afloat."
What followed has to me no clearness, no consistency. I remember, yet
it is as though memory played me a thousand tricks. Never have I
fought more wickedly, nor with deeper realization that I needed every
ounce of strength, and every trick of wit and skill. I had not before
dreamed he was such a man; but now I knew the fellow possessed greater
knowledge of the game than I, and a quicker movement; I alone excelled
in weight of body, and coolness of brain. His efforts were those of an
infuriated animal, his uncontrolled outburst of hatred rendering him
utterly reckless of results in his struggle to overcome me at any
cost. It was this blind blood-lust which gave me victory. I know not
clearly how it was done; my only memory being his frantic efforts to
drive home the knife point, and mine to defeat the thrust. Twice he
pricked me deep enough to draw blood, before I succeeded in twisting
backward the arm with which he held the blade. It was a sailor's trick
of last resort, heartlessly cruel in its agony, but I felt then no
call to mercy. He met the game too late, falling half back upon one
knee, hoping thus to foil my purpose, yet my greater weight saved me.
There was the sharp crack of a bone, as his useless fingers let the
knife drop, a snarled curse of pain, and then, with the rage of a mad
dog, Sanchez struck his teeth deep into my cheek. The sharp pang of
pain drove me to frenzy, and for the first time I lost all control, my
one free hand seeking to reach the lost knife. With a thrill of
exultation I gripped it, driving instantly the keen blade to its hilt
into the man's side. He made no cry, no struggle--the set teeth
unlocked, and he fell limply back on the sand, his head lapped by the
waves.
I remained poised above him, spent and breathless from struggle,
scarcely conscious even as to what had occurred so swiftly, the
dripping knife in my hand, blood streaming down my cheek, and still
infuriated by blind passion. The fellow lay motionless, his face
upturned to the sky, but invisible except in dim outline. It did not
seem possible he could actually be dead; I had struck blindly, with no
knowledge as to where the keen blade had penetrated--a mere desperate
lunge. I rested my ear over his heart, detecting no murmur of
response; touched the veins of his wrist, but found there no answering
throb of life. Still dazed and uncertain, I arose staggering to my
feet, conscious at last that the man must actually be dead, yet, for
the moment, so surprised by the discovery as to scarcely realize its
significance. Not that I regretted the act, not that I experienced the
slightest remorse, yet, for an instant, the shock seemed to leave me
nerveless and unstrung. Only a moment since I was engaged in desperate
struggle, and now I could only stare down at the dark lines of that
motionless body outstretched upon the sand.
Then I remembered those others--the unconscious sleepers on the deck
of the sloop; those blood-stained villains creeping toward them
through the black shadows of the night. The memory was like a dash of
water in the face. With the death-dealing knife still gripped in my
hand, I raced forward along the narrow strip of sand, reckless of what
I might encounter, eager only to arrive in time to give utterance to a
shout of warning. I could not have covered more than half the
distance when the first sound of attack reached me--far-off, gurgling
cry of agony, which pierced the darkness like the scream of a dying
soul. The heart leaped into my throat, yet I ran on, unhalted, unseen,
until the planks of the wharf were beneath my feet, the low side of
the sloop looming black before me. There was confusion aboard, the
sounds of struggle, mingled with curses and blows. With one upward
swing of my body I was safely aboard, knife still in hand, peering
eagerly forward. Through the gloom concealing the deck, I could
perceive only dim figures, a riot of men, battling furiously hand to
hand, yet out of the ruck loomed through the darkness in larger
outline than the others---Cochose, the negro. I leaped at the fellow,
and struck with the keen knife, missing the heart, but plunging the
blade deep into the flesh of the shoulder. The next instant I was in a
bear's grip, the very breath crushed out of me, yet, by some chance,
my one arm remained free, and I drove the sharp steel into him twice
before he forced the weapon from my fingers. Through a wrestler's
trick, although my wrist was as numb as if dead from his fierce grip,
I thrust an elbow beneath the brute's chin, and thus forced his head
back, until the neck cracked.
This respite served merely for the moment, yet sufficiently long to
win me a firm foot-hold on deck, and a breath of night air. He was too
strong, too immense of stature. Apparently unweakened by his wounds,
the giant negro, thoroughly aroused, exerted his mighty muscles, and,
despite my utmost effort at resistance, thrust me back against the
stern rail, where the weight of his body pinned me helplessly. With a
roar of rage he drove his huge fist into my face, but happily was too
close to give much force to the blow. My own hands, gripping the
neck-band of his coarse shirt, twisted it tight about the great
throat, until, in desperation, panting for breath, the huge brute
actually lifted me in his arms, and hurled me backward, headlong over
the rail. I struck something as I fell, yet rebounding from this,
splashed into the deep water, and went down so nearly unconscious as
to make not even the slightest struggle. I had no strength left in me,
no desire to save myself, and I sank like a stone. And yet I came up
once more to the surface, arising by sheer chance, directly beneath
the small dory--which my body must have struck as I fell--towing by a
painter astern of the sloop, and fortunately retained sense enough to
cling desperately to this first thing my hands touched, and thus
remained concealed.
This occurred through complete exhaustion, rather than the exercising
of any judgment, for, had it not been for this providential support, I
would surely have drowned without a struggle. Every breath I drew was
in pain; I felt as though my ribs had been crushed in, while I had
lost sufficient blood to leave me as weak as a babe. I simply clung
there desperately, hopelessly, yet the salt water soon served to
revive me physically, and even my brain began to arouse from its daze
to a faint realization of the conditions. The small dory to which I
clung, caught in some mysterious current, floated at the very
extremity of its slender towline, and in consequence the sloop
appeared little more than a mere smudge, when my eyes endeavored to
discover its outlines. Evidently the bloody work had been completed,
for now all was silent on board. I could not even detect the sound of
a footstep on the deck. Then, clear enough to be distinctly heard
across the narrow strip of water, came the voice of Estada, in a gruff
inquiry:
"So you are hiding here, Cochose? What are you looking for in the
sea?"
"What? Why that damned Englishman." The response was a savage growl,
intensified by husky dialect. "Mon Dieu! He fought me like a mad rat."
"The Englishman, you say? He was here then? It was he you battled
with? What became of the fellow?"
"He went down there, Senor. The dog stabbed me three times. It was
either he or I to go."
"You mean you threw him overboard?"
"Ay, with his ribs crushed in, and not a breath left in his damned
body. He's never come up even--I've watched, and there has not been so
much as a ripple where he sank."
The two must have hung in silence over the rail staring down. I dared
not advance my head to look, nor even move a muscle of my body in the
water, but both were still standing there when Estada finally gave
utterance to an oath.
"How know you it was the man?"
"Who else could it have been? You have the others."
"Ay, true enough; yet it will go hard with you, Cochose, when the
Captain learns of this--he would have the fellow alive."
"As well attempt to take a tiger with bare hands--see, the blood yet
runs; a single inch to the left, and it would be I fed to the fishes.
Pah! what is the difference, Senor, so the man dies?"
"Right enough, no doubt; anyway it is not I who must face Sanchez, and
it is too late now to change fate. Let's to the rest of our task. You
can still do your part?"
The giant negro growled.
"Ay; I have been worse hurt, yet a bit of cloth would help me."
"Let Carl see to that, while I gain glimpse at this map of the house
up yonder. Come forward with me to the cabin, till I light a candle.
How came you aft here?"
"Because that fellow leaped the rail from the wharf. I saw him, and we
met at the wheel."
"From the wharf, you say? He was not aboard then? Santa Maria! I know
not what that may mean. Yet what difference, so he be dead. Anderson,
Mendez, throw that carrion overboard--no, bullies, never mind; let
them lie where they are, and sink an auger in the sloop's bottom. That
will settle the whole matter. What is that out yonder, Cochose?"
"A small boat, Senor--a dory, I make it."
"Cut the rope, and send it adrift. Now come along with me."
The darker loom of the sloop vanished slowly, as the slight current
sweeping about the end of the wharf drifted the released boat to which
I clung outward into the Bay. The faint echo of a voice floated to my
ears across the widening expanse of water, and then all was silent as
the night closed in darkly between. There was scarcely a ripple to
the sea, and yet I felt that the boat was steadily drifting out into
deeper water. I was still strangely weak, barely able to retain my
grasp, with a peculiar dullness in my head, which made me fearful that
at any moment I might let go. I was not even conscious of thinking, or
capable of conceiving clearly my situation, yet I must have realized
vaguely the immediate necessity of action, for finally I mustered
every ounce of remaining energy in one supreme effort, and succeeded
in dragging my body up out of water over the boat's stern, sinking
helplessly forward into the bottom. The moment this was accomplished
every sense deserted me, and I lay there motionless, totally
unconscious.
I shall never know how long I remained thus, the little dory in which
I lay rocked aimlessly about by the waves, and constantly drifting in
the grasp of unseen currents farther and farther out into the Bay. The
blackness of the night swallowed us, as tossed by wind and sea, we
were borne on through the waste unguided. Yet this time could not have
been great. As though awakening from sleep a faint consciousness
returned, causing me to lift my head, and stare hopelessly about into
the curtain of mist overhanging the water. At first, with nothing
surrounding to awaken memory into action, only that dull vista of sea
and sky, my mind refused to respond to any impression; then the sharp
pain of my wounds, accented by the sting of salt water, brought me
swift realization of where I was, and the circumstances bringing me
there. My wet clothing had partially dried on my body as I lay there
motionless in the bottom of the boat, and now, with every movement,
chafed the raw spots, rendering the slightest motion a physical
agony. I had evidently lost considerable blood, yet this had already
ceased to flow, and a very slight examination served to convince me
that the knife slashes were none of them serious. Beyond these
punctures of the flesh, while I ached from head to foot, my other
injuries were merely bruises to add to my discomfort--the result of
blows dealt me by Sanchez and Cochose, aggravated by the bearlike hug
of the giant negro. Indeed, I awoke to the discovery that I was far
from being a dead man; and, inspired by this knowledge, the various
incidents of the night flashed swiftly back into my mind. How long had
I been lying there unconscious, adrift in the open boat? How far had
we floated from land? Where were we now, and in the meantime what had
occurred ashore?
These were questions impossible to answer. I could not even attempt
their solution. No gleam of light appeared in any direction; no sound
echoed across the dark waste of water. Far above, barely visible
through a floating veil of haze, I was able to detect the faint gleam
of stars, and was sailor enough to determine through their guidance
some certainty as to the points of compass; yet possessed no means by
which to ascertain the time of night, or the position of the boat.
With this handicap it was clearly impossible for me to attempt any
return to the wharf through the impenetrable black curtain which shut
me in. What then could I do? What might I still hope to accomplish? At
first thought the case appeared hopeless. Those fellows had swept the
sloop clean, and had doubtless long ago scuttled it. This ruthless
deed once accomplished, their orders were to raid the house on the
bluff. But would they go on with their bloody work? They would
suddenly find themselves leaderless, unguided. Would that suffice to
stop them? The vivid memory came to me anew of that arch villain,
Sanchez, lying where I had left him, his head resting in the
surf--dead. Would the discovery of his body halt his followers, and
send them rushing back to their boat, eager only to get safely away?
This did not seem likely. Estada knew of my boarding the sloop from
the wharf, and would at once connect the fact of my being ashore with
the killing of Sanchez. This would satisfy him there was no further
danger. Besides, these were not men to be easily frightened at sight
of a dead body, even that of their own captain. They might hesitate,
discuss, but they would never flee in panic. Surely not with that
ruffian Estada yet alive to lead them, and the knowledge that fifty
thousand pounds was yonder in that unguarded house, with no one to
protect the treasure but two old men asleep, and the women. The
women!--Dorothy! What would become of her? Into whose hands would she
fall in that foul division of spoils? Estada's? Good God--yes! And I,
afloat and helpless in this boat, what could I do?