THE MESSAGE
[Illustration: Suddenly he sprang upright _Frontispiece_]
THE MESSAGE
BY
LOUIS TRACY
_Author of "The Wings of the Morning," "The Wheel o'
Fortune," "The Captain of the Kansas," etc._
_ILLUSTRATED BY JOSEPH CUMMINGS CHASE_
[Illustration: LOGO]
New York
Edward J. Clode
Publisher
COPYRIGHT, 1908
BY EDWARD J. CLODE
_Entered at Stationers' Hall_
_The Plimpton Press Norwood Mass. U.S.A._
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
PAGE
DERELICTS 1
CHAPTER II
HOW THE MESSAGE WAS DELIVERED 19
CHAPTER III
WHEREIN A STRONG MAN YIELDS TO CIRCUMSTANCES 36
CHAPTER IV
FIGUERO MAKES A DISCOVERY 53
CHAPTER V
A MAN AND A STORY--BOTH UNEMOTIONAL 71
CHAPTER VI
WHEREIN WARDEN SETS A NEW COURSE 90
CHAPTER VII
TWO WOMEN 112
CHAPTER VIII
SHOWING HOW MANY ROADS LEAD THE SAME WAY 131
CHAPTER IX
WARDEN BEGINS HIS ODYSSEY 150
CHAPTER X
HASSAN'S TOWER--AND THE COLONIAL OFFICE 172
CHAPTER XI
THE BLUE MAN--AND A WHITE 193
CHAPTER XII
EVELYN HAS UNEXPECTED VISITORS 215
CHAPTER XIII
EVELYN ENTERS THE FRAY 234
CHAPTER XIV
THE DRUMS OF OKU 258
CHAPTER XV
WHEREIN ONE SURPRISE BEGETS MANY 279
CHAPTER XVI
A FIVE MINUTES' FIGHT 300
CHAPTER XVII
THE SETTLEMENT 319
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Suddenly he sprang upright _Frontispiece_
PAGE
The presence of Figuero in Cowes was perplexing 49
The stealthy menace of those evil eyes was startling 84
There was no mistaking the malice 183
He could feel the thrill of terror that shook
the moullah 212
Peter, you are a wonder 238
There was no doubt in his mind that the end had come 304
Why did you fail to recognize the girl? 328
_The Message_
CHAPTER I
DERELICTS
"It's fine!" said Arthur Warden, lowering his binoculars so as to glut
his eyes with the full spectacle. "In fact, it's more than fine, it's
glorious!"
He spoke aloud in his enthusiasm. A stout, elderly man who stood
near--a man with "retired tradesman" writ large on face and
figure--believed that the tall, spare-built yachtsman was praising the
weather.
"Yes, sir," he chortled pompously, "this is a reel August day. _I_ knew
it. Fust thing this morning I tole my missus we was in for a scorcher."
Warden gradually became aware that these ineptitudes were by way
of comment. He turned and read the weather-prophet's label at a
glance. But life was too gracious at that moment, and he was far too
well-disposed toward all men, that he should dream of inflicting a snub.
"That was rather clever of you," he agreed genially. "Now, though the
barometer stood high, I personally was dreading a fog three hours ago."
The portly one gurgled.
"I've got a glass," he announced. "Gev' three pun' ten for it, but
there's a barrowmeter in my bones that's worth a dozen o' them things.
I'll back rheumatiz an' a side o' bacon any day to beat the best glass
ever invented."
All unknowing, here was the touch of genius that makes men listen.
Warden showed his interest.
"A side of bacon!" he repeated.
"Yes, sir. Nothing to ekal it. I was in the trade, so I know wot I'm
talkin' about. And, when you come to think of it, why not? Pig skin
an' salt--one of 'em won't have any truck wi' damp--doesn't want it
an' shows it--an' t'other sucks it up like a calf drinkin' milk. I've
handled bacon in tons, every brand in the market, an' you can't smoke
any of 'em on a muggy day."
"Does your theory account for the old-fashioned notion that pigs can
see the wind?"
The stout man considered the point. It was new to him, and he was a
Conservative.
"I'm better acquent wi' bacon," he said stubbornly.
"So I gather. I was only developing your very original idea, on the
principle that
"'You may break, you may shatter, the vase if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.'"
The ex-bacon-factor rapped an emphatic stick on the pavement. Though he
hoped some of his friends would see him hob-nobbing "with a swell," he
refused to be made game of.
"Wot 'as scent got to do with it?" he demanded wrathfully.
"Everything. Believe me, pigs have been used as pointers. And consider
the porcine love of flowers. Why, there once was a pig named Maud
because it _would_ come into the garden."
Had Warden laughed he might have given the cue that was lacking. But
his clean-cut, somewhat sallow face did not relax, and an angry man
puffed away from him in a red temper.
He caught scraps of soliloquy.
"A pig named Maud!... Did anybody ever hear the like?... An' becos it
kem into a garden.... Might just as well 'ave called it Maria."
Then Warden, left at peace with the world, devoted himself again to
the exquisite panorama of Cowes on a sunlit Monday of the town's great
week. In front sparkled the waters of the Solent, the Bond Street of
ocean highways. A breath of air from the west rippled over a strong
current sweeping eastward. It merely kissed the emerald plain into
tiny facets. It was so light a breeze that any ordinary sailing craft
would have failed to make headway against the tide, and the gay flags
and bunting of an innumerable pleasure fleet hung sleepily from their
staffs and halyards. Yet it sufficed to bring a covey of white-winged
yachts flying back to Cowes after rounding the East Lepe buoy.
Jackyard topsails and bowsprit spinnakers preened before it. Though
almost imperceptible on shore, it awoke these gorgeous butterflies of
the sea into life and motion. Huge 23-meter cutters, such as _White
Heather II_, _Brynhild_ and _Nyria_, splendid cruisers like _Maoona,
errymaid_, _Shima_, _Creole_, and _Britomart_, swooped grandly into the
midst of the anchored craft as though bent on self-destruction. To the
unskilled eye it seemed a sheer miracle that any of them should emerge
from the chaos of yachts, redwings, launches, motorboats, excursion
steamers, and smaller fry that beset their path. But Cowes is nothing
if not nautical. Those who understood knew that bowsprits and dinghies
of moored yachts would be cleared magically, and even spinnaker booms
topped to avoid lesser obstruction. Those who did not understand--who
heard no syllable of the full and free language that greeted an
inane row-boat essaying an adventurous crossing of the course--gazed
breathlessly at these wondrous argosies, and marveled at their escape
from disaster. Then the white fleet swept past the mouth of the river,
and vanished behind Old Castle Point on the way to far distant buoy or
light-ship that marked the beginning of the homeward run. And that was
all--a brief flight of fairy ships--and Cowes forthwith settled down to
decorous junketing.
Away to the northwest a gathering of gray-hulled monsters had thundered
a royal salute of twenty-one guns, and the smoke-cloud still lay in a
blue film on the Hampshire coast. The _Dreadnought_ was hauling at her
anchors before taking a king and an emperor to witness the prowess of
her gunners. The emperor's private yacht, a half-fledged man-o'-war,
was creeping in the wake of the competing yachts. Perchance her
officers might see more of British gunnery practice than of the racing.
Close at hand a swarm of launches and ships' boats buzzed round the
landing slip of the Royal Yacht Club. The beautiful lawn and gardens
were living parterres of color, for the Castle is a famous rendezvous
of well-dressed women. Parties were assembling for luncheon either in
the clubhouse or on board the palatial vessels in the roads. To the
multitude, yachting at Cowes consists of the blare of a starting-gun,
the brief vision of a cluster of yachts careening under an amazing
press of canvas, and, for the rest, gossip, eating, bridge--with a
picnic or a dance to eke out the afternoon and evening.
Arthur Warden soon turned his back on the social Paradise he was not
privileged to enter. He was resigned to the fact that the breeze
which sent the competitors in the various matches spinning merrily to
Spithead would not move his hired cutter a yard against the tide. So,
having nothing better to do, he sauntered along the promenade toward
the main street. On the way he passed the one-time purveyor of bacon
sitting beside a lady who by long association had grown to resemble him.
"Now I wonder if her name is Maria," he mused.
Drifting with the holiday crowd, he bought some picture postcards, a
box of cigarettes, and a basket of hothouse peaches. Being a dilettante
in some respects, he admired and became the prospective owner of the
fruit before he learned the price. There were four peaches in the
basket, and they cost him ten shillings.
"Ah," he said, as the shopkeeper threw the half sovereign carelessly
into the till, "I see you have catered for Lucullus?"
"I don't think so, sir," said the greengrocer affably. "Where does he
live?"
"He had villas at Tusculum and Neapolis."
"There's no such places in the Isle of Wight, sir."
"Strange! Has not the game-dealer across the street supplied him with
peacocks' tongues?"
The man grinned.
"Somebody's bin gettin' at you, sir," he cried.
"True, very true. Yet, according to Horace, I sup with Lucullus
to-night."
"Horace said that, did he?"
The greengrocer suddenly turned and peered down a stairway.
"Horace!" he yelled, "who's this here Lucullus you've bin gassin'
about?"
A shock-headed boy appeared.
"Loo who?" said he.
Warden departed swiftly.
"My humor does not appeal to Cowes," he reflected. "I have scored two
failures. Having conjured Horace from a coal-cellar let me now confer
with Diogenes in his tub."
Applied to Peter Evans, and his phenomenally small dinghy, the phrase
was a happy enough description of the ex-pilot who owned the _Nancy_.
Evans and his craft had gone out of commission together. Both were
famous in the annals of Channel pilotage, but an accident had deprived
Peter of his left leg, so he earned a livelihood by summer cruising
round the coast, and he was now awaiting his present employer at a quay
in the river Medina.
But Warden's pace slackened again, once he was clear of the fruiterer's
shop. Sailing was out of the question until the breeze freshened. It
was in his mind to bid Peter meet him again at four o'clock. Meanwhile,
he would go to Newport by train, and ramble in Parkhurst Forest for
a couple of hours. Recalling that happy-go-lucky mood in later days
of storm and stress, he tried to piece together the trivial incidents
that were even then conspiring to bring about the great climax of his
life. A pace to left or right, a classical quip at his extravagance in
the matter of the peaches, a slight hampering of free movement because
the Portsmouth ferry-boat happened to be disgorging some hundreds of
sightseers into the main street of West Cowes--each of these things, so
insignificant, so commonplace, helped to bring him to the one spot on
earth where fate, the enchantress, had set her snare in the guise of a
pretty girl.
For it was undeniably a pretty face that was lifted to his when a young
lady, detaching herself from the living torrent that delayed him for a
few seconds on the pavement, appealed for information.
"Will you please tell me how I can ascertain the berth of the yacht
_Sans Souci_?" she asked.
It has been seen that he was glib enough of speech, yet now he was
tongue-tied. In the very instant that the girl put forward her simple
request, his eyes were fixed on the swarthy features of a Portuguese
freebooter known to him as the greatest among the many scoundrels
infesting the hinterland of Nigeria. There was no mistaking the man.
The Panama hat, spotless linen, fashionable suit and glossy boots of
a typical visitor to Cowes certainly offered strong contrast to the
soiled garb of the balked slave-trader whom he had driven out of a
burning and blood-bespattered African village a brief year earlier.
But, on that occasion, Arthur Warden had gazed steadily at Miguel
Figuero along the barrel of a revolver; under such circumstances one
does not forget.
For a little space, then, the Englishman's imagination wandered far
afield. Instinctively he raised his hat as he turned to the girl and
repeated her concluding words.
"The _Sans Souci_, did you say?"
"Yes, a steam-yacht--Mr. Baumgartner's."
She paused. Though Warden was listening now, his wits were still
wool-gathering. His subconscious judgment was weighing Figuero's
motives in coming to England, and, of all places, to Cowes. Of the many
men he had encountered during an active life this inland pirate was
absolutely the last he would expect to meet during Regatta Week in the
Isle of Wight.
The girl, half aware of his obsession, became confused--even a trifle
resentful.
"I am sorry to trouble you," she went on nervously. "I had no idea
there would be such a crowd, and I spoke to you because--because you
looked as if you might know----"
Then he recovered his self-possession, and proceeded to surprise her.
"I _do_ know," he broke in hurriedly. "Pray allow me to apologize. The
sun was in my eyes, and he permits no competition. Against him, even
you would dazzle in vain. To make amends, let me take you to the _Sans
Souci_. She is moored quite close to my cutter, and my dinghy is not
fifty yards distant."
The girl drew back a little. This offer of service was rather too
prompt, while its wording was peculiar, to say the least. She was so
good-looking that young men were apt to place themselves unreservedly
at her disposal without reference to sun, moon, or stars.
"I think I would prefer to hire a boat," she said coldly. "I should
explain that an officer on board the steamer told me I ought to
discover the whereabouts of the yacht before starting, or the boatman
would take me out of my way and overcharge."
"Exactly. That officer's name was Solomon. Now, I propose to take you
straight there for nothing. Come with me as far as the quay. One glance
at Peter will restore the confidence you have lost in me."
Then he smiled, and a woman can interpret a man's smile with almost
uncanny prescience. The whiff of pique blew away, and she temporized.
"Is the _Sans Souci_ a long way out?"
"Nearly a mile. And look! We can eat these while Peter toils."
He opened the paper bag and showed her the peaches. She laughed
lightly. Were she a Frenchwoman she would have said, "But, sir, you are
droll." Being English, she came to the point.
"Where is the quay you speak of?"
"Here. Close at hand."
As they walked off together she discovered out of the corner of her
eye that his glance was searching the thinning mob of her fellow
passengers. She guessed that he had recognized some person unexpectedly.
"Are you sure I am not trespassing on your time?" she demanded.
"Quite sure. When I said the sun was in my eyes I used poetic license.
I meant the West African sun. A man who arrived on your steamer
reminded me of Nigeria--where we--er--became acquainted."
"There! You want to speak to him, of course," and she halted suddenly.
He smiled again, and held out the bag.
"He is a Portuguese gin-trader--and worse. And he is gone. Would you
have me run after him and offer peaches that were meant for you?"
"But that is ridiculous."
"Most certainly."
"I don't mean that. How could you possibly have provided peaches for
me?"
"I don't know. Ask the fairies who arrange these things. Ten minutes
ago I had no more notion of buying fruit than of buying an aeroplane.
Ten minutes ago you and I had never met. Yet here we are, you and I
and the luscious four. And there is Peter, sailing master, cook, and
general factotem of the _Nancy_ cutter. Don't you think Peter's wooden
leg induces trust? He calls it a prop, which suggests both moral and
physical support. By the way, have you ever noticed that wooden-legged
men are invariably fat? And Cæsar vouched for the integrity of fat men."
Though the girl began to find his chatter agreeable, she was secretly
dismayed when she compared the gigantic Peter with the diminutive
dinghy. She had never before seen so broad a man or so small a boat.
But she had grit, and was unwilling to voice her doubt.
"Will it hold us?" she inquired with apparent unconcern.
"Oh, yes. When Peter was a pilot that little craft carried him and his
two mates through many a heavy sea. Don't be afraid. We will put you
safely on board the _Sans Souci_. Now, you sit there and hold the bag.
I'll take my two at once, please, as I find room forrard."
"Not much of a breeze for cruisin', Mr. Warden," grinned Peter,
casting an appreciative eye over the latest addition to the _Nancy's_
muster-roll.
"We're not bound for a cruise, Peter, worse luck," said Warden. "The
young lady wishes to reach that big yacht moored abreast of the cutter.
So give way, O heart of oak! Thou wert christened stone, yet a good
name is rather to be chosen than great riches."
Peter winked solemnly at the fair unknown.
"He do go on, don't he, miss?" he said.
The girl nodded, for ripe peach is an engrossing fruit. She was
enjoying her little adventure. It savored of romance. Already her
slight feeling of nervousness had vanished. In her heart of hearts she
hoped that Mr. Warden might prove to be a friend of the Baumgartners.
Under Peter's powerful strokes the dinghy sped rapidly into the open
waters of the Solent. At that hour there was but slight stir in the
roadstead. Everybody afloat seemed to be eating. Each launch and yacht
they passed held a luncheon party beneath awnings or in a deck saloon.
Through the golden stillness came the pleasant notes of a band playing
in the grounds of the clubhouse. A bugle sounded faint and shrill from
the deck of a distant warship. Sitting in this cockleshell of a craft,
so near the glistening water that one might trail both hands in it,
was vastly agreeable after a long journey by rail and steamer. From
sea level the girl obtained an entirely different picture of Cowes and
the Solent from that glimpsed from the throbbing ferry-boat. The sea
appeared to have risen, the wooded hills and clusters of houses to
have sunk bodily. Already the shore was curiously remote. A sense of
brooding peace fell on her like a mantle. She sighed, and wondered why
she was so content.
Peter's airy summary of his master's habits seemed to have cast a spell
on their tongues. For fully five minutes no one spoke. The wondrous
silence was broken only by the rhythmical clank of the oars, the light
plash of the boat's movement, the strains of a waltz from the Castle
lawn, and the musical laughter of women from the yachts.
Owing to the shortness of the dinghy, and the fact that the girl faced
Warden, with Peter intervening, the two younger people were compelled
to look at each other occasionally. The man saw a sweetly pretty face
dowered with a rare conjunction of myosotis blue eyes and purple
eyelashes, and crowned with a mass of dark brown hair. Accent, manner,
and attire bespoke good breeding. She was dressed well, though simply,
in blue canvas. Being somewhat of an artist, he did not fail to note
that her hat, blouse, gloves and boots, though probably inexpensive,
harmonized in brown tints. She was young, perhaps twenty-two. Guessing
at random, he imagined her the daughter of some country rector, and,
from recent observation of the Baumgartners, eked out by their public
repute, he admitted a certain sentiment of surprise that such blatant
parvenus should be on her visiting list.
For her part, the girl had long since discovered that her
self-appointed guide was an army man. West Africa gave a hint of
foreign service that was borne out by a paleness beneath the tan of
the yachtsman. A regimental mess, too, is a university in itself,
conferring a well-defined tone, a subtle distinctiveness. Each line of
his sinewy frame told of drill, and his rather stern face was eloquent
of one accustomed to command.
These professional hall-marks were not lost on her. She had mixed in
circles where they were recognized. And she was prepared to like him.
In her woman's phrase, she thought it was "nice of him" not to question
her. She was quite sure that if they met again ashore that afternoon he
would leave her the option of renewing or dropping their acquaintance
as she thought fit. Yet, for one so ready of speech after the first
awkward moment outside the steamer pier, it was surprising that he
should now be so taciturn.
When he did address her, he kept strictly to the purpose of their
expedition.
"That is the _San Souci_," he said, pointing to a large white yacht in
the distance. "A splendid vessel. Built on the Clyde, I believe?"
"Ay, three hunnerd tons, an' good for ten knots in any or'nary sea,"
put in Peter.
"You know her, of course?" went on Warden.
"No. I have never before set eyes on her."
"Well, you will enjoy your visit all the more, perhaps. From last
night's indications, you should have plenty of amusement on board."
"Are there many people there, then?"
"I am not sure. The owners gave a big dinner party yesterday. The
launch was coming and going at all hours."
"What is that?" she asked inconsequently, indicating with a glance a
small round object bobbing merrily westward some few yards away.
"It is difficult to say. Looks like a float broken loose from a fishing
net," said Warden.
"No, sir, it ain't that," pronounced Peter. "Nets have corks an' buoys,
an' that ain't neether."
"You may think it absurd," cried the girl, "yet I fancied just now that
I caught a resemblance to a face, a distorted black face; but it has
turned round."
The boatman lay on his oars, and they all looked at the dancing yellow
ball hurrying to the open sea.
"At first sight it suggests a piratical pumpkin," said Warden.
"But I have been watching it quite a long time, and I am certain it
is black on the other side. There! Surely I am not mistaken. And the
people on that yacht have seen it, too."
The girl's face flushed with excitement. The thing had really startled
her, and the two men were ready to agree that it now presented a
mask-like visage, more than half submerged, as it swirled about in
a chance eddy. That some loungers on a yacht close at hand had also
noticed it was made evident by their haste to run down a gangway into a
boat fastened alongside.
"After it, Peter!" cried Warden. "It is the lady's trover by the law
of the high seas. Bend your back for the honor of the _Nancy_. Port a
bit--port. Steady all. Keep her there."
In her eagerness, the girl tried to rise to her feet.
"Sit still, miss," growled Peter, laboring mightily. "Judging by the
position of that other craft, an' from wot I know of Mr. Warden,
there'll be a devil of a bump in 'arf a tick."
"Starboard a point," cooed Warden, on his knees in the bows. "Steady as
she goes."
Suddenly he sprang upright.
"Hard a-starboard!" he shouted, and leaped overboard.
A yell from the opposing boat, a scream from the girl, a sharp crack as
an oar-blade snapped against the sturdy ribs of the dinghy, and the two
boats shot past each other, Peter's prompt obedience to orders having
averted a collision.
"My godfather!" he roared, "'e 'ad to jump for it. But don't you worry,
miss--'e can swim like a herrin'."
Nevertheless, the girl did worry, as her white face and straining eyes
well showed. Peter swung the dinghy about so nimbly that she lost all
sense of direction. It seemed as if the laughing Solent had swallowed
Warden, and she gazed affrightedly on every side but the right one.
"Oh, how could he do it?" she wailed. "I shall never forgive myself--"
Then she heard a deep breath from the water behind her, and she turned
to see Warden, with blood streaming from a gash across his forehead,
swimming easily with one hand. She whisked round and knelt on the seat.
"Quick!" she cried. "Come close. I can hold you."
"Please do not be alarmed on my account," he said coolly. "I fear I
look rather ghastly, but the injury is nothing, a mere glancing blow
from an oar."
Even in her unnerved condition she could not fail to realize that he
was in no desperate plight. But she was very frightened, and grasped
his wrist tenaciously when his fingers rested on the stern rail. Yet,
even under such trying circumstances, she was helpful. Though half
sobbing, and utterly distressed, she dipped her handkerchief in the
water and stooped until she could wash the wound sufficiently to reveal
its extent. He was right. The skin was broken, but the cut had no depth.
"Why did you behave so madly?" she asked with quivering lips.
"It was method, not madness, fair maid," he said, smiling up at her.
"Our opponents had four oars and a light skiff against Peter's two and
a dinghy that is broad as it is long. To equalize the handicap I had to
jump, else you would have lost your trophy. By the way, here it is!"
With his disengaged hand he gave her a smooth, highly polished oval
object which proved to be a good deal larger than it looked when
afloat. The girl threw it into the bottom of the boat without paying
the least heed to it. She was greatly flurried, and, womanlike, wanted
to box Warden's ears for his absurd action.
"You have terrified me out of my wits," she gasped. "Can you manage to
climb on board?"
"That would be difficult--perhaps dangerous. Peter, pull up to the
nearest ship's ladder. Then I can regain my perch forrard."
But Peter was gazing with an extraordinary expression of awe, almost
of fear, at the unusual cause of so much commotion.
"Well, sink me!" he muttered, "if that ain't Ole Nick's own himmidge,
it's his head stoker's. I've never seen anything like it, no, not in
all my born days. My aunt! It's ugly enough to cause a riot."