A FALSE MESSAGE
With her propeller hammered out by slow, careful work, and with new
gears in her speed changing device, the _Porto Bello_ was once more
ready for the sea.
Then there were long days of waiting.
Nicky was all set to start up the Rio Patuca. But Cliff agreed with his
father and with Joe Anderson, “Andy,” that it was unwise. Although the
large village of the Mosquito Indians just a short way up the lagoon was
not yet infected, villages beyond it were suffering from yellow fever
epidemics and the older heads judged that the boat could not pass the
inevitable quarantine.
Cliff and Nicky were greatly worried about Tom; but they could do
nothing but wait.
“If we can’t get up to him, he can’t get down to us,” Nicky affirmed.
“No,” agreed Cliff. “This is going to be a slow time. We can’t get any
news, either. But the Indian we saw yesterday says that he thinks the
fever is not as far up the river as Tom went.”
“I hope so,” Nicky agreed.
They passed the tedious days fighting the wickedly biting sand flies.
The evenings sent the flies away, and there were long, beautiful and
peaceful hours after sunset, before the mosquitos came out as far as the
cruiser, when they could sit on deck and watch the stars; the glowing,
sparkling orbs seemed very close, very clear and most beautiful. But
there were many evenings when dull skies hovered above, when there was
nothing to do but read the few books they had, or sit and talk. Mr. Gray
told them countless stories of the old civilizations, and about the
Indian customs and legends.
But all through the dreary wait they worried about Tom.
Then, one night, Henry arrived!
His body was thin and starved looking, and his clothes were rags. He
came in a canoe and there was great excitement when he was recognized.
Questions volleyed at him from all sides, but he would not talk—in fact,
he could hardly stand—until he had been given some stewed turtle, a
sweet yam and some fruit and tea.
He had not eaten such food for days, he told the eager party. To their
questions about Tom he made one statement, and of course the chums had
no way of guessing that it was false.
“Tom and Bill,” he declared, “they got took with fever. Not bad, but
some. Bill found a good Indian doctor and he’s pulling them along.”
He told of his experiences in running the rapids and it was very
probable that his story was not over-false as he recounted the thrills
and dangers of his fight with the surging waters and the perilous rocks.
He had managed to get through by good fortune, he declared. Then he had
gone on down the river until he came near the quarantine, and had
deserted his canoe and gone into the brush. He happened to know of an
inland village and he had made his way to that.
There he had found a guide who, on the promise of all the money he had,
took him through the jungle, around the quarantined post. From there he
had followed the river again, borrowing a canoe and avoiding every human
habitation because he was in the fever zone. Once more, at the lower
point of the infected area, he had taken to the brush, and with many
privations, eating what he could find in the woods, or what game he
could shoot, he had finally won out.
He made the tale a strong appeal for sympathy and fed his own vanity on
the admiration of the chums.
All unsuspecting of his villainous desertion, he was made a sort of
hero. Only Nicky seemed to be quiet and thoughtful. Finally he
interrupted the second recital, late in the evening. Henry recalled some
additional details of his misery, and repeated the whole story to get
them in their proper places.
“Why didn’t you stay with Tom and Bill?” Nicky said finally. It seemed
strange to him that Henry should have deserted his comrades.
“I left them on purpose,” Henry said. “’Cause why? ’Cause they sent me.
They told me to come. They wanted me to. ’Cause why? They sent you a
message!”
“Why haven’t you told it?” cried Cliff.
“There was plenty of time,” responded Henry, his old manner somewhat
restored by good food and some rest. “They can’t leave where they are
till the fever quits them. We can’t go up and do them any good. So they
sent a message——”
“What is it?” Nicky demanded impatiently.
“That is it! You go on. I found out, from Toosa, that the fellow we want
is at Porto Bello——”
“Porto Bello?” echoed Cliff. “That’s the name of this boat.”
“It’s the name of a town, too—a place where the old pirate, Henry
Morgan, once had his rendezvous,” Nicky explained. His study of the old
histories of pirate life gave him that information.
“What’s he in Porto Bello for?” asked Cliff.
Henry shook his head.
“That’s all he could tell. Go to Porto Bello was what he ordered. Then
Tom and Bill said for us to go on and find this fellow——”
“What’s his name—you never told us,” Nicky said.
“His name—oh, never mind. I’ll be along. I know it.”
“Well, why must we go on without knowing how Tom and Bill are?”
“Because,” spoke up “Andy,” “if they’re sick they can’t travel, and we
couldn’t get this boat to them even if we could get past the deadlines.
And, instead of waiting here, doing nothing, we could go and find that
lad and learn what he can tell us and then come back here. By that time
the worst of the fever scare may be over and we can get our comrades and
save time by going right where we have to.”
Mr. Gray seemed to agree, although he hesitated and asked Henry many
questions.
Nicky, however, was very quiet.
“I don’t like this,” he told Cliff, as the two were sitting, far beyond
midnight—they were too excited to sleep—watching the cold moonlight
throw mosquitos into tiny, black silhouettes on the netting of the
protecting cover under which they stayed.
“I don’t like it myself,” Cliff replied. “But what can we do?”
“I think we ought to go to the capital, and send help.”
“But,” Cliff objected, “if Tom and Bill are in the fever zone, the
Honduras authorities won’t let them come out or let us go to them.”
“Do you want to go off and leave them, only knowing what Henry says
about them?”
Cliff shook his head and answered soberly, “I don’t want to! But I can’t
see what we could do in the capital.”
“Do you think Henry has told us the truth?” Nicky demanded, under his
breath.
Cliff considered the question.
“I don’t know,” he said finally. “What makes you ask?”
“Why is he so anxious for us to go on?”
“To save time, as Andy argued.”
“Maybe to save something else?”
“What?” Cliff whispered, shuddering, “I don’t understand. Save what?”
“His neck, maybe. Suppose he found out where the man is—and then——”
He did not finish his sentence, but Cliff shivered and grew very
thoughtful. Finally he spoke.
“I don’t trust him much. I wish we knew—the facts!”