When Rutile ran down to Hamburg to see what he could learn about the
gun-running expeditions that Lillian Byrd had warned him were leaving
that port he had nothing in mind beyond making a few inquiries which,
if it seemed best, he might tip off to the Brazilian government.
Circumstances, however, played into his hands and led him into a far
more extensive adventure than he had foreseen.
In early life Rutile had intended to be a sailor. He had been appointed
a cadet at the naval academy at Annapolis and had gone through the full
four years course there and the requisite two succeeding years of sea
service. If Uncle Sam had been willing he would have remained in the
navy. But in those days Uncle Sam had no navy worth speaking about,
and every year he deliberately turned adrift about two-thirds of the
gallant young fellows whom he had been training for six years. Only
about a score of each class graduated received commissions. Rutile was
one of those dropped with a year’s pay.
Balked in following his chosen profession the young fellow had gone
in for diplomacy. But he had never lost his fondness for the sea, and
being blessed (or cursed) with abundance of money, had continued to
keep in touch with sea life and to spend a month or more afloat every
year. His father had been German born and he himself had been familiar
with the language from childhood. He was thus qualified for the task he
had set himself.
Arrived at Hamburg his first move was to take lodgings in a cheap
quarter of the town and there to slip into such clothes as a petty
ship’s officer would be likely to wear. These donned, he went out and
wandered along the water front, chatting with sailors and pretending to
be on the lookout for a berth as wireless operator, a calling that he
had chosen chiefly because he was very certain that no ship’s captain
was likely to put his good faith to the test by offering him a job.
Incidentally he kept his ears open for news of the filibusters.
To a certain extent his task proved surprisingly simple. A few drinks
and a few hours loafing told him that Miss Byrd’s suspicions were
well-founded. The munitions of war supplied to the rebels in Southern
Brazil had been shipped from Hamburg, practically without concealment,
a few months before. He learned, moreover, that three or four ships
supposed to be similarly laden had recently sailed for South American
ports; “and yonder,” continued his informant, pointing with the stem of
his pipe; “yonder lies the flagship. They say she’ll be sailing soon.”
Rutile needed no second glance to identify the vessel indicated. She
was Ouro Preto’s yacht, which he had often seen. Nevertheless, he
loafed out upon the docks for a nearer view.
Work was being knocked off for the day as he strolled to the end of the
stone pier and stared across the dirty water to where the yacht was
lying. He noticed that she had steam up, and guessed that his informant
was right, and that she intended to leave very soon indeed. As he
watched he saw a steam launch leave her side and come puffing toward
the shore.
Dusk was falling fast, and at last he turned away, feeling that he had
accomplished all that he had come down to do.
He knew that it was no use to try to stop the yacht’s sailing; the
very openness with which the thing had been carried on was proof of the
connivance of the authorities. His best, and indeed his only course was
to hurry back to Berlin and notify both the United States and Brazilian
governments.
He was about to step off the pier when he saw two men coming toward
him. One of them he recognized as the man with whom he had been talking
not long before. As they drew near this man jerked his head in his
direction and spoke to the other.
“That’s him,” he said. Rutile heard the words distinctly.
The second man, who was clearly an officer of some sort, changed his
course slightly, and stopped just in front of the American.
“I understand you are looking for a berth as wireless operator,” he
said gruffly, in German.
Rutile concealed his astonishment as well as he could. “I am,” he
answered, promptly, in the same tongue.
“Good.” The officer turned to the man who accompanied him, and handed
him a coin. “All right!” he said. “Be off.”
Then he swung back to Rutile. “My name’s Caspar,” he said. “I’m second
mate of the yacht Windbird. That’s her yonder.” He indicated Ouro
Preto’s yacht. “Our operator took suddenly ill and I just brought him
ashore.” Rutile remembered the launch he had seen leaving the yacht.
“We’re sailing in an hour and want an operator in a hurry and the
Marconi people can’t supply us in less than twenty-four hours. If
you’re sure you’re qualified and would like the berth you can have it.”
Before the man had half finished Rutile had seen what was coming and
had done some rapid thinking. Mad as he admitted his acceptance of the
proposition would be, it nevertheless tempted him strongly. He was an
adventurous fellow, was Rutile; and the danger of the thing appealed to
him. As wireless operator he must necessarily be trusted to an extent
that would give him a chance to find out something really valuable
about what he had come to believe was a great political conspiracy. On
the other hand, it was a good deal easier to get into such an adventure
than it would be to get out of it. And what would the Ambassador say?
These thoughts flashed like lightning through his mind, but did not
mirror themselves in his face. He had not been in diplomatic training
for nothing. When the mate stopped he was ready to answer.
“I’ll take it,” he declared.
“Good! Can you come now?”
“Now?” Events were moving too quick even for Rutile’s hasty nature.
“Yes!” impatiently. “It’s now or not at all. I told you we sailed
within an hour.”
Rutile shook his head. “I’ve got to have half an hour,” he declared
positively. “I’ve got a room near here and I’ve got to pay for it and
get my dunnage. But I’ll be ready in half an hour.”
The mate hesitated. “I suppose that’s got to do,” he acquiesced at
last. “Yonder’s the launch. I’ll wait for you half an hour and not a
minute longer. Hurry.”
Rutile hurried, and was back within the time allowed. He had spent half
of it in talking with the Ambassador over the long-distance telephone,
and most of the other half in buying an outfit for the trip.
“I’m taking you on trust,” observed the mate, as the launch puffed
toward the Windbird. “But the old man won’t. He trusts nobody. If
you’re not qualified you’d better say so now. It isn’t quite so long a
swim ashore from here.”
Rutile grinned. “Oh! I’m qualified,” he insisted. “What system have
you?”
“Marconi!”
“That’s all right. I understand it perfectly. You’ll remember that I’m
taking a good deal on trust, too. Where are we bound?”
“Barbadoes first. Afterwards--who knows? We’re going down to meet the
owner and then we’ll go where he says.”
“Humph!” Rutile considered. “I guess I’ll only sign for Barbadoes,” he
declared. “By the time we get there I’ll know whether I care to stay or
not.”