LOST IN “DELIRIUM TREMENS”
Gough did not wait for signs of dawn. He sailed at two o’clock while we
could see the shining head of every nail which held up the blue roof of
night.
The sun came up as a fiery frame for the dark silhouette of a graceful
barkentine. I chanted:
“If he had seen a barkentine
Beating off a blowy head,
Or, all a-sheen, a brigantine,
Full and free by trade-wind sped,
How could Fulton have dared to dream of steam?”
“Or anyone of gasoline,” Spinden tailed onto my song. “’Tis hard enough
to roll, I ween, but pois’ning me with kerosene is ultimate insult
marine.”
At six o’clock we passed the light on Punta Herrero, at the south side
of the entrance to Bahia Espiritu Santo. It is ten and a half miles
from there to Fupar Point, the northern tip of Holy Spirit Bay.
There was nothing spiritual in the manner of our attack on the grape
fruit, oatmeal and fried stilts which Jake set on the see-sawing
house top. Spinden confined himself to oatmeal and coffee, some of
the stomachic rehabilitation which he had found at Chinchorro having
left him already in the rhythmical lurch of the trading schooner. But
with the low coast of Yucatan creeping out on the westward blue like
a joyous green snake he kept his morale, and when McClurg and Griscom
tried to shake it with insalubrious inquiries too graphically phrased
he withered them with his penetrating refrain:
“As the sun gets hotter, the birds get rotter--As the sun gets hotter,
the birds get rotter.”
At ten o’clock we anchored half a mile south of the lighthouse on Allen
Point. This guards the northern and deeper entrance to Ascension Bay,
the mouth of this desolate expanse of water being blocked in the middle
by a cluster of islands called Culebra Keys.
By an oversight the authorities of Payo Obispo had neglected to list
this bay as one of the places we were entitled to enter en route to
Cozumel Island. The light keeper insisted courteously but firmly that
he could not permit us to linger here nor to land in the bay’s one
“port.” This is Vigia Chico, whose distinguishing clump of tall marine
pines we could just distinguish to westward with the most powerful
binoculars Zeiss makes.
In an old brief case--for lack of any more suitable covering--I had
brought ashore a bottle of rum. When this was opened the manner of
the light keeper changed. If we would swear that we had been forced
into Ascension Bay by engine trouble and dire need of water he would
see what he could do. He would have a paper ready for us to sign by
five o’clock. Meanwhile in one of the small boats he would permit us
to visit Vigia Chico, the present population of which he put at two.
One of these was Pedro Moguel, who spoke English fluently, had just
returned from chicle work at Boca de Paila and would know how to guide
us to possible ruins in that neighborhood if anyone would. (He himself
had never heard of any there, he said discouragingly.) Meanwhile we
must leave the ship’s papers here. “_Hasta luego_” (“See you later”).
As we motored back to the _Albert_ McClurg fumed at the ways of Mexico.
Who ever heard of a lighthouse man having power to seize a ship’s
papers, particularly when she was virtually a yacht and when the light
was a big lantern hoisted by a cable to the top of a steel upright
which looked like a bone out of the side of an American skyscraper?
“_Costumbre del pais_”--“Custom of the country,” Spinden soothed.
“I don’t believe it. He’s just holding us up for a little graft.”
“Well, he’s got it,” I pointed out, “and if he wants more we can spare
another bottle.”
McClurg said he thought my “alcoholic diplomacy” was very undignified.
“It’s blamed poor policy to sprinkle rum on these people,” offered
Spinden with impressive conviction.
“You may be right. All I know is that my skin has been saved more than
once in this country by a timely use of _aguardiente_.”
“Good for tick-bites, is it?” asked Spinden. “Seriously, I see now why
your writings are so colorful.”
The discussion continued, developing three varying points of view found
among Americans in Mexico.
McClurg’s attitude is that of most American Army and Navy officers.
It is natural and proper in a man who has had to look at many foreign
countries down a six inch gun.
Spinden, on the other hand, is disinclined to any bearing suggestive
of an assumption of racial superiority. Such an assumption may be well
founded, but it may lead to trouble if cherished too conspicuously by
men who have landed not from a battleship, but from a homely little
schooner armed with gamegetters.
As for my donations of rum, McClurg disapproves of them because he
thinks the rum too good for the recipients, Spinden because he thinks
it will demoralize them. I am less particular than the Navigator, less
considerate than the Archæologist.
Of course, we drifted to the threadbare question as to whether or not
it pays to carry a weapon in this sort of country. And if a gun is
“toted” should it be worn openly or kept out of sight?
Although having little facility with a pistol I have been persuaded
that the open possession of a formidable one sometimes saves the wearer
from attack. And certainly the secret hardness of a tiny automatic in a
coat pocket enables the naturally timid to meet some difficulties with
a desirable degree of assurance.
McClurg sympathizes mildly with these feelings but he seems to regard
the question of armament as of little importance. It is chiefly a
matter of “custom of the country”--etiquette. The real weapon is the
eye.
“More especially the brain and the heart,” says Spinden. “If you
look for trouble you’ll find it. If you mind your own business, bear
yourself with friendly modesty, few men will bother you. I never carry
a gun. If I meet a bandit--well, a robber may not shoot an unarmed man,
but when his prey is a man with a gun he’ll shoot before he robs. And
I’ve never seen a bandit who could not outshoot me.”
I’m inclined to think Spinden is right. Wearing a bit of hardware on
the hip is generally a romantic gesture down here, like wearing a
carnation in the buttonhole at home. A gesture aimed at the girls. And
if protection against bandits is the motive the man who packs a .45 in
Mexico ought to trundle a field piece in New York.
We stopped at the schooner’s side only long enough to take aboard a
five gallon can of fuel. When we pointed the _Imp’s_ bow toward Vigia
Chico we were turning our backs to the breeze, which was so slow now
that at our six-mile clip we felt it not at all. It soon expired
entirely and the water became as smooth as polished jade.
Spinden had brought his colored spectacles, but the rest of us
squinted like men facing the blast of a foundry. We were all soggy
with sleep--the effect of the early start from Chinchorro. Gough,
Spinden and I dozed, our heads slumped between our shoulders like
three buzzards. Occasionally we emerged from coma to dash brine over
our heads, drink tepid water from the canvas bag or examine the shore
through marine glasses. Northwest of us were several humpy knolls which
may be ruined buildings covered with trees, but are more probably sand
dunes or rocky little hills. McClurg repeatedly refused to be relieved
at the steering lever though his hand must have grown numb with its
vibration.
Under the conspicuous bunch of pines gaunt houses became visible, even
with the naked eye. A sort of dock ran out to southward of the town.
Suddenly Spinden woke up and exclaimed:
“Here comes half the population without his hat.” Two boys ran out of a
building like a warehouse and pursued the bareheaded man down the dock.
“Here come the third and fourth quarters,” said McClurg.
But the lighthouse keeper had libelled Vigia Chico. It now boasts about
a dozen human inhabitants of both sexes in addition to chickens, dogs
and pigs in generous proportion.
The bareheaded man was Pedro Moguel, the _practico_ or pilot we
wanted. This very affable hunter, fisherman, _chiclero_ and parent of
locally renowned hunters, fishermen and _chicleros_ is a middle-aged
Belize negro who has lived in Mexico a dozen years. If what he and his
townsmen say is true few men know the Turtle Coast northward from here
to Cape Catoche as he knows it.
Of course our first eager questions were about Chunyaché--but carefully
phrased, for if you indicate to a native what answer you hope to get
he will give it to you, kindness being esteemed above truth in this
amiable country. Moguel’s information was tremendously reassuring.
There are “old stone buildings” at Chunyaché although he has never
looked at them closely. His carelessness in this seemed criminal to us.
But, said he, we ought to run up to Santa Cruz de Bravo first and see
General May and _Señor_ Julio Martin. General May (pronounced _My_),
who is growing rich from the _chicle_ trade, is recognized as supreme
military chief by the Indians of the Chunyaché region and it will be
an important stroke of diplomacy to earn his favor before we meet his
savage subjects. _Señor_ Martin (Marteen it’s pronounced of course)
is the chief chicle buyer in this region, and our letters from the
President of the American Chicle Company and the General Manager of
the Chicle Development Company will enlist his good offices--perhaps
in ways very vital to us, suggests the astute Moguel. His advice seems
well put, and we have decided to accept it, though the prospect of a
further delay before reaching our coveted ruins is very irritating.
The rusty tracks of a narrow gauge railroad run back from the dock and
through what was a booming seaport some twenty years ago when General
Bravo was leading his expensive and vain effort to reconquer the
Indians of this territory. The tracks end thirty-eight miles inland at
the town which is Santa Cruz de Bravo on maps of Mexico but Santa Cruz
de May to the modern Indians and Chan Santa Cruz (Big Santa Cruz) to
the brown nonagenarians who remember how the Mexican yoke was broken in
the bloody rebellion of 1848.
Recently a _Fotingo_ (Ford tractor) has supplanted the mules which
formerly drew two or three tiny cars over this narrow road two or three
times a week. Vigia Chico is modern--oh yes. Moguel telephoned to
_Señor_ Martin and asked him to send the tractor down for us at once.
It would come down this same afternoon, said Moguel, and we could go up
to Santa Cruz de Bravo in the cool of the morning.
This arranged, the affable African chopped the ends off three coconuts
and proffered each of us a drink. He would go back with us to the
schooner, he declared, and help fix things with the lighthouse keeper.
Fair enough. But when Moguel stepped aboard the _Imp_ he was promptly
followed by two other natives. Fearful for the delicate bottom of the
little craft we protested forcefully that we were not licensed for
passenger service. Moguel, who evidently regarded the two intruders
with respect, contended in ingratiating English whispers that they
were very important men and must not be insulted.
“They’d better be insulted than drowned,” said McClurg, “the boat won’t
hold so many, tell them to get out--vamoose.”
A compromise was possible when the younger of the two intruders
stepped ashore with stolid dignity. The other refused to budge. He
was a weathered, oldish man who said he was in charge of Customs here
and would have to board the _Albert_ before she could move. He didn’t
weigh much anyhow. But Moguel is a husky citizen and the water was
perilously close to our gunwales as we started. It was also seeping
through the rotten bottom with ominous celerity. Had the wind whipped
up suddenly as it might well have done the _Imp_ would not have reached
the _Albert_.
We gave ourselves the luxury of allowing Moguel and the Collector of
Customs to wield coconut shell bailers all the way home.
Now the troublesome lighthouse keeper refused to give us back
our amended papers until every member of our crew had signed the
“Protest”--as Gough kept calling it, that is, the affirmation that
head winds, engine trouble and failing water had forced us to enter
Ascension Bay against our wishes.
Dusk was falling like soft gray snow when at last these annoying
formalities were concluded. But Griscom, Whiting and Nelson had not yet
returned from an exploration of Culebra Keys undertaken in _Delirium
Tremens_. An east wind was freshening, and to reach our present
anchorage they would have to cross a rather tumultuous piece of water
invaded by the ocean rollers which had slipped between the outer reefs
which guard the gate of Ascension. Therefore, we ran toward the keys to
reduce the trip for our dory. When we had gone a mile we saw her slide
out from a little opening between the long westernmost key and a small
one which hangs on its heels.
Nelson, who was running the Johnson, killed his motor too soon and
missed his landing by thirty feet. As Griscom or Whiting half stood
up in the dark to get out the oars the crazy boat wabbled, lurched
sideways into a wave, and took aboard two hundred pounds of water.
One more blow like that and they would have been swimming. But they
clutched a line which Gough threw and were hauled aboard, bringing a
dozen large birds, much mud and good humor as products of their hunt.
The birds were boobies, cormorants, curious boat-billed herons--which
are accurately named, lovely roseate spoonbills and reddish egrets with
delicate pink-gray plumes.
Griscom believes this is a “farthest south” for reddish egrets.
Moreover, he thinks his two specimens of this feathery tribe may prove
to belong to a new sub-species, as they are unusually pale. He has also
ventured the opinion that his boat-billed heron will prove to be a new
variety. Knowing well now how conservative his nature and professional
training make his scientific judgments I am delighted to think that we
can count four new species to Griscom’s credit already. It is only a
week today since we sailed from Belize.
Several of these big birds were brought down in mid flight at ranges he
thought were impossible, Griscom says. Whiting justly remarks that both
for the tiny gun and the man behind it this was “some shooting.”
Moguel had the schooner’s wheel as we ran to Vigia. He says that
eight feet of water can be carried safely to the spot where we
anchored--about five hundred yards south of the dock. On the whole the
chart of Ascension Bay is surprisingly accurate considering that it is
based on soundings made in 1839. Where the chart errs it is generally
on the side of caution; we have found that several spots have a little
more water than is shown on paper. Certainly I should not have supposed
that an eight-foot vessel could be taken up to within less than
half a mile of Vigia Chico, for depths of only eight and nine feet
are indicated a full mile offshore. Several of the boats I rejected
for this expedition on account of their depth could have come here,
the yawl _Tigress_, for instance, and the schooner of adventurous
George Woodward, Jr., which he was crazy to have me take when I was
contemplating the romantic stunt of sailing all the way to Yucatan from
New York.
[Illustration: Griscom’s fortune at Ascension Bay; the two birds at
right are a new sub-species of reddish egret, and the third from right
is a new sub-species of boat-billed heron]
The buoys which are sprinkled rather generously on the chart are today
non-existent, and the “Fishing Huts (large and conspicuous)” which the
chart offers as a landmark north of Vigia Chico seem to have crumbled
away.
Moguel and the Collector of the Port lingered long with us after
supper, as if loth to return to the weather colored board sheds with
tin roofs which constitute Vigia Chico. _Vigia_ means “lookout” or
“watch.” Being a feminine noun the adjective should agree with it. But
it just doesn’t, that’s all. We argued the point with Moguel and the
Collector but couldn’t excite them at all. They say the maps are right,
the name has always been Vigia Chico, never Vigia Chica, so that’s that.
In the morning there was no sign of the promised tractor. When the
Captain and Whiting went ashore to inquire about it they conceived
the bright idea of hunting up a laundress. The Collector’s wife was
indicated as such, but she hinted that she would not give up her Sunday
leisure to wash for a barefooted sailor and a roustabout in a flannel
shirt, soiled khaki trousers and dirty white sneakers.
“But these men are scientists,” said her husband, “and very
distinguished.”
“I don’t believe it,” said the stubborn lady, “I saw a scientist once
at a _fiesta_ at Vera Cruz. He wore boots.”
Just then Spinden happened along with his soiled clothes rolled up in
a shirt. The good woman glanced at his pith helmet and his brown knee
boots.
“Here is a gentleman and a scientist,” she snapped at her husband. “He
is distinguished, _very distinguished_ (_muy distinguido_). I will wash
for him.”
When the _Fotingo_ had not arrived at noon we knew there would be no
trip to Santa Cruz de Bravo that day, for it is customary to allow
the train crew three or four hours to unload their chicle and rest
before starting them on their return voyage. This delay was maddening
to us impatient _gringos_. But after all, perhaps in the United States
punctuality is over-worshipped. Procrastination is a jolly fat god and
his ritual is suited to the lands of the sun. Worrying and fussing fill
more tropical graves than malaria.
Griscom planned to spend the afternoon at the great rookeries he had
discovered on Culebra Keys--or rather, the keys _are_ rookeries, and
nothing else. McClurg, Whiting and I elected to accompany the bird
man, leaving Spinden deep in the ramifications of Maya astronomy. We
were obliged to take the detested _Delirium Tremens_, that dervish of
a boat. The good old _Imp_, stable if sponge-like, was being used to
carry water (no pun intended). Before many hours we were to regret this
from the bottom of our hearts.
This is how it happened. We laid a course from the schooner for the
westernmost key, a low blue blotch from the schooner’s deck but
invisible from the dinghy till we had putted along a mile or more.
Whiting, who steered, was surrounded by too much racket to converse,
but Griscom excited McClurg and me with descriptions of the vastness of
the rookeries, the tameness of the birds and their enormous numbers.
For more than a mile on the biggest island, the trees were not green,
but white--with guano, said he.
When we had been running an hour the big west key was clear of the
horizon. Within another half hour we began to meet bird outposts,
chiefly cormorants, which were sunning themselves in the water. Griscom
put McClurg and me in the bow to give our movie cameras full play.
A sand bar running toward us from this key was black with cormorants.
They got up like heavy smoke before we could come within good camera
range. We ran down the north side of the island. The branches were bent
with the weight of cormorants arrayed in clusters, like great dark
fruit, and the more conspicuous for the foliage they had whitewashed
about them.
Between this key and the next one is an expanse of mud and lime sand
(the insoluble form of lime). This flat stretches seaward some two
hundred yards north and south from a line between the islands. It was
now partly uncovered and partly submerged at a depth insufficient for
_Delirium Tremens_. When we stepped overboard we promptly sank to our
knees in the clinging bottom. We floundered a few yards to make long
range pictures of reddish egrets, which have a village on this key
although their metropolis is on the next islet southeast of it. Being
heavier than my fellow flounderers and longer-legged I sank in farther.
Soon the bog pulled off my hip rubber boots, quite a feat of strength
on the bog’s part, for they clung so--being wet inside, that I had just
tried in vain to get them off by my own efforts.
Our particular objective was the colony of roseate spoonbills, of which
Griscom wanted more specimens. These birds were beyond the little
group of egret nests, that is, they were protected against man by the
very softest and stickiest piece of the morass. Griscom and McClurg
were wisely trying to find a detour, but I labored straight ahead with
Whiting following far behind. Suddenly I was in to mid thigh, and in
spite of my utmost efforts could free neither leg. My struggles only
made me sink deeper. The situation had lost all its humor. Things I
had read about the relentless purpose of quicksands flashed through my
mind. By the time that the soft ooze had reached my waist I was on the
verge of losing my nerve.
Whiting was approaching by frantic effort, but of course his progress
was slow. I shouted a warning to him. He could not help me by getting
caught himself, and I pointed to where my last visible leg hole marked
the verge of safe territory. It was just out of reach of my hand. I had
managed to twist about on first stepping into this soft spot, and at
least I was facing safety. By lying forward I managed to work my feet
up and backward.
I threw Whiting my two cameras.
“Pass your gun,” he ordered, “but hold the other end.”
I went flat on my face extending the gun, though I confess it was with
many misgivings that I presented my whole body to the bog. But the
principle was right--it was the principle of the snowshoe.
Whiting got both hands on the gun butt. I clung to the barrels with my
right hand and made swimming motions with my left.
My companion put on the power gradually. The ooze began to lose me,
with reluctant, sucking noises.
“I’m moving--a steady pull now!”
Slowly gaining speed like a ship gliding down the ways I shot into
firmer mud, leaving one stocking behind me.
This was too big a price for pictures of birds. I reached the _Imp_
with utterances of unbounded admiration for professional movie camera
men.
We four clustered around the boat, pushing and pulling till we reached
deeper water, under the shade of mangroves east of the bog. A young
cormorant, apparently unable to fly, dove and swam under water faster
than we could pursue it.
We rowed around the key to its southern point, where the boat-billed
herons were holding a caucus in the thick mangrove. McClurg shot one
which fell where branches interlaced over the dark eerie water. Pulling
on some branches and severing others with our machetes we worked the
boat into the swamp till McClurg could fish the bird alongside with an
oar.
There were roseate spoonbills west of the boat-billed herons on this
same side of the key, but quicksands protected them here as on the
side where I had left my stocking. However, only a fifty foot channel
separated this islet from the next one southeast of it, which was the
site of the main colony of reddish egrets.
These birds are the tamest of the several varieties on Culebra Keys.
No doubt their fatal blend of loveliness and stupidity is one cause
of the rarity of reddish egrets in a world overrun by man and his
destructive inventions. Fortunately the reefs and shoals and quicksands
of Ascension Bay will probably protect this colony for many years,
irrespective of what may happen to reddish egrets in more accessible
rookeries.
We paddled our boat within ten yards of mother birds, regarding us from
their nests with mild surprise.
In the group was a white bird. Griscom explained that the color was a
mere idiosyncracy. The bird was an albino form of the reddish egret,
being in size between the two varieties of genuine white egrets--those
lovely birds which were butchered for their plumes until a law barely
saved them from extermination. The tragedy of the egret is that
nature has taught it to wear its magnificent gala dress only during
the nesting season. The death of every mother at the hands of plume
hunters means the loss of its babies as well.
When we had taken all the photographs we wanted Griscom said he would
like to get one more skin. Now, although these birds were almost near
enough to be killed with stones, they were perched over the very
thickest part of the mangrove.
“Push around into the little bay and see if we can’t pot a straggler
where we won’t lose him,” directed the ornithologist.
“We’ve lost an oar,” exclaimed Whiting.
“We may need it,” I said, “pole her back the way we came.”
“We’ve got an engine,” urged McClurg, “now that we’re here let’s get
the bird and then go after the oar. It may be way around the island.”
“No, I bet we lost it right over there where you shot this heron,” said
the junior member of the expedition.
“Yes, let’s look for it now,” said Griscom, “we may need it yet.”
Just as we had crossed the shoal channel and were pushing our bow
through the thick branches, I saw an egret alighting on an outer branch
of the clump we had left. If shot there he ought to fall where we could
easily reach him.
“Look out, fellows,” I cried, and shot, like an utter fool, with the
end of my gun not two feet from Griscom’s right ear.
The poor chap thought that his ear drum had been broken. He
said he could hear nothing on that side. I was plunged into
depths of dejection at my criminal stupidity, realizing that the
“I-didn’t-know-it-was-loaded” jackass was only one degree worse than I,
realizing how futile was my regret. McClurg and Whiting cursed me for
the idiot I was, then we sat there in the gloom for an awful minute,
while Griscom held his head in his hands.
At last he raised his head and said through his teeth:
“Let’s get the oar.”
We pushed and pulled a few feet further, and McClurg sighted it.
Luckily the mangroves had prevented the slow current carrying it away.
Whiting said that the egret which had offered the occasion for my
asininity to be exercised at Griscom’s expense had used its last
strength to flop into the heart of the maze of bow-legged mangrove
roots.
But Griscom jumped overboard and gave an extraordinary exhibition of
retrieving. After splashing through water and mud to his waist he
climbed a mangrove and went from tree to tree like an ape till we lost
sight of him. To our surprise he returned immediately--with the egret.
It was now quarter past six--fifteen minutes after supper time on the
_Albert_, which was eleven miles away.
I refilled the fuel tank, wrapped the cord around the nickel top of the
motor, and gave a sharp pull. No start. A dozen repetitions, with the
spark indicator in different positions, gave no livelier result. The
little float showed the carburetor was full, everything was in order
so far as I could see. After struggling vainly for ten minutes I let
Whiting try it, for he had been running the little outboards more than
the rest of us.
I took up the oars, to save what time I could. Whiting tried various
experiments without improving on my failures.
“How’s your ear, old man?” I asked Griscom.
“Pretty bad, I can’t hear the engine.”
Whiting removed a spark plug and began cleaning it with his
handkerchief.
I had rowed perhaps half a mile. The sun had set, and already Whiting’s
face was dim under his wide sombrero.
Suddenly he uttered a groan, and looked over the side. He had dropped
the spark plug!
“Back her,” he pleaded, “back her quick and I’ll dive.”
“No use,” said McClurg cheerfully, “you haven’t a chance. We’d just
lose precious time. We must get clear of this key before the last
glimmer has gone.”
We all knew that he meant it would be easy to lose our way on this
wide eerie bay with a current of unknown strength setting toward its
unexplored head, toward the region of those wavy lines on the chart
which had fascinated me a hundred times at home. Much depended on
reaching the end of the veiling key and getting a landmark before night
made that impossible. It was a race between oars and darkness.
“Let me spell you, Mason,” offered Griscom, sitting on the floor
between me and Whiting.
“Wait till he’s pulled out,” said McClurg, “we’ll need all your muscle
before we reach our rice and beans.”
Whiting had been slumped dejectedly in the stern since his accident
with the spark plug. We were all sorry for him, especially I, whose
blundering shot at that egret had been a thousand times less excusable
than his error. Now, however, he sat up to direct the steering.
We kept her close to the island, as the shortest course. I peeked over
my shoulder occasionally, and a dozen times a vague little promontory
dashed my hopes that it was the last one.
But we were clear finally, and just in time. Of course we could
not see the schooner or the buildings of Vigia Chico. But we did
distinguish the faint blur of that bunch of high marine palms which
make the location of Vigia the most conspicuous spot on the lonely
shores of this bay except for the lighthouse on Allen Point, somewhere
northeast of us. That we could not see at all. But Griscom and I were
pretty sure of that clump of pines.
McClurg spotted a few stars to steer by, the most conspicuous one
behind us.
“Keep her stern under that,” he directed, “of course it will move, but
keep it dead astern now.”
Neglecting what was ahead of us in our attention on that star we ran
aground. We were on the long bar where we had seen the cormorants
this afternoon. We stepped overboard and dragged the dory into deeper
water. When I took up the oars again the star had disappeared. In a few
minutes the clouds which were sailing in from the east would cover the
whole sky.
I suggested that we go ashore and build a big fire on the west point
of this key where there was a piece of solid ground a few feet above
the sea level. The men on the schooner might see our fire and come
to pick us up. If not we could camp here till morning. It would be
uncomfortable, for though we had water we had no food, and the key was
cloudy with mosquitoes. But it would avoid the risk of spending the
night in a cranky open boat, no slight risk now that the stars were
gone and that current pulling us toward the remote head of the bay.
But the others were for pushing on, and pride kept me from pressing
the point. I did not want to seem more timid than my shipmates. Yet I
confess to a qualm of regret when the utmost effort of my eyes could
no longer distinguish the dark bulk of the island behind us and we had
nothing to steer by but instinct.
When I had rowed an hour I changed places with Griscom. He crawled
forward on the bottom, then lay still while I crawled over his back.
The others crouched low and held their breath. Even so there were two
horrid lurches which brought our hearts into our mouths.
* * * * *
Now I am enjoying the warmth of my sweater and pipe. My feet are under
Griscom’s seat, my head against Whiting’s knees.
We shall very likely miss the schooner on one side or the other. All
agree it would be better to make too much allowance for the current and
find ourselves eventually to northward of the _Albert_, rather than
to be carried up to the mysterious head of the bay. For if we come
out north of the schooner we shall be between Vigia Chico and the
lighthouse, and with any luck by daylight can reach food before we are
too weak to row.
The real danger lies in the crankiness of this damnable dervish of
boats. McClurg mistrusts the dory more than any of us because his wider
experience with dinghies enables him to realize more acutely than we
just how untrustworthy this one is. Each time one of us makes but the
slightest sudden move--a quick reach for matches in a side pocket,
_Delirium Tremens_ gives way on that side as if a ton of rock had
fallen on her gunwale. We throw our weight to the other side and she
careens that way with greater haste--and further.
The bay is very still now, but it is an unnatural stillness. And those
clouds look like wind. We all know that even a moderate wind would kick
up a sea in which the survival of this cranky and overloaded coracle
would be entirely subject to the whim of fate. Rowing would be out of
the question, it would be a case of all hugging the bottom of the boat
to reduce her instability as much as we could while each man prayed to
whatever God he worships.
This is the chief danger. That each of us knows it is not
inconsiderable the avoidance of open allusion to it testifies
eloquently.
For the first time the expedition is face to face with peril. And
it is a pleasure to watch the unanimous reaction. The men joke and
they sing, but there is nothing forced about it, no nugatory strained
quality. Each is relishing the spice of insecurity and offering silent
thanks that he has been given companions who can share the rare
sharp taste. It takes no psychologist or sensitive adept in human
relationships to realize that bonds are forming which will endure
though we live fifty years and separate tonight. No matter what the
years may do--or petty circumstances of more immediate days, between
any two of us there will be something--call it reciprocal respect or
what you like, but a stable, foundational something which did not exist
two hours ago for all our joshing amity together. Indeed the upgrowth
of hatreds would only throw into greater relief this tested thing.
“He’s a pig,” one may say (or a cad or what-you-will), “but that night
on Ascension Bay he came through with the _Stuff_, he showed he _Had
It_.”
Unmistakably the gentle zephyr of a few minutes ago has become a
breeze. But overhead it skims away one patch of scummy cloud and shows
the bright pan of the sky.
“Cap’n,” Griscom addresses McClurg, “Cap’n, Suh, dis nigger an’ me has
done passed dat star you give us, could you pick us out anodda, Suh?”
“There she is,” says McClurg, as the sky breaks out behind also. “She’s
a little south of your stern now, but that’s all right, she’s moved a
bit and we’ve got to allow plenty for this current.”
The breeze keeps freshening. A sizable wave rolling by us pulls down
the port oar, Griscom misses with the starboard one and as he falls
back against McClurg’s knees _Delirium Tremens_ drops her starboard
gunwale and takes a two gallon bite out of the following wave. I bail
with a gourd in one hand and a sponge in the other. Griscom recovers
himself and rows very warily.
“Let me row,” begs Whiting, for the fifteenth time seeking a chance
to make amends for that spark plug. And for the fifteenth time his
proposal is voted down, three to one. For the man in the stern to
change places with the man on the center seat would be taking too great
a risk with the boat’s unstable temperament.
There is irony in the fact that the water is nowhere more than eight to
twelve feet deep. Just enough to drown.
“If she sinks at least two of us can keep above water by standing on
the other fellows’ shoulders,” grins Griscom, pausing in his labors to
wipe the sweat out of his eyes with the back of his hand. “We might
draw lots now to see who’ll be the foundations.”
“Mason’s the tallest,” chuckles McClurg, “we’ll unanimously elect him
to one of the bottom positions.”
“I can float for an hour,” remarks Whiting.
“With me on your chest?” asks Griscom.
“You can hang on to the engine.”
“Thanks, you can have the anchor.”
“That leaves us an oar apiece, Mason,” observes McClurg. “Say, finding
that oar was what you might call luck.”
“Yeh, without it we’d be feeding mosquitoes back there on the key now.”
Privately I am half wishing we _were_ back on that key. Mosquitoes and
crocodiles are easier to deal with than this rising sea.
“Spinden knew a man on the Mosquito Coast who traded a woman for an
oar,” relates Griscom.
“On Ascension Bay he’d throw in his children for good measure”--Whiting.
“If the Queen of Sheba tried to board us now what would you
do?”--McClurg.
“I’d give _her_ the oar--the butt of it”--Griscom.
“I’d give a harem for a spark plug”--Whiting.
“Your hour’s up Griscom, my turn now,” says McClurg.
But McClurg has a bad hand, which was operated on just before he left
Chicago. For this reason we have forbidden him to do any rowing. He
insists, however, that he can row one oar, which will make it easier
for me than pulling both of them again.
“Which oar did you row at New York Athletic Club?”
“Port, which did you row at Yale?”
“Starboard; you see it’s just right, and we’ll make much better time
that way,” argues the Navigator.
So we try the change. For now it is a race between us and the rising
wind, as before it was a race between us and descending night.
The gray scummy clouds have covered the whole sky again. There is
nothing to steer by but the feel of the wind. But we are making better
time. We should have rowed double like this all along.
McClurg is applying most of his strength through the good hand, using
the weak one to help guide the long sweep--both oars are too long
for the narrow boat. In spite of his handicap every time I relax
vigilance--as when I peer over my shoulder in the hope of seeing a
light--he pulls the bow around against me. It is obvious that he rowed
in a Yale Varsity eight--even though that was twenty-five years ago.
“Light on the starboard beam,” shouts Griscom.
“It’s the lighthouse, if you really see it,” says the Navigator, whose
eyes are not so sharp as the ornithologist’s.
“Yes, I see it,” I put in, “good, that means we’re keeping up against
the current!”
We row with new energy. Now McClurg sees the light, too. But in a few
minutes the night thickens and we all lose it. However, even that
glimpse of it is great encouragement. At least, we are not being taken
sideways up the bay where there is no hope of familiar landmarks. Now
if we can just keep away from those seas which curl angrily up to our
starboard quarter! Oh, if we had only rowed double from the beginning!
Such a little mistake may make all the difference between our eating
barracuda tonight and being eaten by them.
Warily now we row, spurting when a particularly threatening wave throws
its white crest forward with a hiss.
“What do you suppose they’re doing on the schooner?” asks Griscom.
“Studying my library,” suggests McClurg, who brought with him a good
deal of reading matter which appeals to Gough and the literate part of
the crew.
“I hope they called for my laundry today,” remarks Whiting, “that
washerwoman’s husband cast a greedy eye on my shirts.”
“Don’t worry, he’ll take Spinden’s, yours are not distinguished
enough,” says McClurg.
“Or vivid enough,” adds Griscom, “he’ll like those blues and pinks.”
The eastern sky is darker than the rest, an ominous sooty black.
“They may be looking for us in the _Imp_,” I suggest, “we might fire a
gun.”
“No harm in trying,” says McClurg.
“Where are your cartridges?” asks Griscom.
“In that _musette_, under Whiting’s feet.”
“Right in the water then. Well, we’ll test ’em.”
Griscom loads my gun, closes the breach with a snap.
“Look out how you take that recoil, _Delirium Tremens_ won’t like it!”
“Here’s where I even up and deafen you, fellah.” Griscom sits up on the
floor boards, pointing the gun to starboard and slightly ahead to make
the full flash show in that direction.
To avoid the concussion as much as possible I crane my head over my
right shoulder.
“Light ahead--on the port bow!” I yell.
“Yes, Sir, I see it! Listen fellahs,” urges Griscom.
Faint, but unmistakable, the even whirr of an engine reaches our
grateful ears. Sounds like the other Johnson in the _Imp_.
Forgetting my own advice about taking the recoil I snatch the gun
from Griscom, hold it at arm’s length, pull both triggers in quick
succession. The gun leaps twice against my right hand, the trigger
guard tearing the skin on the middle finger.
_Delirium Tremens_ wobbles, ships another gallon on Griscom’s shoulder.
We fall to the oars with a will.
“How far off are they, do you think?” asks Whiting.
“Bet we reach them in five hundred strokes.” I begin to count aloud,
then to myself.
“If it’s the _Imp_ she’d better scoot for the schooner,” laughs
McClurg, “look at the east.”
That black wall of cloud is towering up, covering half the ascent of
the eastern sky. Perhaps we could transfer one man to the _Imp_ with
great care. That would help a little.
“It’ll be something to have companionship in misery, anyway,” jests the
bird man. “How many now, Mason?”
“Two hundred and thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight,” I count the
sweeps of the long white oar, slippery in my tiring grip.
“Want me to spell you, fellah?”
“Hell, can’t shift now,” sings out McClurg--“_lift her_.”
We lift her, and escape all but the foam of a chief of waves.
I don’t dare take my eyes off those angry rows of white sea horses,
running us down as knights would ride down a pedestrian. It’s a case of
let ’em come, then jump from the big ones--_lift her_.
But if McClurg and I don’t dare look at the light Whiting and Griscom
give frequent bulletins, like coxswains encouraging their spent crews.
“Dead ahead--that’s right--steady now--they’re coming fast.”
Indeed the noise of that engine grows louder every second. Griscom can
hear it. Thank Heaven, his ear is all right.
“Hell,” sings out Whiting, and his voice has a sudden jubilation, “if
that’s a Johnson I’m Mussolini. That’s a pair of Lathrops!”
“You’re right, it’s the schooner!” yells Griscom, “see there are two
lights now, one lower down. She’s a long way off yet, though, or we’d
have seen that lower light before. Funny how that racket carries
against the wind.”
“No, she’s not so far, they just put up that lower light,” argues
Whiting. “Good thing they put that first light in the rigging. Somebody
used his bean.”
I venture a quick peek over my shoulder. Good old _Albert_!--the whole
blot of her shape is plain now, and the hump on her stern--those absurd
shacks.
“Watch it now, Mason, wait till that big one’s past, then pull like
hell,” coaches McClurg. The big one sweeps under our lifted stern with
the last hiss of the cheated sea. I pull like hell while McClurg eases.
Our bow comes around, we run _into_ the chop now--safely.
We row with diminishing force as we range under the schooner’s lee.
Eager hands grasp our gunwale, others pull us aboard while one
_matchee_ secures our painter and the other leaps into _Delirium
Tremens_ to pass out our dunnage.
Spinden used his bean. Gough said we were all right, and the Captain
had no light showing except the lantern on the engine room top. Spinden
insisted on hoisting it, then insisted on running out to look for us.
We praise his headwork and pour out a round of rum, stripping off our
steaming clothes in the cosy hold. We praise it with renewed fervor as
the east looses its threat at last.
Outside the wind is a battle.
McClurg looks through a porthole.
“What price _Delirium Tremens_ in that mess!” He chuckles--the
unexcitable one.
The schooner is anchoring as we sit down to hot tomato soup, fried
barracuda, canned beef stew, yams, rice, beans, cherry tarts and
coffee. The curtains laced down the sides of the “Porch” flap and
whirr in the wind.
“No wonder da engine wouldn’t run,” says Gough, who has been looking
over our Johnson. “Spark plug made no difference--she wouldn’t a run
anyhow.”
“Why?”
“Da fuel tank is full o’ kerosene!”
[Illustration]