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Round the World with The Boy Journalists: I
PLOTTING IN PIRATE SEAS
FRANCIS ROLT-WHEELER
[Illustration: "NOT THAT WAY--TWO MORE STEPS, BOY, AND YOU ARE DEAD".]
By FRANCIS ROLT-WHEELER
Round the World with The Boy Journalists
PLOTTING IN PIRATE SEAS
HUNTING HIDDEN TREASURE IN THE ANDES
Romance-History of America
IN THE DAYS BEFORE COLUMBUS
THE QUEST OF THE WESTERN WORLD
NEW YORK: GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
PLOTTING IN PIRATE SEAS
BY FRANCIS ROLT-WHEELER
Author of "Hunting Hidden Treasure in the Andes," "In the Days Before
Columbus," "The Quest of the Western World," "The Aztec-Hunters," "The
Boy with the U. S. Census," etc.
_Illustrated by_ C. A. FEDERER
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1921,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I PAGE
AMERICAN ALL THROUGH 11
CHAPTER II
WHERE BLACK MEN RULE 27
CHAPTER III
THE BLOOD-STAINED CITADEL 47
CHAPTER IV
THE GHOST OF CHRISTOPHE 66
CHAPTER V
THE ISLE OF THE BUCCANEERS 81
CHAPTER VI
A CUBAN REBEL 99
CHAPTER VII
A NOSE FOR NEWS 117
CHAPTER VIII
THE POISON TREES 135
CHAPTER IX
THE HURRICANE 155
CHAPTER X
THE LAKE OF PITCH 177
CHAPTER XI
THE MORNING OF DOOM 196
CHAPTER XII
A CORSAIR'S DEATH 217
CHAPTER XIII
THE HUNGRY SHARK 231
CHAPTER XIV
TRAPPED! 242
ILLUSTRATIONS
"NOT THAT WAY--TWO MORE STEPS, BOY, AND YOU _Frontispiece_
ARE DEAD"
PAGE
FOR A HUNDRED FEET THEY FELL AND STUART 72
CLOSED HIS EYES IN SICKENING DIZZINESS
HIS VISION DISTORTED BY THE VENOM-VAPOR OF THE 144
POISON TREES, THE LAND-CRABS SEEMED OF
ENORMOUS SIZE AND THE NEGRO WHO CAME TO
RESCUE HIM APPEARED AS AN OGRE
ABOVE THE HOARSE SHOUTS OF RUFFIANS AND JACK-TARS, 224
ROSE TEACH'S MURDEROUS WAR CRY
PLOTTING IN PIRATE SEAS
CHAPTER I
AMERICAN ALL THROUGH
The tom-tom throbbed menacingly through the heavy dark of the Haitian
night.
Under its monotonous and maddening beat, Stuart Garfield moved
restlessly.
Why had his father not come back? What mystery lay behind?
Often though the boy had visited the island, he had never been able to
escape a sensation of fear at that summons of the devotees of Voodoo.
Tonight, with the mysterious disappearance of his father weighing
heavily on his spirits, the roll of the black goatskin drum seemed to
mock him.
Hippolyte, the giant negro who had been their guide into this
back-country jungle, rocked and grimaced in balance with the rhythm.
"Why are they beating that drum, Hippolyte?" demanded Stuart, suddenly.
"Tonight the night of the Full Moon, Yes," was the answer. "Always
Voodoo feast that night. Often, queer things happen on night of Full
Moon, Yes!"
Stuart turned impatiently to the door, as much to get his eyes away from
the hypnotic swaying of Hippolyte as to resume his watch for his father.
The negro's reference to "queer things" had added to the boy's
uneasiness.
Little though Stuart knew about his father's affairs, he was aware that
his investigations dealt with matters of grave importance to the United
States. Ever since Mr. Garfield had resigned his position in the U. S.
Consular Service and left the post in Cuba, where he had stayed so many
years, he had kept a keen eye on international movements in the West
Indies.
Mr. Garfield was an ardent and flaming patriot. He believed the Monroe
Doctrine with a conviction that nothing could shake. He regarded all the
islands of the West Indies as properly under the sheltering wing of the
United States. He looked with unfriendly eye upon the possession of
certain of the islands by England, France and Holland, and especially
distrusted the colonies of European powers upon South American and
Central American shores.
Stuart was even more intense in his patriotism. He had not lived in the
United States since early childhood, and saw the country of the Stars
and Stripes enhaloed by romance.
Though Stuart had been brought up in Cuba, all his tastes ran to things
American. He had learned to play pelota, and was a fair player, but the
rare occasions when he could get a game of baseball suited him far
better. He cared nothing for books unless they dealt with the United
States, and then he read with avidity. Western stories fired his
imagination, the more so because the life they described was so
different from his own.
Stuart was not the type of boy always seeking a fight, but, beneath his
somewhat gentle brown eyes and dark hair, there was a square aggressive
chin, revealing that trait of character known as a "terrible finisher."
It took a good deal to start Stuart, but he was a terror, once started.
Any criticism of the United States was enough to get him going. His
Cuban schoolmates had found that out, and, whenever Stuart was around,
the letters "U. S." were treated with respect.
This square chin was aggressively thrust forward now, as the boy looked
into the night. There was trouble in the air. He felt it. Deeper down
than the disturbed feelings produced by the tom-tom, he sensed a
prescience of evil on its way.
When, therefore, a figure emerged from the forest into the clearing, and
Stuart saw that this figure was not his father, but that of a negro, the
boy stiffened himself.
"You--Stuart?" the newcomer queried.
"Yes," replied the boy, "that's my name."
The negro hardly hesitated. He walked on, though Stuart was full in the
doorway, jostled him aside roughly, and entered. This attitude toward
the white man, unheard of anywhere else, is common in up-country Haiti,
where, for a century, the black man has ruled, and where the white man
is hated and despised.
A hard stone-like gleam came into Stuart's eyes, but even his mounting
rage did not blind him to the fact that the negro was twice his size and
three times as muscular. Nor did he forget that Hippolyte was in the
hut, and, in any case of trouble, the two blacks would combine against
him.
The negro who had pushed him aside paid no further attention to the boy,
but entered into a rapid-fire conversation with Hippolyte. Stuart could
follow the Haitian French dialect quite well, but there were so many
half-hidden allusions in the speech of the two men that it was easy for
him to see that they were both members of some secret band.
The intruder was evidently in some authority over Hippolyte, for he
concluded:
"Everything is well, Yes. Do with the boy, as was arranged."
So saying, he cast a look at Stuart, grinned evilly, and left the hut.
The boy watched him until his powerful figure was lost to view in the
forest.
Then he turned to Hippolyte.
"What does all this mean!" he demanded, as authoritatively as he could.
For a moment Hippolyte did not answer. He looked at the boy with a
reflection of the same evil grin with which the other had favored the
white boy.
A quick choke came into the boy's throat at the change in the negro's
manner. He was in Hippolyte's power, and he knew it. But he showed never
a quiver of fear as he faced the negro.
"What does it all mean?" he repeated.
"It is that you know Manuel Polliovo?"
Stuart knew the name well. His father had mentioned it as that of a
conspirator who was in some way active in a West Indian plot.
"I have heard of him," the boy answered.
"Manuel--he send a message, Yes. He say--Tell Stuart he must go away
from Haiti, at once. His father gone already."
"What does that mean!" exclaimed Stuart. The first words of the warning
had frightened him, but, with the knowledge that his father was in
danger, the fighting self of him rose to the surface, and his fear
passed.
"How?" returned the negro, not understanding.
"That my father has gone already?"
Hippolyte shrugged his shoulders with that exaggeration of the French
shrug common in the islands.
"Maybe Manuel killed him," came the cheerful suggestion. "Jules, who
tell me just now, says Manuel, he have the air very wicked and very
pleased when he tell him."
Stuart doubted this possibility. Ever since the American occupation of
Haiti, in 1915, murder had become less common. The boy thought it more
likely that the missing man had been captured and imprisoned. But just
what could Manuel be doing if he dared such drastic action? The lad
wished that he knew a little more about his father's plans.
A small revolver was in his pocket, and, for one wild moment, Stuart
thought of making a fight for it and going to the rescue of his father.
But his better sense prevailed. Even supposing he could get the drop on
the negro--which was by no means sure--he could not mount guard on him
perpetually. Moreover, if he got near enough to try and tie him up, one
sweep of those brawny arms would render him powerless.
"And if I do not go?" he asked.
"But you do go," declared Hippolyte. "It is I who will see to that,
Yes!"
"Was it Manuel who sent you the money?"
"Ah, the good money!" The negro showed his teeth in a wide grin.
"Manuel, he tell Jules to find boy named Stuart. If you big, tie you and
take you to the forest; if little, send you away from the island."
This was one point gained, thought Stuart. Manuel, at least, did not
know what he looked like.
"I suppose I've got to go to Cap Haitien."
"But, Yes."
"And when?"
"But now, Yes!"
"It's a long walk," protested Stuart. "Twenty miles or more."
"We not walk, No! Get mules near. Now, we start."
The boy had hoped, in some way, to get the negro out of the hut and to
make a bolt for the woods where he might lie hidden, but this sudden
action prevented any such ruse. He turned to the table to put into his
knapsack the couple of changes of clothing he had brought. There was no
way for him to take his father's clothes, but the boy opened the larger
knapsack and took all the papers and documents.
"See here, Hippolyte," he said. "I give you all these clothes. I take
the papers."
The negro grinned a white-toothed smile at the gift. He cared nothing
about the papers. He would do what Jules had paid him to do, and no
more.
As they left the hut, it seemed to Stuart that the nerve-racking beating
of the tom-tom sounded louder and nearer. They walked a mile or so,
then, as Hippolyte suggested, at a small half-abandoned plantation, they
found mules. Once mounted, the negro set off at breakneck speed, caring
nothing about the roughness of the road, all the more treacherous
because of the dead-black of the shadows against the vivid green-silver
patches where the tropical moonlight shone through.
"What's the hurry?" clamored Stuart, who could see no reason for this
mad and reckless riding.
"The dance stop at dawn! I want to be back, Yes!"
They galloped on as before.
A few miles from the town, Stuart snatched at an idea which flashed upon
him suddenly.
"Hippolyte," he said. "You want to get back for the voodoo dance?"
"But, Yes!"
"You'll be too late if you take me into town. See."
He showed his watch and held out a twenty-five gourde bill.
"Suppose I give you this. It's all the money I have. You can tell Jules
to tell Manuel that you saw me get on board a steamer in Cap Haitien,
and that you saw the steamer start. Then you can be back in plenty of
time for the dance."
Hippolyte hesitated. The temptation was strong.
"Unless, of course," the boy added carelessly, "you like this white man,
Manuel, so much."
An expression of primitive hate wrote itself on the ebon face, a
peculiarly malignant snarl, as seen by moonlight.
"I hate all whites!" he flashed.
"Then why should you do a good turn for this Manuel?"
The instincts of a simple honesty struggled with the black's desire. A
passing gust of wind brought the rhythmic beating of the tom-tom
clearer to their ears. It was the one call that the jungle blood of the
negro could not resist. He held out his hand for the money.
"You go into Cap Haitien alone?" he queried, thickly.
"Yes, I'll promise that," the boy agreed.
He dismounted, swung his knapsack on his back, and handed the reins of
the mule to Hippolyte, who sat, still uncertain. But the negro's head
was turned so that he could hear the throbbing of the drum, and, with an
answering howl that went back to the days of the African jungle, he
turned and sped back over the rough trail at the same headlong speed he
had come.
"If he doesn't break his neck!" commented Stuart, as he saw him go,
"it'll be a wonder!"
There were yet a couple of hours before dawn, and Stuart plodded along
the trail, which could lead to no other place than Cap Haitien. He
walked as fast as he could, hoping to reach the city before daylight,
but the first streaks of dawn found him still nearly two miles from the
town. He did not want to enter the town afoot by daylight. That would be
too conspicuous, and there were plans germinating in the boy's head
which needed secrecy. He must hide all day, and get into Cap Haitien the
next night.
Stuart slipped off the road and wriggled his way through the dense
thicket, seeking a place where there was light enough to read, and yet
where the foliage was dense enough to prevent him being seen by anyone
passing that way.
A few moments' search only were required before he found the ideal spot,
and he threw himself down on a pile of leaves with great zest. That mule
had been hard riding.
"First of all," he said to himself, half aloud, "I've got to find out
where I'm at. Then I'll maybe be able to figure out what I ought to do."
Stuart's mind was not so quick as it was strong. He was a straight
up-and-down honest type of fellow, and thoroughly disliked the crafty
and intriguing boy or man. He began cautiously, but got warmed up as he
went on, and made a whirlwind finish.
It was characteristic of him, thus, not to plunge into any wild and
desperate attempt to rescue his father, until he had time to puzzle out
the situation and work out a plan of action. He began by reading all the
papers and documents he had taken from his father's knapsack. This was a
long job, for the papers were full of allusions to subjects he did not
understand. It was nearly noon before he had digested them.
Then he lay on his back and looked up through the tracery of leaves
overhead, talking aloud so that the sound of his own voice might make
his discoveries clearer.
"The way I get it," he mused, "Father's on the trail of some plot
against the United States. This plot is breaking loose, here, in Haiti.
This Manuel Polliovo's in it, and so is a negro General, Cesar Leborge.
There's a third, but the papers don't say who he is.
"Now," he went on, "I've two things to do. I've got to find Father and
I've got to find out this plot. Which comes first?"
He rolled over and consulted one or two of the papers.
"Looks like something big," he muttered, kicking his heels meditatively.
"I wonder what Father would say I ought to do?"
At the thought, he whirled over and up into a sitting posture.
"If it's dangerous to the U. S.," he said, "that's got to come first.
And I don't worry about Father. He can get out of any fix without me."
The glow of his deep-hearted patriotism began to burn in the boy's eyes.
He sat rigid, his whole body concentrated in thought.
"If Manuel Polliovo has captured Father," he said aloud, at last, "it
must have been because Father was shadowing him. That means that Manuel
doesn't want to be shadowed. That means I've got to shadow him. But
how?"
The problem was not an easy one. It was obvious that Stuart could not
sleuth this Cuban, Manuel, without an instant guess being made of his
identity, for white boys were rare in Haiti. If only he were not white.
If only----
Stuart thumped on the ground in his excitement.
Why could he not stain his skin coffee-color, like a Haitian boy? If
sufficiently ragged, he might be able to pass without suspicion. It
might be only for a day or two, for Stuart was sure that his father
would appear again on the scene very soon.
This much, at least, he had decided. No one was going to plot against
his country if he could help it. There was not much that he could do,
but at least he could shadow one of the conspirators, and what he found
out might be useful to his father.
This determination reached, the boy hunted for some wild fruit to stay
his appetite--he had nothing to eat since the night before--and settled
down for the rest of the afternoon to try and dig out the meaning of his
father's papers, some of which seemed so clear, while to others he had
no clew. It was characteristic of the boy that, once this idea of menace
to the United States had got into his head, the thought of personal
danger never crossed his mind. The slightly built boy, small even for
his age, the first sight of whom would have suggested a serious
high-school student rather than a sleuth, possessed the cool ferocity of
a ferret when that one love--his love of country--was aroused.
His first step was clear. As soon as it was dark enough to cover his
movements, he would go to the house of one of his father's friends, a
little place built among the ruins of Cap Haitien, where they had stayed
two or three times before. From references in some of the letters,
Stuart gathered that his father had confidence in this man, though he
was a Haitian negro.
As soon as the shadows grew deep enough, Stuart made his way through the
half-grown jungle foliage--the place had been a prosperous plantation
during French occupation--and, a couple of hours later, using by-paths
and avoiding the town, he came to this negro's house. He tapped at the
same window on which his father had tapped, when they had come to Cap
Haitien a week or so before, and Leon, the negro, opened the door.
"But, it is you, Yes!" he cried, using the Haitian idiom with its
perpetual recurrence of "Yes" and "No," and went on, "and where is
Monsieur your father?"
"I don't know," answered Stuart, speaking in English, which he knew Leon
understood, though he did not speak it. "I have missed him."
"But where, and but how?" queried Leon, suddenly greatly excited. "Was
he already going up to the Citadel?"
Stuart's face flushed with reflected excitement, but his eyes held the
negro's steadily. Leon knew more than the boy had expected he would
know.
"No," he replied, "I don't think so. I shall have to go."
"It is impossible, impossible, Yes!" cried Leon, throwing up his hands
in protest. "I told Monsieur your father that it was impossible for him.
And for you----"
A graphic shrug completed the sentence.
Stuart felt a sinking at the pit of his stomach, for he was no braver
than most boys. But the twist of his determination held him up.
"Leon," he said, trying to keep his voice steady, though he felt it
sounded a little choked, "isn't there the juice of some root which will
turn the skin brown, nearly black?"
"But, Yes, the plavac root."
The Haitian peered at the boy.
"You would make yourself a black man?" he continued.
Stuart ignored argument.
"Can you get some? Tonight? Right away?"
"Ah, well; you know--" Leon began.
The boy interrupted him sharply.
"If my father told you to get some, you would get it," he declared
peremptorily.
This was a shrewd guess, for, as a matter of fact, there were a number
of reasons why Leon should do what Mr. Garfield told him. The negro, who
had no means of finding how much or how little the boy knew, shrugged
his shoulders hugely, and, with a word of comment, left the house,
carrying a lantern. He was back in half an hour with a handful of small
plants, having long fibrous roots. These he cut off, placed in a pot,
covering them with water, and set the pot on the stove over a slow fire.
"It will not come off the skin as easily as it goes on, No!" he warned.
"Time enough to think about that when I want to take it off," came the
boy's reply.
The decoction ready, Leon rubbed it in thoroughly into Stuart's skin. It
prickled and smarted a good deal at first, but this feeling of
discomfort soon passed away.
"It won't rub off?" queried Stuart.
Leon permitted himself a grim pleasantry.
"Not against a grindstone!"
This positive assertion was as reassuring in one way as it was
disquieting in another. Stuart did not want to remain colored for an
indefinite period of time. In his heart of hearts he began to wonder if
he had not acted a little more hastily, and that if he had asked for
Leon's advice instead of ordering him around, he might have found some
milder stain. But it was too late to repent or retract now. His skin was
a rich coffee brown from head to foot, and his dark eyes and black hair
did not give his disguise the lie.
"I'm going to bed," he next announced, "and I want some ragged boy's
clothes by morning, Leon. Very ragged. Also an old pair of boots."
"That is not good," protested the Haitian, "every boy here goes
barefoot, Yes!"
Stuart was taken aback. This difficulty had not occurred to him. It was
true. Not only the boys, but practically nine men out of ten in Haiti go
barefoot. This Stuart could not do. Accustomed to wearing shoes, he
would cut his feet on the stones at every step he took on the roads, or
run thorns into them every step he took in the open country.
"I must have boots," he declared, "but old ones. Those I've been
wearing," he nodded to where they lay on the floor--for this
conversation was carried on with the boy wearing nothing but his new
brown skin--"would give me away at once."
"I will try and get them," answered Leon. His good-humored mouth opened
in a wide smile. "Name of a Serpent!" he ejaculated, "but you are the
image of the son of my half-sister!"
At which saying, perhaps Stuart ought to have been flattered, since it
evidenced the success of his disguise. But, being American, it ruffled
him to be told he resembled a negro.
He went to bed, far from pleased with himself and rather convinced that
he had been hasty. Yet his last waking thought, if it had been put into
words, would have been:
"It's the right thing to do, and I'm going through with it!"