As Tankred had intimated, Blake's journey southward from Panama was
anything but comfortable traveling. The vessel was verminous, the food
was bad, and the heat was oppressive. It was a heat that took the life
out of the saturated body, a thick and burdening heat that hung like a
heavy gray blanket on a gray sea which no rainfall seemed able to cool.
But Blake uttered no complaint. By day he smoked under a sodden
awning, rained on by funnel cinders. By night he stood at the rail.
He stood there, by the hour together, watching with wistful and haggard
eyes the Alpha of Argo and the slowly rising Southern Cross. Whatever
his thoughts, as he watched those lonely Southern skies, he kept them
to himself.
It was the night after they had swung about and were steaming up the
Gulf of Guayaquil under a clear sky that Tankred stepped down to
Blake's sultry little cabin and wakened him from a sound sleep.
"It's time you were gettin' your clothes on," he announced.
"Getting my clothes on?" queried Blake through the darkness.
"Yes, you can't tell what we 'll bump into, any time now!"
The wakened sleeper heard the other man moving about in the velvety
black gloom.
"What 're you doing there?" was his sharp question as he heard the
squeak and slam of a shutter.
"Closin' this dead-light, of course," explained Tankred. A moment
later he switched on the electric globe at the bunkhead. "We 're
gettin' in pretty close now and we 're goin' with our lights doused!"
He stood for a moment, staring down at the sweat-dewed white body on
the bunk, heaving for breath in the closeness of the little cabin. His
mind was still touched into mystery by the spirit housed in that
uncouth and undulatory flesh. He was still piqued by the vast sense of
purpose which Blake carried somewhere deep within his seemingly
tepid-willed carcass, like the calcinated pearl at the center of an
oyster.
"You 'd better turn out!" he called back as he stepped into the
engulfing gloom of the gangway.
Blake rolled out of his berth and dressed without haste or excitement.
Already, overhead, he could hear the continuous tramping of feet, with
now and then a quiet-noted order from Tankred himself. He could hear
other noises along the ship's side, as though a landing-ladder were
being bolted and lowered along the rusty plates.
When he went up on deck he found the boat in utter darkness. To that
slowly moving mass, for she was now drifting ahead under quarter-speed,
this obliteration of light imparted a sense of stealthiness. This note
of suspense, of watchfulness, of illicit adventure was reflected in the
very tones of the motley deckhands who brushed past him in the humid
velvety blackness.
As he stood at the rail, staring ahead through this blackness, Blake
could see a light here and there along the horizon. These lights
increased in number as the boat steamed slowly on. Then, far away in
the roadstead ahead of them, he made out an entire cluster of lights,
like those of a liner at anchor. Then he heard the tinkle of a bell
below deck, and he realized that the engines had stopped.
In the lull of the quieted ship's screw he could hear the wash of
distant surf, faint and phantasmal above the material little near-by
boat-noises. Then came a call, faint and muffled, like the complaining
note of a harbor gull. A moment later the slow creak of oars crept up
to Blake's straining ears. Then out of the heart of the darkness that
surrounded him, not fifty feet away, he saw emerge one faint point of
light, rising and falling with a rhythm as sleepy as the slow creak of
the oars. On each side of it other small lights sprang up. They were
close beside the ship, by this time, a flotilla of lights, and each
light, Blake finally saw, came from a lantern that stood deep in the
bottom of a boat, a lantern that had been covered with a square of
matting or sail-cloth, until some prearranged signal from the drifting
steamer elicited its answering flicker of light. Then they swarmed
about the oily water, shifting and swaying on their course like a
cluster of fireflies, alternately dark and luminous in the dip and rise
of the ground-swell. Within each small aura of radiance the watcher at
the rail could see a dusky and quietly moving figure, the faded blue of
a denim garment, the brown of bare arms, or the sinews of a straining
neck. Once he caught the whites of a pair of eyes turned up towards
the ship's deck. He could also see the running and wavering lines of
fire as the oars puddled and backed in the phosphorescent water under
the gloomy steel hull. Then he heard a low-toned argument in Spanish.
A moment later the flotilla of small boats had fastened to the ship's
side, like a litter of suckling pigs to a sow's breast. Every light
went out again, every light except a faint glow as a guide to the first
boat at the foot of the landing-ladder. Along this ladder Blake could
hear barefooted figures padding and grunting as cases and bales were
cautiously carried down and passed from boat to boat.
He swung nervously about as he felt a hand clutch his arm. He found
Tankred speaking quietly into his ear.
"There 'll be one boat over," that worthy was explaining. "One
boat--you take that--the last one! And you 'd better give the
_guinney_ a ten-dollar bill for his trouble!"
"All right! I 'm ready!" was Blake's low-toned reply as he started to
move forward with the other man.
"Not yet! Not yet!" was the other's irritable warning, as Blake felt
himself pushed back. "You stay where you are! We 've got a
half-hour's hard work ahead of us yet!"
As Blake leaned over the rail again, watching and listening, he began
to realize that the work was indeed hard, that there was some excuse
for Tankred's ill-temper. Most men, he acknowledged, would feel the
strain, where one misstep or one small mistake might undo the work of
months. Beyond that, however, Blake found little about which to
concern himself. Whether it was legal or illegal did not enter his
mind. That a few thousand tin-sworded soldiers should go armed or
unarmed was to him a matter of indifference. It was something not of
his world. It did not impinge on his own jealously guarded circle of
activity, on his own task of bringing a fugitive to justice. And as
his eyes strained through the gloom at the cluster of lights far ahead
in the roadstead he told himself that it was there that his true goal
lay, for it was there that the _Trunella_ must ride at anchor and
Binhart must be.
Then he looked wonderingly back at the flotilla under the rail, for he
realized that every movement and murmur of life there had come to a
sudden stop. It was a cessation of all sound, a silence as ominously
complete as that of a summer woodland when a hawk soars overhead. Even
the small light deep in the bottom of the first _lancha_ tied to the
landing-ladder had been suddenly quenched.
Blake, staring apprehensively out into the gloom, caught the sound of a
soft and feverish throbbing. His disturbed mind had just registered
the conclusion that this sound must be the throbbing of a passing
marine-engine, when the thought was annihilated by a second and more
startling occurrence.
Out across the blackness in front of him suddenly flashed a white saber
of light. For one moment it circled and wavered restlessly about,
feeling like a great finger along the gray surface of the water. Then
it smote full on Blake and the deck where he stood, blinding him with
its glare, picking out every object and every listening figure as
plainly as a calcium picks out a scene on the stage.
Without conscious thought Blake dropped lower behind the ship's rail.
He sank still lower, until he found himself down on his hands and knees
beside a rope coil. As he did so he heard the call of a challenging
Spanish voice, a murmur of voices, and then a repeated command.
There was no answer to this challenge. Then came another command and
then silence again. Then a faint thrill arrowed through Blake's
crouching body, for from somewhere close behind him a gun-shot rang out
and was repeated again and again. Blake knew, at that sound, that
Tankred or one of his men was firing straight into the dial of the
searchlight, that Tankred himself intended to defy what must surely be
an Ecuadorean gunboat. The detective was oppressed by the thought that
his own jealously nursed plan might at any moment get a knock on the
head.
At almost the same time the peevishly indignant Blake could hear the
tinkle of the engine-room bell below him and then the thrash of the
screw wings. The boat began to move forward, dangling the knocking and
rocking flotilla of _lanchas_ and surf-boats at her side, like a
deer-mouse making off with its young. Then came sharp cries of
protest, in Spanish, and more cries and curses in harbor-English, and a
second engine-room signal and a cessation of the screw thrashings.
This was followed by a shower of carbine-shots and the plaintive whine
of bullets above the upper-works, the crack and thud of lead against
the side-plates. At the same time Blake heard the scream of a
denim-clad figure that suddenly pitched from the landing-ladder into
the sea. Then came an answering volley, from somewhere close below
Blake. He could not tell whether it was from the boat-flotilla or from
the port-holes above it. But he knew that Tankred and his men were
returning the gunboat's fire.
Blake, by this time, was once more thinking lucidly. Some of the cases
in those surf-boats, he remembered, held giant-caps and dynamite, and
he knew what was likely to happen if a bullet struck them. He also
remembered that he was still exposed to the carbine fire from behind
the searchlight.
He stretched out, flat on the deck-boards, and wormed his way slowly
and ludicrously aft. He did not bring those uncouth vermiculations to
a stop until he was well back in the shelter of a rusty capstan, cut
off from the light by a lifeboat swinging on its davits. As he
clambered to his feet again he saw this light suddenly go out and then
reappear. As it did so he could make out a patrol-boat, gray and
low-bodied, slinking forward through the gloom. He could see that boat
crowded with men, men in uniform, and he could see that each man
carried a carbine. He could also see that it would surely cut across
the bow of his own steamer. A moment later he knew that Tankred
himself had seen this, for high above the crack and whine of the
shooting and the tumult of voices he could now hear Tankred's
blasphemous shouts.
"Cut loose those boats!" bellowed the frantic gun-runner. Then he
repeated the command, apparently in Spanish. And to this came an
answering babel of cries and expostulations and counter-cries. But
still the firing from behind the searchlight kept up. Blake could see
a half-naked seaman with a carpenter's ax skip monkey-like down the
landing-ladder. He saw the naked arm strike with the ax, the two hands
suddenly catch at the bare throat, and the figure fall back in a huddle
against the red-stained wooden steps.
Blake also saw, to his growing unrest, that the firing was increasing
in volume, that at the front of the ship sharp volley and
counter-volley was making a pandemonium of the very deck on which he
knelt. For by this time the patrol-boat with the carbineers had
reached the steamer's side and a boarding-ladder had been thrown across
her quarter. And Blake began to comprehend that he was in the most
undesirable of situations. He could hear the repeated clang of the
engine-room telegraph and Tankred's frenzied and ineffectual bellow of
"Full steam ahead! For the love o' Christ, full ahead down there!"
Through all that bedlam Blake remained resentfully cool, angrily
clear-thoughted. He saw that the steamer did not move forward. He
concluded the engine-room to be deserted. And he saw both the futility
and the danger of remaining where he was.
He crawled back to where he remembered the rope-coil lay, dragging the
loose end of it back after him, and then lowering it over the ship's
side until it touched the water. Then he shifted this rope along the
rail until it swung over the last of the line of surf-boats that bobbed
and thudded against the side-plates of the gently rolling steamer.
About him, all the while, he could hear the shouts of men and the
staccato crack of the rifles. But he saw to it that his rope was well
tied to the rail-stanchion. Then he clambered over the rail itself,
and with a double twist of the rope about his great leg let himself
ponderously down over the side.
He swayed there, for a moment, until the roll of the ship brought him
thumping against the rusty plates again. At the same moment the
shifting surf-boat swung in under him. Releasing his hold, he went
tumbling down between the cartridge-cases and the boat-thwarts.
This boat, he saw, was still securely tied to its mate, one of the
larger-bodied _lanchas_, and he had nothing with which to sever the
rope. His first impulse was to reach for his revolver and cut through
the manilla strands by means of a half-dozen quick shots. But this, he
knew, would too noisily announce his presence there. So he fell on his
knees and peered and prodded about the boat bottom. There, to his
surprise, he saw the huddled body of a dead man, face down. This body
he turned over, running an exploring hand along the belt-line. As he
had hoped, he found a heavy nine-inch knife there.
He was dodging back to the bow of the surf-boat when a uniformed figure
carrying a rifle came scuttling and shouting down the landing-ladder.
Blake's spirits sank as he saw that figure. He knew now that his
movement had been seen and understood. He knew, too, as he saw the
figure come scrambling out over the rocking boats, what capture would
mean.
He had the last strand of the rope severed before the Ecuadorean with
the carbine reached the _lancha_ next to him. He still felt, once he
was free, that he could use his revolver and get away. But before
Blake could push off a sinewy brown hand reached out and clutched the
gunwale of the liberated boat. Blake ignored the clutching hand. But,
relying on his own sheer strength, he startled the owning of the hand
by suddenly flinging himself forward, seizing the carbine barrel, and
wresting it free. A second later it disappeared beneath the surface of
the water.
That impassioned brown hand, however, still clung to the boat's
gunwale. It clung there determinedly, blindly--and Blake knew there
was no time for a struggle. He brought the heavy-bladed knife down on
the clinging fingers. It was a stroke like that of a cleaver on a
butcher's block. In the strong white light that still played on them
he could see the flash of teeth in the man's opened mouth, the upturn
of the staring eye-balls as the severed fingers fell away and he
screamed aloud with pain.
But with one quick motion of his gorilla-like arms Blake pushed his
boat free, telling himself there was still time, warning himself to
keep cool and make the most of every chance. Yet as he turned to take
up the oars he saw that he had been discovered by the Ecuadoreans on
the freighter's deck, that his flight was not to be as simple as he had
expected. He saw the lean brown face, picked out by the white light,
as a carbineer swung his short-barreled rifle out over the rail--and
the man in the surf-boat knew by that face what was coming.
His first impulse was to reach into his pocket for his revolver. But
that, he knew, was already too late, for a second man had joined the
first and a second rifle was already swinging round on him. His next
thought was to dive over the boat's side. This thought had scarcely
formulated itself, however, before he heard the bark of the rifle and
saw the puff of smoke.
At the same moment he felt the rip and tug of the bullet through the
loose side-folds of his coat. And with that rip and tug came a third
thought, over which he did not waver. He threw up his hands, sharply,
and flung himself headlong across the body of the dead man in the
bottom of the surf-boat.
He fell heavily, with a blow that shook the wind from his body. But as
he lay there he knew better than to move. He lay there, scarcely
daring to breathe, dreading that the rise and fall of his breast would
betray his ruse, praying that his boat would veer about so his body
would be in the shadow. For he knew the two waiting carbines were
still pointed at him.
He lay there, counting the seconds, knowing that he and his slowly
drifting surf-boat were still in the full white fulgor of the wavering
searchlight. He lay there as a second shot came whistling overhead,
spitting into the water within three feet of him. Then a third bullet
came, this time tearing through the wood of the boat bottom beside him.
And he still waited, without moving, wondering what the next shot would
do. He still waited, his passive body horripilating with a vast
indignation at the thought of the injustice of it all, at the thought
that he must lie there and let half-baked dagoes shower his
unprotesting back with lead. But he lay there, still counting the
seconds, as the boat drifted slowly out on the quietly moving tide.
Then a new discovery disturbed him. It obliterated his momentary joy
at the thought that they were no longer targeting down at him. He
could feel the water slowly rising about his prostrate body. He
realized that the boat in which he lay was filling. He calmly figured
out that with the body of the dead man and the cartridge-cases about
him it was carrying a dead weight of nearly half a ton. And through
the bullet hole in its bottom the water was rushing in.
Yet he could do nothing. He could make no move. For at the slightest
betrayal of life, he knew, still another volley would come from that
ever-menacing steamer's deck. He counted the minutes, painfully,
methodically, feeling the water rise higher and higher about his body.
The thought of this rising water and what it meant did not fill him
with panic. He seemed more the prey of a deep and sullen resentment
that his plans should be so gratuitously interfered with, that his
approach to the _Trunella_ should be so foolishly delayed, that so many
cross-purposes should postpone and imperil his quest of Binhart.
He knew, by the slowly diminishing sounds, that he was drifting further
and further away from Tankred and his crowded fore-deck. But he was
still within the area of that ever-betraying searchlight. Some time,
he knew, he must drift beyond it. But until that moment came he dare
make no move to keep himself afloat.
By slowly turning his head an inch or two he was able to measure the
height of the gunwale above the water. Then he made note of where an
oar lay, asking himself how long he could keep afloat on a timber so
small, wondering how far he could be from land. Then he suddenly fell
to questioning if the waters of that coast were shark infested.
He was still debating the problem when he became conscious of a change
about him. A sudden pall of black fell like balm on his startled face.
The light was no longer there. He found himself engulfed in a
relieving, fortifying darkness, a darkness that brought him to his feet
in the slowly moving boat. He was no longer visible to the rest of the
world. At a breath, almost, he had passed into eclipse.
His first frantic move was to tug and drag the floating body at his
feet to the back of the boat and roll it overboard. Then he waded
forward and one by one carefully lifted the cases of ammunition and
tumbled them over the side. One only he saved, a smaller wooden box
which he feverishly pried open with his knife and emptied into the sea.
Then he flung away the top boards, placing the empty box on the seat in
front of him. Then he fell on his hands and knees, fingering along the
boat bottom until he found the bullet-hole through which the water was
boiling up.
Once he had found it he began tearing at his clothes like a madman, for
the water was now alarmingly high. These rags and shreds of clothing
he twisted together and forced into the hole, tamping them firmly into
place with his revolver-barrel.
Then he caught up the empty wooden box from the boat seat and began to
bale. He baled solemnly, as though his very soul were in it. He was
oblivious of the strange scene silhouetted against the night behind
him, standing out as distinctly as though it were a picture thrown on a
sheet from a magic-lantern slide--a circle of light surrounding a
drifting and rusty-sided ship on which tumult had turned into sudden
silence. He was oblivious of his own wet clothing and his bruised body
and the dull ache in his leg wound of many months ago. He was intent
only on the fact that he was lowering the water in his surf-boat, that
he was slowly drifting further and further away from the enemies who
had interfered with his movements, and that under the faint spangle of
lights which he could still see in the offing on his right lay an
anchored liner, and that somewhere on that liner lay a man for whom he
was looking.