Once assured that his surf-boat would keep afloat, Blake took the oars
and began to row. But even as he swung the boat lumberingly about he
realized that he could make no headway with such a load, for almost a
foot of water still surged along its bottom. So he put down the oars
and began to bale again. He did not stop until the boat was emptied.
Then he carefully replugged the bullet-hole, took up the oars again,
and once more began to row.
He rowed, always keeping his bow towards the far-off spangle of lights
which showed where the _Trunella_ lay at anchor.
He rowed doggedly, determinedly. He rowed until his arms were tired
and his back ached. But still he did not stop. It occurred to him,
suddenly, that there might be a tide running against him, that with all
his labor he might be making no actual headway. Disturbed by this
thought, he fixed his attention on two almost convergent lights on
shore, rowing with renewed energy as he watched them. He had the
satisfaction of seeing these two lights slowly come together, and he
knew he was making some progress.
Still another thought came to him as he rowed doggedly on. And that
was the fear that at any moment, now, the quick equatorial morning
might dawn. He had no means of judging the time. To strike a light
was impossible, for his matches were water-soaked. Even his watch, he
found, had been stopped by its bath in sea-water. But he felt that
long hours had passed since midnight, that it must be close to the
break of morning. And the fear of being overtaken by daylight filled
him with a new and more frantic energy.
He rowed feverishly on, until the lights of the _Trunella_ stood high
above him and he could hear the lonely sound of her bells as the watch
was struck. Then he turned and studied the dark hull of the steamer as
she loomed up closer in front of him. He could see her only in
outline, at first, picked out here and there by a light. But there
seemed something disheartening, something intimidating, in her very
quietness, something suggestive of a plague-ship deserted by crew and
passengers alike. That dark and silent hull at which he stared seemed
to house untold possibilities of evil.
Yet Blake remembered that it also housed Binhart. And with that
thought in his mind he no longer cared to hesitate. He rowed in under
the shadowy counter, bumping about the rudder-post. Then he worked his
way forward, feeling quietly along her side-plates, foot by foot.
He had more than half circled the ship before he came to her
landing-ladder. The grilled platform at the bottom of this row of
steps stood nearly as high as his shoulders, as though the ladder-end
had been hauled up for the night.
Blake balanced himself on the bow of his surf-boat and tugged and
strained until he gained the ladder-bottom. He stood there, recovering
his breath, for a moment or two, peering up towards the inhospitable
silence above him. But still he saw no sign of life. No word or
challenge was flung down at him. Then, after a moment's thought, he
lay flat on the grill and deliberately pushed the surf-boat off into
the darkness. He wanted no more of it. He knew, now, there could be
no going back.
He climbed cautiously up the slowly swaying steps, standing for a
puzzled moment at the top and peering about him. Then he crept along
the deserted deck, where a month of utter idleness, apparently, had
left discipline relaxed. He shied away from the lights, here and
there, that dazzled his eyes after his long hours of darkness. With an
instinct not unlike that which drives the hiding wharf-rat into the
deepest corner at hand, he made his way down through the body of the
ship. He shambled and skulked his way down, a hatless and ragged and
uncouth figure, wandering on along gloomy gangways and corridors until
he found himself on the threshold of the engine-room itself.
He was about to back out of this entrance and strike still deeper when
he found himself confronted by an engineer smoking a short brier-root
pipe. The pale blue eyes of this sandy-headed engineer were wide with
wonder, startled and incredulous wonder, as they stared at the ragged
figure in the doorway.
"Where in the name o' God did _you_ come from?" demanded the man with
the brier-root pipe.
"I came out from Guayaquil," answered Blake, reaching searchingly down
in his wet pocket. "And I can't go back."
The sandy-headed man backed away.
"From the fever camps?"
Blake could afford to smile at the movement.
"Don't worry--there 's no fever 'round me. _That 's_ what I 've been
through!" And he showed the bullet-holes through his tattered
coat-cloth.
"How'd you get here?"
"Rowed out in a surf-boat--and I can't go back!"
The sandy-headed engineer continued to stare at the uncouth figure in
front of him, to stare at it with vague and impersonal wonder. And in
facing that sandy-headed stranger, Blake knew, he was facing a judge
whose decision was to be of vast moment in his future destiny, whose
word, perhaps, was to decide on the success or failure of much
wandering about the earth.
"I can't go back!" repeated Blake, as he reached out and dropped a
clutter of gold into the palm of the other man. The pale blue eyes
looked at the gold, looked out along the gangway, and then looked back
at the waiting stranger.
"That Alfaro gang after you?" he inquired.
"They 're _all_ after me!" answered the swaying figure in rags. They
were talking together, by this time, almost in whispers, like two
conspirators. The young engineer seemed puzzled. But a wave of relief
swept through Blake when in the pale blue eyes he saw almost a look of
pity.
"What d' you want me to do?" he finally asked.
Blake, instead of answering that question, asked another.
"When do you move out of here?"
The engineer put the coins in his pocket.
"Before noon to-morrow, thank God! The _Yorktown_ ought to be here by
morning--she 's to give us our release!"
"Then you'll sail by noon?"
"We 've _got_ to! They 've tied us up here over a month, without
reason. They worked that old yellow-jack gag--and not a touch of fever
aboard all that time!"
A great wave of contentment surged through Blake's weary body. He put
his hand up on the smaller man's shoulder.
"Then you just get me out o' sight until we 're off, and I 'll fix
things so you 'll never be sorry for it!"
The pale-eyed engineer studied the problem. Then he studied the figure
in front of him.
"There's nothing crooked behind this?"
Blake forced a laugh from his weary lungs. "I 'll prove that in two
days by wireless--and pay first-class passage to the next port of call!"
"I 'm fourth engineer on board here, and the Old Man would sure fire
me, if--"
"But you needn't even know about me," contended Blake. "Just let me
crawl in somewhere where I can sleep!"
"You need it, all right, by that face of yours!"
"I sure do," acknowledged the other as he stood awaiting his judge's
decision.
"Then I 'd better get you down to my bunk. But remember, I can only
stow you there until we get under way--perhaps not that long!"
He stepped cautiously out and looked along the gangway. "This is your
funeral, mind, when the row comes. You 've got to face that, yourself!"
"Oh, I 'll face it, all right!" was Blake's calmly contented answer.
"All I want now is about nine hours' sleep!"
"Come on, then," said the fourth engineer. And Blake followed after as
he started deeper down into the body of the ship. And already, deep
below him, he could hear the stokers at work in their hole.