MARSTON GETS A WARNING
It was dark and the mud village was strangely quiet. Thin mist drifted
about the house Don Felix had occupied, and Wyndhams' new agent leaned
forward slackly with his arm on the table. He was a young French creole,
but his face was pinched and careworn.
Marston, sitting in a corner, studied the man. When he last saw Lucien
Moreau he was vigorous and marked by a careless confidence. Now his
glance was furtive and sometimes he fixed it on the window. There was no
glass and the shutters had been left open because the night was hot.
Marston remembered Don Felix's disconcerting habit of looking at the
window when it was dark. The miasma from the swamps had obviously
undermined Moreau's health; but Marston doubted if this accounted for
all.
Moreau had been talking for two or three minutes when Wyndham stopped
him.
"I understand you want to give up your post?" he said.
"That is so," the other agreed. "For one thing, you do not need an agent
when you are closing down your business." He paused and gave Wyndham a
sullen look. "Besides, I have had enough."
"Your pay is good."
"Good pay is of no use if one dies before one can spend it," Moreau
rejoined.
"Very well," said Wyndham. "If you have had enough, we must try to let
you go. However, since your engagement runs for some time, you must stay
a month."
Moreau agreed unwillingly and Wyndham asked: "Have you sent for the
fellow who gave us our last load?"
"He is coming to-night. You will stay until he goes?"
"Of course," said Wyndham, smiling. "I don't want to put too much strain
on you. It looks as if you were afraid of your customers."
"I am afraid. One is always afraid here," Moreau admitted. "It has been
worse since you did not send the goods you promised."
"We will send no more," said Marston firmly and they talked about
something else until they heard steps outside and a man came in.
He was a big, dark-skinned fellow and carried a thick blanket folded
across his shoulder. His feet and the most part of his thin legs were
bare, his chest and arms were powerful, and he looked truculent. He
glanced at Marston curiously and then turned to Wyndham.
"Have you brought payment for my goods?" he asked in uncouth Castilian.
"We have," said Wyndham. "Senor Moreau has a list of the cargo and we
will begin to unload in the morning. Tell him what we have brought, Don
Lucien."
Moreau did so and the other frowned. "These things are of no use to me."
"They are standard trade goods that count as money," Wyndham replied.
"You know what we wanted," said the other and added, meaningly:
"In this country, it is not prudent for a stranger to disown his debts."
"We are not cheats," Marston rejoined. "The stuff is all good, but we
are willing to pay in money."
Wyndham stopped him and turned to the mulatto. "If you are not
satisfied, send your master. We do not dispute with servants."
Moreau looked alarmed, as if he thought the reply would provoke the
other, but Wyndham gave him a peremptory glance, and he said a few words
in Castilian. The mulatto smiled, a rather cruel, knowing smile.
"One needs courage to dispute with the Bat. It is not often people in
his debt want to see him."
"All the same, we want to see him."
"I doubt if he will come. The custom is to send a present and ask leave
to visit the Bat; but I will take your message."
"And what about the goods?" Wyndham asked.
"I can do nothing until I get an order."
"Then we'll send them up the creek and put them in the store. You can
let them remain or take them, as you like. We have paid our debt."
"I doubt," said the other grimly and with an ironical salutation went
off.
Marston felt relieved when he had gone, and soon afterwards he and
Wyndham walked through the silent village to the creek. There were no
lights, the quietness and gloom were disturbing and Marston noted that
the negroes had not left the boat. He thought they were glad when
Wyndham told them to shove off.
"We have made our first move. I expect you don't see the next," he said.
"Not yet," Wyndham agreed. "It depends on our antagonist. I think he'll
understand our challenge, but it's going to be an intricate game."
Marston lighted his pipe and tried to think about something else. He
hated intrigue and liked to see his path. It was a relief when
_Columbine_'s lights began to twinkle in the mist, and he went to the
cabin when they got on board. The little room was very hot and no air
seemed to pass the gauze beneath the skylight, but the glow of the brass
lamp was comforting. He owned that he had begun to fear the dark.
Next day they unloaded cargo and when they stopped in the evening
Marston took his gun and went off in the dinghy. The tide was near its
lowest ebb, the uncovered mud banks gave off a sickly smell, and for a
time Marston pulled languidly down the channel. Then he saw a strip of
firmer bank, where a little path came out. A creek flowed through the
wet forest not far off, and he thought he might find his way across; the
ducks fed at twilight in the pools in the swamps. Pulling up the dinghy,
he looked at his watch. The tide had not turned, there was a moon, and
it would not be very dark. One got cramped on board the yacht and he
wanted exercise.
The path was faint and the ground wet, but it bore his foot. Here and
there a huge cottonwood towered above the jungle, which was choked by
fallen branches and fresh growth that sprang from the tangled ruin of
the old. Knotted creepers strangled slender trees and pulled each other
down to the corruption that covered the boggy soil. Green things rotted
as they grew; parasitic plants drained the sap from drooping boughs. One
sensed the pitiless savageness of the struggle for life, in which the
beaten were devoured by the survivors before they were dead.
Dark water that smelt horribly oozed through the jungle, the mosquitoes
had come out, and Marston pulled down the veil fastened to his double
felt hat. The forest daunted him, there was something about it that one
felt in a nightmare, but he was tired of loafing, and pushed on. If he
could reach the creek, he might get a shot. By and by, however, the path
bent back towards the lagoon, and he stopped at the edge of a channel
that crossed his path. It was not wide, but looked deep and the banks
were very soft. The creek he meant to reach was farther on.
Marston considered. The channel marked the edge of the forest, which it
followed for some distance and then, turning, ran obliquely to the
lagoon. There was a muddy flat on the other side where he thought ducks
might feed, and he did not want to turn back. All the same, he did not
like the bridge that spanned the channel. Somebody had thrown a small
trunk across and stayed it, as a suspension-bridge is stayed, by
creepers partly pulled down from neighboring trees. The log looked
rotten and the rounded top was wet with slime. The water obviously
covered it when the tide was full. Marston, however, was sure footed and
steadying himself by the bent creepers, went cautiously across.
When he reached the flat the sand and mud were soft and his step got
labored, but the light was going, he heard ducks, and thought he might
get near them in the gloom. They flew off, and he followed some curlews
that led him on for a time and then vanished with a mournful cry.
Marston stopped and looked about. He had gone far enough, the tide had
turned, and it was getting dark. Dark came quickly at the lagoon.
Across the little channel, mangroves rose from sloppy mud. Their roots
were five or six feet high, and mudfish splashed in the holes beneath.
Crabs crawled about the roots, for he heard their claws scratch on the
smooth bark. He knew the noise; one heard it on board the schooner when
the tide was low, and Marston hated the hideous mangrove-crabs that
swarmed about the lagoon. They were savage and not afraid. If one sat on
the sand, they crawled over one's body and their bite was sharp. A
curlew's wild cry pierced the gloom and then all was quiet.
Marston frowned. Now the light was going, the forest looked sinister.
Perhaps he was imaginative, but his half-conscious shrinking had some
grounds. In the tropics the woods were hostile and sheltered man's
enemies, of which the insect tribes were perhaps the worst. They
attacked in hosts, with poisoned jaws. Then a pale glimmer caught
Marston's wandering glance. The tide was creeping across the mud.
He went back and stopped at the bridge. Dark had fallen, but the moon
was above the jungle and its light touched the channel. The log ran
across like a thin black bar, a few feet above the slime. It looked
frailer than when he had come. He braced himself, and balancing
carefully, went a yard or two along the trunk. Then he heard a crack and
seized the creeper as the log dropped under his feet. He held fast,
although the strain on his arm was sharp. There was a splash, the
creeper broke, and swinging back with one end, he dropped in the mud. It
rose to his knee and for a minute or two he splashed and struggled
furiously. Somehow he got out and floundered back to the bank he had
left. He was breathless and rather surprised to find he had not dropped
the gun, but the arm by which he had hung was horribly sore.
Then it dawned on him that he was on the wrong side of the channel and
could not get across. When he fell into the mud he was not far from the
bank, but he had gone deep and it was unthinkable that he should venture
farther out. The half-liquid mire would suck him down. Still the tide
was rising and he could not stop on the flat. After a few moments,
another thing struck him; when he crossed, the bridge, although narrow
and slippery, was firm, but now it had given way as soon as it bore his
weight. The log had slipped down, or broken, suddenly. He wondered
whether it had been meant to break. A few strokes with the cutlass the
half-breeds carried would be enough, and he could not have struggled out
had he dropped where the mud was deep.
Marston clenched his fist and raged with helpless fury. He was persuaded
somebody, with devilish cunning, had set the trap for him. When the tide
rose the dinghy would drift up the lagoon and in the morning the yacht's
crew would find her stuck among the mangrove roots. It would look as if
he had landed on a mud bank and had stopped too long. Then, with an
effort, Marston pulled himself together. He must search for a place
where the bottom was not so soft.
He ran across the flat, heading for the lagoon and hoping he might find
a belt of firm sand that would enable him to wade across, but there was
none, and by and by he came to the main channel. It was wider and he saw
clumps of weed and flakes of foam drift past. The tide was rising and
would presently cover the flat. He went back as near as he could get to
the jungle, and sitting down with the gun across his knees, took off his
shoes. He had sometimes gone wild-fowling on the English coast and knew
one can pull one's naked foot out of mud where one's boot would stick.
The gun might be an embarrassment, but he meant to keep it to the last,
because the fellow who had cut the bridge might be lurking about.
Treading very cautiously, Marston tried the bank again, but began to
sink and had some trouble to regain the flat. It was obvious that he
could not cross, and he doubted if he would be much better off if he
reached the mangroves some distance from the path. The tide flowed back
among them, their trunks were slender, and they were haunted by
poisonous insects and the horrible crabs. If the crabs attacked him when
the tide rose and he was forced to cling to the trees, he could not beat
them off. All the same, he could not swim to the schooner.
For a time he wandered up and down the flat. Although he saw no way of
escape, he could not keep still. In the end, he must swim, but he meant
to wait until the tide drove him off the flat. There was not much use in
swimming when one could not find a spot to land. The rising water
presently forced him back to the small channel, where he stopped. The
moon had got bright and although, for the most part, the mangroves on
the other side rose like a dark wall, the silver beams touched their
branches here and there. Marston searched them keenly, because he had a
strange feeling that somebody was about. Perhaps the fellow who had cut
the bridge had stopped to watch him drown.
He thought he heard a soft rustle, leaves moved, and throwing the gun to
his shoulder, he pulled the trigger. The barrel jerked, the sharp report
rolled across the woods, and leaves and twigs came down; but that was
all, and Marston, swinging the gun, pulled the other trigger. Then as
the echoes died away he thought he heard a distant shout and a regular
throbbing noise. He paused as he pushed in fresh cartridges, and
listened hard. The noise was like the splash of oars and got louder. It
was the splash of oars, and a shout came across the water again. Marston
fired another shot and then waited, trembling with the reaction. Wyndham
was coming for him on board the gig and the crew were pulling hard. They
would reach him before the tide covered the flat.
When the sand was all but covered, the boat grounded close by and
Marston got on board. Wyndham gave him a nod and Marston noted that he
was hot and breathless. A heavy oar he had thrown down lay in the
sculling notch.
"The boys went out to make fast a warp and saw the dinghy drifting up,"
Wyndham remarked. "We reckoned we had better start."
"Thanks!" said Marston, who imagined his comrade did not want to talk
just then. "Have you got a cigarette?"
They shoved off and when they reached _Columbine_ went to the cabin.
Marston mixed a cocktail.
"There's enough for two," he said. "I expect you sculled pretty hard."
"I did," Wyndham admitted. "The boys shoved her along handsomely; looks
as if they liked you, but the tide was rising fast. Well? What were you
shooting at?"
"I imagined it was at the man who sent the dinghy adrift."
"Ah," said Wyndham, "I wondered--didn't think you'd carelessly stop too
long. In fact, I was pretty anxious until I heard the gun. But do you
reckon somebody did push off the dinghy?"
Marston stated his grounds for believing this, and Wyndham, after
pondering for a few moments, looked hard at him.
"Well, I suppose you see what it implies?"
"I'm in the way. Somebody meant to get rid of me."
"Yes; but that's not all," said Wyndham, with a dry smile. "It looks as
if I'm not thought dangerous; the man we're up against is not persuaded
my reform's sincere. On the whole, this may be an advantage. To puzzle
your antagonist is good strategy."
He drained his glass and lighted his pipe. "In the meantime, we'll let
it go. What about the new running gear? Have we enough manilla rope for
the peak-halyards?"