_COLUMBINE_ STEALS AWAY
All was quiet at the mission but for the soft rustle of the palms when a
puff of wind came down the hill. The last light had gone out behind the
narrow windows across the patio, and Wyndham, looking at his watch, got
up.
"We must chance it now," he said. "If all goes well, we ought to reach
the port two or three hours before dawn and our hosts won't miss us
until the major-domo sends our breakfast."
Marston pulled himself together. The port was a long way off and since
he had left England he had not walked much, but it was obvious that he
must make good speed to-night. Opening the door quietly, they stole
downstairs, carrying their boots, and stopped for a few moments in the
gloom of an arch. It was very dark; the palms across the square hardly
showed against the sky. There was a sentry on the terrace, but they
could not see him and waited until they heard his measured steps.
When the sentry passed the arch, they crept out and started across the
square. Small stones hurt their feet, but they went on as fast as
possible, until they heard a soft rattle of leather and jingle of steel.
The sentry had wheeled round at the end of his beat and was coming back,
and they lay down on the sand and waited until the steps receded. They
must reach the gloom of the trees before he turned again, and they
pushed on, listening hard. Marston's heart beat and his hands trembled
as he clutched his boots. The measured steps stopped for a moment and
then began to get louder, but Bob drew a deep breath when he
distinguished the long branches of the palms overhead. Nobody could see
him now.
A few minutes afterwards they set off down hill at the fastest pace they
could make. The road was rough, one could not see the holes, and Marston
was soon wet with perspiration. He had got soft in the tropics and his
legs began to ache, but he thought he was going nearly five miles an
hour. Since time was valuable, he must try to keep it up. He had no
breath to talk and Wyndham said nothing; with clenched hands and eyes
fixed straight in front they labored on. Half-seen palms went by, but in
places the gloom was impenetrable, and now and then they fell into a
hole.
By-and-by Marston's boot began to gall his foot. The smart got worse and
sometimes he limped. When he did so, he dropped behind Wyndham, and
setting his mouth tight he trod squarely. One could not walk fast on the
side of one's foot; he must push on and bear the pain. It was ridiculous
that he should lose time because his boot scraped his toe. Yet long
afterwards he remembered the effort to keep up his speed.
When the first white houses of the town came out of the gloom his
clothes were sticking to his skin and his wet hair was flat on his head.
He stopped and sat down in a dusty gutter.
"I've got to take off my boots. There's a pavement of sorts," he gasped.
Wyndham nodded and looked about. The houses were indistinct and the sky
was dark. He could not see his watch, but he calculated it was about
four o'clock and day would not break for two hours yet. Puffs of wind
touched his wet face and he heard it in the trees behind the town. They
were in time, but had none to waste.
"Be quick!" he said. "We're a mile from the harbor."
Marston got up and they set off. Straight and nearly blank walls now
shut them in, for the houses got light from the patios. Wyndham's steps
echoed in the dark, but except for this all was quiet. It looked as if
nobody were about. A strange smell hung about the houses, for the street
was narrow and the land-breeze did not sweep it clean.
By-and-by they crossed a square and kept back from a lamp at the end of
another street. To meet one of the armed police would be awkward, for
although the fellow's curiosity might be appeased by a bribe, to
persuade him would occupy some time. They met nobody, but after some
minutes Wyndham thought it prudent to cross the _alameda_, where shady
paths wound among tall trees. The gloom would hide them and from one end
a dark street ran down to the harbor. Marston agreed and set his lips as
he struggled on, for the walks were covered by sharp, fresh gravel.
Stealing along the dark street, they reached the mole and stopped for a
moment. So far as they could see, the tug had not arrived, and although
they distinguished _Columbine_'s masts against the sky, she was moored
to a buoy some distance from the wall. Wyndham had warned the crew to
keep a watch, but there was a risk in hailing them.
"One of the port-guards is generally about this side of the harbor," he
said.
They listened, but only heard the sea splash against the wall and the
wind in a neighboring vessel's rigging. The land-breeze was fresh and
blew down the harbor. If they could get on board, it would not be long
before _Columbine_ was at sea.
"We might swim," Marston suggested.
"I think not," said Wyndham. "There's a nasty, splashing ripple that
would break in our faces; besides, the gig would be quicker. We must
chance a hail."
He shouted and Marston clenched his fist when no answer came. It was
unthinkable that they should be stopped by the negligence of a sleepy
look-out. Before long the port-guard would walk up the mole, and if they
were not gone, would take them to the captain's office. One must get
leave to go on board, because the port was closed at night.
They waited for two or three minutes, since Wyndham dared not shout
again, and then a soft rattle came out of the dark. Marston started and
thrilled.
"I believe that's somebody jumping into the gig," he said.
"It is," said Wyndham softly, and after a few moments added: "She's
coming."
They could not see the boat and she made very little noise. There was no
splash; it looked as if somebody sculled her cautiously. By and by a
dark object glided out of the gloom beside the wall and they went to the
steps.
"Go back softly, softly," Wyndham said to the indistinct figure in the
stern as they got on board.
In a few minutes they reached the schooner and Marston's spirits rose.
He had done with tracks and plots; now his job was straightforward.
Moreover, he knew it well.
"I'll cast off the bow mooring," he said when Wyndham got on board.
"Give me a line and you can haul the chain up quietly. It mustn't run
through the pipe."
Shoving the gig forward, he jumped out on the buoy; then he unscrewed
the shackle and, fastening on the line he brought, waved his hand. The
chain slipped gently into the water and did not make much noise when the
men on board pulled it up. _Columbine_ was free now and had begun to
drift when Marston seized her rail. He made the gig's painter fast and
left her alongside, because the blocks on the Burton tackle would
clatter if they tried to hoist her in. It was something to feel the
schooner's deck under his galled feet, but there was much to be done
before he could indulge his relief. Although they could not see the tug,
she might have reached the port, and they must pass the three-mile limit
before they would be safe. In the meantime, _Columbine_ was drifting
slowly down the harbor.
"We must chance hoisting the staysail," Wyndham remarked. "Get it up
handsomely; stop if the chain clinks much."
The staysail had chain halyards and Marston sent a man aloft with a
grease-swab. For all that, the halyard made some noise and the sail
thrashed in the fresh breeze, until they hauled the sheets and Wyndham
got her round. _Columbine_, with a small triangle of canvas set, stole
down the harbor, and if the port-guards did not keep a keen look out,
she might get away.
Marston, sitting on the bowsprit loosing the jib, watched the shadowy
wall move back. They were passing the Cuban barque and she was not far
from the end of the mole. _Columbine_ moved faster; he heard the water
ripple at her bows, and the beam of the lighthouse ahead got near. It
was a sector light, screened on one bearing, and they could keep outside
its illumination.
In a few minutes they would clear the end of the mole, and when the jib
was loose Marston looked aft. Shadowy figures moved about the deck,
getting the canvas ready to hoist. Not long since, he had doubted if
they could steal out of the harbor. When one studied the plan coolly, it
looked ridiculous, but they had tried and he began to hope they would
succeed. Then he turned his head and thrilled as he saw the end of the
mole slip by.
"Hoist the outer jib," said Wyndham when Marston joined him. "We must be
cautious. The captain's launch has steam up and could catch us yet."
They got to work. The blocks rattled as the jib went up, but the wind
blew the noise away. The splash at the bows was louder, and Wyndham
waited, measuring the distance from the receding mole.
"Boom-foresail," he said sharply.
The tall dark canvas rose and swelled. _Columbine_ began to list and
trailed a white line astern. The mole faded and the light looked farther
off.
"Mainsail next," said Wyndham. "Hoist handsomely."
The winch by the mast began to clink; the big sail shook and thudded
while its slack folds blew out, and the Kroos started a wild paddling
song. The tension was over; they were running out to sea and nobody
could hear them now. The song, however, soon got breathless; it was hard
to drag up the heavy canvas while she was before the wind and Wyndham
would not round her to. He braced himself against the wheel and steered
off-shore for the three-mile limit.
They set the sail, and got more wind as they left the land. She rolled
and foam ran level with her dipping rail. The long main boom lurched up
and groaned; one heard the masts creak and the rigging hum. Her wake ran
back into the dark like a white cataract.
"Hoist gaff-topsail," said Wyndham. "Trim the squaresail-yard."
Marston gave him a quick glance and then got to work. He doubted if the
gear would stand the strain, but Harry knew the boat. Although the
Krooboys looked surprised, it was obvious that they trusted him. It cost
them a struggle to cover her with sail, and she drove along almost too
fast to roll. A white wave stood up above her waist, another curled
astern, and the hollow squaresail swelled like a balloon. Although the
sea was smooth, water foamed on board and spray swept the deck in savage
showers. The men crouched behind the bulwarks and when Marston went aft
he got an exhilarating sense of speed.
"Do you want help?" he asked. "Can you hold her?"
"I think I can," said Wyndham, with an exultant note in his voice. "We
have sailed some hard races, Bob, but none for a stake like this. If the
masts will stand, she must go to-night!"
Marston nodded. "Looks as if we ought to win! I imagine the tug is not
in harbor and Don Ramon is comfortably persuaded we're asleep at the
mission. When he finds we're not, we'll be a long way off. I don't
suppose they can march the troops to the port and embark them before
it's dark." He paused and laughed when he resumed: "His promise to send
the port-captain orders to let us go if we told him when we wanted to
sail was clever. He knew, of course, we couldn't do so."
He sat down on a coil of rope and lighted his pipe. Now the long strain
was over, a reaction had begun. His head was heavy; he felt very tired
and limp. Showers of spray blew about and when he began to get wet he
thought he would go to the cabin and study the chart. It was plain that
they could not leave the schooner at the lagoon; besides a little mental
exercise might rouse him.
When he lighted the lamp he found he could not see the small figures on
the chart. His eyes and brain were dull, for two nights and a day of
effort and suspense had worn him out. The coast-line, however, was
clearly marked and indicated a number of bays and inlets. So far as
Marston could remember, they were bordered by mangrove swamps with dark
forest behind. Looking up at the compass, which was fixed in the
skylight and allowed the glow of the binnacle lamp to shine through, he
tried to calculate where Wyndham was steering. He could not fix the
course within two or three points and presently gave it up. Then his
head dropped forward, the chart fell on the floor, and sinking down on
the locker cushion, he fell asleep.