THE BAT'S EXIT
_Columbine_ rolled heavily on the broken swell and the lamp that swung
from a beam threw a puzzling light about the cabin. Now and then water
splashed on the deck and the slack sails flapped. The fresh breeze had
dropped, although the sea had not yet gone down, and Marston had set the
topsail and the balloon jib. The light canvas would chafe and was not of
much use, but he must reach Kingston as soon as possible. He was
exhausted by physical effort and anxious watching, and when Rupert
replaced the bandage on his comrade's face he leaned back slackly on the
locker seat.
Wyndham lay in an upper berth, in the faint draught that came down
through the open skylight. A wet cloth covered his face and the cabin
smelt of drugs. He did not move and had not been altogether conscious
for some time. Rupert wore Harry's white clothes and looked, in the
unsteady light, like a rather haggard and jaundiced Englishman. Marston
had noted his firm touch when he fixed the bandage and now he was
methodically putting back some bottles in the medicine chest. When he
finished he bent over the berth for a moment, as if he listened to
Wyndham's breathing.
"I think he will live," he said. "Although he is very weak, we have got
the fever down, and the wound is not as septic as it was. Anyhow, you
must get him into hospital at Kingston soon."
Marston remembered afterwards that Rupert had said _you_, not we, and
thought it significant. Now, however, he was dully pondering something
else.
"If you had not been on board, Harry would not have lived," he said.
"You're puzzled about my saving him?" Rupert rejoined. "Well, I don't
owe Harry much and I owe you less. On the whole, I hardly think our
relationship accounts for my efforts. A bold experiment is interesting
when somebody else is the subject, and one rather enjoys using one's
skill."
Since there were only one or two very simple surgical instruments in the
medicine chest, Marston thought Rupert's skill was remarkable. He had
envied him his firm hand and nerve when he cut out the bullet that had
pierced Harry's cheek and jaw and lodged in his neck. As he remembered
the operation, in which he had been forced to help, Marston shuddered.
After a few moments Rupert looked up.
"You need fresh air. Go and see how she steers. Harry will sleep, but if
it's necessary I will watch."
Marston went on deck. It was a little cooler and the touch of the dew on
his face was soothing. He put on an oilskin and sat down by the wheel.
The night was clear and the tops of the broken swell shone with
phosphorescence. _Columbine_ rolled about, shaking her masts and booms
with savage jerks. Blocks rattled and now and then the canvas banged.
Yet she forged ahead and kept her course.
By-and-by Marston lighted his pipe and tried to fix the elusive pictures
of their journey to the coast. To begin with, the night they left the
hut Wyndham owned he had a dose of fever. In the morning he was worse,
but time was valuable and they pushed on. Then, at evening when they
came down from the hills to cut the soldiers' line of march, they saw
two or three _peons_ run out from a ruined village and plunge into the
bush. Another, who was slower and was caught, stated that they had been
left behind to wait until some more troops came up. The village was
empty, but the _peon_ took the party to a hut he had been ordered to
watch. It was getting dark and when they went in Marston struck a match.
Next moment he let it drop, for a white man lay on the floor and
something strange about his attitude indicated that he was dead. Then
Rupert picked up the burning match and lighted a lantern.
Marston shuddered as his memory recaptured the scene the dim
illumination touched. The dead man had drawn up his legs and his face
was distorted, but Marston did not want to remember this. It was Peters'
face, and he knew the fellow had not met a peaceful death. Father
Sebastian knelt down by the body; Rupert stooped and smiled.
"You cannot help him and I do not think you will find a mark. I doubt if
he belonged to any flock, but it was not to yours. Anyhow, he is dead,
and you need not bother about how he died."
"Yet you know," said Father Sebastian, fixing him with steady eyes.
Rupert nodded. "He meant to sell me, and it is possible he got his
reward, although he did not enjoy it long. One could philosophize about
it, but I leave this to you. Well, I think we will not wait until his
friends arrive."
"I will wait," said Father Sebastian, firmly. "It is a duty to bury the
dead."
Rupert shrugged and looked at Marston. Wyndham, shivering with ague, had
sat down and rested his head in his hands, as if he did not know what
was going on.
"Watching the _padre_ did not run off has cost us some time," Rupert
remarked. "However, it would be awkward if he sent the next detachment
of _cazadores_ after us. I expect he knows how I would meet the
difficulty."
"We will leave you and not bother you for a promise," Marston said to
Father Sebastian, who gave him his hand.
"There is much that puzzles me and I do not know why you help this bad
man to escape, but I feel you are honest," he said. "Sometimes one must
trust without understanding." He lifted his hand solemnly. "_Vaya con
Dios!_"
Then they went out and left him in the dark with Peters.
Marston did not know if Father Sebastian sent the soldiers after them,
but although he thought he did he bore him no grudge. The man was
staunch, and from his point of view, was justified. In the morning,
Rupert declared they must push on faster, and their march became a race
for the coast. Now Marston could think about it coolly, he imagined
Rupert feared some of the negroes had joined Larrinaga and were
signalling news of the party's flight. Wyndham stumbled as they forced
their way savagely in scorching heat across reedy swamps and through
tangled bush, but he would not be carried and this would have delayed
them dangerously. Marston recaptured with strange vividness the last
scene.
It was dark when they broke out of the forest and saw the sea sparkle
under a half-moon. The land-breeze blew fresh, and now and then belts of
warm mist trailed across the beach. There were no mangroves, the beach
was flat and open, but they were some distance off the spot where the
schooner lay and they labored across the soft sand. Marston owned that
the suspense had shaken his nerve. He was desperately anxious to get on
board before he was stopped, but Wyndham could hardly walk. For
half-an-hour Marston dragged him along.
When they were nearly level with the schooner, indistinct figures ran
out from the bush. Wyndham turned, and shaking off Marston, drew his
pistol. He fired two or three shots, but since the distance was long
Marston thought he rather expected to warn the crew than stop their
pursuers. The latter did not stop and Marston dragged Wyndham on again.
A boat was coming, but he doubted if they could reach it before the
others arrived. The sand was soft, he was exhausted, and Wyndham lurched
about. Sometimes he nearly pulled Marston down.
Shots were fired behind them and bullets hummed overhead. The negroes
were running hard close in front, and the boat plunged into the belt of
surf. Then Wyndham fell and pulled Marston over. When he fell Marston
got some sand in his eyes and could hardly see. Somebody seized his arm
and dragged him to his feet; men were splashing in the foam about the
boat. He stuck to Harry but did not know how they got on board. Then he
felt the boat plunge and saw the half-naked Kroos were pulling for
their lives. Wyndham leaned against him and Marston felt his jacket
getting wet; he afterwards found that it was wet by blood. He put Harry
down in the stern-sheets and seized the nearest Krooboy's oar, thrusting
while the other pulled.
When they got on board the schooner the sails were going up and nobody
else was hit. Marston and Rupert carried Wyndham to the cabin and
Marston remembered his horror when they put him in his berth. A glancing
bullet, turning over endways, had mangled the lower part of his face.
This, however, was some days since and Marston was getting over the
shock. Rupert had told him Harry would live, although he would always
wear the scar.
By-and-by Marston got up and walked about the deck. He dared not think
about Flora yet; he must navigate _Columbine_ to Kingston and get
Wyndham into hospital. There was a little more wind now and the damp
sails did not shake, but the rolling and lurching stopped the schooner.
Although it was important to make Kingston soon, one could do nothing to
help their progress and Marston presently returned to the wheel. He
waited for a time, because he did not want to talk to Rupert. His
shrinking from the fellow had not lessened, but he was very tired and
limp, and at length he went down and got into his bunk.
In the morning the breeze was fresh and _Columbine_ threw the spray
about as she plunged across the white combers. At noon, Marston got his
sextant to take the sun and sat for some minutes on the skylight
calculating the schooner's position. Then he looked up and saw Rupert.
"I think the wind will hold," said the latter. "When do you expect to
arrive?"
Marston told him and added: "You are not on the crew list and since
Kingston's a British port we will have to comply with the usual
formalities. We must think of a way of accounting for your being on
board." He paused and added with a touch of embarrassment: "It may be
some time before the doctors let me take Harry home and I don't
know----"
"You don't know what to do about me?" Rupert suggested with the smile
Marston disliked. "Well, suppose you wait until you get there. I imagine
I won't bother you much. In the meantime, you haven't hauled your
patent-log. Let's see what distance it marks."
_Columbine_'s log was old-fashioned. In order to read the dial it was
necessary to bring the torpedo-shaped instrument on board, and Rupert,
jumping on a grating, put his foot on the low taffrail as he began to
haul the line. The line was long, the log, with its spiral vanes,
offered some resistance, and Marston, knowing it would be a minute or
two before Rupert lifted it out of the water, studied the compass.
Looking round, he saw the other's bent figure outlined against the
foaming wake; and then he glanced ahead. The wind was fresh and
_Columbine_ sailed fast. White combers rolled up to windward and as she
plunged across their tops she threw up clouds of spray.
In about a minute, Marston looked aft again and braced himself as he
gazed at the slanted rail. He had heard no splash or cry, but Rupert had
gone. He shouted, and signed to the Kroo steersman, who pulled round the
wheel. _Columbine_ shipped some water as, with sails flapping and
banging, she came head to wind. The long booms jerked, blocks and ropes
whipped to and fro, and the crew began to run about the deck. One or two
hauled down the foresail, one or two trimmed the jibs aback, and Marston
helped the others at the Burton tackle to hoist out the gig.
He jumped on board as she took the water. Four excited negroes leaped
down from the schooner's bulwarks, and a white sea washed across the
bows as they shoved her off. They got away without damage, and pulled
obliquely to leeward while Marston tried to calculate how far
_Columbine_ had gone since he last saw Rupert. It was necessary to be
accurate, because, except when the combers picked up the boat, he could
see nothing but the white tops of the waves. Besides, rowing on an angry
sea is hard and the men would soon get exhausted. Since they could not
search long, he must reach the proper spot.
No floating object tossed among the foam, and after half an hour he gave
it up. Rupert Wyndham had gone; he was old, and a good swimmer could not
have lived long in such a sea, because a man, buffeted by breaking
waves, may drown before he sinks. The boat had shipped much water, the
crew were worn out, and had some trouble to row back to _Columbine_.
When they had hoisted in the gig and put the schooner on her course,
Marston went to the cabin and mixed a drink. He was wet, his hands
shook, and his arms ached, for he had been forced to use his strength
while he labored with the big sculling oar.
Moreover, he was strangely disturbed. He had shrunk from Rupert Wyndham
with half-instinctive repulsion. In one sense, Rupert's drowning would
relieve him and Wyndham from an awkward responsibility. Marston
admitted that he had recognized this, although he hoped he had not
allowed it to influence him. Indeed, because he did not like Rupert, he
had made sterner efforts to reach the spot where he had gone overboard;
but he wondered whether he had perhaps afterwards neglected means he
might have used had the man been his friend. On the whole, he did not
think so, and his tormenting doubts began to vanish. For all that, he
was glad Wyndham was asleep.
When, some hours later, Marston went back to the cabin Wyndham's eyes
were open. The lower part of his face was covered by the bandage and he
could not talk, but Marston thought he missed Rupert and was curious.
Although Harry was very weak, Marston felt he had better tell him now.
If he did not, his unsatisfied curiosity might keep him restless and
bring the fever back.
"I know what you want to ask," he said quietly. "Rupert's not here. He
fell overboard when he was hauling up the log."
Wyndham's eyelids flickered and his hand moved under the blanket, but
this was the only sign he gave.
"She was rolling," Marston went on. "He stood with his foot on the
taffrail, leaning out to gather in the line. You see, there was nothing
to save him if he lost his balance----"
He stopped, for he saw Wyndham was looking at him very hard. Then he
resumed: "I think he did lose his balance, but I don't know. I was
looking forward, wondering whether we ought to haul down a reef, and
none of the boys saw him fall. There was not a splash."
A feeble movement of Wyndham's head urged him to go on.
"We got the gig over soon, but the boat had been going fast and
head-reached some distance when we brought her round. Then there was a
confused sea."
Marston saw Wyndham understood; he need not labor his explanation, but
he wished Harry could talk. There was an assurance he wanted his comrade
to give; Harry knew how he had felt about Rupert.
"I think I did my best," he said awkwardly. "She nearly capsized once or
twice; the sea was hollow and curled before you expected. The water on
board was getting deep, and we couldn't bale."
A very faint smile flickered in Wyndham's eyes and Marston was conscious
of keen relief. Harry had understood his embarrassment and was
satisfied. To hint at regret would be useless cant; there was nothing
more to be said. For all that, Marston was glad when a Krooboy called
him on deck. It was blowing fresher and he gave some orders and occupied
himself by shortening sail.