CONFIDENCES
Courtenay was mistaken in thinking that the savages sought a parley.
The canoe was paddled by two women; they changed its course with a
dexterous twist of the blades when within a cable’s length of the ship,
and then circled slowly round her. The four men jabbered in
astonishingly loud voices. Suarez, who gathered the purport of their
talk, explained that they were discussing the best method of attack.
“The three younger men belong to the tribe which I lived with,” he
said. “The old man sitting between the women is a stranger. I think he
must have come from the north of the island with some of his friends,
attracted by the smoke signals.”
“From the north? Is there a road?” asked Courtenay, when he learnt what
Suarez was saying.
“He would arrive in a canoe,” was the answer. “The Indians venture out
to sea in very bad weather. He probably passed the ship late last
night, and, now I come to think of it, the canoe which you captured is
not familiar to me, whereas I know by sight every craft owned by the
Feathered People.”
“How many do they possess?”
“Twenty-three.”
These statements were disconcerting. Not only was it possible for the
natives to surround the _Kansas_ with a whole swarm of men, but the
mere number of their boats would render it exceedingly difficult to
repel a combined assault. And nothing could be more truculent than the
demeanor of the semi-nude warriors. They pointed at each person they
saw on the decks, and made a tremendous row when they passed the canoe
fastened alongside. Despite their keen sight, they evidently did not
recognize Suarez, who now wore a cap and a suit of clothes taken from
the locker of one of the missing stewards, while his appearance was so
altered otherwise that even the people on board found it difficult to
regard him as the monstrous-looking wizard whom they had dragged out of
the water some twelve hours earlier.
The impudence of the Indians exasperated Courtenay. The sheer size of
the _Kansas_ should have awed them, he thought.
“I wish they had left their women behind,” he muttered. “If the men
were alone, an ounce or two of buck-shot would soon teach them to keep
their distance.”
“Perhaps they are aware of the danger of boarding a ship which stands
so high above the sea as the _Kansas_,” said Christobal. “Why not fire
a couple of rounds of blank cartridge at them?”
“Worst thing you can do,” said Tollemache.
“But why?”
“They would be sure, then, you could not hurt them. If you shoot, shoot
straight, with the heaviest shot you possess.”
At that moment the rowers permitted the canoe to swing round with the
tide. One of the men stood up, and Elsie, who seized the chance of
snap-shotting the party, ran to the upper deck, so she did not overhear
Courtenay’s smothered ejaculation. He was scrutinizing the savages
through his glasses, and he had distinctly seen the ship’s name painted
on a small water-cask on which the Indian had been sitting. Tollemache
made the same dramatic discovery.
“Out of one of the ship’s life-boats, I suppose?” he said in a low tone
to the captain.
“Yes. Did you see the number?”
“Number 3, I think.”
“I agree with you. That was the first life-boat which got away.”
Christobal, startled out of his wonted sang-froid, whispered in his
turn:
“Do you mean to say that one of the boats has fallen into the hands of
these fiends?”
“I am afraid so,” replied Courtenay. “Of course, that particular keg
may have drifted ashore. In any case, it tells the fate of one section
of the mutineers. Either the boat is swamped, or the crew are now on
the island, and we know what that signifies.”
“Is there no chance of bribing these people into friendliness, or, at
least, into a temporary truce?”
“It is hard to decide. Tollemache and Suarez are best able to form an
opinion. What do you say, Tollemache?”
“Not a bit of use; they are insatiable. The more you give the more they
want. The only way to deal with those rotters is to stir them up with a
Gatling or a twelve-pounder.”
Suarez, when appealed to, shook his head.
“Last winter,” he said, “the man sitting aft, he with the single
albatross feather sticking in his hair, seized his own son, aged six,
and dashed his brains out on the rocks because the little fellow
dropped a basket of sea-eggs he was carrying. The woman nearest to him
is his wife, and she raised no protest. You might as well try to fondle
a hungry puma. I am the only man they have ever spared, and they spared
me solely because they thought I gave them power over their enemies. If
you had a cannon, you might drive them off. As it is, we shall be
compelled to fight for our lives; they are brave enough in their own
way.”
The experience of the miner from Argentina was not to be gainsaid. The
predicament of the giant _Kansas_—inert, immovable, lying in that
peaceful bay at the mercy of a horde of painted savages—was one of the
strange facts almost beyond credence which men encounter at times in
the byways of life. It reminded Courtenay of a visit he paid to the
crocodile tank at Karachi when he was a midshipman on the _Boadicea_.
He noticed that some of the huge saurians, eighteen feet in length and
covered with scale armor off which a bullet would glance, were
squirming uneasily, and the Hindu attendant told him that they had been
bitten by mosquitoes!
He laughed quietly, but his mirth had a curious ring in it which boded
ill for certain unknown members of the Alaculof tribe when the
threatened tussle came to close quarters. Elsie heard him. Leaning over
the rails of the spar deck, she asked cheerfully:
“What is the joke, Captain Courtenay? And why don’t the Indians come
nearer? Are they timid? They don’t look it.”
He glanced up at her. If aught were needed to complete the contrast
between civilization and savagery it was given by the comparison which
the girl offered to the women in the canoe. The hot sun and the absence
of wind had changed the temperature from winter to summer. After
breakfast, Elsie had donned a muslin dress, and a broad-brimmed straw
hat. Exposure to the weather had bronzed her skin to a delightful tint.
Her nut-brown hair framed a sweetly pretty face, and her clear blue
eyes and red lips, slightly parted, smiled bewitchingly at the men
beneath. The camera in her hands added a holiday aspect to her
appearance, an aspect which was unutterably disquieting in its relation
to the muttered forebodings she had broken in on.
But Courtenay’s voice gave no hint of the tumult in his breast, though
some malign spirit seemed to whisper the agonizing question: “Will you
permit her to fall into the hands of the ghouls waiting without?”
“I find the get-up of our visitors distinctly humorous,” he said, “and
I hope they are a bit scared of us. We would prefer their room to their
company.”
“I thought that Señor Suarez would hail them, as he can speak their
language. Perhaps he does not wish them to know he is on board?”
Now, Elsie had heard the man’s impassioned appeal when the Indians were
first sighted, so Courtenay felt that she, too, was acting.
“You look nice and cool up there,” he answered, “and your words do not
belie your looks.”
“Please, what does that mean exactly?”
“Need I tell you? You treat our troubles airily.”
“Shall one ‘wear a rough garment to deceive’?” she quoted with a laugh.
“Don’t you remember the next verse? You ought to retort: ‘I am no
prophet, I am an husbandman!’ But that would not be quite right, for
you are a sailor.”
She blushed a little at the chance turn of the phrase. Neither the girl
nor her hearers recalled the succeeding verses, wherein the destruction
of Jerusalem is foretold: “And I will bring the third part through the
fire, and will refine them as silver is refined, and will try them as
gold is tried.”
Indeed, a new direction was given to Elsie’s thoughts by the somewhat
scowling aspect of Christobal’s face. He was looking at Courtenay in a
manner which betokened a certain displeasure. The Spaniard’s cultivated
cynicism was subjugated by a more powerful sentiment. It seemed to
Elsie that he envied Courtenay his youth and high spirits, for, in very
truth, the mere exchange of those harmless pleasantries had tuned the
younger man’s soul to the transcendental pitch of the knight errant. In
his heart he was vowing to rescue this fair lady from the dangers which
beset her, though he said jokingly with his lips:
“If a husbandman has to do with a tiller I may claim some expert
knowledge, Miss Maxwell.”
Elsie dared not meet his eyes; a flood of understanding had suddenly
poured its miraculous waters over her. Incidents unimportant in
themselves, utterances which seemed to have no veiled intent at the
time, rushed in upon her with overwhelming conviction. Christobal
suspected her of flirting with Courtenay, and disapproved of it as
strongly as she herself had condemned Isobel’s admitted efforts in the
same direction. Though not a little dismayed, she resolved to carry the
war into the enemy’s territory.
“Why are you looking so glum, Dr. Christobal?” she demanded. “Has the
captain’s quip given you a shock, or is it that you are surprised at my
levity?”
“I am neither shocked nor surprised, Miss Maxwell. I have not lived
fifty years in this Vale of Tears without being prepared for the
unexpected.”
“Does that imply that you are disillusioned?”
“By no means. My heart is amazingly young. ‘There is no fool like an
old fool,’ you know.”
“Oh, please don’t speak of age in that way. You are far from being an
antiquity. Why, within the past twenty-four hours I have come to look
on you as a sort of elder brother, who can be indulgent even while he
chides.”
Courtenay found himself wondering what had caused this flash of
rapiers. But, so far as he was concerned, the proceedings of the
Indians put a stop to any further share in the conversation. The canoe
had drifted closer to the ship. It was about eighty yards distant when
the Indian who was on his feet suddenly whirled a sling, and sent a
stone crashing through the window of the music-room. The heavy missile,
which, when picked up, was found to weigh nearly half a pound, just
missed Tollemache, who was the first to take note of the sharp warning
given by Suarez, but failed, nevertheless, to dodge quickly enough.
The captain raised a double-barreled fowling-piece, the only gun on
board, and fired point blank at the savages. But the women were
paddling away vigorously, and the shot splashed in the water on all
sides of the canoe, though a howl and a series of violent contortions
showed that one, at least, of the pellets had stung the wizened Indian
whom Suarez believed to be a newcomer.
There was no second shot—cartridges were too precious to be wasted at
an impossible range—but the undeniable fact remained that the Indians
meant to be aggressive. For a little time no one spoke. They heard the
echoes of the gunshot faintly thrown back by the nearest wall of rock;
the regular plash of the paddles as the canoe sped shorewards was
distinctly audible. They watched the tiny craft until it vanished round
the wooded point which concealed Otter Creek. Then, to add to the sense
of loneliness and peace conveyed by the placid bay and the green slopes
beyond, a big whale rolled into view in the middle distance, and blew a
column of water high in air.
The muffled clang of a hammer broke the silence which had fallen on the
watchers from the ship. Walker had slipped back to his beloved engines.
Had he not vowed that the massive pistons should again thrust forth
their willing arms on or about New Year’s day? He had forgotten the
cannibals and their threats ere he was at the foot of the engine-room
ladder. Courtenay and Tollemache joined him; Christobal went to the
saloon to visit his patients; Elsie was left with Mr. Boyle, who
forthwith fell into a doze, being worn out by the fresh air and the
excitement.
Joey, having followed Courtenay to the one doorway in the ship which he
could not enter, trotted back to find Elsie. She greeted him with
enthusiasm.
“Hail, friend,” she said. “You, at least, are not jealous if I speak to
your master, wherein you show your exceeding wisdom. Now, since you and
I are persons of leisure, tell me, Joey, what we shall do to make
ourselves useful?”
The dog was accustomed to being spoken to. He awaited developments.
“It seems to me, Joey,” she continued, “that Gulielmo Frascuelo is the
one person on board who claims our attention. There is a mystery to be
solved. Bound up in it are my poor Isobel, that beast, Ventana, and a
drunken coal-trimmer. An odd assortment to rub shoulders, don’t you
think?”
Joey still reserved his opinion. When the girl went to the forecastle
by climbing down the sailors’ ladder to the lower deck, he thought she
was making a mistake; but she held her arms for his spring, and all was
well. She had not previously visited the quarters set apart for the
crew. Puzzled by the large number of small cabins with names of
subordinate officers painted on them, she paused and cried loudly:
“Are you there, Frascuelo? May I speak to you?”
An exclamation of surprise, a somewhat forcible exclamation, too,
answered her from an inner berth. Frascuelo had heard from the Chilean
who brought his meals that there was an Englishwoman on board, but he
did not know that she spoke Spanish fluently. He answered her question
politely enough in the next breath, and the dog indicated the right
door by hopping inside.
Frascuelo was reclining on a lower bunk. His injured leg was well on
the way towards recovery, but the wound and its resultant confinement
had chastened him; he had lost the brigandish swagger which was his
most cherished asset.
After acknowledging inquiries as to his progress, he showed such
eagerness for news that Elsie told him briefly what had caused the
latest uproar. She cheered him, too, with the announcement made by the
engineer, and then led him to the topic on which she sought
information.
“In some ways, I regard you as most unfortunate,” she said. “I have
been told you are here by accident—that you never meant to take the
voyage at all. Is that true?”
Frascuelo, delighted to have secured a sympathetic listener, poured
forth his sorrows volubly. He bore no ill-will against the captain he
said. He knew it was wrong to draw a knife on the chief officer, as his
tale was an unlikely one, and he ought to have trusted to a more
orderly recital of the facts to obtain credence.
“But I was that mad, señorita, I just saw red, and the drink was yet
surging up in me. I felt I must fight somebody, whatever the
consequences.”
“Can you tell me why any one had such a grievance against you that you
should be thrown into the hold and nearly killed? That was a strange
thing to do, especially as you came aboard too late for your work.”
“Ah, that is the point, señorita. You see, we trimmers work in gangs,
and the man who flung me through the hatch was the man who had taken my
place. I see no reason to doubt that it was he who made me drunk the
previous evening, and I know who did that.”
“What was his name?”
“José Anacleto—‘José the Wine-bag’ we call him on the Plaza. I ought to
have smelt mischief when José paid. Never before had I seen him do such
a thing. And a good liquor, too. Dios, it must have cost him dollars.”
“What object had he in coming on board instead of you?”
“Ah, there you beat me, señorita. I have twisted my poor brain with
thinking of that. We only earned a dollar a head, and bunkering a ship
from a flat is hard work while it lasts, whereas one would expect José
to ride twenty miles the other way to escape such a task. But he was in
the plot, and he shall tell me why, or—”
By force of habit, Frascuelo put his right hand to his belt, but his
sheath knife had been taken from him. He smiled sheepishly; yet his
black eyes twinkled.
“Plot! Why do you speak of a plot?” asked the girl, hoping that the
word betokened some more promising clue than she could discern thus
far.
“Why did the furnaces blow up? Tell me that, and I can answer you.
Good, honest coal isn’t made of gunpowder. José, or some one behind
him, meant to sink the ship, and, as I might have proved awkward, they
were willing that I should go down with her. Maybe I shall meet José if
we get out of this rat-trap; then we shall have a little talk.”
Again his hand wandered towards his waist, but he bethought himself,
and bent in pretense that the bandage on his leg needed readjusting.
Despite the man’s shrewd guess as to the cause of the accident in the
stoke-hold, Elsie was at a loss to connect the freak of some Valparaiso
loafer with the deep-laid scheme which contemplated the destruction of
the _Kansas_. She had followed the discussion in the chart-room with
full appreciation of its significance. Valuable as the ship and cargo
were, there was far more at stake in the effect of the loss on the
copper markets of the world. The most important copper-exporting firm
in Chile would practically be ruined, while the Paris “ring,” of which
she had read in the newspapers, would have matters its own way.
Financial interests of such magnitude would hardly be bound up with the
carousals and quarrels of Frascuelo and José the Wine-bag. Yet—
“Have you ever heard of a Señor Pedro Ventana?” she asked suddenly.
“Has he to do with mines?” inquired the Chilean, tentatively.
“Yes.”
“I know him by sight, señorita.”
“Would he be acquainted with this man, Anacleto, do you think?”
“Can’t say. José would know anybody whom he could touch for a few
pesetas.”
She left him, promising to visit him daily in the future. As she walked
back towards the bridge companion, she met Dr. Christobal. His fit of
ill-humor had gone: he was all smiles; but Elsie, having extracted such
information as Frascuelo possessed, was bent on adding to her store of
knowledge. Incidentally, she meant to widen the doctor’s views.
“Why have you taken to lecturing me?” she asked, with a simple
directness which Christobal was not slow to profit by.
“Because, though old enough to be your father, or your elder brother,
as you were kind enough to put it, I have not yet reached years of
discretion.”
If candor were needed, he would be candid. Sophistry was worse than
useless with a woman of Elsie’s type. The only way to win her was to be
transparently honest. To Christobal, after an experience of a
generation of Chileans, this came as a refreshing novelty.
“You mean, I suppose, that if every one attended to their own affairs
it would be a less spiteful world? I am inclined to agree with you.
Unhappily, life is largely made up of these minor evils. Yet I should
have thought that the desperate conditions under which we exist at this
hour might protect me from uncharitableness.”
“You are pleased to be severe.”
“No; it is the last privilege of danger that shams should vanish. Yet
we plumb the depths of absurdity when we contest the right of any
woman, even a young and unmarried one, to appreciate all that a brave
man has done and is doing to save her life.”
Here was candor undiluted. Elsie was speaking without heat. She might
have been reasoning some disputed point in ethics. The Spaniard was
obviously thrown off his guard.
“You seem to demand an explanation,” he said with some warmth. “Well,
you shall have it. I am not a man to flinch from the disagreeable. I
admit a sort of impression, I might almost describe it as a conviction,
that Captain Courtenay’s manner towards you betokens a growing
admiration.”
“This is the wildest folly,” cried Elsie in bewilderment. “I—I cannot
imagine what put such a notion into your head.”
“Let me at least lay claim to a species of altruism,” he replied. “I
can see fifty excellent reasons why our young and good-looking
commander should be drawn to you, nor can I urge one against it.”
“But he is already engaged to another woman, so my one reason is worth
more than all your fifty.”
“Ah, can that really be so?”
The tense eagerness in his voice might have warned her, were it not
that she was shocked by the bitterness which welled up in her heart.
She was amazed by this introspective glimpse; it alarmed her; she must
convince herself, at all costs, that she had spoken truly.
Although the evidence she tendered was of dubious value, she strove to
advance her argument further.
“I have prized our friendship greatly, Dr. Christobal,” she said,
speaking with a calm deliberateness that rang hollow in her own ears,
“so greatly that I am compelled to utter this protest. Now, to end a
distasteful controversy, let me tell you what I know to be true. When
the ship was stranded, and we all thought our only chance of safety was
to take to the boats, by a fluke, the accident of the moment, I was
left alone in the captain’s cabin. The sea was breaking in through the
doorway, and it brought an odd relief to my over-burthened mind when I
endeavored to rescue the contents of a locker which, for some reason,
had been scattered on the floor previously. Among them I found some
letters. I think you will believe me when I say that I would not
consciously read another person’s private correspondence. Just then, I
was hardly responsible for my actions, and I did happen to see and
grasp the meaning of a passage in a letter from Captain Courtenay’s
sister which alluded to his affianced wife. It is not such a tragic
admission, is it? I would scarce have given it another thought were it
not for your manner this morning and your words last night. I paid no
heed at the time to the innuendo that I had come on deck to find him—to
waylay him, as I have heard men say when speaking of a type of woman I
despise. So I resolved to straighten out a stupid little tangle. It
would be ridiculous, in our present state of suspended animation, to
let such a slight thing mar our friendship.”
Elsie, was indulging in that most delusive thing, self-persuasion. It
was not surprising, therefore, that she failed to note the unmixed
satisfaction with which Christobal listened.
“Am I forgiven, then?” he asked, with a new tenderness in his voice.
“Oh, yes, let us laugh at it.”
“But—”
“Please let us talk of something more useful. I have a little plan, and
you might ask the captain if he approves of it. We have plenty of
strong canvas; what do you say if I set to work and cover in the
promenade deck, fore and aft as well as on both sides? Then, if the
Indians try to seize the ship, they would not be able to gain a
lodgment at so many points simultaneously. It would simplify the
defense, so to speak.”
“Admirable! I am sure Courtenay will agree. Indeed, I am ashamed that
we superior males failed to hit on the idea earlier. Before I go, let
me be certain that my forgiveness is complete?”
“Shall we quarrel about a degree of blessedness? I assure you I like
you more than ever. When all is said and done, you thought I was
flinging myself at our excellent captain’s head, so you tried to spare
me the pangs of unrequited love.” The words hurt, but she did not
flinch. Christobal, anxious to deceive himself, was radiant.
“Your charity goes too far,” he cried. “That was not the exact reason.
No, my dear Miss Maxwell, I begin to exercise a new-born discretion. I
shall not elucidate that cryptic remark until after New Year’s Day. But
I don’t mind telling you why I have hit on a definite date. If all goes
well with us—and we have had so many escapes that Providence may well
send us a few more—the _Kansas_ should steam out of our little bay of
Good Hope about that period. Then I shall remind you of our discussion,
and keep my promise.”
With that he left her. After a gasp or two of surprise, for Elsie could
read only one meaning into his words, she hurried up the bridge
companion to arouse Mr. Boyle and ask what he would like for luncheon.
“Thank goodness, Joey,” she murmured to the dog, whom she picked up in
her arms, “thank goodness, Mr. Boyle is neither an engaged man nor a
widower. I do believe our excellent doctor is more concerned on his own
account than on mine. And he said that your master’s manner ‘betokened
a growing admiration.’ I wish—no, Joey, I mean nothing of the sort, and
if you dare to hint at such a thing I shall be very angry with
you—very—angry—indeed.”
“Huh,” muttered Boyle, wide awake and watching her through the open
door, “some one has been worryin’ that girl. It’s a sure sign of
trouble when a woman whispers in the ear of a dog or cat. Now, who can
it be? That doctor chap? He cocked his eye at her this mornin’ when she
spoke about Ventana. He’s a pretty tough old bird to think about
settin’ up house with a nice young jenny wren. Damn his eyes! he may be
as rich as a Jew, but if she doesn’t want him, an’ is too skeered to
say so, I’ll tell him, in the right sort of Spanish, an’ all. Now, had
it been the skipper—”
Boyle hardly knew what to think—“had it been the skipper.”