A MAN’S METHOD—AND A WOMAN’S
Isobel’s drooping was of brief endurance. Elsie and Mrs. Somerville
supported her to the stateroom, and there Elsie sat with her a little
while, soothing her as one might comfort a child in pain. Once it
seemed that the stricken girl was on the point of confiding in her
friend, but the imminent words died away in a passion of tears. Elsie
besought her to rest, and strove to calm her with predictions of the
joyous days they would pass together when the stress and terror of
their present life should be a tale that is told.
Isobel, stupefied by some haunting knowledge which appeared to have a
vague connection with the misfortunes of the _Kansas_, yielded to
Elsie’s gentle compulsion, and endeavored to close her eyes. All was
quiet in the cabin, save for the sufferer’s labored breathing, and an
occasional sob, while her wondering nurse smoothed her luxuriant hair,
and whispered those meaningless little phrases which have such magic
influence on the distracted nerves of woman-kind. There was hardly a
sound on the ship, beyond an unexplained creaking of pulleys, which
soon ceased.
Mrs. Somerville had gone, in response to Elsie’s mute appeal. Somehow,
from a piecing together of hints and half phrases, the girl feared a
painful disclosure as the outcome of Isobel’s hysteria. She was glad it
had been averted. If there were hidden scandals in her friend’s life in
Chile, she prayed they might remain at rest. She had not forgotten
Christobal’s guarded words. He probably knew far more than he chose to
tell of the “summer hotel attachment” between Isobel and Ventana at
which he had hinted. But, even crediting that passing folly with a
serious aspect, why should the daughter of the richest merchant in
Valparaiso fall prostrate at the mere mention of the name of a
disreputable loafer like José the Winebag? To state the fact was to
refute it. Elsie dismissed the idea as preposterous. It was clear
enough that Isobel’s break-down arose from some other cause; perhaps
the relaxed tension of existence on board the _Kansas_, after the
hardships borne on the island, supplied a simple explanation.
Through the open port she heard a man walk rapidly along the deck, and
halt outside the door. She half rose from her knees to answer the
expected knock, thinking that Mrs. Somerville had sent a steward to
ascertain if Miss Baring needed anything. But the newcomer evidently
changed his mind, and turned back. Then came Courtenay’s voice, low but
compelling:
“One moment, M’sieu’ de Poincilit. A word with you.”
The French Count! During the whirl of the previous night, and by reason
of the abiding joy of her morning’s reverie, she had failed to miss the
dapper Frenchman. Once, indeed, she had mentioned him to Isobel, who
offered a brief surmise that he might be ill, and keeping to his cabin.
Yet, here he was on deck, and possibly on the point of seeking an
interview with the lady to whom he had paid such close attention during
the early days of the voyage. Perhaps Mrs. Somerville had told him of
the fainting fit, and he was about to make a friendly inquiry when the
captain accosted him. But Elsie’s ears, tuned to fine precision where
her lover’s utterances were concerned, had caught the note of
contemptuous command, and she was even more surprised by the Count’s
flurried answer in French:
“Another time, M’sieu’. I pray you pardon me now. I find I am not
strong enough yet to venture on deck.”
“Oh yes, you are, M’sieu’. I want to give you the chance of your life.
Mr. Gray has told me of your behavior, and he charitably added that
your cowardice and treachery might have arisen from ungovernable fear.
Now, if you wish to atone for your conduct, here is an opportunity. I
am taking a boat ashore to try to save some of my men who are
imprisoned there. There is a fair risk in the venture. The outcome may
be death. Will you volunteer to take an oar? That would whitewash your
weather-marks.”
“It is impossible. I am too feeble. I cannot row.”
“Ah, you swine! Can it be possible that you are a Frenchman? What sort
of countship is it you boast of?”
“Sir, I am a passenger on this ship—”
Courtenay’s voice was raised a little.
“Mr. Boyle,” he said, “give orders that if this skunk shows his nose
inside the saloon again he is to be kicked out. He can eat his meals in
his stateroom, or in the forecabin with the other savages.”
Elsie heard every word. She fancied, too, that Isobel was listening,
though she gave no sign. But the unknown cause of the captain’s anger
was as naught compared with the statement that he was about to leave
the ship. That stabbed her with a nameless fear. “Love looks not with
the eyes, but with the mind;” she saw her idyl destroyed, her sweet
dreaming roused into cruel reality. Her understanding heart told her
that Courtenay meant to go without bidding her farewell. She had heard
the lowering of the boat without heeding; he was already climbing down
the ship’s side. Soon he would be far from her, perhaps never to
return. For he was not one to paint imaginary ills, and had he not told
de Poincilit what the outcome of the undertaking might be? Was it his
wish that she should remain in seeming ignorance of his mission until
it was too late for a parting word? Did he dread the ordeal of telling
her his errand? Even he, so strong and resolute, who had so often
smiled grim death out of countenance, feared the kiss which might wean
him from the narrow way. And she must prove herself worthy of him. She
must suffer in silence, trusting the All-powerful to bring him back to
her arms.
And then she found Isobel looking at her with frightened eyes.
“Did you hear?” came the tense whisper.
“Yes.”
“And you are content to let him go?”
“Ah, God! Yes, content.”
“But it is folly. He is the captain. He should not go. We have risked
enough already. Who are these men for whose sake he leaves you, and all
of us?”
“I know not, nor do I greatly care, may Heaven help me and them.”
“Then you should appeal to him to abandon this mad undertaking. It is
not fair to you. It is more than unfair to those who have entrusted
their lives to his keeping.”
Isobel would have risen in her excitement, had not Elsie leaped to her
feet.
“Oh, Isobel,” she cried, all a-quiver with disdain, “can you not for
once conquer the self that is destroying your very soul? Neither by
word nor act shall you interfere between Arthur Courtenay and his duty.
Would you have him cling ignobly to life like that poor dandy whom he
has sent to herd with savages? Be sure he has not forgotten those who
are beholden to him. We are his first care. Let it be mine to leave him
unhindered in the task he has undertaken!”
Isobel was cowed into silence. Elsie’s hero-worship had reached a
height beyond her comprehension. She would never understand how a woman
who loved a man could send him voluntarily to his death, and her
shallow mind did not contemplate the possibility of Courtenay’s
refusing to be swayed by any other consideration than that which his
conscience told him was right.
Thus, at arm’s length as it were, they waited until they caught the
sharp command “Give way there!” and the plash of oars told them that
the boat had really started on its journey shorewards. Then Isobel,
glancing furtively at her companion, saw the tears stealing down her
cheeks, and the situation came back from the transcendental to that
which was intelligible to her lower ideals.
“I am sorry,” she whispered, catching Elsie’s hand timidly. “I said
what I thought was for the best. At any rate, it is too late now.”
Too late! The other girl groped blindly for the door. She felt that she
would yield to the strain if she did not go on deck and catch a parting
glimpse of the man who had become dearer to her than life itself. As
she made her way forward, Joey ran to meet her. He was whining
anxiously. He seemed to be demanding that sympathy which she alone
could give him. In his half-human way, he was asking:
“Why has my master gone away in that boat? And why did he not take me
with him? When my master goes ashore he never leaves me on board; what
is the reason of to-day’s exception?”
On the poop she found Boyle, Christobal, Gray and Walker. A number of
Chileans were leaning over the rails of the main deck. All the men were
talking earnestly. It was ominous that they should cease their
conversation the instant she appeared. One man may conceal his fears,
but twenty cannot. Their studied unconcern, their covert glances under
lowered eye-lids, told her that they believed the occupants of the
life-boat were in gravest peril.
She brushed away the tears determinedly, and looked at the boat,
already a white speck on the green carpet of the bay. She could see
Courtenay distinctly; some magnetic impulse must have gone out from
her, because she had not been watching him longer than a couple of
seconds when he turned and waved his hand. She replied instantly,
fluttering a handkerchief, poor girl, long after it became impossible
for her to distinguish whether or not he returned her signals. In the
calm glory of the sunlit estuary, he might have been bent on a pleasant
picnic. It was outrageous to think of Good Hope Inlet as a place of
skulls; yet she knew that the sea floor beneath the ship was already
littered with bodies of the dead. Women would wait in vain for their
men to return; why should she be spared?
At last she appealed to Mr. Boyle, who was nearest to her.
“Who is sitting next to Captain Courtenay?” she asked, and she had a
fleeting impression that he was anxious for her to speak, so quickly
did he answer.
“Tollemache. He shinned down the ladder as the first volunteer; the
skipper ordered him to get out, but he said he was deaf. Anyhow, I’m
glad he is there. Courtenay ought to have one sure enough white man by
his side.”
“And what are they attempting?”
“Huh, it’s a bold plan, an’ I’m not goin’ to condemn it on that
account. Have you heard this morning’s news—how Suarez found out from
the Indians that eleven of our crew are hiding in a cave on Guanaco
Hill?”
“Something of it, not all. But why—why has Captain Courtenay gone off
in such a hurry?”
“Well, Miss Elsie, he figures that an open effort by daylight is the
only way to rescue them. They will have seen our signals, and they can
hardly fail to sight the boat. When he is close inshore they are sure
to make a dash for it, and he hopes to get them off before the Indians
wake up to the game he is playing. There are eight men in the boat,
and, with eleven others to help, there shouldn’t be much difficulty in
keepin’ the savages at a proper distance.”
“How soon—will he—reach the landing-place?”
“Huh, mebbe an hour; an’ another hour for the home trip. He’ll be
aboard for tea.”
Boyle uttered that concluding statement a trifle too airily. Elsie, for
the first time in her life, knew what it meant to want to scream aloud.
The dog was dancing about excitedly, and whining without cease. She
stooped and took him up in her arms.
“Please, Joey, be quiet,” she murmured, her voice breaking with a
stifled sob. She turned again to Mr. Boyle, who sedulously avoided her
eyes.
“Did Captain Courtenay leave any message for me?” she demanded.
“Huh! Message! Why, he will be away only a couple of hours.”
The chief officer’s tone was gruff, conveying the idea that women asked
silly questions, but his gruffness did not hoodwink Elsie. He had
prepared his replies beforehand.
“Surely you will tell me, Mr. Boyle?” she pleaded wistfully.
“Well, I happen to know there’s a letter in the doctor’s hands. But
that is to be given to you in case of accident alone. Isn’t that so,
doctor? And there’s no sign of any accident yet, thank goodness!”
Boyle sighed, like a man who lays down a heavy load. He had
successfully engineered Christobal into the conversation.
The Spaniard drew near. He had heard all that had passed, and tried a
new line.
“I was rather hoping that you would not put that awkward query,” he
said, more alive than the sailor to the wisdom of discussing the very
topic which offered so many thorns. “Of course, none of us, least of
all Courtenay himself, disguises the difficulties which confront him.
We have not fought the Alaculofs in two serious battles without
learning their tenacity of purpose, and the mere fact that the men
hidden in that cleft are compelled to remain invisible shows that they
are beleaguered. But the last thing the Indians will expect is the
appearance of a boat-load of armed men at this hour, and to take the
enemy unawares is the essence of good generalship.”
“When am I to have my letter?” she persisted, clinging tenaciously to
one clear thought amid the phantasms which thronged her dazed mind.
“Oh, come, now! That is not the hopeless view I want you to take. In
writing to you, Courtenay was only providing against a mishap. He would
not go to certain death. He has too high a sense of what is due to his
position as captain of a ship like the _Kansas_, loaded with a valuable
cargo and carrying so many lives. Nor does Tollemache impress me as a
would-be suicide. Both men think they will succeed, and they had not
any trouble in obtaining a boat’s crew of Chileans. So you see, there
is a general belief in success, not failure.”
She felt that the doctor was talking against time. He had instructions
not to give her that letter until there could be no doubt of the fate
which had befallen the rescuers. A mist came over her eyes, but she bit
her lower lip fiercely, and the white teeth left their deep impress.
The dog squirmed uneasily in her arms, and endeavored to lick her face.
Joey’s anxiety rivaled her own; had he, too, a premonition of evil?
Christobal was watching her intently. It was evident he feared the
outcome of any sudden overthrow of her self-control.
“I think,” he suggested, with a real sympathy in his voice, “that it
would be better if you went to the saloon, or your cabin. Believe me, I
shall come to you with every scrap of news. Boyle will see all that
happens and we shall know the best, or the worst, within an hour.”
“If you would help me,” she answered dully, “please take the dog away.
He is tearing my heart-strings. Poor little fellow, he makes no
pretence.”
So Joey was fastened up, much against his will, and his piteous
protests no longer added to the girl’s agony. She clung to the after
rail, and watched the boat, now a tiny dot hard to discern amidst the
ripples caused by the inflowing tide. Her intimate acquaintance with
the daily happenings of life aboard told her that Courtenay had chosen
the last hour of flood for his effort, thus gaining the advantage of
the ebb in the event of the life-boat’s being pursued by canoes on the
return journey. By degrees, a tender little sprig of hope peeped up in
her dulled consciousness. The boat was very near the distant rocks, and
there was neither sight nor sound of the Indians. Could it be that they
were afraid—altogether broken and demoralized by the slaughter of the
preceding night? How quickly the acts of this drama shifted their
scenes! Sixteen hours ago, she and Christobal were actually
participating in the defense of the ship’s last stronghold; now, the
broad decks resembled the inner spaces of some impregnable fort, while
the war was being carried into the enemy’s territory. Yet the mortal
peril which overshadowed them was threatening as ever. Life seemed to
be doled out grudgingly, by minutes.
Suddenly she had a breathless desire to know why Courtenay was so sure
that the men to whose help he had gone were really members of the crew.
Christobal, dreading her despairing questions, was standing in the
position he had occupied before Boyle dragged him into prominence. The
chief officer was bracing a telescope against the ensign staff, and
keeping the lifeboat in a full field. Gray, she noticed, was not
looking towards Guanaco Hill, but swept all parts of the coastline
constantly with his binoculars. The Spaniard’s field-glasses were slung
around his neck. He was not using them. He appeared to be deep in
thought. More often than not, his glance rested on the eddy created by
the swirl of the current past the ship’s quarter. With a species of
divination, she guessed somewhat the nature of his reverie. The notion
stung her into a sort of fury. To quell it, she must speak again.
“Will you tell me now what it was that Suarez found out?” she murmured.
The doctor quickly appreciated her need of material for further
thought. She wanted to appraise at their true value all things
affecting that daring enterprise, bringing the evidence to the bar of
her hopes, and nerving herself to hear the crudest testimony as to its
dangers. He was glad to be able to beguile the next half hour with his
recital. He suppressed no detail except his own willingness to take
Courtenay’s place in the boat. Notwithstanding his slight affectations,
he was a man of finely-tempered judgment. He saw now that Courtenay
could not have accepted his offer, nor was it likely that the men in
the boat would follow any other leader than the captain. He even
smarted a little at the knowledge. A super-sensitive honor led him to
fear that his successful rival might suspect him of vaingloriousness.
Herein Christobal did himself an injustice, and Courtenay a greater
one, as he was fated soon to learn.
When Elsie heard of the duplicity practised by Suarez it was good to
see the hot indignation which reddened her brow. She realized that the
man was unscrupulous enough to remain silent concerning the captured
sailors, whose unhappy fate had contributed, in no small degree, to the
chance which brought him to safety. She instantly fastened on to the
theory that the Indians paid their first nocturnal visit to the ship in
the belief that the vessel would prove as easy a prey as the castaways,
whereas Suarez must have fallen beneath their stones and rude hatchets
if he had attempted to board the _Kansas_ in broad daylight. With all a
woman’s single-mindedness, she regarded the Argentine miner as being
directly responsible for Courtenay’s hazard, nor would she listen to
Christobal’s mild protest that nothing could have been done earlier, no
matter how outspoken Suarez chose to be.
The Spaniard encouraged her to debate this point—anything was better
than the dumb pain of thought—but their talk ceased abruptly when a
muttered exclamation from Gray sent Walker flying to the charthouse.
Forthwith the trumpet shriek of the siren sent its wild boom across the
silent waters. Elsie needed no explanation of this tumult. Otter Creek
was not so far distant that canoes quitting its shelter could not be
seen with the naked eye. She counted sixteen putting forth in a
cluster, and they all made for the adventurous life-boat.
“That is exactly what our captain expected,” Christobal was ready to
assure her. “He was certain he would reach the head of the bay before
the Indians awoke to the meaning of his scheme. By this time, unless
his plan fails, the men on shore should have joined him, no matter what
number of savages may seek to oppose their passage to the boat. The
only doubtful question is— Will he be able to beat off the rascals who
are now cutting his line of retreat?”
“Huh!” growled Boyle, “the skipper’s out of sight now. Gone into a
small creek or something of the sort. Hope he heard the horn. Let her
rip!” he added in a loud shout over his shoulder, and again the siren
flung a warning to the foot of the mountain range.
It was evident that the wonderful eyesight of the Indians practically
equalled the range of the telescope. The men in the canoes were aware
of the lifeboat’s disappearance, and their wet paddles flashed in the
sun as they tore across the three miles of open water which separated
the southern promontory from the inner shore of the island. After a
phenomenal spell of fine weather in that storm-swept latitude, the
atmosphere was transparent and bright as that of Stornoway on a clear
day in December. The rays of the sun were reflected from many a blue
glacier and ice-covered slope. Even the green of the higher belt of
firs was dazzling in its emerald luster, and the copper-hued beeches
beneath shone in patches of burnished gold. Elsie was sick at heart
with the knowledge that red-eyed murder was stalking its prey under the
resplendent mantle spread by nature over a scene of rare beauty. In an
agony of apprehension she followed the progress of the canoes. Creeping
nearer Boyle, she whispered:
“For Heaven’s sake, say the life-boat is visible again!”
He held up a hand to enforce silence. A deep hush fell on the ship.
“Listen!” he muttered, so low that Elsie alone caught the words. “Can
you hear firing?”
She thought she could distinguish an irregular patter of dull reports,
and the behavior of the Indians showed that additional excitement was
toward. Many of them stood up and waved their arms, possibly as a
signal to their allies on shore. The canoes raced madly. Where speed
was vital the rough-hewn native craft were far swifter than the
solidly-built lifeboat, with its broad beam and deep draft.
And that was all. Though they strained their eyes and spoke with bated
breath, never a sight of boat or canoes was obtainable for hours after
the latter were swallowed up by the trees which shrouded the creek at
the foot of Guanaco Hill.
Isobel Baring, moved by genuine pity for her distraught friend, tried
to induce her to leave the deck. But she shrank away, terrified by the
fire which blazed from the blue eyes resting on her for an instant.
Mrs. Somerville came, but she, too, was repulsed. Elsie spoke no word.
She hardly moved. She clung to the rail, and gazed at the deepening
shadows with the frozen stare of abiding horror. All things around her
were unreal, fantastic; she dwelt in a world peopled by her own
terrible imaginings. The smiling landscape was alive with writhing
shapes. She fancied it a monstrous jungle full of serpents and
grotesquely human beasts. The inert mass of the _Kansas_, so modern, so
perfectly appointed in its contours and appurtenances, crushed her by
its immense helplessness. The dominant idea in her mind was one of
voiceless rage against the ship and its occupants. Why should her
lover, who had saved their lives—who had plucked the eight thousand
tons of steel fabric from the sharp-toothed rocks time and again—why
should he be lying dead, disfigured by savage spite, while those to
whom he had rendered such devoted service were coolly discussing his
fate and speculating on their own good fortune? That thought maddened
her. Her very brain seemed to burn with the unfairness of it all. When
Christobal made a serious effort to lead her away, she threatened him
with the fierceness of a mother defending her child from evil.
But relief was vouchsafed in the worst throes of her agony. It was some
poor consolation to let her sorrow-laden eyes rest on the far-off trees
which enshrouded him. What would befall her when night came, and the
ship drew back out of the living world into the narrow gloom of deck
and gangway, she could not know. She felt that her labored heart would
refuse to bear its pangs any longer. If death came, that would be
sweet. Her only hope lay in the life beyond the grave. . . . And what a
grave! For her, the restless tides. For him! Surely her mind would
yield to this increasing madness.
Boyle or Gray had never relaxed their vigil by her side. It was Gray
who made the thrilling discovery that the canoes were returning. As the
fleet crossed the bay it could be seen that they were towing the
life-boat. But never a sign of any prisoners could the most careful
scrutiny detect. The boat was empty; it was easy to count every man in
the canoes as they passed into Otter Creek. And there were wounded
Indians on board many of them. That was a significant, a tremendous,
fact. There had been hard fighting, and the boat was captured, but
some, if not all, of the crew must have joined their comrades in the
sanctuary of the haunted cave. The accuracy of this deduction was
proved by the presence of the smoke column on the hill. Indeed, the
opinion was generally held that its spiral clouds were denser than at
any previous hour, thus showing that the defenders were endeavoring to
make known their continued existence.
Elsie awoke from her trance, but, in returning to life, she was
transformed into a stern, resourceful, commanding woman. Her face had
lost its gentleness; the pleasant curves and dimples of mouth and chin
had hardened into a sort of determination; even her slight, graceful
figure seemed to assume a certain squareness which betokened her
resolve to act as her lover would have acted were he the watcher from
the ship and she the prisoner pent behind that screen of rock and wild
forest.
None suspected the mighty force which worked this resolution in her
nature. She conducted herself with a cunning that was wholly foreign to
her character. Her first care was to hoodwink her companions into the
belief that the strain of the day had passed. She accepted a cup of tea
brought by Isobel, expressed her sorrow that if by word or look she had
given cause for offence, and entered eagerly into the pros and cons of
the debate which sprang up as to the best course to pursue on the
following day.
Everyone agreed that nothing could be done that night. If the pillar of
smoke were visible at sunrise, and Walker could possibly manage to fire
the boilers, Boyle suggested that some sailors in the jolly-boat should
sound a channel along which the vessel itself might steam slowly
towards Guanaco Hill. That, in itself, would be a move of considerable
value. If they could lessen the distance between the shore and the
ship, each yard thus gained would help the prisoners and impose a
stronger barrier against the Alaculofs, who would probably be daunted
when they found that the vessel’s mobility was restored.
This proposal was deemed so excellent that they all dined in vastly
better spirits than any of them anticipated. Christobal, puzzled out of
his scientific senses by Elsie’s change of manner, kept a close eye on
her. He was amazed to see her eat a better meal than she had eaten for
days, and she was normally a quite healthy young person, with a
reasonably good appetite.
Boyle and Gray took the first watch, from eight o’clock to midnight.
Christobal and Walker shared the next one; by four o’clock it would be
daylight, so the doctor was retiring early to his cabin when he met
Elsie, by chance as it seemed. She was self-possessed, even smiling,
with a certain dour serenity.
“The day’s doings have tired me,” she said. “I am off to bed. Will you
rap on my door soon after dawn?”
“Yes,” he replied, secretly marveling at her air.
“I plead guilty to a slight feeling of nervousness,” she went on. “Is
your revolver loaded? Would you mind lending it to me? I think I could
sleep more soundly if I had a reliable weapon tucked under my pillow.”
A whiff of suspicion crossed Christobal’s mind, but he brushed it aside
as unworthy. At five o’clock that day he certainly would not have
granted her request. But now, since the new hope had sprung up that
Courtenay was alive, it was absurd to doubt her motives.
So it came to pass that Diego Suarez, lying asleep in his bunk, awoke
with a start to find a shrouded figure bending over him.
“Is that you, Señor Suarez?” asked a voice, which he recognized
instantly as belonging to the Señorita Maxwell.
“Yes,” said he, drowsily.
“Have you the witch-doctor’s clothes you wore when you came on board
the ship?”
“But yes, señorita.”
A hand, slight but strong, grasped him by the shoulder. He felt the rim
of a revolver barrel pressed against his forehead.
“Get up, then! Dress quickly in those clothes, and come out on deck. By
the side of your bunk you will find tins of black and white paint to
smear your face and hands. At the slightest refusal on your part to do
as I bid you—if you utter a cry or make any noise to attract
attention—I shall kill you without another word.”
The soft voice had a steely ring in it which persuaded the man from
Argentina that he had better obey. In less than five minutes he emerged
from the doorway. The corridor in which his cabin was situated led into
the saloon. Elsie awaited him. A lamp, dimly lighting the gangway,
revealed her face. Suarez thought he had to deal with a mad-woman. The
dog, standing by her side, sniffed at him gingerly, but a muttered “Be
quiet, Joey!” prevented any outburst, every fox-terrier being a born
conspirator.
“What do you wish me to do, señorita?” began Suarez, thinking to
placate her until he could obtain assistance.
“You must obey me in silence,” she whispered tensely. “You must not
even speak. One syllable aloud on deck will mean your death. Walk in
front of me, up the main companion, and go straight to the ship’s
side.”
“But, señorita!—”
The hammer of the revolver began to rise under the pressure of Elsie’s
finger on the trigger. The man’s hair rose even more rapidly. His nerve
was broken. He turned along the corridor in front of her, not knowing
the instant a bullet might crash into his head. The girl followed so
closely that she almost touched his heels. The dog would have trotted
in front, but she recalled him.
When Suarez reached the port rail of the promenade deck, Elsie
breathed:
“Climb, quickly, and go down into the canoe by the rope ladder you will
find there.”
“The canoe!” gasped he.
“Quick! One, two,—”
Up went Suarez over the rail. He found the top-most rungs of the
ladder. As he descended, the revolver followed his eyes. When his head
was level with the deck the order came:
“Take the dog and go down.”
“I cannot, señorita.”
“You must try. You are going down, dead or alive.”
He did try. Joey scuffled a little, but Suarez caught him by the neck,
and made shift to descend. Elsie was already on the swaying ladder when
Boyle’s voice rang out sharply from the spar-deck:
“Below there! Who is there?”
“I, Mr. Boyle,” she answered.
“You, Miss Elsie? Where are you?”
“Here; not so far away.”
She was descending all the time. She had cast loose the rope which
fastened the canoe alongside, and her difficulty was to hold the ladder
and at the same time, by clinging to the mast, to prevent the canoe
from slipping away with the tide. The revolver she gripped between her
teeth by the butt.
Boyle, puzzled by the sound of her voice, ran from the side of the
bridge down the stairs and across the deck. He was a second too late to
grasp the top of the mast as it drifted out of reach. He heard Elsie
utter a low-voiced command in Spanish, and the dip of a paddle told him
that the canoe was in motion.
“For the Lord’s sake, what are you doing?” he roared.
“I am going to save Captain Courtenay,” was the answer. “You cannot
stop me now. Please hoist plenty of lights. If I succeed, look out for
me before daybreak. If I fail, good-by!”