As Tankred had intimated, Blake’s journey southward from Panama was
anything but comfortable traveling. The vessel was verminous, the food
was bad, and the heat was oppressive. It was a heat that took the life
out of the saturated body, a thick and burdening heat that hung like a
heavy gray blanket on a gray sea which no rainfall seemed able to cool.
But Blake uttered no complaint. By day he smoked under a sodden awning,
rained on by funnel cinders. By night he stood at the rail. He stood
there, by the hour together, watching with wistful and haggard eyes the
Alpha of Argo and the slowly rising Southern Cross. Whatever his
thoughts, as he watched those lonely Southern skies, he kept them to
himself.
It was the night after they had swung about and were steaming up the Gulf
of Guayaquil under a clear sky that Tankred stepped down to Blake’s
sultry little cabin and wakened him from a sound sleep.
“It’s time you were gettin’ your clothes on,” he announced.
“Getting my clothes on?” queried Blake through the darkness.
“Yes, you can’t tell what we’ll bump into, any time now!”
The wakened sleeper heard the other man moving about in the velvety black
gloom.
“What’re you doing there?” was his sharp question as he heard the squeak
and slam of a shutter.
“Closin’ this dead-light, of course,” explained Tankred. A moment later
he switched on the electric globe at the bunk-head. “We’re gettin’ in
pretty close now and we’re goin’ with our lights doused!”
He stood for a moment, staring down at the sweat-dewed white body on the
bunk, heaving for breath in the closeness of the little cabin. His mind
was still touched into mystery by the spirit housed in that uncouth and
undulatory flesh. He was still piqued by the vast sense of purpose which
Blake carried somewhere deep within his seemingly tepid-willed carcass,
like the calcinated pearl at the center of an oyster.
“You’d better turn out!” he called back as he stepped into the engulfing
gloom of the gangway.
Blake rolled out of his berth and dressed without haste or excitement.
Already, overhead, he could hear the continuous tramping of feet, with
now and then a quiet-noted order from Tankred himself. He could hear
other noises along the ship’s side, as though a landing-ladder were being
bolted and lowered along the rusty plates.
When he went up on deck he found the boat in utter darkness. To that
slowly moving mass, for she was now drifting ahead under quarter-speed,
this obliteration of light imparted a sense of stealthiness. This note of
suspense, of watchfulness, of illicit adventure, was reflected in the
very tones of the motley deckhands who brushed past him in the humid
velvety blackness.
As he stood at the rail, staring ahead through this blackness, Blake
could see a light here and there along the horizon. These lights
increased in number as the boat steamed slowly on. Then, far away in the
roadstead ahead of them, he made out an entire cluster of lights, like
those of a liner at anchor. Then he heard the tinkle of a bell below
deck, and he realized that the engines had stopped.
In the lull of the quieted ship’s screw he could hear the wash of distant
surf, faint and phantasmal above the material little near-by boat-noises.
Then came a call, faint and muffled, like the complaining note of a
harbor gull. A moment later the slow creak of oars crept up to Blake’s
straining ears. Then out of the heart of the darkness that surrounded
him, not fifty feet away, he saw emerge one faint point of light, rising
and falling with a rhythm as sleepy as the slow creak of the oars. On
each side of it other small lights sprang up. They were close beside the
ship, by this time, a flotilla of lights, and each light, Blake finally
saw, came from a lantern that stood deep in the bottom of a boat, a
lantern that had been covered with a square of matting or sail-cloth,
until some prearranged signal from the drifting steamer elicited its
answering flicker of light. Then they swarmed about the oily water,
shifting and swaying on their course like a cluster of fireflies,
alternately dark and luminous in the dip and rise of the ground-swell.
Within each small aura of radiance the watcher at the rail could see a
dusky and quietly moving figure, the faded blue of a denim garment, the
brown of bare arms, or the sinews of a straining neck. Once he caught the
whites of a pair of eyes turned up towards the ship’s deck. He could also
see the running and wavering lines of fire as the oars puddled and backed
in the phosphorescent water under the gloomy steel hull. Then he heard a
low-toned argument in Spanish. A moment later the flotilla of small boats
had fastened to the ship’s side, like a litter of suckling pigs to a
sow’s breast. Every light went out again, every light except a faint glow
as a guide to the first boat at the foot of the landing-ladder. Along
this ladder Blake could hear barefooted figures padding and grunting as
cases and bales were cautiously carried down and passed from boat to
boat.
He swung nervously about as he felt a hand clutch his arm. He found
Tankred speaking quietly into his ear.
“There’ll be one boat over,” that worthy was explaining. “One boat—you
take that—the last one! And you’d better give the _guinney_ a ten-dollar
bill for his trouble!”
“All right! I’m ready!” was Blake’s low-toned reply as he started to move
forward with the other man.
“Not yet! Not yet!” was the other’s irritable warning, as Blake felt
himself pushed back. “You stay where you are! We’ve got a half-hour’s
hard work ahead of us yet!”
As Blake leaned over the rail again, watching and listening, he began to
realize that the work was indeed hard, that there was some excuse for
Tankred’s ill-temper. Most men, he acknowledged, would feel the strain,
where one misstep or one small mistake might undo the work of months.
Beyond that, however, Blake found little about which to concern himself.
Whether it was legal or illegal did not enter his mind. That a few
thousand tin-sworded soldiers should go armed or unarmed was to him a
matter of indifference. It was something not of his world. It did not
impinge on his own jealously guarded circle of activity, on his own task
of bringing a fugitive to justice. And as his eyes strained through the
gloom at the cluster of lights far ahead in the roadstead he told himself
that it was there that his true goal lay, for it was there that the
_Trunella_ must ride at anchor and Binhart must be.
Then he looked wonderingly back at the flotilla under the rail, for he
realized that every movement and murmur of life there had come to a
sudden stop. It was a cessation of all sound, a silence as ominously
complete as that of a summer woodland when a hawk soars overhead. Even
the small light deep in the bottom of the first _lancha_ tied to the
landing-ladder had been suddenly quenched.
Blake, staring apprehensively out into the gloom, caught the sound of a
soft and feverish throbbing. His disturbed mind had just registered the
conclusion that this sound must be the throbbing of a passing
marine-engine, when the thought was annihilated by a second and more
startling occurrence.
Out across the blackness in front of him suddenly flashed a white saber
of light. For one moment it circled and wavered restlessly about, feeling
like a great finger along the gray surface of the water. Then it smote
full on Blake and the deck where he stood, blinding him with its glare,
picking out every object and every listening figure as plainly as a
calcium picks out a scene on the stage.
Without conscious thought Blake dropped lower behind the ship’s rail. He
sank still lower, until he found himself down on his hands and knees
beside a rope coil. As he did so he heard the call of a challenging
Spanish voice, a murmur of voices, and then a repeated command.
There was no answer to this challenge. Then came another command and then
silence again. Then a faint thrill arrowed through Blake’s crouching
body, for from somewhere close behind him a gun-shot rang out and was
repeated again and again. Blake knew, at that sound, that Tankred or one
of his men was firing straight into the dial of the searchlight, that
Tankred himself intended to defy what must surely be an Ecuadorean
gunboat. The detective was oppressed by the thought that his own
jealously nursed plan might at any moment get a knock on the head.
At almost the same time the peevishly indignant Blake could hear the
tinkle of the engine-room bell below him and then the thrash of the screw
wings. The boat began to move forward, dangling the knocking and rocking
flotilla of _lanchas_ and surf-boats at her side, like a deer-mouse
making off with its young. Then came sharp cries of protest, in Spanish,
and more cries and curses in harbor-English, and a second engine-room
signal and a cessation of the screw thrashings. This was followed by a
shower of carbine-shots and the plaintive whine of bullets above the
upperworks, the crack and thud of lead against the side-plates. At the
same time Blake heard the scream of a denim-clad figure that suddenly
pitched from the landing-ladder into the sea. Then came an answering
volley, from somewhere close below Blake. He could not tell whether it
was from the boat-flotilla or from the port-holes above it. But he knew
that Tankred and his men were returning the gunboat’s fire.
Blake, by this time, was once more thinking lucidly. Some of the cases in
those surf-boats, he remembered, held giant-caps and dynamite, and he
knew what was likely to happen if a bullet struck them. He also
remembered that he was still exposed to the carbine fire from behind the
searchlight.
He stretched out, flat on the deck-boards, and wormed his way slowly and
ludicrously aft. He did not bring those uncouth vermiculations to a stop
until he was well back in the shelter of a rusty capstan, cut off from
the light by a lifeboat swinging on its davits. As he clambered to his
feet again he saw this light suddenly go out and then reappear. As it did
so he could make out a patrol-boat, gray and low-bodied, slinking forward
through the gloom. He could see that boat crowded with men, men in
uniform, and he could see that each man carried a carbine. He could also
see that it would surely cut across the bow of his own steamer. A moment
later he knew that Tankred himself had seen this, for high above the
crack and whine of the shooting and the tumult of voices he could now
hear Tankred’s blasphemous shouts.
“Cut loose those boats!” bellowed the frantic gun-runner. Then he
repeated the command, apparently in Spanish. And to this came an
answering babel of cries and expostulations and counter-cries. But still
the firing from behind the searchlight kept up. Blake could see a
half-naked seaman with a carpenter’s ax skip monkey-like down the
landing-ladder. He saw the naked arm strike with the ax, the two hands
suddenly catch at the bare throat, and the figure fall back in a huddle
against the red-stained wooden steps.
Blake also saw, to his growing unrest, that the firing was increasing in
volume, that at the front of the ship sharp volley and counter-volley was
making a pandemonium of the very deck on which he knelt. For by this time
the patrol-boat with the carbineers had reached the steamer’s side and a
boarding-ladder had been thrown across her quarter. And Blake began to
comprehend that he was in the most undesirable of situations. He could
hear the repeated clang of the engine-room telegraph and Tankred’s
frenzied and ineffectual bellow of “Full steam ahead! For the love o’
Christ, full ahead down there!”
Through all that bedlam Blake remained resentfully cool, angrily
clear-thoughted. He saw that the steamer did not move forward. He
concluded the engine-room to be deserted. And he saw both the futility
and the danger of remaining where he was.
He crawled back to where he remembered the rope-coil lay, dragging the
loose end of it back after him, and then lowering it over the ship’s side
until it touched the water. Then he shifted this rope along the rail
until it swung over the last of the line of surf-boats that bobbed and
thudded against the side-plates of the gently rolling steamer. About him,
all the while, he could hear the shouts of men and the staccato crack of
the rifles. But he saw to it that his rope was well tied to the
rail-stanchion. Then he clambered over the rail itself, and with a double
twist of the rope about his great leg let himself ponderously down over
the side.
He swayed there, for a moment, until the roll of the ship brought him
thumping against the rusty plates again. At the same moment the shifting
surf-boat swung in under him. Releasing his hold, he went tumbling down
between the cartridge-cases and the boat-thwarts.
This boat, he saw, was still securely tied to its mate, one of the
larger-bodied _lanchas_, and he had nothing with which to sever the rope.
His first impulse was to reach for his revolver and cut through the
manilla strands by means of a half-dozen quick shots. But this, he knew,
would too noisily announce his presence there. So he fell on his knees
and peered and prodded about the boat bottom. There, to his surprise, he
saw the huddled body of a dead man, face down. This body he turned over,
running an exploring hand along the belt-line. As he had hoped, he found
a heavy nine-inch knife there.
He was dodging back to the bow of the surf-boat when a uniformed figure
carrying a rifle came scuttling and shouting down the landing-ladder.
Blake’s spirits sank as he saw that figure. He knew now that his movement
had been seen and understood. He knew, too, as he saw the figure come
scrambling out over the rocking boats, what capture would mean.
He had the last strand of the rope severed before the Ecuadorean with the
carbine reached the _lancha_ next to him. He still felt, once he was
free, that he could use his revolver and get away. But before Blake could
push off a sinewy brown hand reached out and clutched the gunwale of the
liberated boat. Blake ignored the clutching hand. But, relying on his own
sheer strength, he startled the owner of the hand by suddenly flinging
himself forward, seizing the carbine barrel, and wresting it free. A
second later it disappeared beneath the surface of the water.
That impassioned brown hand, however, still clung to the boat’s gunwale.
It clung there determinedly, blindly—and Blake knew there was no time for
a struggle. He brought the heavy-bladed knife down on the clinging
fingers. It was a stroke like that of a cleaver on a butcher’s block. In
the strong white light that still played on them he could see the flash
of teeth in the man’s opened mouth, the upturn of the staring eye-balls
as the severed fingers fell away and he screamed aloud with pain.
But with one quick motion of his gorilla-like arms Blake pushed his boat
free, telling himself there was still time, warning himself to keep cool
and make the most of every chance. Yet as he turned to take up the oars
he saw that he had been discovered by the Ecuadoreans on the freighter’s
deck, that his flight was not to be as simple as he had expected. He saw
the lean brown face, picked out by the white light, as a carbineer swung
his short-barreled rifle out over the rail—and the man in the surf-boat
knew by that face what was coming.
His first impulse was to reach into his pocket for his revolver. But
that, he knew, was already too late, for a second man had joined the
first and a second rifle was already swinging round on him. His next
thought was to dive over the boat’s side. This thought had scarcely
formulated itself, however, before he heard the bark of the rifle and saw
the puff of smoke.
At the same moment he felt the rip and tug of the bullet through the
loose side-folds of his coat. And with that rip and tug came a third
thought, over which he did not waver. He threw up his hands, sharply, and
flung himself headlong across the body of the dead man in the bottom of
the surf-boat.
He fell heavily, with a blow that shook the wind from his body. But as he
lay there he knew better than to move. He lay there, scarcely daring to
breathe, dreading that the rise and fall of his breast would betray his
ruse, praying that his boat would veer about so his body would be in the
shadow. For he knew the two waiting carbines were still pointed at him.
He lay there, counting the seconds, knowing that he and his slowly
drifting surf-boat were still in the full white fulgor of the wavering
searchlight. He lay there as a second shot came whistling overhead,
spitting into the water within three feet of him. Then a third bullet
came, this time tearing through the wood of the boat bottom beside him.
And he still waited, without moving, wondering what the next shot would
do. He still waited, his passive body horripilating with a vast
indignation at the thought of the injustice of it all, at the thought
that he must lie there and let half-baked dagoes shower his unprotesting
back with lead. But he lay there, still counting the seconds, as the boat
drifted slowly out on the quietly moving tide.
Then a new discovery disturbed him. It obliterated his momentary joy at
the thought that they were no longer targeting down at him. He could feel
the water slowly rising about his prostrate body. He realized that the
boat in which he lay was filling. He calmly figured out that with the
body of the dead man and the cartridge-cases about him it was carrying a
dead weight of nearly half a ton. And through the bullet hole in its
bottom the water was rushing in.
Yet he could do nothing. He could make no move. For at the slightest
betrayal of life, he knew, still another volley would come from that
ever-menacing steamer’s deck. He counted the minutes, painfully,
methodically, feeling the water rise higher and higher about his body.
The thought of this rising water and what it meant did not fill him with
panic. He seemed more the prey of a deep and sullen resentment that his
plans should be so gratuitously interfered with, that his approach to the
_Trunella_ should be so foolishly delayed, that so many cross-purposes
should postpone and imperil his quest of Binhart.
He knew, by the slowly diminishing sounds, that he was drifting further
and further away from Tankred and his crowded fore-deck. But he was still
within the area of that ever-betraying searchlight. Some time, he knew,
he must drift beyond it. But until that moment came he dare make no move
to keep himself afloat.
By slowly turning his head an inch or two he was able to measure the
height of the gunwale above the water. Then he made note of where an oar
lay, asking himself how long he could keep afloat on a timber so small,
wondering how far he could be from land. Then he suddenly fell to
questioning if the waters of that coast were shark infested.
He was still debating the problem when he became conscious of a change
about him. A sudden pall of black fell like balm on his startled face.
The light was no longer there. He found himself engulfed in a relieving,
fortifying darkness, a darkness that brought him to his feet in the
slowly moving boat. He was no longer visible to the rest of the world. At
a breath, almost, he had passed into eclipse.
His first frantic move was to tug and drag the floating body at his feet
to the back of the boat and roll it overboard. Then he waded forward and
one by one carefully lifted the cases of ammunition and tumbled them over
the side. One only he saved, a smaller wooden box which he feverishly
pried open with his knife and emptied into the sea. Then he flung away
the top boards, placing the empty box on the seat in front of him. Then
he fell on his hands and knees, fingering along the boat bottom until he
found the bullet-hole through which the water was boiling up.
Once he had found it he began tearing at his clothes like a madman, for
the water was now alarmingly high. These rags and shreds of clothing he
twisted together and forced into the hole, tamping them firmly into place
with his revolver-barrel.
Then he caught up the empty wooden box from the boat seat and began to
bale. He baled solemnly, as though his very soul were in it. He was
oblivious of the strange scene silhouetted against the night behind him,
standing out as distinctly as though it were a picture thrown on a sheet
from a magic-lantern slide—a circle of light surrounding a drifting and
rusty-sided ship on which tumult had turned into sudden silence. He was
oblivious of his own wet clothing and his bruised body and the dull ache
in his leg wound of many months ago. He was intent only on the fact that
he was lowering the water in his surf-boat, that he was slowly drifting
further and further away from the enemies who had interfered with his
movements, and that under the faint spangle of lights which he could
still see in the offing on his right lay an anchored liner, and that
somewhere on that liner lay a man for whom he was looking.