Once assured that his surf-boat would keep afloat, Blake took the oars
and began to row. But even as he swung the boat lumberingly about he
realized that he could make no headway with such a load, for almost a
foot of water still surged along its bottom. So he put down the oars and
began to bale again. He did not stop until the boat was emptied. Then he
carefully replugged the bullet-hole, took up the oars again, and once
more began to row.
He rowed, always keeping his bow towards the far-off spangle of lights
which showed where the _Trunella_ lay at anchor.
He rowed doggedly, determinedly. He rowed until his arms were tired and
his back ached. But still he did not stop. It occurred to him, suddenly,
that there might be a tide running against him, that with all his labor
he might be making no actual headway. Disturbed by this thought, he fixed
his attention on two almost convergent lights on shore, rowing with
renewed energy as he watched them. He had the satisfaction of seeing
these two lights slowly come together, and he knew he was making some
progress.
Still another thought came to him as he rowed doggedly on. And that was
the fear that at any moment, now, the quick equatorial morning might
dawn. He had no means of judging the time. To strike a light was
impossible, for his matches were water-soaked. Even his watch, he found,
had been stopped by its bath in sea-water. But he felt that long hours
had passed since midnight, that it must be close to the break of morning.
And the fear of being overtaken by daylight filled him with a new and
more frantic energy.
He rowed feverishly on, until the lights of the _Trunella_ stood high
above him and he could hear the lonely sound of her bells as the watch
was struck. Then he turned and studied the dark hull of the steamer as
she loomed up closer in front of him. He could see her only in outline,
at first, picked out here and there by a light. But there seemed
something disheartening, something intimidating, in her very quietness,
something suggestive of a plague-ship deserted by crew and passengers
alike. That dark and silent hull at which he stared seemed to house
untold possibilities of evil.
Yet Blake remembered that it also housed Binhart. And with that thought
in his mind he no longer cared to hesitate. He rowed in under the shadowy
counter, bumping about the rudder-post. Then he worked his way forward,
feeling quietly along her side-plates, foot by foot.
He had more than half circled the ship before he came to her
landing-ladder. The grilled platform at the bottom of this row of steps
stood nearly as high as his shoulders, as though the ladder-end had been
hauled up for the night.
Blake balanced himself on the bow of his surf-boat and tugged and
strained until he gained the ladder-bottom. He stood there, recovering
his breath, for a moment or two, peering up towards the inhospitable
silence above him. But still he saw no sign of life. No word or challenge
was flung down at him. Then, after a moment’s thought, he lay flat on the
grill and deliberately pushed the surf-boat off into the darkness. He
wanted no more of it. He knew, now, there could be no going back.
He climbed cautiously up the slowly swaying steps, standing for a puzzled
moment at the top and peering about him. Then he crept along the deserted
deck, where a month of utter idleness, apparently, had left discipline
relaxed. He shied away from the lights, here and there, that dazzled his
eyes after his long hours of darkness. With an instinct not unlike that
which drives the hiding wharf-rat into the deepest corner at hand, he
made his way down through the body of the ship. He shambled and skulked
his way down, a hatless and ragged and uncouth figure, wandering on along
gloomy gangways and corridors until he found himself on the threshold of
the engine-room itself.
He was about to back out of this entrance and strike still deeper when he
found himself confronted by an engineer smoking a short brier-root pipe.
The pale blue eyes of this sandy-headed engineer were wide with wonder,
startled and incredulous wonder, as they stared at the ragged figure in
the doorway.
“Where in the name o’ God did _you_ come from?” demanded the man with the
brier-root pipe.
“I came out from Guayaquil,” answered Blake, reaching searchingly down in
his wet pocket. “And I can’t go back.”
The sandy-headed man backed away.
“From the fever camps?”
Blake could afford to smile at the movement.
“Don’t worry—there’s no fever ’round me. _That’s_ what I’ve been
through!” And he showed the bullet-holes through his tattered coat-cloth.
“How’d you get here?”
“Rowed out in a surf-boat—and I can’t go back!”
The sandy-headed engineer continued to stare at the uncouth figure in
front of him, to stare at it with vague and impersonal wonder. And in
facing that sandy-headed stranger, Blake knew, he was facing a judge
whose decision was to be of vast moment in his future destiny, whose
word, perhaps, was to decide on the success or failure of much wandering
about the earth.
“I can’t go back!” repeated Blake, as he reached out and dropped a
clutter of gold into the palm of the other man. The pale blue eyes looked
at the gold, looked out along the gangway, and then looked back at the
waiting stranger.
“That Alfaro gang after you?” he inquired.
“They’re _all_ after me!” answered the swaying figure in rags. They were
talking together, by this time, almost in whispers, like two
conspirators. The young engineer seemed puzzled. But a wave of relief
swept through Blake when in the pale blue eyes he saw almost a look of
pity.
“What d’ you want me to do?” he finally asked.
Blake, instead of answering that question, asked another.
“When do you move out of here?”
The engineer put the coins in his pocket.
“Before noon to-morrow, thank God! The _Yorktown_ ought to be here by
morning—she’s to give us our release!”
“Then you’ll sail by noon?”
“We’ve _got_ to! They’ve tied us up here over a month, without reason.
They worked that old yellow-jack gag—and not a touch of fever aboard all
that time!”
A great wave of contentment surged through Blake’s weary body. He put his
hand up on the smaller man’s shoulder.
“Then you just get me out o’ sight until we’re off, and I’ll fix things
so you’ll never be sorry for it!”
The pale-eyed engineer studied the problem. Then he studied the figure in
front of him.
“There’s nothing crooked behind this?”
Blake forced a laugh from his weary lungs. “I’ll prove that in two days
by wireless—and pay first-class passage to the next port of call!”
“I’m fourth engineer on board here, and the Old Man would sure fire me,
if—”
“But you needn’t even know about me,” contended Blake. “Just let me crawl
in somewhere where I can sleep!”
“You need it, all right, by that face of yours!”
“I sure do,” acknowledged the other as he stood awaiting his judge’s
decision.
“Then I’d better get you down to my bunk. But remember, I can only stow
you there until we get under way—perhaps not that long!”
He stepped cautiously out and looked along the gangway. “This is your
funeral, mind, when the row comes. You’ve got to face that, yourself!”
“Oh, I’ll face it, all right!” was Blake’s calmly contented answer. “All
I want now is about nine hours’ sleep!”
“Come on, then,” said the fourth engineer. And Blake followed after as he
started deeper down into the body of the ship. And already, deep below
him, he could hear the stokers at work in their hole.