THE TRAITOR
Grahame was awakened by a crash. Springing half asleep from his berth,
he scrambled out on deck. Thick darkness enveloped the steamer and at
first he could see nothing. Then as his eyes grew accustomed to the
gloom, he made out indistinct black trees in the mist. They were sliding
past and he knew the warp had broken and the _Enchantress_ would swing
inshore before her cable brought her up. This must be prevented, if
possible, for the creek was narrow and shoal.
Jumping on the stern grating he gave his orders, and they were obeyed.
He saw Macallister, in pajamas, dive into the engine-room, and the screw
began to throb; then barefooted men sprang into the boat alongside, and
a heavy rope ran out across the rail. There was nothing more to be done
for a few moments and, lashing the wheel, Grahame hurriedly lighted a
pyrotechnic flare. The strong blue radiance drove back the gloom, and
the water glittered among cakes of floating scum. Then the bright beam
picked out the boat, with Walthew toiling, half-naked, at an oar, and
Miguel's tall figure bending to and fro as he sculled astern. Another
man was rowing forward, and his tense pose told of determined effort,
but he vanished as the light moved on.
The rope the crew were taking out fixed Grahame's attention. It crawled
through the water in heavy coils, like a snake, holding the boat back
while the stream swept her sideways. He did not think she could reach
the opposite bank, though the _Enchantress_ was sheering that way to
help her. Then the light forced up a patch of greasy mud in which
crawling things wriggled, and, passing on, picked out foul, dark caves
among the mangrove roots. After that, it touched the rows of slender
trunks and was lost in impenetrable gloom.
A few moments later the flare, burning low, scorched Grahame's fingers
and he flung it over the rail. It fell with a hiss into the creek and
bewildering darkness shut down. There was now no guide but the strain on
the helm, and Grahame began to be afraid of breaking out the anchor. For
a time the splash of oars continued, telling of the tense struggle that
went on in the gloom, but it stopped suddenly and he knew the men were
beaten. Ringing off the engines, he ran forward with a deckhand to drop
the kedge anchor. It was heavy, an arm was foul of something, and they
could not drag it clear, until a dim object appeared close by.
"Heave!" cried a breathless voice. "Handy, noo! Away she goes!"
There was a splash and a rattle as the chain ran out, a thud as the
returning boat came alongside, and then the vessel quivered, listed down
on one side, and became motionless.
"I'm thinking she's hard and fast, but we'll try to shake her off,"
Macallister said and vanished, and soon the engines began to turn.
The _Enchantress_ trembled, straining hard and rattling, but when
somebody lighted the cargo-lamp, which still hung from a boom, it could
not be seen that she moved. The light showed a narrow stretch of water,
sliding past, blotched with foul brown foam. Then it fell upon the
boat's crew, who had come on board, and Grahame saw that Walthew was
gasping for breath. His flushed face was wet and drawn with effort, and
his bare arms and neck were marked by small red spots.
"Sorry we couldn't manage to reach the bank," he panted. "Warp kept
getting across her and the stream was running fast. But I'd better help
Mack."
"Sit still a minute," Grahame said. "What are those marks on your neck?"
"Mosquito bites, I guess. Hadn't time to swat the brutes; they were
pretty fierce."
The deck was now slanting steeply, and Grahame, looking over the rail,
saw a wet strip a foot broad between the dry planks and the water.
"You can tell Mack to shut off steam," he said. "She's here until next
tide and I'm not certain we can float her then."
The engines stopped, there was by contrast a curious stillness, and the
men went below; but Grahame spent some time studying a chart of the
coast and a nautical almanac before he went to sleep.
* * * * *
When the cases had been safely landed, the little group of Spaniards and
half-breeds separated, some following the coastline going south, others
finding a narrow path that led through the jungle beyond the
mangrove-trees. Bio, the peon pilot, lingered behind. There was no
moon, but the night was not really dark, for the sky was jeweled with
stars which covered the earth with a soft, mystic radiance.
When the footsteps of the others had died away and the night was quiet,
Bio started slowly down the jungle path. It opened out into a flat
stretch of sandy land and then was lost in a plantation of coffee-trees.
Beyond the coffee plantation was an uncultivated space known to the
natives as _La colina del sol_ (The Hill of the Sun) because of the many
broad rocks upon which the sun beat down in all its intensity. Here and
there a wild date-palm grew, and an occasional clump of bananas; but
except for that the hill was covered with low shrubbery and a blanket of
trailing vines, which now were wet with the dew.
Bio went directly to one of the rocks and stood upon it looking upward
at the stars. The warmth that still remained in the rock was pleasant to
his damp, bare feet. The air about him was filled with the soft flutter
of moths and other honey-seekers; the heavy perfume of a white jasmine
came to him, mingled with the sweet odor of the night-blooming cereus.
At his side an insect chirped, and above him a whistling frog gave
answer.
These wild night sounds found quick response in Bio's Indian blood. With
an odd little smile of content, he stretched out on the rock to
listen--and to sleep. At high tide he would have to return to take the
boat out of Mangrove Creek; what better place to wait than _La colina
del sol_?
He awakened shortly after daybreak, very hungry; but he knew where he
could get a pleasant breakfast before returning to the boat. With a
comfortable yawn and stretch, he left the rock and pattered off down
the hill to a path that led to the main road. A half mile down this
stood a little adobe house owned by a Spaniard who was suspected of
sympathizing with the revolutionists although he had many friends among
the _rurales_.
When Bio reached the house he gave his customary signal--a stick drawn
harshly across the iron gratings at the window; and the door was soon
opened by Filodomo himself. A hasty conversation followed, and Bio went
back to the kitchen while Filodomo aroused his daughter. And when the
black-eyed Rosita came tripping out, with the flush of sleep still on
her, Bio all but forgot the _yanqui_ senores and their boat which waited
in Mangrove Creek.
He was enjoying his breakfast so much, indeed, that he did not hear
Filodomo talking loudly in the front room. Rosita was more alert. She
paused a moment to listen, and then the laughter in her eyes changed to
quick alarm.
"_Los rurales!_" she whispered.
Bio was on his feet instantly. The _rurales_ had several counts against
him, and he knew what his life would be worth if he were caught. Rosita,
too, seemed to know. She led him quickly to the low window and pointed
to a narrow path that led through a field of cane. Bio lost no time. As
he disappeared among the green stalks, the girl gave a sigh of relief;
and then hurried into the front room to put the _rurales_ off his path.
Bio made his way quickly but cautiously through the cane-field, meaning
to double back to _La colina del sol_; but as he left the cane and
rounded a gigantic calabash-tree he ran directly into the arms of two
young _rurales_.
"Not so fast, my friend," said one of them, grabbing him.
"Bio!" exclaimed the other.
And Bio knew there was no hope of escape. The _rurales_ were only too
eager for the credit of capturing him and taking him to headquarters.
Four days later he found himself in a military camp and was led at once
to the officer in charge. During all the questions of the _rurales_ he
had maintained a sullen silence; but now he was forced to speak.
"We are told that the revolutionists are getting rifles from a little
boat that lands them at impossible places," the officer said. "Only a
pilot with your knowledge of the coast could bring in such a boat. Tell
us what you know!"
Bio did not answer.
The officer leaned forward threateningly.
"We have enough charges against you to warrant our shooting you on the
spot," he said. "You will never see another sunrise, unless you tell
us--and tell us quickly, and truthfully!"
A gleam of hope crept into Bio's eyes.
"And if I tell you--all?"
"Then, if I believe you, you will be set at liberty."
There was a sneer in the conditional clause that made Bio's blood run
cold for an instant; but it seemed his only chance of escape, and he
began haltingly but in a tone that they could not doubt was the truth.
"I left the boat far up in Mangrove Creek," he ended. "I think the
_yanqui_ senores cannot take her out."
"Tell Morales to have the mules ready at once!" the officer ordered.
"The quickest road?" he asked Bio.
The pilot answered without faltering. The road he told them was twice as
far as over _La colina del sol_ and through the jungle path.
The officer consulted a few moments with the _rurales_ who had brought
Bio in, and then gave his decision.
"My men will not need you. You will be held in camp for one day and then
set at liberty. I am a man of my word!"
Bio could hardly believe his good luck, although he frowned anxiously at
that one day's detention. Silently he followed his guards; but, as he
expected, he found them very lax after the first hour or two. Long
before midnight he was snaking his way noiselessly through the
underbrush that surrounded the camp.
And in the meantime the _rurales_ were riding furiously along the road
that led to Mangrove Creek.