THE RUSE
Cliffe and his daughter were landed at Kingston, and three weeks later
Grahame put into a Central-American port. The propeller was not running
well, and Macallister, suspecting it was working loose on the shaft,
declared that he must put the vessel on a beach where she would dry at
low-water. Grahame had a few days to spare, for he could not land his
cargo before the time Don Martin had fixed; but as the arms were on
board he would have preferred to wait at sea, outside the regular
steamers' track.
It happened that there was no repair-shop in the town, but while
Macallister thought over the difficulty a tramp steamer dropped anchor,
and he went off to her, remarking that he might find a friend on board.
In an hour or two the gig came back, and Grahame, hearing _My boat rocks
at the pier o' Leith_ sung discordantly, saw that Macallister's
expectations had been fulfilled. This did not surprise him, for the
Scots engineer is ubiquitous and to have "wrought" at Clydebank or
Fairfield is a passport to his affection.
Macallister's face was flushed and his air jaunty, but the tall, gaunt
man who accompanied him looked woodenly solemn. He began by emptying a
basket of greasy tools on the _Enchantress's_ white deck with the
disregard for the navigating officers' feelings which the engine-room
mechanic often displays. After this, he went down a rope and sat on the
sand under the boat's counter, studying the loose screw while he smoked
several pipes of rank tobacco, but without making any remark. Then he
got up and slowly stretched his lanky frame.
"Weel," he said, "we'll make a start."
It was eleven o'clock on a very hot morning when he and Macallister
lighted a blow-lamp, the flame of which showed faint and blue in the
strong sunshine, and they labored on until dusk fell between six and
seven in the evening. Offers of food and refreshment were uncivilly
declined, and Watson ignored Grahame's invitation to spend the evening
on board.
"I'll be back the morn," was all he said as he was rowed away.
"A new type!" Grahame laughed.
"He's unique," Walthew agreed. "Only addressed me twice, and then in a
very personal strain. But the fellow's an artist in his way. Spent two
hours softening and filing up a taper key, but it fitted air-tight when
we drove it in. Something Roman about that man; means his work to last
forever."
Operations were resumed the next morning, and Grahame had no doubt of
the excellence of the job when the Scots seemed satisfied late in the
afternoon. Then Watson said he would come back to dine when he had
cleaned himself and would bring his skipper, and Grahame dubiously
inspected his small stock of wine. He imagined it had not sufficient
bite to please his guests.
The tramp skipper presently arrived: a short, stout man, with a humorous
eye. When dinner was over and the wine finished, the party adjourned to
the cafe Bolivar, but Grahame went with misgivings. He knew something
about the habits of tramp captains, and had seen trouble result from the
eccentricities of Scotch engineers. The garrison band was playing in the
plaza they crossed, and citizens promenaded up and down with their wives
and daughters. The clear moonlight fell upon gayly-colored dresses and
faces of various shades, while here and there a jingling officer,
lavishly decorated with gold-lace, added an extra touch of brightness.
Nobody, however, showed a friendly interest in Grahame's party, for
Americans and English were not just then regarded with much favor in the
ports of the Spanish Main. Indeed, Grahame fancied that a group of
slouching soldiers meant to get into his way, but as a brawl was not
desirable, he tactfully avoided them.
The cafe was situated at the end of the square, and the party, sitting
at a small table among the pillars that divided its open front from the
pavement, could look down upon the moonlit harbor. The inlet was long
and shallow, with an old Spanish fort among the sands at its outer end
and another commanding it from a height behind the town. A cathedral
stood opposite the cafe; and narrow, dark streets, radiating from the
plaza, pierced the square blocks of houses.
Walthew and Grahame drank black coffee; but this had no attraction for
the rest. The tramp captain, soon becoming genial, put his feet on a
chair and beamed upon his neighbors, while Macallister, as usual,
entered into talk with them. He discoursed at random in very bad
Castilian, but his remarks were humorous and in spite of the citizens'
prejudices, laughter followed them. Watson sat stonily quiet, drinking
fiery _cana_ and frowning at the crowd.
"Ye were aye a dumb stirk at Clydebank," Macallister said to him. "Can
ye no' talk instead o' glowering like a death's-head?"
"I can when I'm roused," Watson replied. "Maybe ye'll hear something
frae me when I'm through wi' this bottle."
"It's the nature o' the man," Macallister informed the others and then,
addressing the company, asked if anybody could sing.
No one offered to do so, and, beckoning a dark-complexioned lounger who
had a guitar hung round his neck, he brought him to their table and gave
him wine. Then he borrowed the guitar, and, somewhat to Grahame's
surprise, began a passable rendering of a Spanish song.
The captain beat time with a bottle, some of the company sang the
refrain, and, after finishing amidst applause, Macallister tried the
music of his native land. In this he was less successful, for the wild
airs, written for the bagpipes, did not go well upon the melancholy
guitar.
"It's no' the thing at all," Watson remarked. "Ye're just plodding
through it like a seven-knot tramp against the tide. Can ye no' open the
throttle and give her steam?"
Before Macallister could answer, a neatly dressed gentleman brought a
bottle of vermouth from a neighboring table and joined the group.
"You like a drink?" he asked politely.
Watson nodded, and, taking the small bottle, emptied half of the liqueur
into his glass.
"Yon's no' so bad," he commented when he had drained the glass.
The stranger smiled as he poured out the rest of the vermouth for
Watson.
"You mend the steamboat screw?" he asked carelessly.
"Yes, my friend," Watson replied, regarding the stranger out of sleepy
looking eyes.
"How it come loose?"
"Tail-nut slacked up when the engines ran away in heavy weather."
"You get bad weather, then?"
"Bad enough," Watson answered.
Grahame gave him a cautious glance, but his face was expressionless. It
was obvious that the stranger had mistaken him for the _Enchantress's_
engineer. Watson must have realized this, but he had given the fellow
misleading answers, and Grahame thought he need not run the risk of
trying to warn him. He wondered, though, how far Macallister had taken
Watson into his confidence.
"Small boat," said the stranger; "you find her wet when it blow. What
you load?"
"Mahogany and dyewood, when it's to be got."
"Then you go to Manzanillo; perhaps to Honduras. But she not carry much;
not room for big logs below."
"The big ones sit on deck," said Watson stolidly.
The man ordered some cognac, but Grahame imagined that he was wasting
his hospitality. Though the Scot's legs might grow unsteady, his head
would remain clear.
"There is cargo that pay better than wood," his companion suggested with
a meaning smile.
"Maybe," agreed Watson. "But ye run a risk in carrying it."
"Ver' true. And when you go to sea?"
"I canna' tell. The high-press' piston must come up. She's loosened a
ring."
The stranger made a few general remarks and then strolled away. He had
learned, at the cost of a bottle of vermouth and some brandy, that
Watson was the _Enchantress's_ engineer, and the vessel would not sail
for a day or two.
Grahame chuckled. He meant to leave port the next morning.
Having spent some time at the cafe, he felt that he could now leave his
guests. They might, perhaps, indulge in boisterous amusements but he did
not think they would come to harm. Indeed, if anybody were hurt in a row
it would more likely be the citizens who came into collision with them.
"All right; I've had enough," Walthew said when Grahame touched him.
"Mack's going to sing again, and I can't stand for that."
The moon had sunk behind the white houses as they crossed the plaza, and
Grahame kept down the middle, avoiding the crowd near the bandstand and
the narrow mouths of the streets.
"Who was that fellow talking to Watson?" Walthew asked.
"I don't know, but he was interested in our affairs. They have a good
secret service in these countries, and we're open to suspicion. We're
obviously not yachtsmen, and the boat's too small for a regular
trader."
"Do you think the man's an agent of the government we're up against?"
"I don't know. I'd hardly expect them to send their spies along the
coast; but, then, these States may keep each other informed about the
movements of dangerous people. Anyway, there'd be an excuse for trouble
if they searched us and found the rifles."
"Sure," said Walthew thoughtfully. "It's fortunate we light out
to-morrow."
He looked round as they reached the end of the plaza. The band had
stopped, and the ring of lights round its stand was broken as the lamps
went out, but a broad, illuminated track extended from the front of the
cafe. The thinning crowd moved across it: a stream of black figures
silhouetted against the light. Everything else was dark, and except for
the soft patter of feet the city was quiet; but it had a sinister look,
and Walthew instinctively kept away from the trees in the small
_alameda_ they skirted. He was an Anglo-Saxon, and would not shrink from
a danger that could be faced in daylight, but he hated the stealthy
attack in the dark and the hidden intrigues the Latin half-breeds
delight in.
When they reached the beach he stumbled over a small anvil lying near
high-water mark, and after another few steps trod upon a hammer.
"They have left all their tools about," he said. "Shall we call the boys
and put the truck on board?"
"I think not," Grahame replied. "It's the marine engineer's privilege to
make as much mess as he likes, and he generally resents its being
cleaned up without his permission. Besides, their leaving the things
suggests that the job's not finished."
They pushed off the dinghy and boarded the steamer. The tide had flowed
round her, but she would not float for an hour or two, and Walthew,
sitting on the rail, glanced down the harbor. It was now very dark, but
the water had a phosphorescent gleam. The _Enchantress's_ cable was
marked by lambent spangles, and there was a flicker of green fire along
the tramp's dark side. Her riding-lights tossed as she swung with the
languid swell, and away at the harbor mouth two bright specks pierced
the dark. A small gunboat had anchored at dusk, and as the fort had
fired a salute she was evidently a foreigner. Walthew felt curious about
her nationality, and wondered why she lay where she commanded the
entrance instead of mooring near the town. Grahame, however, did not
seem disturbed, and they presently sat down to a game of chess in the
saloon.
Although the ports were open, it was very hot, and when the kerosene
lamp flickered in the draughts an unpleasant smell filled the room. The
men felt languid and their attention wandered from the dragging game. At
last Walthew threw the pieces roughly into the box.
"You'd have seen what I was getting after with the bishop if you hadn't
been thinking of something else," he said. "It's been a mighty long
game; Mack ought to have come back."
Grahame nodded agreement, and they went out on deck. The town was quiet,
and, so far as they could see, only one light burned in it, between the
plaza and the _alameda_. Then an uproar broke out, the clamor reaching
them distinctly over the night water. Grahame, running to the
engine-room, shook the drowsy half-breed on watch and ordered him to
stir the fires, which had been lighted and damped. Then he dropped over
the rail into the dinghy with Walthew, and as soon as they jumped ashore
they started for the plaza on a run.
"Sounds like a _jamboree_," Walthew said. "When things begin to hum
you'll find Mack somewhere around; and that tramp captain looked as if
he could get on a jag."
"He had a wicked eye," Grahame breathlessly agreed.
As they entered the plaza, a noisy crowd, which seemed to be getting
larger rapidly, surged toward them. In the background the cafe Bolivar
was still lighted, and close at hand a lamp burned at the top of a tall
pole. For all that, it was difficult to make out anything except a mass
of people pressing about a smaller group, and Grahame roughly flung two
or three excited citizens aside before he could see what was going on.
Then he was not surprised to note a party of three Britons retreating in
good order before an obviously hostile mob. The tramp captain had lost
his hat and his jacket was torn, but he carried a champagne bottle like
a club, and his hot, red face had a pugnacious look. Macallister trailed
the leg of a broken iron chair, and Watson seemed to have armed himself
with part of the chair's back. He was hurling virulent epithets at the
throng, while Macallister sang a sentimental ballad in an unsteady
voice.
As Grahame and Walthew drew nearer, the crowd closed in as if to cut off
the others' retreat, but a shout from Watson dominated the growing
uproar.
"Oot o' the way, ye dirt! Drap yon deevil wi' the knife!"
Macallister, still singing, swung the leg of the chair and a man went
down upon the stones, the knife he held flying from his hand. There was
a thud as the captain's champagne bottle descended on somebody's head;
and Watson sprang forward, whirling the broken casting. The crowd gave
back before his rush and then scattered as Grahame and Walthew appeared
in the gap. The fugitives stopped; and during the moment's breathing
space Grahame noticed that a smashed guitar, adorned with gaudy ribbons,
hung round Macallister's neck.
"It was yon fool thing made the trouble," Watson explained. "He racked
her till she buckled, but she would not keep the tune, and we had to pit
her owner below the table. Then an officer wi' a sword would interfere
and when he got a bit tap wi' a bottle we were mobbed by the roomful o'
swine."
He paused as somebody threw a stone at him, and then addressed the crowd
in warning:
"We'll no' be responsible for what may happen til ye if we lose our
tempers!"
The mob had been closing in again, but it fell back when two
white-uniformed rural guards with pistols drawn pushed through. Grahame
spoke to them in Castilian, and they stopped. While they asked him
questions, another man, whom they saluted with respect, joined them.
"It is not permitted to make a disturbance in this city," the official
said to Grahame. "We will inquire into the matter to-morrow. You will go
on board your vessel now."
"I'm no' going," Watson declared when Grahame translated the order.
"Took a room at Hotel Sevillana, and I want to see the dago who would
pit me oot."
"Better humor him," advised the captain. "Obstinate beast when he gets a
notion into his head. If he's not on board in the morning, I'll send a
boatful of deckhands for him."
Grahame explained that the engineer wished to spend the night ashore,
and the official looked thoughtful.
"Very well," he said. "One of the guards will see him to his hotel. It
is necessary for him to go now."
"Ye can tell him I'm ready," Watson replied, and added in a low voice as
he passed Grahame: "Get away to sea as soon as she floats!"
He went off with his escort and the official said something aside to the
remaining guard, who saluted and told the others to follow him. The
crowd had scattered, and nobody interfered with the party on their way
to the harbor.
"I will wait until I see you go on board," the guard said when they
reached the beach. "You will be called upon some time to-morrow."
"They'd have been wiser if they had begun their investigations now,"
Grahame remarked as they launched the dinghy. "She'll be afloat in half
an hour. Do you feel up to running the engine, Mack? If not, Walthew
must do the best he can."
"I could take her oot if I was drunk and I'm far frae that," Macallister
declared. "Looks as if ye had no' allooed for the steadiness o' the
Scottish head. Noo, there's Watson, and I'll no' say he was quite
sober, but he could spoil yon dago's game. Maybe ye're beginning to
understand why he would sleep ashore. They think ye canna' get away
withoot him."
"I see that," said Grahame. "Better send your fireman to collect your
tools when Miguel looses the stern mooring. And try to restrain your
feelings if things are not quite right below. It's important that we
should get away quietly."
They reached the _Enchantress_, and preparations for departure were
silently begun.
They must first slip past the watching fort, and then elude the foreign
gunboat. They knew the consequences if they were caught.