ELUDING THE GUNBOAT
The night was very dark. Here and there a lone star peeped out bravely,
but it could shine but faintly through the heavy mist that was settling
down over the _Enchantress_.
Grahame, the leadline in his hand, leaned anxiously on the rail,
watching the foam boil about the vessel's side. Her keel stirred in the
sand and the propeller was beating hard; but she did not move. To make
things worse, the disturbed water broke noisily on the beach and the
thud of engines could be heard at some distance. Grahame had not
complied with the formalities required before leaving port, but he
carried a dangerous cargo and he feared that he might be detained unless
he got away at once. The _Enchantress_, however, was not yet afloat, and
he reluctantly signaled for steam to be shut off.
Walthew came up when the engines stopped, and Grahame sat down on the
ledge of the door. It was very quiet when the splash of water died away,
and the darkness and silence reacted upon the men's tense nerves. They
found inaction singularly hard.
"You have got to take her out the minute she's off the ground," Walthew
said. "To be caught getting ready to leave would give us away."
"Sure thing! The Port Captain's guard watches the beach; they've
sentries at the fort and a wire to the town; and there's a gunboat in
the entrance. Our job doesn't look easy."
"Ye have quarter o' an hour yet, but that's all," Macallister said as he
joined them. "If I canna' give the engines steam then, she'll blow off
and rouse the town."
They waited anxiously, Grahame glancing at his watch and walking to the
rail, where he felt the leadline; but the water rose with exasperating
slowness. Then suddenly a jet of steam broke with a muffled throb from
the escape-pipe, and Macallister jumped up.
"Ye have got to start her noo!" he said.
Walthew followed him below; the engines clanked; the propeller spun; and
Grahame hauled the lead in with a breath of relief, for the line grew
taut as the vessel moved. Then he stood in the main rigging, where he
could see better and where Miguel, at the helm, could watch his
signaling hand. With screw throbbing gently, the _Enchantress_ crept
away into the dark. Her gray hull would be invisible from the shore, but
phosphorescence blazed about her bows and her wake was a trail of fire.
The tramp steamer rode not far ahead, a mysterious shadowy bulk, with
the gleam of her anchor-lights on the water, but as the _Enchantress_
stole past a voice called out to her:
"Good luck!"
Grahame did not answer, but he was grateful. The tramp captain
understood why his engineer had stayed ashore. Macallister's friends
were staunch; the Scots stood by one another.
The light in the plaza grew dim astern, and the blurred, dark beach was
rapidly slipping by. There was a lift on the water as they drew near the
harbor mouth; but the fort had yet to be passed, and Grahame searched
the shore with his glasses. Little by little he made out a formless
mound, which grew more distinct. There was no light in the building, but
he knew that sentries were supposititiously keeping watch beside the
guns. One or two of these were modern and no vessel was allowed to leave
port at night without official permission and a notification to the
commandant. If the steamer were seen, refusal to stop would be followed
by the roar of a gun. But Grahame did not mean to stop so long as she
was not struck.
For the next few minutes he felt his nerves tingle, but the fort was
dark and silent and only the soft splash along the beach broke the
stillness. The shadowy building dropped astern and he turned his glasses
upon the harbor mouth. Two lights showed where the gunboat lay, and,
some distance beyond them, a dim, pulsating radiance glimmered. This
marked where the open water swell broke upon the shoals. Grahame hoped
that it would cover the _Enchantress's_ luminous wake; besides, the roar
of the surf might drown the thud of engines, which carries far on a calm
night.
Jumping down from the rigging, he rapped sharply on the engine-hatch,
and Walthew ran quickly up the ladder.
"Throttle her down," Grahame said. "If I knock once, stop her; if twice,
give her all the steam you can."
Walthew nodded to show that he understood, for it might be dangerous to
use the telegraph gong; and then he disappeared below while Grahame
stood still, steadying the glasses on the deckhouse top.
With screw spinning slowly, the _Enchantress_ glided on, and the
gunboat's hull grew into shape against the sky. Grahame was glad that he
had the land behind him and his vessel was small, but he beckoned Miguel
to let her swing inshore. There was a shoal on that side, marked by a
line of foam; but he must take the risk of going too close.
A phosphorescent flicker played about the vague blackness of the
gunboat's bows; the light from the lamp on her forestay showed part of
the deck, and then receded as she rolled. Grahame could make out an
anchor hanging ready to let go and a man standing by her rail, until the
light reeled and the figure was lost in gloom. It seemed to him that the
_Enchantress_ must be seen, and he wondered whether the other vessel had
her boats in the water. He suspected that she belonged to the government
which Don Martin meant to overthrow, and it would be difficult to get
away from her if she had steam up. She was now abreast of him, but there
was no sign of activity on board. The _Enchantress_ crept on. The
gunboat dropped back to her quarter. Then there was a sudden harsh
rattle, and Grahame gasped. But a splash relieved the tension, because
he knew it was only the ash-hoist bringing up furnace cinders.
She drew further aft and began to fade; but Grahame now saw danger
ahead. The _Enchantress_ was throwing fiery spray about her bows and
rolling as she forged slowly through broken water. The shoal was close
ahead and, taking a sounding, he found scarcely a fathom under the keel.
This was enough, however, and, beckoning to Miguel, he let her go until
the darkness astern was broken only by the gunboat's lights. Then,
finding deeper water, he struck the engine-hatch.
"We're clear!" he called down in an exultant voice. "Drive her, but make
no sparks!"
The _Enchantress_ began to tremble, and a few moments later loose
stanchions rattled and deck-planks shook as she leaped through the long
swell with green fire blazing in the wake of her thudding screw. Grahame
laughed softly, and sat down to light a cigarette. He imagined that when
morning came there would be several badly disappointed intriguers in the
port he had left.
He thought it best, however, not to proceed directly to his destination,
and it was three days later when he ran in behind a point, and anchored
in shallow water. It was daylight, but the _Enchantress's_ gray hull and
slender spars would be hard to see against the land, and there was no
sign of habitation on the sweep of desolate coast. A cliff rose behind
the steamer, and then for some miles the dazzling sea broke in a fringe
of lace-like foam on a beach of yellow sand. On the landward side of
this, glossy-green jungle rolled away and merged into taller forest that
was presently lost in haze. No smoke streaked the horizon, and there was
not a boat on the beach, but while Grahame carefully watched, two
appeared from behind a reef, and he put down his glasses with a smile.
"Our friends!" he said to Walthew. "You might get the winch ready while
we take the hatches off."
An hour later a small party sat in the shade of the new stern awning.
The boats had gone away loaded, but they had left Don Martin and three
companions on board. Father Agustin, whose rusty black cassock jarred
upon the blaze of light and color, leaned back in a canvas chair with a
wineglass in his olive-tinted hand.
"I'm surprised to find you in such company, Father," Grahame said to
him.
The priest's eyes twinkled.
"It is not only the rich and respected we are sent out to seek, though I
think they need us as much as the others."
"You might find their help useful," Walthew suggested.
"True, if one could buy it! As a rule, they do not give, but sell, and
the price they ask is often high."
"Some bribes are hard to resist when they are offered in the name of
charity; for example, hospitals founded and new churches built," Grahame
interposed. "These are things you can make good use of."
Father Agustin looked at him steadily.
"An honest man does not take a bribe, as you, my son, should know," he
said.
"Ah!" Grahame returned carelessly. "I did not think you had heard of--a
certain affair."
Walthew gave him a surprised glance, but Father Agustin smiled.
"I hear many curious things. Besides, my companions take precautions.
Sometimes they find them needed."
"I suppose if I had done what I was asked and pocketed the reward, I
should have met with an accident shortly afterward?" Grahame suggested.
"One does not talk of such matters, senor, among trusted friends," one
of the men interposed.
"Your intelligence department seems to be well organized, but there's
ground for believing the opposition's is quite as good," Grahame said,
and related what had happened at their last port.
"Care will be needed after this," said Don Martin. "Now that they know
your boat, it is fortunate we changed the landing place; but you are
safe here. This coast is low and unhealthy; the President's friends are
prosperous and do not live in the swampy jungle."
"One can understand that," Grahame responded. "Your appeal is to those
who must live how and where they can. No doubt, they suffer now and then
for helping you."
"Ah!" exclaimed one of the Spaniards, "_how_ they suffer! If you give me
leave, senores, I can tell you startling things."
They listened with quickening interest, and he kept his promise well,
for there is in southern peoples, contaminated by darker blood, a vein
of sensual cruelty that sometimes leads to the perpetration of
unutterable horrors. Grahame's face grew quietly stern, Walthew's hot
and flushed, and Macallister clenched his hand, for the tales they heard
fired their blood.
"You have told us enough," Walthew said at last. "I went into this
business because I was looking for adventure and wanted to make some
money--but I mean to see it through if it costs me all I have!" He
turned to his comrades. "How do you feel about it?"
"Much as you do," Grahame answered quietly, and Macallister put his hand
on Sarmiento's arm.
"I'm with ye, if ye mean to make a clean sweep o' yon brutes."
"I believe their reckoning will come, but our bargain stands," said Don
Martin. "We need arms, and will pay for all you bring. Still, I am glad
your hearts are with us. It is sentiment that carries one farthest."
"How have you been getting on since we last met?" Walthew asked.
"We make progress, though there are difficulties. One must fight with
the purse as well as the sword, and the dictator's purse is longer than
ours. Of late, he has been getting money and spending it with a free
hand."
"Do you know where he gets it?" Grahame asked thoughtfully.
"So far, we have not found out. But it is foreign money, and he must
give what belongs to the country in exchange."
"An easy plan!" Walthew said. "Makes the country pay for keeping him in
power. I guess you'll have to meet the bill when you get in."
"That is so," Don Martin agreed. "It forces our hand. We must get in
before he leaves us no resources at all."
Grahame thought of Cliffe, and wondered about his business with Gomez;
but he decided to say nothing of this.
"Is Castillo still at liberty?" he asked.
"He is watched, but we have been able to protect him. A man of passion
and fervor who will rouse the people when the right time comes."
"But perhaps not a good plotter?"
Father Agustin gave Grahame a shrewd glance.
"We do not all possess your northern self-restraint, though one admits
its value. Senor Castillo follows a poetical ideal."
"So I imagined. Cold conviction sometimes leads one farther."
They were silent for a minute or two, and then one said:
"We have been anxious about Castillo. It is not that we doubt his
sincerity."
"You doubt his staying power?"
Father Agustin made an assenting gesture.
"Our friend is ardent, but a fierce fire soon burns out. The danger is
that when warmth is needed there may be no fuel left."
"I think you should try to guard him from pressure he is unfit to
stand," Grahame suggested. "One cannot always choose one's tools, but if
you are careful he may last until his work is done."
"It is so," Father Agustin agreed. "One loves the ring of fine, true
steel, but it is fortunate that metal of softer temper has its use,
though it sometimes needs skillful handling."
"He kens!" exclaimed Macallister. "Ye may rake stuff that will serve ye
weel from the scrap heap o' humanity, and there's times when it's a
comfort to remember that. But I'm surprised to find ye meddling with
politics."
"I am not a politician; it is not permitted. But I may hate injustice,
and there is no canon that bids me support what is evil. I came here as
your guest with other friends, and if they honor me with their
confidence I cannot refuse; nor do I think it a grave offense to give
them a word of advice."
"Good advice may prove more dangerous to their enemies than rifles,"
Grahame said.
Father Agustin mused for a few moments.
"Our friends' real task begins with their triumph," he said gravely;
"for that, at best, can but mean a clearing of the ground. Man builds
slowly, but to destroy is easy, and many see no farther."
"But when the building is tottering and rotten?"
"Sometimes it may be repaired, piece by piece, but that is not your
plan." Father Agustin spread out his hands. "If you build on a sound
foundation, your new work will stand; but the edifice of the State
cannot be cemented with hatred and envy. This responsibility is yours
and not your enemies'. But one looks to the future with hope as well as
doubt."
They then discussed the landing of the next cargo, and the general
course of operations, but while they plotted with Spanish astuteness
Grahame imagined that the quiet priest was the brain of the party.
After a time, the boats came back for another load, and when sunset
streaked the water with a lurid glow the guests took their leave and the
_Enchantress_ steamed out to sea.