THE RETREAT TO THE BOAT
At the bottom of the wady it was very hot, and Kit lay on the sand
behind a rock. His smarting skin was crusted by salt, his clothes had
dried stiff, and his muscles were sore. He had landed the guns, and it
had not been easy to run the launch through the surf and hold her off
the roaring beach while the boxes were brought ashore. The boat was half
swamped, and the sailors laboured up to their waists in water.
After the cargo was landed, a few dark-skinned men arrived, and when
they loaded the boxes on their camels a dispute began. Kit understood
the Berbers declared the rifles were not the pattern they expected to
get, and Wolf had not sent the number agreed. The leader, a very big,
truculent fellow, had opened a box, and argued angrily with the
interpreter. Simon was a Syrian, and since he owned that the Morocco he
knew was the Mediterranean coast, Kit imagined he did not altogether
understand the other's dialect. The Berber's dissatisfaction was
obvious, and Kit agreed to go up the wady and meet the chief.
When he had gone two or three miles, the Berbers, stating that they
would bring the chief, left two of their party and vanished with the
loaded camels among the stones. Kit rather thought the two who stopped
were meant for guards. They carried long guns and refused to talk to the
interpreter. After waiting for some time, Kit began to get disturbed.
Since he had left some men on board the launch, his party was not large
and carried no weapons but their long Spanish knives. Moreover the
yellow haze round the sun and the pillars of sand that span about the
wady indicated a dust storm not far off. If the wind freshened much, the
launch could not ride in the surf. Kit resolved he would not stop long,
and lighting a cigarette began to ponder.
They had not seen the gunboat. It looked as if Revillon imagined
_Mossamedes_ had got away in the dark and was searching the coast for
her. He would, no doubt, come back, but since the incriminating cargo
was landed this was not important. Perhaps Revillon had come back. The
sea was hidden by the hot, stony banks, and Kit was tired and languid;
to climb to the parched table land was too much effort. He began to
think about the rifles. So far, the tribesmen had brought the sheep and
camels they had agreed to deliver; now it looked as if they thought they
had been cheated. This was strange, but Kit remembered that none of his
friends trusted Wolf. He must see the chief and if possible satisfy the
fellow. All the same, he would not wait much longer. Don Erminio would
get disturbed, and the wind was rising. If nobody arrived when his
cigarette was smoked, he would start.
"They are sulky fellows," he said, indicating the Berbers.
"The Moors are very bad people," Miguel agreed. "When a _baccalao_
schooner is wrecked on the coast one does not see the crew again. It is
possible all are not drowned, but they vanish."
Kit looked at the Berbers and thought their quietness sinister. Their
dark faces were inscrutable, and they did not move. One could hardly
distinguish them from the stones.
"This time they bring no sheep or camels," Miguel resumed meaningly.
"It is strange," said Kit. "We have brought them rifles, but perhaps
they have already paid for the lot."
"Some day they will get the rifles without payment," remarked Juan, the
mate. "So long as they expect another lot, they are honest, but when
they get all they want they will cut your throat. They will not cut
mine; I have had enough. Senor Wolf is clever, but the game is
dangerous. If he cheats, you will pay."
Kit looked at Simon, who knitted his brows. "I do not altogether
understand, but they are angry. Something is not as they had thought."
The haze about the sun was thicker. Puffs of fiery wind blew down the
wady, a whirling pillar of dust broke and fell near the group, and the
distant rumble of the surf got loud. It was very hot and the men were
languid, but a sailor pulled a knife with an ornamented handle from his
sleeve and began to sharpen it on his belt. Kit's cigarette had burned
to a stump, and he looked at his watch. Juan got up.
"_Vamos!_ We start now," he said. "Senor Wolf knows much; he stops at
Las Palmas and if his customers carry us off, it is our affair."
One of the Berbers began to talk in an angry voice but they set off, and
to start was some relief to Kit. Standing for his employer, he felt
himself accountable for his party, and he had waited long enough. In
fact, he wondered whether he had not waited too long, since the rising
surf might force the launch to return to the ship. Now he was going, he
wanted to go fast, but for a time did not. He was tired, the heat was
enervating, and the path was rough. Big stones lay about the dry river
bed, and the gaps were filled by soft sand, in which one's feet sank.
Besides, it was prudent to use control. The others were obviously
disturbed, and he must make an effort for calm.
For all that, when the sand began to blow down the wady his speed got
faster. The dust stuck to his hot skin and gathered on his eyelashes. He
could not see properly and his breath was laboured, but when a sailor
in front began to run he kept up. He frankly did not want to be left
behind. Perhaps it was imagination, but he began to feel as if somebody
followed him.
Turning his head, he looked about. He saw big stones and clumps of
tamarisk, but this was all. The dust might hide the Berbers' camels, and
a camel travels faster than a tired man. The strange thing was, although
he had gone up the wady to meet the Berbers, he now wanted to reach the
launch before they arrived. Kit admitted he was not logical, but to know
the launch might have gone bothered him.
At length the wady got wider, and peering through the dust-cloud, he saw
the sea. The launch had not gone and the lifeboat was coming from the
steamer. Kit thought this strange, since the launch would carry all, but
perhaps Don Erminio had sent to find out why they had not returned. The
surf was high and a man on board the launch stood up and waved his arms,
as if he signalled the party to be quick. Then the dust got very thick
and boats and surf vanished. Juan shouted, but Kit did not hear what he
said. They were all running as fast as possible, slipping and stumbling
across the stones.
They reached the open beach and the dust rolled by. For a few moments
the view was clearer and Kit saw the man on the launch was not waving to
him; he signalled to the lifeboat. Looking back, Kit understood. Camels
were coming down the wady. Then the dust rolled up again and he saw
nothing.
Breathing hard, he laboured across the beach. The sailors had paid out
cable and the launch, with her bows to the breakers, tossed about in the
surf. In a few moments he would reach her, but somebody behind seized
him. He staggered and tried to turn; and then a sailor swerved and
jumped. Kit saw the Spanish knife shine and next moment he was free. He
plunged into the water and the launch's stern struck the sand close by.
A broken sea rolled in and men jumped overboard. They carried oars and
knives, for the _baccalao_ fishers' quarrel with the Moors is old. Kit
seized the launch's tiller, a thick bar of African oak.
Men with darker skins than the Spaniards were in the water, but so far
as Kit could see, they did not shoot. It looked as if they meant to
capture the party. Kit, however, could not see much. Dust and sand
rolled across the beach and the spray was thick. The launch was half
swamped and he thought the Berbers would hold her until the surf beat in
her bilge. Long oars and stretchers swung, Miguel used an iron
anchor-stock, and the mate, crouched like a cat on the stern, thrust
with his knife. Perhaps the struggle had gone on for a minute when the
white lifeboat rode in on a comber's top. She swung to her anchor and
Don Erminio jumped overboard. To come ashore was not the captain's
business, but Don Erminio was a sportsman.
For the next few moments the struggle was savage, but Kit did not know
much about it. He was knocked down and washed against the lifeboat. His
head hurt, he could not get on his feet, and the surf rolled him up and
down the beach. Then, when he was going out with the backwash, somebody
dragged him on board, and while he lay in the water under the thwarts he
was dully conscious that the boat was off the beach. He knew this
because she lurched violently, but did not strike the sand. Spray blew
about and the tops of the seas splashed across the gunwale. She made
slow progress and Kit thought all the oars were not manned.
Crawling aft under the rowers' feet, he seized a thwart and pulled
himself up. Don Erminio lay on the sternsheets and groaned. His face
was very white and his leg was not its proper shape. The launch laboured
across the combers some distance off. Kit pushed a man from the tiller
and told him to row. His head ached, but he could steer.
They were long pulling off to _Mossamedes_, and then were forced to wait
for some minutes. She rolled, lifting her bilge-keels out of the water,
and one must watch for a chance to hook on the tackles. At length a
broken sea, smaller than the others, lifted the boat and Kit seized the
swinging hook. The bowman was quick and got the other hook, a winch
rattled, and the big boat went up. She struck the steamer's plates, but
did not stop, and in a few moments the swivelling davits dropped her on
the skids. Macallister and a steward lifted out the captain, and Kit
went aft to see the launch hove up. Then he went to his room and for a
time knew nothing more.
He was roused by Macallister's bathing his face, and gave him a dull
look.
"I'm thinking ye'll no be very bonny for a week or two," the engineer
remarked. "For a' that, ye're luckier than the captain."
"Is Don Erminio hurt?" Kit asked.
"His legs and some ribs are broken; maybe he was washed aneath the
launch. But yon's no a'. When the boats came off Juan and Miguel were
not on board."
Kit lifted himself awkwardly and leaned against the back of his bunk.
His head ached horribly and his brain was dull, but he felt the throb of
engines and heard water flow along the plates. _Mossamedes_ was steaming
hard and he must get up. He got his leg across the ledge, and then
Macallister pushed him firmly back.
"Ye'll bide! Felix and I have work enough wi' the captain and two or
three mair."
"But you must stop her. I'm going back for Miguel."
"Ye cannot go back. I dinna ken how we won out."
"Ah!" said Kit, who felt the steamer's regular rise and fall. "She has
crossed the shoals?"
"It looks like that. When I stopped to use the big lead, we got good
water."
"But who took her out? Miguel's not on board."
"Sometimes ye must trust your luck," Macallister replied. "Before the
lifeboat went away Don Erminio hove the cable short, and when ye brought
him off, unconscious, I broke the anchor out. There's no' a sound plank
in the launch, the lifeboat's sternpost's smashed, and the sea was
getting up. If Juan and Miguel are living, the Moors have carried them
off. Weel, since the second mate is damaged, I reckoned my job was to
get back to Grand Canary. I sent Salvador to the wheel, started the
mill, and let her gang."
"You went across blind?" Kit exclaimed with dull surprise.
"Just that! She hit the bottom, but came off and we got no extra water
in the wells."
The thing looked impossible; Kit had thought nobody but Miguel could
steer _Mossamedes_ across the shoals. For all that, her even movements
indicated that she had reached open sea, and Kit tried to brace himself.
"But if the captain and second mate are knocked out, we haven't a
navigator, and Grand Canary's small."
"Ye have a good engineer and a crew o' _baccalao_ fishermen,"
Macallister rejoined. "I alloo Grand Canary's small, but it's high, and
ye can see the Peak o' Teneriffe over a hundred miles. Weel, I ken where
we started and put over the patent log. When ye steer for an
archipelago ye needna bother about a few degrees."
Kit nodded. Six high volcanic islands rise from deep water, and
_Mossamedes'_ crew had manned the fishing schooners. On a short voyage
one could navigate by dead-reckoning.
"I'll away and look at the captain," Macallister resumed. "If ye'll no
promise to lie quiate until I let ye up, I'll lock ye in."
Kit promised, because he doubted if he could get out of his bunk, and
when Macallister had gone he turned awkwardly and looked at the glass on
the wall. A purple mark crossed his swollen forehead, and his jaw was
cut. Somebody had knocked him down with a gun, or perhaps he had got
under the plunging boat. All his body felt battered. For a few minutes
he leaned against the side of his bunk, and then slipped back and went
to sleep.
PART III
KIT FINDS HIS LEVEL
CHAPTER I
ILLUMINATION
_Mossamedes_ steamed into Las Palmas harbour one evening, and as soon as
she was moored Kit landed Don Erminio and filed the necessary documents
at the _Commandancia_ offices. He, however, said nothing about the
struggle on the beach, and accounted for the captain's injuries by
stating that he was washed under the boat. The sailors' hurts were not
serious, and Kit had not allowed the port doctor to see the men. His
visit was an embarrassment, but on the whole Kit and Macallister thought
they had not excited his curiosity.
While he lay in his bunk Kit had pondered and made his plans. He meant
to return and look for the mate and Miguel, but if the Spanish officers
knew, he was persuaded they would not let him go. They would, no doubt,
make exhaustive inquiries and reports, and then send a properly
organised search party. Speed, however, was important, and anything
undertaken by the Spanish Government was not done soon.
Although it cost him some effort, he went from the _Commandancia_ to the
mate's house and told his story to a startled woman with a powdered
face. When Senora Diaz was calm she asked Kit what he was going to do
about it, and he said: "In the morning I sail for Africa. I do not think
Juan is hurt; the Moors wanted prisoners to hold until they get
satisfaction. You must not be afraid. Somehow we will find him."
Senora Diaz was comforted. Kit was young, but he looked very resolute
and capable. Something in his quiet voice gave her confidence.
"_Vaya con Dios!_" she said and let him go.
Kit felt the senora had not used conventionally the polite good-bye;
anyhow he had not given her an empty promise. He was going to find her
husband, and Wolf was going to help. If it were necessary, Kit meant to
force him, for he had noted that _Cayman_ was in the harbour ready for
sea. Wolf must charter her in the next hour or two, and she must sail
before the Commandante knew about the fight on the beach. Responsibility
had developed Kit and brought into action qualities he had not
altogether known were his. He could front a crisis and saw he must front
one now. _Cayman_ was in port, and with the fresh Trade-breeze abeam,
would soon reach the wady. A few resolute men might find and make some
bargain with the Moors, but if a gunboat landed a strong party the tribe
would vanish in the desert.
After the lonely anchorage and desolate surf-beaten coast, the noise and
traffic in the streets were strange. Bright lights burned in the shops,
people crowded the pavements, enjoying the cool of the evening, and Kit
heard the band in the _alameda_. He felt he had nothing to do with the
careless loungers, and their cheerful voices jarred. His load was heavy
and he was highly strung.
To reach the quiet street where Wolf lived was some relief, but Kit went
slowly, trying to think. He had taken Yusuf's selling them to Revillon
for granted, but he doubted if this were all. Kit was satisfied Wolf had
not carried out his engagements with the Moors, and since the fellow had
cheated his customers he would not hesitate to betray his servants. He
had used them unscrupulously, and now two might be forced to pay for his
dishonesty, he must send them help.
For a few minutes Kit mused about something else. Mrs. Austin had got
him the post, and it looked as if she knew Wolf was a cheat. Anyhow,
Olivia knew, and she was not as clever as her sister. After he had seen
Wolf, he was going to see Mrs. Austin. If there was any difficulty about
Wolf's chartering _Cayman_, she must persuade her husband. Austin was
Jefferson's partner and owned some shares in the boat.
Kit stopped at the arch that led to Wolf's _patio_. All was dark inside
and the iron gate was fast. He rang a bell and a man crossed the flags
and pulled back the heavy bolt. His face was near the bars, and Kit
noted with some surprise that it was not Wolf's servant.
"What does your honor want?" he asked.
Kit said he wanted Wolf and would go to the office, but the other did
not open the gate.
"Senor Wolf is not here."
"Not here! Then, where is he?" said Kit, with an effort for calm.
The other spread out his hands. "_Quien sabe?_ Many are curious, but
nobody knows. The senor went some days since. I am the landlord's
servant and take care of the house."
"Ah!" said Kit sharply. "Did he leave a letter for his _sobrecargo_?"
"He left nothing, senor. The boxes in the office were empty. There was a
heap of ashes, as if somebody had burned papers, but this was all."
Kit thanked the man and went off. He knew enough. Wolf was gone and one
saw what his going meant. Numerous steamers touched at Las Palmas and
the fellow had, no doubt, quietly got on board. Since he could buy his
ticket from the purser, there was no use in inquiring at the steamship
offices. Well, Kit must see Mrs. Austin.
The shortest way to the house was across the _alameda_. The band was
playing, lamps burned among the dusty trees, and as Kit approached a
group of people he stopped. Olivia talked to a Spanish lady, the lady's
husband, two or three young Spanish girls, and some coaling clerks stood
about, but when Olivia saw Kit she left the others. Going with him to a
bench at a quiet spot not far off, she sat down. Kit leaned against a
tree and a beam from a lamp touched his face. Olivia noted the dark
bruise and the hardness of his mouth. He looked very tired and his eyes
were dull.
"Why, Kit! What is the matter?" she said.
"I expect you know Wolf is gone?"
"Yes, I do know. But what does it mean?"
"For one thing, it means Wolf's a thief and I'm a trustful fool. In the
meantime, perhaps, that's enough----"
"I wouldn't bother about it," said Olivia soothingly. "You look ill and
you have hurt your head."
"I must bother," Kit rejoined. "I was Wolf's servant and have lost two
of his men. Since I stood for their employer, in a sense the men were
mine. The Moors have got them. Wolf cheated the fellows, they followed
us to the boats, and there was a fight. I got on board, but all the men
who'd gone with me did not. I was their leader; I ought to have gone off
last."
Olivia was moved by his distress and put her hand gently on his arm.
"Oh, Kit, I'm sorry! But you're not accountable. If it had been possible
to save the men you would have brought them off."
Her sympathy thrilled him. He was highly strung, and although he tried
for control he was carried away.
"The voyage was disastrous; all went wrong from the start," he said.
"You warned me and talked about bad luck, but I went. Perhaps I'm
obstinate, but I think you knew why I did go."
Olivia turned her head and thought. She had known why he went, but it
was plain the reserve he had used was gone. His control was broken and
he would be frank. She liked him, but now he forced her to choose her
line, she admitted this was all.
"I think you were rather ridiculous," she said, quietly looking up.
He tried to pull himself together, but could not. He had got a nasty
knock.
"It looks like that!" he said in a hoarse voice. "All the same, you knew
my ambition and didn't hint I was ridiculous!"
The blood came to Olivia's skin and her eyes sparkled.
To some extent she felt Kit's retort was justified, but she was modern
and had pluck.
"I thought you lonely and we were pals," she said. "Did you expect me to
warn you I didn't want a lover?"
"If you had warned me it would not have cost you much. Perhaps I am
dull, but sometimes I do understand. I thought I might, like Austin,
mend my fortune; he held my post and married your sister. You knew, and
I expect you were amused. The thing was a joke! Well, sometimes I saw I
was a fool, but I wasn't logical long. When you're about one isn't
logical. I _meant_ to mend my fortune."
"Are you logical now?"
Kit laughed harshly. "Oh, yes; my rashness is plain enough! You had long
since resolved to refuse me all I hadn't the pluck to ask. Well, my luck
is certainly not good. I have been refused before and in the
meantime----"
She stopped him by a proud gesture. "You are breaking rules, Kit, and
mustn't talk like this again. When you are cool you will know you ought
not. What have your love affairs to do with me?"
He gave her a steady look and his face got rather white. The dark bruise
was plainer and the blood left his lips.
"My rules are the rules of the humble folk to whom I belong. All the
same, I might have tried to use yours had I been my proper self. Well,
perhaps I deserve some punishment. I'm poor and have no talent to help
me along; I let Wolf use and cheat me like a schoolboy. Then, when I met
you a few minutes since, I forgot about the men I'd lost. However, I'm
going back to look for them and if I find them and some time get a
proper job, we'll talk about my rashness again. I'll go to Don Pancho
and state I mean to ask you to marry me. You'll no doubt refuse, but my
proposal will be regular, and to refuse an offer I've some right to make
won't humiliate you."
Olivia thought fatigue and strain accounted for much. He had got a bad
knock, and she had hurt him worse. She was half sorry and half angry,
but her anger was keenest against Mrs. Austin, who had sent him on board
the ship.
"You are ridiculous, Kit," she said gently. "But if you are in trouble
about Wolf and the men in Morocco, go to Jacinta. I think she ought to
help. That's all. You mustn't keep me. The others are curious."
She rejoined the party at the band and Kit went on to Mrs. Austin's. He
agreed with Olivia, but did not stop where she stopped. Mrs. Austin _was
going_ to help. When he reached the veranda she was talking to Mrs.
Jefferson, and nobody else was about. Kit remembered this was an evening
on which she did not receive guests. She glanced at him with some
surprise, noting his bruised face and disturbed look, and then indicated
a chair.
"I don't know that you'll urge me to stop when you have heard my tale,"
he said. "However, is Mr. Austin or Mr. Jefferson at home?"
"Harry is at Teneriffe, and Jefferson has gone to Madeira."
"Then my luck is bad again," said Kit. "All the same, I've come to ask
for something and meant to state that I expected your support. I meant
to see you anyhow."
Mrs. Austin was surprised, but said nothing. Kit had not talked to her
like this before. He was cool and very stern. Somehow he looked older
and she wondered about the bruise.
"Very well," he resumed. "I met Miss Brown at the _alameda_ and
understand you know Wolf is gone. I did not know until I arrived, but
begin to see light. It's possible his going did not surprise you. You
knew he was a rogue!"
"You are taking much for granted," Mrs. Austin remarked quietly.
"Not at all," said Kit. "Your sister knew and warned me. People declare
you're the cleverest woman at Las Palmas."
Mrs. Austin pondered. If Olivia had warned Kit, it was possible the girl
herself did not know as much as her elder sister had thought. About
Betty, for example.
"Well?" she said.
"I'll tell you my story," Kit replied, and narrated his adventures after
landing the guns.
"I begin to see," Mrs. Austin remarked. Then, for her line of argument
was sometimes not very obvious, she resumed: "You met Olivia not long
since by the band?"
"That is so," Kit replied with some dryness. "All the same, you have no
grounds to be disturbed; Miss Brown knows my drawbacks. In fact, when
you persuaded Wolf to give me the post your meddling wasn't necessary.
But you did get me the post, although you doubted Wolf. This is
important!"
At Las Palmas Mrs. Austin was a great lady, and Kit had gratefully owned
his debt to her. Now he took another line; a line that nobody she knew
durst use. For all that she was sorry for Kit. He looked ill and worn;
she saw that losing the men weighed hard on him.
"Suppose I admit I sent you to Wolf?" she said. "You feel you are
entitled to blame me because your adventure was not fortunate?"
"Not at all; my object's not to blame you," said Kit. "When I took the
post I thought you kind. To find out that all you wanted was to get me
away from Las Palmas hurt. However, we won't bother about this----"
He paused. Mrs. Austin's calm was beginning to embarrass him. In fact,
there was something very dignified about her quietness, although she
admitted that her plotting had cost him much. Kit, however, braced
himself.
"I meant to see you before I saw Mr. Austin," he resumed. "I'm going
back for the men and must get a boat at once. If the Commandante knew I
was going he wouldn't let me sail, and he will know soon. _Cayman_'s
ready for sea and you must lend me her."
Mrs. Austin smiled. "I don't think your argument is altogether sound.
_Cayman_ belongs to my husband and Jefferson and they are away."
"All that's Mr. Austin's is yours, and Mrs. Jefferson is here."
"I imagine I can promise for my husband," Mrs. Jefferson remarked.
"Very well," said Mrs. Austin. "You may have the boat. I will give you a
letter for the captain."
She went off, and Mrs. Jefferson turned to Kit. "Have you seen Betty?"
Kit started. He had forgotten Betty; he was again a fool. She would
understand his troubles and would sympathise. He was persuaded she would
agree he ought to go.
"I'd like to see her, but I cannot," he said. "We must sail at daybreak,
and I have much to do. All I can think about is getting back to Africa.
But, if you will tell her why I didn't go to the office----"
Mrs. Jefferson smiled. Betty had qualities, but Mrs. Jefferson doubted
if she would approve Kit's sending another to tell his tale. She said
nothing, and Mrs. Austin presently returned and gave Kit an envelope.
"This is an order for the captain. Your adventure's rash, and I really
ought not to agree," she said. "For all that, I wish you luck!"
Kit thanked her and when he went down the steps Mrs. Austin looked at
Mrs. Jefferson.
"If he wrecks _Cayman_ or the crew get hurt I shall have some trouble
with Harry. Sometimes he is firmer than people think."
Mrs. Jefferson smiled. "On the whole I imagine Jake will approve.
Perhaps Kit was rude, but in a way he was rather fine. He won't wreck
the boat, and I expect he will get the men. Kit is good stuff. However,
I suppose you're satisfied you were entitled to meddle?"
"About Olivia? Yes, so far as that goes, my plan was good. My father was
a steamship steward and began business at Las Palmas by selling tobacco
on board the ships. All the same, Kit Musgrave is not Olivia's sort. If
she doesn't know this now, he and she would soon find it out. Well, I'm
going to be firm."
"I doubt if firmness is indicated," Mrs. Jefferson rejoined with a
twinkle. "Sometimes the best plan is to leave things alone."
CHAPTER II
"CAYMAN'S" START
Soon after he left Mrs. Austin's, Kit rowed off to _Mossamedes_, got
some clothes and talked to the interpreter, who hesitated for a time
before he agreed to go with him. Then he picked out three men from the
crew, but ordered them to stop on board until he was ready. It was
obvious that his adventure must not be talked about before he left the
port.
Afterwards he was rowed to _Cayman_ and gave Mrs. Austin's letter to the
captain. _Cayman_ was a fast and strong ketch-rigged vessel of about
sixty tons. Four hands could sail her and relieve the watch, but she
carried six. When goods are not all landed at the ports, trading on the
Morocco coast has some drawbacks, and Jefferson ran no risks. The
captain was an old _baccalao_ fisherman and when he read the order he
asked: "Where do you want to go?"
Kit told him, and he looked thoughtful. "I know the spot. The sands are
dangerous and the Moors are bad."
"For all that you must anchor the ketch behind the banks and wait until
I come back from the desert," said Kit, and stated why he meant to
undertake the journey.
"Ah," said the captain, "that is another thing! My men will not grumble;
they know the Moors. Well, we are not allowed to carry guns, but I can
throw a knife, and Maccario can kill a jumping goat with his sling. Then
Andres, the wrestler, knows a trick. The Moor he seizes will drop with a
broken back."
"Your men will stop on board. They are Senor Jefferson's servants, and
the job is mine. When I land three or four from the steamer will go with
me."
"We will talk about this again. But you had anchored behind the sands
and had lost Miguel. How did you get to sea?"
"I don't know," said Kit. "I was in my bunk and Don Erminio was in his,
but we did get to sea. I understand Don Pedro took control."
The captain laughed. "_El maquinista? Ave Maria!_ Senor, for a good
sailor who is not a fisherman the thing was impossible! But I know Don
Pedro. I have seen him dance, strange dances of the North, at the
wineshop by the mole. Some say he is mad. All the same, the steamer is
not wrecked. _Ma!_"
Kit stopped him. It looked as if Macallister's friends were numerous,
but there was much to be done and he rowed the captain to the port
office and left him to file his papers. One could not, without complying
with some formalities, sail before daybreak, and Kit thought to send to
the ayutante's house was risky.
Engaging a _tartana_, he went to see Don Erminio. The captain's small
house smelt of salt fish, garlic, and burned olive oil, and Senora
Martinez received Kit in the court. She was fat and her brown skin was
thickly powdered.
"You will not excite my husband," she said. "When he is ill he is
sometimes difficult, and he has had a dispute with the doctor."
She took Kit up the outside stairs and along a balcony to a small, hot
room. Don Erminio occupied the old-fashioned bed, and when Kit came in
looked up with a savage frown, but the frown vanished.
"I thought it was the animal of a doctor coming back," he remarked. "Me,
I am a sailor, and he will not let me drink! The _anisado_ was on the
table, he put the bottle in his pocket, and I could not get up. Then he
looked in the cupboard. The animal is cunning, but another time I put
the bottle under the bed. However, the Moors have got Juan and Miguel.
We must do something!"
Kit stated his plans and the captain signed approval. He was tightly
bandaged and could hardly move his head.
"It is very good. But you will take Don Pedro?"
"I think not. In fact, he does not know I am going."
The captain urged, but Kit was firm. Caution and tact were indicated,
and although Macallister was generally cool, his coolness often masked a
freakish rashness.
"Very well," Don Erminio agreed at length. "Sometimes Don Pedro is
humorous, but the Moors are not people with whom one jokes. I will lend
you my gun."
He signed to Senora Martinez, who brought the old pinfire gun and gave
it to Kit.
"The gun is good. If you are careful she will not go off before you
want, but you must not shake her," he resumed, and frowned when he saw
the mark on the box of cartridges. "What is this?" he asked his wife.
"Bring the number B. Senor Musgrave does not shoot the rabbit."
Senora Martinez got another box and Don Erminio nodded. "It is good! If
Pepe has used the proper measure, she will kill a Moor at twenty yards.
But you must not shake her. The hammer-spring is loose."
Kit thanked him and soon afterwards went off. He had taken the gun in
order to indulge the captain, since it was obvious that when he met the
Moors he could not use force. For all that, he had not a pistol and to
some extent the old gun might give him moral support.
When he was rowed across the harbour he heard a guitar badly played, and
jumping down from _Cayman_'s bulwarks saw Macallister sitting under the
anchor light. The engineer held the guitar awkwardly, and the sailors
sat round and laughed.
"Hallo!" Kit said, frowning. "Why have you come on board?"
"Ye're a dour, crabbit Englishman and no' as clever as ye think,"
Macallister rejoined. "Ye had not been gone ten minutes when I kenned
what ye were after and reckoned I had got to see ye oot. Ye didna ken I
talk Aver-r-rack?"
"I doubt it now," said Kit and Macallister beckoned the interpreter, who
had come on board with him.
"Ye shall judge, Adjia Simonidas."
"Is this Arabic? It sounds like Greek," said Kit.
"Simon's from Aleppo," Macallister rejoined. "When ye trade in the
Levant, ye use Arabic, Turkish, Italian and Greek, and whiles ye mix the
lot. There's no' a sailor's cafe between Suez and Smyrna I dinna ken.
But ye're a doubting creature. Weel, Simon----"
He began to talk and the interpreter leaned against the mast and
laughed.
"He is truly droll," Simon remarked in French. "But I think he is safe
with the Moors. Good Moslems believe that Allah guards such as him."
Kit lighted a cigarette. He had undertaken an awkward job and was
sternly serious. Mack was, of course, a good sort, but when he was not
engaged in the engine-room his talents were for something like comic
opera. Kit would frankly sooner he had stopped on board _Mossamedes_.
For all that, he had known Mack's reckless humour useful when sober
thought was not, and he must be resigned. Mack was on board and would
not go back.
When Kit had smoked his cigarette he got two of the men to wash
_Cayman_'s boat and rowed across the harbour to a coaling wharf. The
clerks had gone, but Kit knew how the hose key worked and brought back
the boat loaded with fresh water as deep as she would float. Then he
looked at his watch and going to the _patron_'s small cabin tried to
sleep.
The rattle of chain woke him and he went on deck. Day was breaking and a
cold wind blew off the land. Mist rolled about the mountains and in the
background Las Palmas glimmered against dark volcanic rocks. Its outline
was blurred and the white houses were indistinct; the town looked
ghostly and unsubstantial. In the harbour, steamers with gently-swaying
masts floated on the smooth swell. Nobody moved about their decks and
all was very quiet but for the surf that beat against the mole.
Some of the crew began to hoist the mainsail. They moved slackly, as if
they were half-asleep, their bare feet made no noise, and Kit liked to
hear the thud of the canvas they threw off the boom. Then blocks began
to rattle, and when the gaff was up the sail flapped in the wind. They
left the peak hanging and went forward to hoist the jib. The noise of
running wire and chain halyard was cheerful, and Kit tried to rouse
himself.
There is something that moves the imagination about a large steamer
leaving port. One gets a sense of organised effort, of force in man's
control and the triumph of his inventions. Kit had vaguely felt that the
_correillo_'s sailing with the mails on board was, so to speak, a social
function of some importance to all. To mark a mail-boat's departure by a
gun or detonating rocket was proper. But _Cayman_'s start was flat and
dreary. She must steal out of harbour lest she be stopped; and Kit,
shivering in the cold wind, was daunted.
He had left his ship without leave and Macallister had frankly run away.
They had broken useful rules and would, no doubt, lose their posts, but
this did not much bother Kit. He had undertaken a job that, so far as he
could see, he could not carry out. In fact, the thing was ridiculous.
The Moors were fierce and cunning desert thieves, and he was going to
force them to agree with him. He knew no arguments they would admit, and
his only protection was Don Erminio's old pinfire gun.
Kit felt his youth, but his inheritance counted for much. His code was
the Puritans', and its rude simplicity had advantages. One must do this
because it was proper; the other was not. There was no use in arguing
when one knew what was right. Kit saw his duty and, if it cost him
something, he must pay. All the same, he shrank. To do what he ought
might cost much.
_Cayman_ rode to a buoy and when the jib was sheeted they brought the
mooring aft and let her swing. The _patron_ went to the long tiller and
wore her round, and the slack mainsail lurched across. Then all went to
the peak halyard and Kit's spirits rose. The rattle of blocks was
cheerful; he liked to see the straining figures rise and fall. The men's
laboured breath and rhythmic movements gave him a bracing sense of
effort.
_Cayman_ stole between a big cargo boat and a passenger liner, and by
contrast with their lofty hulls looked absurdly small. When she began to
list the water was nearly level with her covering board. The list got
sharper, she forged past the end of the mole and her bowsprit splashed
in the high, green swell. The _patron_ studied the mist that rolled
about the mountains and turned to Kit.
"The wind blows up there and we will get it when we get the sun. Well,
we must drive her off the coast before the Commandante knows why we have
gone. I think we will not steer the usual course."
They ran up the staysail and set the mizzen. _Cayman_ leaped forward and
the spray blew from her plunging bows. Her white wake trailed across the
tops of the seas astern, and the water that bubbled through the scuppers
crept up her lee deck. For all that, the captain was not satisfied and
he looked to windward, knitting his brows.
"One can see far with the telescope from the Isleta signal station," he
remarked. "The mist is clearing. We will risk the topsail."
The big sail was hoisted and _Cayman_'s list got very sharp. One could
not see how far the water crept up her inclined deck, because a
sparkling cascade splashed across her weather bow and swelled the flood.
They had hauled her on the wind and her channels dragged in the foam.
One heard the wire shrouds hum and the masts groan, and now and then a
sea rolled aft and broke against the boat on deck. For all that, the
captain held on, and when the sun rose Grand Canary had melted into the
silver mist.
CHAPTER III
THE WADY
The sun was nearly overhead, and Kit sat in the hot dust that lay about
the wady. A low bank rose behind him and shaded his head. His eyes hurt,
he was tired, and his burned skin was sore, for the dust stung as if it
were mixed with alkali. In the open one could hardly front the sun, but
the nights were keen, and at daybreak he had got up shivering from his
hard bed behind a stone.
Macallister, Simon, and three sailors from _Mossamedes_ occupied the
narrow belt of shade. Their poses were cramped and awkward, for all
tried to get some shelter from the sun. They had lunched frugally on
_gofio_, goat's-milk cheese, and a little sour wine. _Gofio_ is roasted
grain, ground and mixed with water. The gritty paste stuck to Kit's
parched mouth, for he tried to control his thirst. The skin in which
they had brought water from the ketch did not hold much.
The map in Wolf's office indicated an oasis not very far from the coast,
and Kit imagined that where water was he would find the Berbers. Since
the wady ran nearly straight inland, he resolved to use it for a guide,
and for three days the party had laboured across the dust and stones. As
a rule, the hollow was not deep or sharply marked. For the most part,
easy slopes led to a bare tableland where the soil, swept and
consolidated by the wind, looked like rock. In places, however, the
hollow pierced rolling ground and sank to a stony ravine.
The country was strangely desolate, but was not the level, sandy desert
Kit had thought. In fact, there was not much sand, and in spots it
looked as if the soil was sometimes cultivated. The bank behind Kit's
camp was sharply cut as if by an angry torrent, but since he had left
the beach he had not seen water. There was not a rabbit or a partridge,
although in the dry Canaries rabbits haunt the stony ravines and
red-legged partridges run in the prickly pear. Nothing but a pair of
buzzards, floating very high up, had crossed the sky.
Half closing his eyelids, Kit looked about. Strange reflections quivered
across the stones and distant objects were magnified. In the foreground,
the light was dazzling, and the hollow melted into a luminous belt of
brown and yellow. A euphorbia bush with stiff, thick stalks, however,
was harshly green and looked like a house, although it was but four or
five feet high. The euphorbia puzzled Kit; in a country where one found
no water, its stalks were tender with milky sap. He glanced at his
companions. Their cotton clothes had gone yellow, their skin was brown,
and he thought one could not distinguish them a short distance off. An
hour since he imagined somebody had looked out from behind a stone.
Although he wanted to meet the Berbers, he did not want to think they
cautiously followed his track.
He mused about the barrenness of the country. At Lanzarote, sixty miles
from the African coast, it sometimes did not rain for six or eight
months, and then, when the concrete cisterns were nearly dry, it rained
in floods. Perhaps it was like that in Morocco; sheep and camels could
not live if it did not rain at all. Kit began to think about the good
bishop who used all his fortune to send the people of Lanzarote water.
A sailor shouted, and Kit jumped up. A cloud of dust rolled down the
wady, and in the dust, about sixty yards off, men on camels rode for the
camp. Kit watched their advance with dull surprise. A few moments since
he had seen nobody and a camel is a large object to hide. It looked as
if the Berbers had sprung from the sand. Then he heard the humming
flight of a stone and a camel swerved. A sailor laughed hoarsely and
stooped to get another stone for his sling, but Kit stopped the man. He
had come to meet the Berbers and they carried long guns. Had they meant
to hurt him, they could have hidden behind the stones and shot the
party.
For all that, when they pulled up a few yards off, his heart beat and
coolness was hard. They were big, muscular fellows and the nearest
looked scornfully fierce; Kit could not see the others' faces because
they wore loose hoods. One or two of the Spaniards had drawn their
knives, but nobody moved. The little party stood against the bank and
looked at the Berbers. Then Kit braced himself and signed to the
interpreter.
For a few moments Simon and one of the others talked, but the Berber's
remarks were short. His pose was easy, but very still, and the long gun
he balanced somehow emphasised his height. He was like a bronze and blue
statue, and Kit thought his quietness forbidding. The camel moved its
long neck and grunted.
"He says we must go with him," Simon remarked. "His chief is waiting.
That is all."
Kit looked at Macallister, who calmly cleaned his pipe. "Aweel," he
said, "ye wanted to find the Moors and ye ought to be satisfied. Yon
fellow's no' for arguing. We'll just gang."
The Berber touched his camel and lifted his hand. His gesture was
commanding, and when the others moved forward Kit told the Spaniards to
put up their knives. The Berbers did not threaten; they pushed their
camels against the bank, and the men must move or be trampled.
"_Arrai!_" said the leader, his camel grunted, and Kit's men set off,
one behind the other between two rows of the clumsy animals.
The camels went fast, their necks moving backwards and forwards like
engine piston-rods. At the bottom of the wady the heat was intolerable,
and thick dust rolled up. Moreover, the ground was rough, but Kit pushed
on as fast as possible. He did not think the Berbers would argue about
the pace; it looked as if they thought his business was to keep up. He
heard Macallister breathe hard and sometimes Simon coughed. The sailors
went silently in their open rawhide shoes, the Berbers said nothing, and
one could not hear the camels' feet. In fact, all was strangely quiet,
and somehow flat.
Kit had started with high resolves, but owned he had not played a
romantic part. Things had not gone as he had vaguely planned; the
situation, so to speak, was not in his control. His party was driven
along rather like a flock of sheep. Although he had meant to negotiate
with the chief, it looked as if he was the fellow's prisoner.
The wady pierced a stony hill, and in the defile the heat got worse.
Kit's skin was scorched; the dust got into his nose and throat.
Sometimes he could hardly see; his eyes hurt and his head ached.
Nevertheless, it was obvious that he must keep up and he laboured on.
By and by the Berbers turned and climbed the side of the defile. To
climb was hard, for parched soil and loose stones rolled down the slope.
The camels, however, went up, and Kit saw he must keep in front of the
animals behind him. The track was narrow, and it did not look as if the
Berbers would stop. He could not see Macallister. Gasping men and
lurching camels moved in a yellow fog.
At the top they crossed a dazzling tableland where the soil was firm,
and to feel the wind was some relief. When they went down again, a few
miles farther on, Kit saw prickly pear, thorny aloes, and in one spot
short, white stubble, but there were no tents. The hollow was wide and
ran on straight in front, until stones and dust melted into the
quivering reflections. Nothing indicated that a camp was near.
The sun sank, and the camels threw grotesque shadows across the parched
soil. Kit began to lose the sense of feverish heat, and although he was
worn out, walking was easier. When the sky was luminous red and green
the wind got cool and the camels' pace was fast. Somehow he kept up, and
at length the Berbers stopped.
Dark tents dotted the wady and sheep occupied a belt of dry stubble. In
places an aloe lifted a tall shaft, tamarisk and prickly pear grew on
the banks, but Kit saw no palms. A few ruined stone huts, hardly
distinguishable from the background, occupied a bend of the hollow, and
a broken heap that might have been a watch tower on the ridge cut the
sky. Kit understood the Berbers were nomads, but it looked as if
somebody had long since built a village.
No excitement marked the party's arrival. The leader shouted "_Foocha!_"
and the camels knelt; the men got down and pushed Kit and the sailors
forward. Indistinct figures appeared at the tent doors, and he smelt
acrid smoke. In front of the middle tent the leader stopped and a man
came out.
It was getting dark, but Kit remarked that the man was not as big as the
camel drivers and his skin was lighter. His mouth and jaw were covered
and his blue clothes were clean. For a moment or two he studied the
group and his calm glance rather annoyed Kit. All the Berbers he had met
were marked by an imperturbable calm. Then the fellow said something to
a camel driver, who signed the party to go with him and took them to a
hut. The front was broken and the roof had fallen, but the building gave
some shelter from the keen wind. By and by another man brought them a
bowl of stuff like porridge, some dried meat Kit thought was goat's
flesh, and dates.
"What did the sheik say to the camel driver?" he asked Simon.
"He will talk to us in the morning; this was all. If he had meant to
hurt us, he would not have sent the food. When you go, call him
_Wazeer_. It is not his title, but he will like it."
Kit doubted if the Berber would be moved by flattery, but he said: "The
food is good. This porridge stuff is better than the Canary _gofio_.
What do they call it?"
"_Cous-cous_," said Simon. "From Morocco to Nigeria, all food that looks
like this is _cous-cous_. It may be made with sour milk, palm oil, or
water, and roasted grain, and some is very bad. In Africa they do not
use many names."
"I'm thinking to talk much would hurt them," Macallister remarked. "A
very reserved people, and yon sheik's the dourest o' the lot. For a'
that, when I try him wi' Avar-r-rack----"
Kit turned impatiently to the interpreter. "We have got to negotiate
with the man. Since we can't buy his friendship, I don't see my line."
"To be poor is not always a drawback," Simon replied. "Perhaps it is
better he does not think us rich. In Africa, one gives a present and we
have some wine left. It is not good, but when one has none----"
"But a Mohammedan is not allowed to drink wine."
Simon smiled. "I will use some caution. If the headman breaks the rules,
his people must not know. Those who got no wine would be horrified. In
this country one uses caution always. Frankness is dangerous."
"Do you know much about the country?"
"I know something," Simon replied. "A Levantine and a Jew may go where
an Englishman cannot and a Spaniard would be killed. In Egypt I was an
hotel servant, in Algiers a pedlar. I have sold wine to the Legion at
the outposts, and in Senegal I was major-domo for a French commandant. A
small, fat man, with a theatrical dignity, but the black soldiers loved
him. When they drilled well, he gave them sugar. He did not send an
orderly; the commandant went along the line with the sugar in his cap.
Some French are like that. Your officers are just, but one doubts if the
Africans love you much. Well, in Algiers one has adventures, but in
Morocco, south of Casablanca, one is lucky if one keeps one's life. If
you are not bored----"
Kit said he was not bored. To listen was some relief from his gloomy
thoughts, and Simon told a romantic tale. The fellow was obviously a
bold and unscrupulous vagabond, but Kit did not know when his narrative
stopped. He was very tired and presently his head dropped forward and
his shoulders slipped down the broken wall.
When he awoke the stars were shining and it was very cold. Two sailors
lay beside him and all was quiet. Kit put his head on another stone and
went to sleep again.
CHAPTER IV
KIT NEGOTIATES
In the morning before the sun was high, a Berber took Kit and his party
to the headman's tent and signed them to sit in the sand. Their clothes
were smeared by dust to which the dew had stuck, and Kit's boots were
broken. His fatigue had not worn off much, he felt horribly dirty and
dull, but he knew he must brace up. The headman and two or three others
occupied the open front of the tent. In the background a row of camels,
making strange noises, knelt beside a broken wall, and behind the
uncouth animals stones and clumps of tamarisk melted into the widening
bottom of the wady. The wind had dropped, it was not yet hot, and thin
smoke with a pungent smell floated about the camp.
Kit studied the headman with some curiosity, since he did not know if
the fellow was his host or captor, but got no hint from his inscrutable
face. He understood the people were Berbers, but at Las Palmas he had
borrowed a book that stated the Berbers were short and light-skinned.
The tribesmen Kit had met were big and dark, but the chief was lighter
in build and colours than the rest. He was obviously not a savage;
somehow Kit thought him well-bred.
"Why have you come to my camp?" he asked.
Simon translated and afterwards carried on the talk. As a rule, it
dragged, and Kit imagined the interpreter was sometimes puzzled and used
the _lingua franca_ of the Moorish ports.
"Tell him I have come for the men his people carried off from the
boats," said Kit.
"You thought to take them from us?"
"No," said Kit. "We knew this was impossible."
"Yet you brought a gun!"
Kit had missed the gun, but when the headman signed one of the others
brought Don Erminio's old double-barrel. The Berber studied it and Kit
thought him amused.
"Then you mean to buy the men?" he resumed.
Kit said he did not; he had no money, but if the men were not released,
it was possible the Spanish government would send soldiers to look for
them. The headman let this go and asked what his and Macallister's
occupation was. Simon replied, and the other was quiet for a few
moments. Then he said: "I have a better gun than yours, but sometimes it
does not shoot. If this man knows machines, let him mend it."
He clapped his hands and a Berber brought Macallister a big automatic
pistol.
"I doubt my luck's no' very good," Macallister remarked. "A watch I ken.
When ye can grip her in a vice and have tools to pick oot the works, she
need not puzzle ye lang, but a pistol ye must hold on your knee is
anither job. I'm thinking there might be trouble if I spoil her. For a'
that, if ye have a peseta, I'll try t'."
Kit, with some hesitation gave him the coin. He had known Macallister
spoil a useful watch, and return another bearing the marks of the
vice-jaws. Experimenting with watches had a strange charm for him, but
sometimes he made a good job, and if he mended the pistol it might help.
Macallister got to work with the coin and his big pocket knife, and the
headman turned to Kit.
"I seized the men because your master cheated me. If I let them go, I
will not get the goods he owes."
"You will not get the goods," Kit agreed. "My master is gone."
The headman and one of the others talked, and Simon said to Kit: "They
think it is so. They have found out that Yusuf is gone. I expected
something like this."
"Not long since I would have sold the men; I might have sold you all,"
the Berber resumed. "Now, however, this is perhaps not safe. We are not
afraid of the soldiers, but we have enemies, and sometimes our
neighbours take the white men's bribes."
"He is frank, but it is like that," Simon remarked. "In Africa, the
white man's power is not his native soldiers. One tribe hates the next
and foreign money rules the desert." He paused and shrugged. "It is
possible the fellow would have sold us. _Baccalao_ fishermen have
vanished. At the wineshops the Spaniards tell stories---- But he wants
to know why you bother about the sailors. They are not your servants."
Kit hesitated. He did not know the Berber's code and if he claimed his
object was unselfish the fellow might think he had another. Yet he was
not going to make up a plausible tale. Kit's anger was quick and hot.
The brute had pondered selling white men like camels.
"Tell him I saw somebody must look for them. When his people tried to
carry me off, I think one put me on board the boat. That's all," he
said.
"Then, they have no rich friends who would pay you if you brought them
back?" the chief asked.
"You have seen them!" Kit rejoined and indicated his companions. "They
are men like these. Rich men don't labour in a steamer's boats."
The Berber gave him a thoughtful glance. Kit was angry and his naive
honesty was obvious. The Berber was subtle, but it did not look as if he
doubted. Kit thought he weighed something; and then he looked up with a
start.
He had heard a sharp report, and a thin streak of smoke curled about the
automatic pistol. Sheep ran across the stubble, a camel got up, and Kit
saw a small hole in the tent.
"Noo I ken what's wrang with his gun," Macallister remarked.
Holding the pistol in front he advanced towards the Berbers. None moved
and the headman's look was imperturbable. Kit wondered whether the
magazine held another cartridge and hoped nobody would move. He knew
Macallister. The engineer stopped opposite the headman, and for a moment
their glances met. Then he held out the pistol, with the butt to the
other.
"For a camel thief, ye're a trustful person," he said dryly.
Kit had not seen a Berber laugh, but when Simon translated it looked as
if the headman smiled. He signalled and across the wady a man with a
modern rifle got up from behind a stone and another crawled out of the
sand. Kit thought they were picked shots and had marked the range. All
the same, he doubted if the headman knew there was a cartridge in the
magazine. Macallister, stopping by the other, opened the pistol.
"Noo," he said, "ye see----"
His _lingua franca_ was uncouth, but when he took some pieces from the
pistol with his pocket knife it looked as if the headman saw. He was
obviously interested, something of his reserve vanished, and presently
he signed one of the others back and Macallister sat down on the piece
of carpet by his side. The engineer gave Kit a smile he understood. It
was as if he had said, "Ye dinna ken old Peter yet!"
Kit mused. He had borne some strain and was languid, and the headman was
occupied. It was strange, but Macallister, by luck or talent, generally
took the middle of the stage. Kit was not like that, but now chance had
given him a leading part, the part must be played, and he weighed the
arguments he had used. He had stated that he was poor and Wolf had
vanished. If the chief were satisfied about this, there was obviously no
use in his holding the party for ransom or to force payment of Wolf's
debt. Then he had hinted that the Spanish government might send soldiers
to search the country, and the Berber admitted that he had enemies who
intrigued with the white men. Kit did not know another argument; perhaps
he had said enough, and he waited.
By and by the headman talked to the interpreter, who said: "He wants to
know why you landed the guns when you had not brought all."
"We thought we had brought all," Kit replied. "We didn't know until the
French gunboat came that Yusuf had cheated us. But he hasn't heard about
the gunboat yet. You must try to make him understand."
He narrated their escape from the gunboat. The story was long, for the
Berbers were not sailors and translation was difficult. Sometimes Simon
hesitated, but the headman did not look impatient. His face was
inscrutable and one got no hint about his thoughts. The sun got hot and
the wind began to blow the dust about the wady.
At length Kit stopped and for a few moments the headman pondered.
"You might have thrown the guns into the sea, but you did not," he
remarked.
"The guns were yours," said Kit. "When we knew the Jew had sold us, we
resolved to deliver them. You see, we had got the camels."
The headman gave him a searching look. "If I let you have the men we
took, you will be satisfied?"
"Yes," said Kit. "That is all we want."
"Very well," said the other. "Your master robbed me, but he is gone and
my debt will not be paid. I will let your men go; to keep them might be
dangerous." He paused, and although he did not smile, Kit imagined he
was amused. "All the camels with which I paid for the guns were not
mine," he went on. "Some belonged to people who are friends of the
French. I will send for your men. They are not here and you must wait
for two or three days."
He sent off a man to the camels and then touched Macallister.
"If you will stop with me, you shall take care of my guns and you may
get rich," he said, and turned to Kit. "If you can bring me the goods I
want, I will trade with you." Then he indicated the interpreter. "If
this fellow comes back, we will shoot him."
He got up, signed that the audience was over, and went into his tent.
Simon's eyes twinkled.
"Perhaps he thinks I know too much, and I know something. All the same,
I will not come back. In Morocco one runs risks and I have not got paid.
At Cairo the tourists are curious about the East and some are generous.
They know Simon at the big hotel. I will return."
Kit went off to the shade of the ruined hut. Perhaps it was strange, but
he trusted the haughty Berber and he had not altogether trusted Simon.
On the whole, he thought the fellow's plan was good. If the tourists at
Cairo were like some at Las Palmas, Simon would be a useful guide about
the town at night. Kit, himself, would sooner be a robber like the
dark-skinned chief. Then Macallister sat down opposite and began to
clean his pipe.
"If I kent where to steal a handy bit steamboat, yon headman and me
would make a bonnie pair o' pirates, but I've no' much use for camels,"
he remarked. "Weel. I alloo ye took a very proper line wi' him."
"I didn't see the line I ought to take. I was frank."
Macallister's eyes twinkled. "Just that! I'm no saying ye were
plausible, but the headman's no' a fool; he saw ye were a simple
weel-meaning body. Onyway, it's done with. We'll get off when Miguel
comes."
Three days afterwards Miguel and Juan arrived, riding in a frame hung
across a camel. The quartermaster got down awkwardly and stretched his
arms and legs.
"But I am sore! It is like beating to windward in a plunging boat," he
said and went up to Kit. "We were anxious, senor, the Moors are bad. But
I did not bother very much. I knew you would come back for us, and my
saint would guard you."
The blood came to Kit's skin. He said nothing, but gave Miguel his
hand.
CHAPTER V
THE RETURN TO THE BEACH
It was getting cooler, and long shadows marked the curves of the wady.
On the other side, oblique sunbeams touched the bank. The wind had
dropped, and as the dew began to fall the hot soil smelt like a
brick-kiln. In the distance the surf throbbed, and Kit thought its
measured beat soothing. He had had enough of the parched wilderness.
He was languid, for he had borne some strain, and when Miguel and the
mate arrived a reaction had begun. The Berbers gave the party a little
food and water before they broke camp and vanished in the desert, and
Kit started for the coast. Travelling as fast as possible, he had used
his short supplies with stern economy, and now, when he thought the
shore was three or four miles off, he was hungry and tired.
To some extent, dejection accounted for his fatigue. He had got the men
for whom he went, but the thrill he felt at first was gone. Wolf had run
away, his wages were not paid, and since he had left his ship without
leave, he expected Don Ramon would dismiss him when he got back.
Moreover, he had perhaps involved the company in trouble with Captain
Revillon and the Spanish officers. In fact, it looked as if he were
ruined and disgraced.
He was not going to think about Olivia. She had refused him, but he had
really known she would refuse. It was done with; he would be sent back
to Liverpool and would not see her again. There was one comfort; Betty
would stop. She was getting well and making progress; Jefferson trusted
her, and her pay was good. At Liverpool he would not see Betty, but,
like Olivia, she did not want him. In fact, nobody had much use for him.
He had been easily cheated and had muddled all he undertook. Still, he
had got Betty a good post and this was much.
After a time he imagined he ought to see the bay from the top of the
bank, and telling Macallister where he was going, he went up the slope.
The climb was laborious, and at the top he stopped for breath and shaded
his eyes from the level rays. The sun was near the Atlantic and in its
track the water was red; the broken ground about him shone like copper.
Outside the crimson reflections, the sea was wrinkled and marked by thin
white lines where the long rollers broke. The strong light hurt his
dazzled eyes, and with a vague sense of disturbance he turned his head.
When he looked again he could see the end of the point and the
anchorage, but _Cayman_ was gone.
Kit felt slack and sat down in the sand. He could not see all the bay,
but a vessel could only anchor at one spot and _Cayman_ was not there.
Kit had got a very bad jolt. The food and water would hardly last for
another day, the coast was an arid desert, and he did not think he could
reach the camp the Berbers had left. He did not know if he hoped
_Cayman_ had been blown ashore, but if she were wrecked, the crew might
have saved some stores. A mile or two farther on one ought to see the
beach from the top of ground that now broke his view, and he was anxious
to get there, but went down slowly. He must be cool and not alarm the
others yet.
At the bottom he joined Macallister, who had waited and gave him a keen
glance.
"Weel?" said the engineer.
"_Cayman_'s not riding in the pool," Kit replied.
Macallister was quiet for a moment or two. Then he said. "We have half a
gallon o' smelling water, and there are eight o' us! As a rule, I ha'
no' much use for water, but I mind when we broke the condensing plant on
a coolie pilgrim boat. Ye could not fill your tanks at every coaling
station then. I got some water from the hot well; tasting o' copper and
grease. We fed the boilers from the sea and drove her, with funnel
flaming and tubes caked wi' salt. Iron burns, ye ken, unless it's clean,
and I thought the softening furnaces would blow down. She was crowded
fore an' aft wi' sweating, gasping coolies, and we let her gang. When we
made port I swallowed maist a gallon o' lemonade, claret and ice. Man, I
hear the ice tinkling against the pail!"
"To talk about it makes one thirsty and we mustn't be thirsty yet," Kit
remarked, frowning. "Say nothing to the others. We'll push on for the
ridge."
To push on was some relief from suspense. The rest of the party had not
stopped and there was nobody but Macallister to note Kit's keen
impatience. He wanted to reach the high ground that commanded the beach,
because it was possible _Cayman_ had broken her cable and driven ashore.
Kit felt he must know, and the shadows got longer fast. Perhaps it would
be dark before he got to the ridge. His burned skin was wet by sweat,
and his breath was short, but he stubbornly laboured on.
At length he climbed a sloping bank, and from a high spot searched the
bay. The sun had gone, and the red on the sky and water was fading, but
behind the point _Cayman_'s mast cut the glow. Kit's heart beat. The
ketch was not at her anchorage, but she was not on the beach. He shaded
his eyes and looked again.
The mast was slightly inclined; in the glimmering reflections he could
hardly distinguish the boat's hull. The tide was ebbing and he thought
her keel touched bottom, but there was some water under her bilge.
Although the risk of hunger and thirst was gone, Kit was disturbed. When
he studied the water-line on the beach, it looked as if _Cayman_ would
presently fall over on her side. On a flat, open coast, the tides do not
rise much, but there was a difference of some feet in the level, and at
low ebb the boat would be nearly dry.
Kit wondered whether she was damaged, because one of two things had
happened. When it blew fresh _Cayman_ had broken her cable and driven
ashore; or the captain had slipped the anchor and tried to get to sea.
That he had not done so was plain, but since she had not broken up, Kit
imagined she lay in a hollow, sheltered to some extent by higher sands
outside. To get to sea she must wait for the big tides at the new moon,
and then perhaps one must land all heavy gear and ballast and put the
stuff on board again when she reached the anchorage. The job would be
awkward and long.
Pulling himself together, Kit went down to the wady and told the others
the ketch had grounded. The tired men saw all this implied and while the
light faded made the best speed they could. When they reached the beach
it was dark, but the captain had kept good watch and soon after they
arrived a boat came shorewards on a smooth-topped roller. Running into
the water, they pushed her off and Kit presently climbed on board the
ketch. _Cayman_'s deck was sharply slanted; sometimes she lifted her
lower side and one felt her bilge work in the sand. Some distance out to
sea the rollers crashed upon the shoals, but the waves that broke about
the ketch were small. Kit dined on salt fish, potatoes and sour red
wine. In the morning he would talk to the captain; now he was very tired
and must sleep.
He got up soon after daybreak and joined the captain on a plank hung
over the side. A man with a mallet caulked an open seam and indicated
three or four butt joints that were freshly tarred. When Kit had looked
about, the captain sat down on the plank and made a cigarette.
"It blew, senor, but it blew!" he said. "When the anchor dragged we
hoisted jib and mizzen, but she would not beat out. Then while we
hoisted the reefed mainsail she struck. A comber threw her up the sand;
we lowered all sail and let her drive, until we knew by the smoother
water she had crossed the shoal. Then two anchors brought her up."
Kit nodded. "What are you going to do about it?"
"When we have caulked some seams she will not leak much, and if it does
not blow again, she will lie here until the tides get high. In the
meantime, we will heave out the ballast and land it on the beach. Then
perhaps at the new moon we can kedge her across to the pool."
"The job will be long," said Kit. "My men must rest to-day. In the
morning we will get to work."
They began at sunrise next day, but the work was hard. _Cayman_ had been
built for speed and when sail was set would not stand up without a large
quantity of ballast. The ballast was iron kentledge, moulded to fit her
frames, and when the floors were up the men, crouching in the dark,
pulled the heavy blocks out of the bilge-water. Except for an hour or
two at low tide _Cayman_ did not lie quiet; when the water lifted her
she rolled. The blocks were sent up in a sling and lowered into the
boat, which did not carry much and must be rowed for half a mile across
angry waves. Near the beach an anchor was dropped, and when she swung
head to sea her crew jumped over and carried the iron through the surf.
Sometimes they were forced to wait, and sometimes to haul off the boat.
All hands were needed, and after a day or two Kit's muscles ached and
his bruised hands bled. When his limbs were cramped by crawling among
the timbers in the hold, he went off in the boat, and clasping a
fifty-six-pound lump of iron laboured up the hammered beach. Sometimes a
roller, frothing round his waist, urged him on, and sometimes he stopped
and braced himself against the backwash. The bottom was not firm; gravel
and sand rolled up and down and buried his sinking feet. Moreover, he
knew the iron he laboriously carried up must all be carried back.
When the ballast was out the captain hesitated. On the Moorish coast
sheltered ports are not numerous, and for the most part _Cayman_ landed
and shipped cargo from anchorages behind the sands and reefs. In
consequence, her main anchor and cable were very large and heavy, but
the captain thought the vessel must be further lightened in order to
float across the shoals. Now the iron was landed, she rolled violently,
and one hot afternoon, Kit, holding on by a runner, leaned against the
bulwarks. Macallister and Miguel occupied the hatch coaming, the captain
the grating by the tiller.
"If we do not land the anchor, she may strike when we kedge her across
the sand," he said. "If she gets across and it blows hard we will need
the big anchor and all the chain to hold her. We must run one of two
risks."
"If she strikes on the high sand she will stop for good," Miguel
remarked. "In two or three tides the surf would break her up."
"I think that is so," the captain agreed. "In the pool she might ride to
the small anchor and the kedge. It depends on the wind. I do not know
if we will get much wind or not."
Miguel shrugged and used the Castilian rejoinder, "_Quien sabe?_" which
implies that nobody knows.
The captain lighted a cigarette. He was obviously irresolute, and Kit
sympathised. One could not weigh the risks and the choice was hard.
"When you cannot see your way you trust your luck and drive ahead,"
Macallister remarked in uncouth Castilian. "If you do not get to the
spot you want, you get somewhere and the hardest road is often shortest.
Land your anchor and let us start."
"_Bueno!_" said the captain, who got up and went to the windlass.
At high tide, when _Cayman_ floated, they carried out the kedge, and
hove the main anchor and put it in the boat. Kit went with the landing
party and doubted if they could have got out the anchor had not Miguel
been on board. They had no mechanical help; while the boat plunged in
the foaming surf the ponderous lump of iron must be lifted by muscular
effort and when one struggles against an angry backwash one cannot lift
much. Kit was exhausted, his hands bled, and Miguel's arm was torn, but
they got the anchor over and returning to the ketch were fronted by
another obstacle.
In broken water the boat would not carry all the chain; they must take
it by fifteen-fathom lengths, and the connecting shackles had rusted
fast. Kit thought nobody but Macallister could have knocked out the
pins, but at length the cable was divided and they resumed their labour
in the surf.
CHAPTER VI
BETTY DEMANDS HELP
On the evening of Austin's return to Las Palmas he and Jefferson smoked
and talked on the veranda steps. Mrs. Austin and Mrs. Jefferson were
occupied with some sewing at a table near the lamp, but Olivia was not
about. She had gone to a concert at the Metropole with a young English
tourist whom Mrs. Austin approved. For all that, Mrs. Austin did not
know how far Olivia approved and she was bothered about Kit. He had been
longer than she had expected, and to some extent perhaps she was
accountable for him. Mrs. Austin generally meant well and as a rule her
plans to help people worked, but Kit was headstrong and had not left
much to her.
She wondered what Austin thought about her sending off the _Cayman_.
Harry did not say much and he had been occupied since his return.
Jefferson had, no doubt, talked to Muriel, but Muriel was sometimes
reserved. Now Jefferson and Harry were together, Mrs. Austin thought she
might, if she were cautious, get a useful hint.
"I would rather like to get up an excursion to the mountains for Mrs.
Gardner's party. She was Muriel's friend in England, and we have not
done much to amuse her," she said. "However, I expect you could not join
us?"
"You mustn't count on Jake and me," Austin replied. "We have let things
go long enough."
"Yet the business kept going. In fact, I imagine it went pretty well."
"That is so," Austin agreed with a smile. "We know where you got your
talents, and things do go well when Don Pancho resumes control. All the
same, he's had enough and I am needed."
Mrs. Austin was baffled. She had not learned much from Harry, and she
tried Jefferson.
"You have not a useful father-in-law. Did you find a bad tangle when you
got back?"
"I have known a worse tangle when I was about," Jefferson replied.
"Anyhow, I've a pretty good Spanish clerk and Miss Jordan's a wonder."
He paused and gave Mrs. Austin a thoughtful glance. "She's a girl to
reckon on, but she was glad to slacken up and let me get to work. Struck
me she was quiet. Something's bothering her, I guess."
Mrs. Austin let it go. If they would not talk about _Cayman_, she would
not talk about Betty, but she listened. After all, she had given them a
lead.
Jefferson lighted a cigarette and turned to Austin. "You met Don Ramon.
Were his remarks illuminating?"
"Don Ramon is sometimes discreet; I didn't get much from him. The
_Commandancia_ people are his friends and so far I reckon they have not
made trouble about the men Musgrave left in Africa. However, he stated
that Don Arturo would shortly arrive from Liverpool to see if he could
settle the coaling dispute, and I imagine Don Ramon would sooner leave
the thing to his chief."
"Do you think Revillon lodged a formal complaint?"
"On the whole, I think not. Revillon's a cautious fellow and didn't get
on board _Mossamedes_. In fact, he hasn't very much to go upon, and it's
possible the French foreign office don't want a dispute about the
Moorish Atlantic coast. But I don't know, and the situation's
interesting. My notion is, it will be handled pretty cautiously when
Musgrave comes back. Don Arturo's not a fool, and when a light touch is
indicated you can trust Don Ramon."
Jefferson smiled. "In a sense Musgrave's not important. His part's to
put across an awkward job the Spanish officers would sooner leave alone,
and when the log-rolling begins he drops out. If it pays, the others may
use his exploit, but we must try to see he does not get hurt. Anyhow, I
hope he has not piled up the boat. We'll want her soon."
"That is so," Austin agreed. "I've been closely engaged and haven't yet
bothered about the ketch. But are you going?"
Mrs. Jefferson said they had promised to meet some people at the
Catalina, and Austin went with them for a short distance. The night was
dark, but soon after they left the gate they met a girl going towards
the house with a quick, resolute step. It was not Olivia, and when she
vanished in the gloom Jefferson smiled.
"Miss Jordan, I think!" he said, and his voice was rather dry.
A few minutes afterwards, Mrs. Austin, looking up with some surprise,
saw Betty on the steps.
"If Mr. Jefferson is wanted you have missed him," Mrs. Austin said.
"I did not want Mr. Jefferson. I met him and the others in the road and
knew you were alone."
"Then you wished to see me?" said Mrs. Austin, in a careless voice,
although she would sooner Austin had turned back. She indicated a chair
and resumed: "Very well! Tell me what it is about."
Betty sat down. Her clothes were plain but very neat. She looked
business-like and resolute. Mrs. Austin thought her calm cost her
something, but her mouth was very firm.
"Kit has not come back," she said after a moment or two. "I waited
until a fishing schooner returned from the African coast. The _Lucia_
arrived this afternoon, but her crew had not seen the _Cayman_. The next
boat is not expected for some time, and I saw I must come to you."
Mrs. Austin noted that Betty had informed herself about the sailing of
the fishing fleet. She would sooner have sent the girl off, but since
she saw no way of doing so politely, resolved to give her a lead.
"I wonder why you came to me."
"Don't you _know_?" said Betty, who gave her a searching look. "For one
thing, when you persuaded Mr. Jefferson to engage me, you had an object.
You often have an object when people think you kind!"
"Then you imagine I am accountable for your getting the post?"
"Of course!" said Betty, with a touch of impatience. "Kit told me about
his giving you his mother's letter. I rather forced him to tell me; Kit
is trustful and he trusted you. Well, I expect you knew that when he
left Liverpool he wanted me to marry him. It's plain you thought I might
take him from your sister."
"Perhaps I did so," Mrs. Austin admitted. "Kit's an attractive fellow,
and when I was young I fought for my lover; in fact, I fought pretty
hard. Was it strange that I imagined you might take my line? We are all
human; but perhaps you were proud and felt that Kit must fight for you?"