THE MASTER TAKES COMMAND
It was the opinion of Señor Bazán that the bell of the galleon _Nuestra
Señora del Rosario_ should be mounted on the deck of his own vessel. The
ancient bell had once sounded the watches from the forecastle-head of
another treasure ship in these same seas. Also, it possessed a legendary
virtue which was not to be overlooked, that of ringing its ghostly
warning when fatal disaster impended. From what he could learn of the
rusty relic of a tramp steamer, Richard Cary felt inclined to endorse
the old man’s whimsy. It would be handy to know in advance when the
_Valkyrie_ intended plunging to the bottom of the Caribbean or the
Pacific.
“I am too wise to believe all kinds of nonsense, Ricardo, like the
ignorant people of Cartagena,” said Papa Ramon, “but this bell of the
galleon—how can I doubt it? And there is no bell on the _Valkyrie_, so
I save some good dollars. These Colombian thieves stole the brass
fittings while my steamer was empty and anchored during the war. And the
galleon bell had the blessing of the Holy Church and the favor of Our
Lady of Rosario so we make no mistake in carrying it on our voyage.”
Richard Cary reflected, quite logically, that it was no more fantastical
than pinning one’s faith and fortune to a pirate’s chart of Cocos
Island. The whole thing might be unreal, but it had the texture of
consistency. Like a satisfactory fairy tale, the improbable and the
absurd were made entirely plausible. The twentieth century had very
little to do with it.
And so the chief engineer of the _Valkyrie_ sent two of his native
helpers with a mule-cart. They unbolted the heavy bronze bell from the
weather-darkened frame of Spanish oak. It clanged as they bore it out of
the _patio_, a mellow note that throbbed and lingered like a phantom
voice. A carpenter was instructed to set up another frame, on the roof
of the forward deck-house.
The residence of Señor Bazán was to remain closed during his absence.
This he had announced to the black woman in the kitchen and the faithful
Indian lad. It was uncertain when their master would return. Two months’
wages in advance he was generous enough to pay them, although it made
him wince, and they could enjoy a vacation among their own people. They
would be notified when to reopen the house. The señor who lived next
door had consented to receive the green parrot and the little brown
monkey. The key also would be left with him.
His energy phenomenally sufficient for his needs, Ramon Bazán made the
final arrangements for departure. Richard Cary admired the tenacious
sagacity with which one obstacle after another was ridden over. He
himself felt more and more like a big, useless lump of a man, to have to
sit and look on. Give him a ship under his feet and he would be quit of
this foolish trance.
He wondered how the old man proposed to set him aboard the _Valkyrie_
and hide him there until the harbor was astern. It was a nut to crack.
He forbore to ask too many questions. They annoyed Papa Ramon. He was
his own strategist. An uncannily strong finish he was making of it. The
adventure was like a magic draught of the elixir of youth. It enabled
him to hold decrepitude at arm’s length, for a little while to grin in
the face of the old devil of death that had so often jumped out at him
from the dark.
The journey from the house to the quay was boldly and simply contrived.
At eleven o’clock at night, the _muchacho_ waited in the alley with a
one-horse carriage. The top had been raised. Richard Cary was directed
to double himself on the rear seat. He slid down as far as possible with
his knees almost up to his chin. Around and over him were piled the
personal luggage, rolls of blankets, canvas bags filled with clothing,
folded hammocks, two or three valises, until they filled the back of the
carriage to the roof.
Señor Bazán conspicuously hunched himself in front with the driver. This
was the factor of safety. The old man was the passport through the
streets of Cartagena where he was as well known as the Church of San
Pedro Clavér and almost as much of an antiquity. Cary perceived this.
Alone he had been hemmed in and helpless. Before the carriage rolled out
of the alley, Ramon Bazán turned to say very softly:
“Hold out your hand, Ricardo. Here is a pistol I forgot to give you. If
anything trips our plans, I don’t want you to be caught like a rat.
Never mind me. You just shoot your way out if you can. Run for La Popa.
The lame Palacio may help you to flee to the coast or the mountains. I
sent him money yesterday as a gift from you. It was your wish.”
“Bless your heart, that would leave you a fine chance to square yourself
with the police,” gratefully replied Cary. “If I have to leg it I’ll put
you in my pocket. We have to see this thing through together. Cast off,
_muchacho_, and full speed ahead.”
The carriage rattled through the silent, galleried streets and provoked
no curiosity until it approached a gateway in the city wall. A police
officer in a white uniform was strolling out of a wine-shop. In the
light from the windows the carriage attracted his attention. It was
moving too rapidly, the horse at a gallop. Even a young Indian driver
had nerves. They were feeling the strain. He was anxious to get through
that gateway. It had been much less trying to haul _El Tigre Amarillo
Grande_ into Cartagena under a load of wood than to haul him out again
in a hired carriage.
The lieutenant of police jumped from the curb and raised his sword as a
peremptory signal to halt. The despairing _muchacho_, a slave to a
military uniform, laid back on the reins and jerked the horse to its
haunches. The carriage stopped so abruptly that Richard Cary bounced
beneath his mountain of luggage. He knew that something had gone askew.
He made elbow room to free the heavy pistol. Then he heard the petulant
voice of Ramon Bazán upbraiding the officer. It was asinine to meddle
with the owner of a ship in haste to go aboard and enjoy a few hours of
sleep, a ship which was to sail at dawn.
The lieutenant was a young man of polished manners who now recognized
this abusive old gentleman. He was about to offer a laughing apology,
with a caution to drive with more care, when Ramon Bazán swayed forward,
a hand plucking at his breast. He stuttered something in a queer,
frightened little voice.
Richard Cary heard and comprehended. In a flash he saw the library and a
frail figure toppled across the desk, face contorted, eyes bulging.
Before he could toss the luggage aside, oblivious of his own
predicament, the quick-witted _muchacho_ had thrown an arm around the
drooping old man to hold him in the carriage. A twitch of the reins, a
chirrup, and the horse was in motion. It broke into a quick trot.
The lieutenant of police stared for a moment and strolled homeward from
the wine-shop. Señor Bazán was getting quite feeble, he said to himself.
Silly of him to be bothering with a ship. Greedy to make more money even
if it killed him!
The frightened driver steered the horse through the gateway in the wall,
one arm still supporting the flaccid, silent shape of his master. In the
wide, open space between the wall and the quay, the lad halted the
carriage and wailed a “_mucho malo_.” Richard Cary instantly crawled out
and lifted poor Ramon from the front seat. The _muchacho_ threw a roll
of blankets and a canvas sack on the ground. They laid the stricken man
down very gently.
Cary put a finger on his pulse. It was not stilled, but the beat was
faint and slow. The one hope was to search his pockets for the precious
vial. Thank God, it had not been forgotten! The lad held a small
flash-lamp while Cary pried open Ramon’s jaw and crushed two capsules in
his mouth.
They waited a few minutes. The excruciating pain was eased. The sufferer
was able to whisper a few words. Ricardo was to carry him to the beach
near the quay where a boat would be found. There was to be no turning
back. It was a command.
Some of the luggage was shifted to the front of the carriage. This made
room in the rear so that Cary could sit and hold the old gentleman in
his arms. Thus they came to the deep sand at the edge of the deserted
beach. The Indian lad indicated the skiff which, earlier in the night,
he had placed in readiness for the stealthy embarkation. Then he stood
waiting for orders. First they made a bed on the sand for Ramon Bazán.
He was too weak to lift his head. Cary mercifully refrained from
questions concerning the plan of action. It had been withheld from him.
Childish vanity and secretiveness had made it enjoyable to lead the big
Ricardo by the nose.
It was not in the mind of Ricardo, however, to let the voyage be delayed
or thwarted. He would use his own wits. He tried to conjecture just how
the crafty Papa Bazán had expected to turn the trick of smuggling _El
Tigre Amarillo Grande_ on board. It was something very deceptive and
complicated, no doubt.
“I am not in his class when it comes to hocus-pocus,” said the
dubitating young man. “He was going off to the ship first, I imagine,
leaving me on the beach until he could signal with a flash-light. Most
of the crew must be ashore, for a last night in port. Well, it’s up to
me to play it alone. And I did hope to get clear of Cartagena without
any more rough stuff. My reputation can’t stand it.”
Having finished this brief debate with himself, the brawny seafarer
moved with an alert and easy confidence. He helped the _muchacho_ stow
the luggage in the skiff. Then they made a comfortable nest for Señor
Bazán who manifested no more than a glimmering interest in this, the
supreme exploit of his life. Richard Cary was made to feel forgetful of
himself. Once at sea, Papa Ramon might rally and live to enchant himself
with the pirate’s chart amid the volcanic cliffs of Cocos Island. He
deserved to win.
With the Indian lad in the stern of the skiff, Cary picked up the oars
and drove ahead. A few hundred yards out in the dusky harbor floated the
_Valkyrie_, an uncouth blotch against the stars. Here and there a light
gleamed from a round port or a deck-house window. Cary aimed the skiff
to come up under the steamer’s stern, as the course least likely to be
detected. As soon as he was close aboard he used an oar as a paddle. The
skiff stole under the overhang and then slid along the vessel’s side
until it nudged the steeply slanting gangway steps.
Cary made fast with a turn of line and motioned the lad to stay where he
was. Then he gathered Ramon Bazán from the blankets and deftly doubled
him over his shoulder. It was like carrying a helpless infant. With one
hand free, Cary awkwardly footed it up the steps, steadied by a shifting
grip of the side-rope. It made him puff, but the fatigue amounted to
nothing.
Quietly he stepped on the deck, which was unlighted. No one hailed him.
It was wisdom to look about and find his bearings. The impromptu capture
of a seagoing steamer had not been contemplated in his darkest hours as
a fugitive. It required some care.
The first thought was to deposit Ramon Bazán in a place where he might
rest undisturbed. The living quarters would be forward of the saloon.
Presumably they included a vacant room for the owner and another for the
captain. On tiptoe Cary bore his burden along the deck. He found a
darkened passage and entered it. The pocket flash-lamp showed him his
own room, identified by a desk and the rolls of charts in the racks
overhead.
This was good enough. He rolled Ramon Bazán into the bunk, after
removing his coat and shoes. The old man mustered breath to thank him
and then fell asleep. At a guess, he was no worse off than when he had
been bowled over in his library.
Closing the door, Captain Richard Cary returned to the deck. For so
heavy a man his tread was light and quick. He ran down the gangway steps
and bade the _muchacho_ fetch up the luggage and leave it on deck. Then
he was to shove off in the skiff and go back to his horse and carriage
on the beach.
Captain Cary climbed on board again and stood listening. He heard, down
below, the clatter of a shovel, the pulsations of a pump, and the hiss
of a leaky steam-pipe. This was heartening. He would take the vessel to
sea with daylight enough to find the channel. Pilot be hanged! There
were marks and buoys enough.
In the crew’s quarters, up in the bows, two or three men were quarreling
over a game of cards, or it sounded like that. They could be left to
their own devices. The saloon was lighted, the door open. A husky voice
was bawling to the steward.
Richard Cary had to stoop to enter the small saloon. At the table sat
his chief officer, Bradley Duff, and a plump, flashy young man with
kinky hair and a flattened nose. An elderly mulatto in a dirty apron
just then emerged from the pantry with a tray.
The late supper was interrupted, but not rudely. “Big Dick” Cary
intruded his soothing presence with the air of a man who disliked
violence. He received no greetings, for the reason that the three men in
the saloon had suddenly forgotten what speech was for. They were as dumb
as three oysters.
The blustering Bradley Duff blew a long breath through his ragged
mustache. The kinky-haired young man in the pink silk shirt showed the
whites of his eyes and slid lower in his chair. He seemed to be ebbing
under the table. The glasses on the steward’s tray jingled together. His
feet were riveted to the floor.
The large, pleasant-featured visitor could not help smiling as he said:
“Good-evening, _Mister_ Duff. I am Captain Cary, master of this ship.”
The spell was broken. The plump young man slid lower as he murmured,
“_Madre de Dios! Está El Tigre Amarillo!_” The steward wrenched his feet
from the floor. They would have retreated swiftly to the pantry, but
Captain Cary crooked a finger at him. He obeyed and joined the others at
the table.
Mr. Bradley Duff had not slid down in _his_ chair. His mottled cheeks
were puffed out. His pimpled nose was redder, if that were possible. He
was a beefy, truculent figure, a man who had been valorous in his prime,
before some hidden flaw had broken him. Wiping his mouth with the back
of his hand, he hoarsely burst out:
“Like hell you are the master of this ship, you big buckaroo! I know who
_you_ are—the guy that busted loose and fooled the town into thinking
he was a bad _hombre_. I’m no kid to be scared by a bogeyman. You make
me laugh. Master, my eye! You’ve gone clean bughouse. Wait till the
owner comes off to-night. He’ll throw a fit. I am waiting for his pet
skipper.”
“The owner is on board,” said Cary, “but he is to be left alone until I
say so. He is a sick man. We shall get under way at four-thirty, Mr.
Duff. What’s the word from the chief engineer?”
“You bumped into old Ramon Bazán on the beach and knocked him on the
head, that’s what you did,” retorted the inflamed Mr. Duff. “You _are_
addled if you figure on putting this stuff over on me. If you don’t want
to be thrown overboard, beat it. What I ought to do is put you in irons
and turn you over to the police. I’ll go see if Ramon Bazán is really
aboard and what you did to him. If you turn out to be just a harmless
boob of a lunatic, I don’t want to be too rough with you.”
“Stay right here in the saloon, Mr. Duff, and please keep your hands on
the table. If you swell up any more, you’ll break a blood vessel and
then I am shy a chief officer. You will have to brace up to-morrow. You
keep a rotten lookout and the ship is slack and filthy. How many men are
ashore?”
“None of your bloody business,” was the savage reply. “Here, I’ve stood
enough silly play-acting from you.”
Pot-bellied beach-comber though he was, Bradley Duff refused to strike
his colors. He was honest in his belief that this was an unlawful
invasion. There were men enough on board if he could get word to them.
And at any minute a boat-load was due to arrive from the wharf. He
kicked his plump companion as a signal for action. One of them might
succeed in breaking for the deck to summon help.
Snatching a bottle from the tray, Mr. Duff hurled it with a mighty swing
of his thick arm. Cary ducked his head. A miss was as good as a mile. To
his sincere regret, he was in for a disturbance.
Before the enraged Mr. Duff could fling another bottle, Cary jumped
forward and tapped him over the head with the butt of the heavy pistol.
Too bad, but it had to be done! The blow was not meant to be deadly. It
was enough to put the unlucky chief officer to sleep.
A pink silk shirt was streaking it for the saloon door. Captain Cary
thrust out a foot and the plump young man fell. He rebounded like a
ball. Catching him on the rebound, Cary called to the elderly steward:
“Do you talk English? What’s your name?”
“Rufus Pilley, sah. I’se a British subjec’ f’um Jamaica, if you please,
Cap’n, an’ I stands on mah rights to be treated right. You don’t have to
blam me with no pistol. At yo’ service, sah.”
“Bully for you, Rufus. Your views are sound. Who is this hot sport that
I hold in my hands? Does he belong on board?”
“Th’ secon’ mate, Mr. Panchito, Cap’n, sah. You done scared him till
he’s green as a lizard.”
“Lock him up, Rufus. The pantry will do. Step lively.”
Mr. Panchito offered no resistance. It was a thing to be thankful for
that the Yellow Tiger had spared his life. Having tucked him away,
Captain Cary exclaimed:
“Now, Rufus Pilley, help me lug Mr. Duff to his room. He will wake up
with a headache. Sorry, but it couldn’t be helped.”
“Thank you, sah. When you gits done an’ finished with disciplinin’ the
crew, kin I serve you a tasty suppah, Cap’n? It looks like it’s hungry
wuk a-conquerin’ all hands like th’ way you started off.”
“You are a sensible man,” grinned Cary. “We’ll get on well.”
They left Mr. Duff in his room. He displayed no interest. Cary looked in
at Señor Ramon Bazán. It was like being in charge of an infirmary. The
aged treasure-seeker was awake. He demanded a nip of rum and lime-juice.
It was an auspicious symptom. Rufus Pilley, very sympathetic,
volunteered as a nurse for the night. He trotted off to mix the drink.
“I was afraid you were fighting, Ricardo,” said Papa Ramon. “If you will
bring the chief officer here, I can explain it so he will understand you
are the captain.”
“Oh, Mr. Duff is quiet enough,” was the careless reply. “He has just
turned in. You heard something smash? Mr. Duff dropped a bottle. You
turn over and go to sleep again as soon as the steward brings the toddy.
We are off for Cocos Island in the morning, with a westward ho and a
rumbelow!”
“I am a very happy old man, Ricardo. Yes, I will sleep like a child. The
ship is safe with you.”
With two officers mutinous and the crew yet to deal with, Captain Cary
was not as happy as Señor Bazán. He went into the wheel-house and found
the voice tube to the engine-room.
“Is this the chief?” he asked.
“Yes. Who the dickens are you?”
“The master, Captain Cary. Come to the saloon right away, if you
please.”
“Right away, sir.”
“Can you kick her out of harbor at daybreak?”
“She can do that much, Captain Cary. Come down here later and I’ll make
you weep.”
It was the tired voice of a Yankee from down east, rare music to Richard
Cary’s ears. Presently the youthful chief engineer came dragging his
lank frame into the saloon. A greasy cap was pulled over a shock of
brown hair. The boiler suit was black with oil and coal dust. His face
was besmirched like a burnt-cork minstrel. The white teeth gleamed in
the smile of a rover who could not be daunted by life’s rough roads. He
was a tropical tramp because he liked it.
“You look to me as if old Daddy Bazán knew where to find the right
skipper,” said he, reaching for the water pitcher. “This is one pie-eyed
voyage to the west coast, believe me. My name is Charlie Burnham, sir,
and it takes a good deal to give me the yips or I’d be raving right
now.”
“Burnham?” said Cary. “You sound like a letter from home. There are lots
of Burnhams in my New Hampshire village of Fairfield.”
“Cousins of mine, I guess. Shucks, I was raised in Tobey Center, only
thirty miles from Fairfield. I’m a hick from a rock-ribbed farm. It was
the darned chores that made me run away, cows to milk and wood to chop
and snow to shovel, and stone walls to break your back.”
“Shake hands on that,” grinned Captain Cary. “Is there such a place as
New Hampshire on the map?”
“Gosh, you wouldn’t think so. It was never like this. Say, there can’t
be two men like you on this coast. You must be the bird who got mad and
cleaned up Cartagena a while ago. You sure did make yourself hard to
find. This looks like a nice get-away for you. I’m not butting in on
your affairs, am I?”
“Not a bit, Charlie Burnham. I’m the bird. Now tell me about this unholy
old hooker. What have you got for a black gang?”
“Two assistants. That’s what they signed on as. Colombians. Eight nigger
firemen and a couple of oilers. I can cuss in Spanish so we’re doing
pretty well. Short-handed, but I couldn’t scrape up another damn man.”
“What about the deck force? Did Mr. Duff have any better luck?”
“Half a dozen black-and-tans, Indians and such. I guess I can steal one
or two of ’em at a pinch.”
Charlie Burnham gulped another glass of water and fished a cigarette
from a damp packet. He was eyeing the tall, fair-haired skipper with a
certain grave concern. Cary noticed the change of manner and missed the
brave twinkle. Something worried his valiant Yankee engineer.
“What’s on your mind, Charlie?” he asked. “You can’t be getting cold
feet. It’s a great life if you keep calm. I’ll be glad to help you
handle your crowd.”
“Oh, I can ride those ginks, Captain Cary. I got wise to their curves
when I was running the ice plant at Barranquilla. But look here, I don’t
want to be a false alarm, so don’t kid me. You may have a lively time
getting this ship away. For one thing, this rummy of a chief officer has
made no hit with me.”
“I made a hit with him,” gravely replied Cary, “but it may not last
long. What else is in your noddle?”
“A dozen of these men are ashore, Captain Cary, and most of ’em will be
pickled when they come off to-night. They were having a pow-wow on deck
yesterday. It meant nothing in my young life, but it popped into my mind
just now. It was this crazy dope about _El Tigre Amarillo_—they swore
he was still hiding in Cartagena—and the main gazabo of the police had
offered a thousand dollars reward for the outlaw, dead or alive. One of
the firemen had a poster and was reading it to the bunch. They got all
jazzed up over it. You know how they go up in the air. Every mother’s
son of ’em was all set to grab _El Tigre_ with his bare hands and get
the thousand dollars.”
“Flattering, I call it,” said Cary. “I hadn’t heard about the reward.
They will try to cash in before we sail, Charlie?”
“It may be a flivver, sir, but I thought I ought to tip you off. They
won’t have the nerve unless they see a chance to rush you in a mob.”
“Then I must keep them from getting their heads together,” said Cary.
“And my two deck officers are of no use to me. That is unfortunate.”
“I’ll say so,” replied the chief engineer, “but I’ll do my best to make
that thousand dollars hard to collect. Sorry I must go below, sir. Be
sure to give me a call when the party begins.”