sprang up from the launch on to the jetty itself. Sard found himself
facing about a dozen men, with other men closing in on each side of him.
All the men were silent, most of them were watching him intently, though
some peered into the night behind him. All the men, without perceptible
motion, had pistols in their hands.
“Stop just right where you are, brother,” the man on Sard’s right said.
Sard stopped.
“Drop them palos and put them up.” The tone rather than the words made
Sard drop his sticks and lift his hands.
“Are you alone?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
“Move right down to the edge of the jetty. Keep your hands up.”
“I can’t walk without sticks.”
“Walk him down there, two of you.”
Two of them did “walk him down” to the edge of the jetty. Ill as Sard
was, the men, their voices and their every action, made him feel that
his life hung upon a thread.
He knew, too late, that he had come upon a gang of rum-runners in the
act of putting their freight ashore. There was no question of showing
fight; he could only hope that they would not shoot him in the back and
leave him to the crabs.
He was walked to the hard-wood blinders at the very edge of the jetty.
He saw beneath him a broadish stretch of water reaching to the high land
beyond. The river bar was noisy at some little distance to his left.
Just below him was a scow-launch half full of cases. She was lifting and
drooping a little to the motion of the water. A deck hand, sitting on
her forward gunwale, was staring up at him. A short, foreign-looking
man, with a bush of hair under which gold earrings shone, came out from
the covered engine-room abaft-all, and stood there, in a glow of light,
holding on by the wheel. He, too, stared up at Sard, but went on eating
an onion: he did not speak. His eyes were intensely bright: his shirt,
which was whitish, with a few coloured stripes, seemed to shine as
though it were made of silk.
Sard took all these things in very exactly in an instant of time, but
noticed most the man with the bright eyes who munched the onion and
stared. The deck hand who was sitting forward pitched a folded tarpaulin
over some cases directly below Sard. He did it on the instant, with a
backward jerk of his hand. Sard knew on the instant what had passed
through the man’s mind; that it would be a pity if his, Sard’s, corpse
should break any of the good rum bottles in falling.
The man in authority called out behind Sard.
“If there are any more of you, who try to lift a finger, over your
friend goes.”
Sard kept very still; everybody was very still, except for the launchman
munching his onion and the clicking back of revolver cocks. The man in
authority called out again:
“Go through him, you two.”
The two men “went through” Sard’s pockets, not like thieves, but like
policemen.
“Is he heeled?”
“No, sir; he’s got a knife. He’s been in the water.”
“He’ll be in again, for keeps, if he tries any monkey-tricks. Now,
brother, answer me and no damned shinanniking. Are you alone?”
“Yes,” Sard said.
“Who are you?”
“A sailor.”
“What in hell are you doing here?”
“I’ve been on a sting-ray and came here to get a horse from Miguel.”
“What the hell do you know of Miguel?”
“I heard he had horses here.”
“Who told you he had horses here?”
“Some people in the poblacion.”
The man in authority called to one of the other men:
“Antonio!”
“Si, señor.”
“Here a moment.”
Sard heard the man go across to the officer. They talked together in a
low tone for a minute: Sard could not hear what they said. Presently the
officer called again:
“You, brother: turn round.”
Sard turned about into the light of the flare, to find himself covered
by half-a-dozen revolvers.
“Do you know him, any of you?” the officer asked.
The men stared at him, then gave their verdict that they did not know
him. “No, sir.” “Never seen him.” “Never set eyes on him.” One man, who
had been standing aloof, somewhat behind the officer, came forward, to
have a nearer look. He was a man of short stature, but enormous breadth
of chest. He had a sallow face, intensely bright black eyes, a short
nose, a mouth of unusual width slowly working upon a quid of tobacco,
and both hands thrust forward into deep waistcoat pockets, where they
rested on revolver-butts. He came forward slowly, chewing his tobacco,
with a good-humoured leer upon the world. There was something in his
slouch which was of the very essence of the man: it was his style: his
pace à lui: if the world wished to go faster or slower, it might, for
all he cared, nothing would make him change. He came to within a few
paces of Sard, who seemed to remember that slouch and leer, but could
not place the man.
“D’you know him, Doug?”
“Nar.”
He winked at Sard with one eye and slouched off to the left, to stand
among the other men.
“What’s your name?” the officer asked.
“Harker.”
“What ship do you belong to?”
“The _Pathfinder_.”
“That’s a god-dam lie,” one of the men said, “the _Pathfinder_ sailed
last night.”
“Will you just stopper your lip?” the officer said. “If I want your dam’
soprano in this duet, I’ll call it.”
“Well, it is a god-dam lie,” the man said. “She did sail.”
“You hear what this man says?” the officer said. “That your ship sailed
last night. What have you to say?”
“I missed my passage,” Sard said. “I was ashore, cycling. My bicycle was
stolen: I trod upon a sting-ray down on the beach and came hopping here
to try to get a horse, to take me to Las Palomas.”
“That’s a dam’ likely tale,” one of the men said.
“Py Chesus,” another said, “he trod upon a tam sting-ray! Py Gott, he
iss a got-tam police-spy.”
“Less lip,” the officer said. He seemed to debate the evidence within
his mind for an instant, then he said:
“What are you in the _Pathfinder_?”
“Mate.”
“What were you doing ashore, cycling, when your ship was sailing?”
“I came out to see an Englishman in the house along the beach there.”
“What Englishman?”
“Kingsborough.”
“Did you see him?”
“Yes.”
“Is he a friend of yours?”
“No.”
“What brought you to him, then, when your place was on board your ship?”
“I heard that he was threatened by a gang of rough-necks, so I rode out
to warn him.”
“You did? Did you also warn the police?”
“I did.”
This roused a storm among the men: there were cries of “Narker”! “Put it
on him, George!” “I set he was a spy, py Gott!” “Hay que matarle!” etc.
“What business was it of yours, to warn the police?” the officer said.
“One would do as much as that for one’s countryman, I hope.”
“What did the police undertake to do?”
“I do not know.”
“Give me the god-dam truth now. Whom did you see at the police?”
“No one. I sent word there.”
“By whom?”
“Find out.”
At this point, which might have been troublous but for intervention, the
Scandinavian interfered. He was a sinister-looking man with a swollen
lower lip which drooped. This gave him permanently the look of a
gargoyle. He looked, on the whole, like a young devil just after his
first night in hell, a little bloated and battered, but thrilled by the
way Beelzebub wore his bowler. He came forward towards the officer.
“Mr. O’Prien,” he said, “dis feller he wass one got-tam police-spy. What
he want de police for? What he come putt in for? He call hisself mate of
de _Pathfinder_, by Chesus. Py Chesus, I don’t pelieve one got-tam wort
he say, py Chesus. And this got-tam yarn about a got-tam sting-ray. You
see, fellers, he iss a spy. Dat’s what dis feller is: a spy. He tell de
police and get us pinched.”
The black-eyed smiling sloucher slouched forward as the Scandinavian
warmed to his appeal. His left hand shot out suddenly, caught him on the
chest and slung him violently backward. The motion seemed effortless,
but the strength used must have been that of a bull, for the
Scandinavian went backwards tottering for five steps and then sat down.
The other men laughed. The sloucher grinned at the Scandinavian.
“Come off with your folly,” he said. “Tell it to the marines but not to
the deck department.”
The Scandinavian rose up whimpering and rubbing the sore place.
“Py Chesus, Doug,” he said, “if you wass not trunk, I make you pay for
dat. It’s your being trunk saves you, py Chesus.”
“Well, I am drunk,” Douglas said, “I thank God I am drunk. I like being
drunk: it’s so cadoodle. But let’s see this man who says he’s mate of
the _Pathfinder_. Keep all fast with your enquiries till I’ve had a go
at him.” He slouched up towards Sard, with his hands drooped down as
before on the revolver-butts in his waistcoat pockets. His whole being
seemed to slouch, to smile and to chew tobacco. He seemed to be chewing
a sort of cud of tobacco. He seemed to give forth a gospel of slouching,
smiling and chewing tobacco. He stood slouched before Sard, a man of
immense strength, fearing nothing on earth and capable of any folly and
any kindness. Sard could not place him, even yet, but the slouch was
familiar; he had surely seen that grin before.
“’Arker, my bye,” Douglas began. Instantly a thrill shot through Sard,
for the words “my bye,” spoken in that way, gave him a clue to the
speaker. “’Arker, my bye, answer my question, my bye. Who’s the captain
of the _Pathfinder_?”
“Captain Cary.”
“What mark has he got on the right side of his chin?”
“A mole; a dark brown mole.”
“Down in the cabin of the _Pathfinder_, what is hung on the starboard
bulkheads?”
“Nothing at all, except two canary cages.”
“What is the name of that black cat you have?”
“Nibbins.”
“What is odd about your fiferails?”
“We have small hand-winches on them (monkey-winches), so that we can get
a bit on anything, with two men and a boy.”
“That’s right enough,” Douglas said, “he belongs to the _Pathfinder_ all
right.”
“That’s not in question,” the officer said. “The questions are, what he
is doing here and what he has been doing with the police.”
Again there might have been trouble, but for intervention. This time the
launchman interfered. He had finished his onion and had licked his
fingers and was now on the jetty close to Sard.
“Meesta O’Brien,” he said.
“Avast heaving,” O’Brien said.
“Meesta O’Brien.”
“I’m dealing with this man here.”
“Meesta O’Brien, I wanna know.”
“What in hell d’you want to know?”
“I wanna know how long we stay-a here? The capitan-a he say-a to me be
back by the six-a bell. Here it come the six-a-bell. The whiska still in
the launch-a and all a talk-a, talk-a, talk-a and wow-wow-wow with-a the
pistol.”
“Get to hell out of this!”
“No, I tell you, I not get-a to hell; not for you I not get-a hell; I
get-a to hell when I like, what road I like. But the capitan-a, he say-a
to me, be along-a the side at six-a bell. Here it come the six-a bell.
And all the stuff lie in the launch-a and you talk-a, talk-a. Why you
not get the stuff out of the launch? It six-a bell, soon seven-a bell. I
tell-a you now, I tell-a all of you. You get-a this stuff out of the
launch. Or if you not get-a this stuff out of the launch, I tell-a you
what I do. I get-a to hell out of here: see? I go back straight away to
the capitan-a. He soon see what for, hey. He know why you talk-a,
talk-a. He want to know what-a for.”
“Shut your dam’ Dago head!”
“You tell-a me to shut-a my head. I shut-a your head. I got-a stiletto,
good as your pistol. What for you tell-a me to shut-a my head? Shut-a
your own head. You get-a the stuff out of the launch. Never mind you
this sick-a man, but get-a the whisk out of the launch. My Jesu, too
much-a talk-a talk-a. Get-a the launch clear, see, or I go back to the
capitan-a. I cast-a loose, I go, see.”
“See here now, Jesus-Maria, mind yourself. I’ll clear your launch and
you too, in my own time. I’m captain in this gang, and I’m going to be
it.”
“You are not capitan-a in my launch. I am. And if you not get-a out the
stuff, I not-a stay.”
Douglas, the sloucher, came forward again, not addressing either
Jesus-Maria or O’Brien, but the men.
“Come on, boys,” he said, “we’ve still got some of these dam’ medical
comforts to sling ashore.”
“We’ll get the stuff ashore, when we’ve finished this enquiry,” O’Brien
said. “I want to know about this man.” He turned again to Sard. “What
are you?” he asked. “A Protestant?”
“Yes, thank God.”
The men cheered Sard for this, not because they were Protestants, but
because O’Brien was not. One of the men, who had taken no part whatever
in the court of enquiry, but had been sitting on some pit props drinking
from a bottle, now came up to Sard and shook his hand.
“Shake hands,” he said, “if you’re a Protestant. You belong to a blurry
fine religion, if you’re a Protestant. I’m not, if you understand what I
mean, a Protestant myself, if you understand what I mean, but I do
believe in crissen berrel, which is as near as the next, if you
understand what I mean.”
“Come along, George,” Douglas said, “we’ll get this medical comfort
ashore and then we’ll have one long cool one on the house.”
“Are you a Protestant?” George asked.
“Sure, Mike.”
“There’s a lot of fellows going about,” George said, “if you understand
what I mean, who call themselves blurry Buddhists. I’ll shake hands with
a Protestant and I’ll shake hands with a Mahommedan. It’s true they have
a lot of wives. I honour them for it. I’d do the same myself if I could
afford it. But these Buddhist fellows: I want to tell you about these
Buddhist fellows. All right Mr. O’Brien, if you don’t want to listen,
you can do the other thing. These Buddhist fellows, they’re not Buddhist
fellows, if you know what I mean, they’re a secre-ciety. That is,” he
concluded, “if you understand what I mean.”
“They’re a lot of vegetarians,” Douglas said. “But come on, boys, and
let’s get the stuff ashore.”
“You’ll not get-a the stuff ashore,” came from the Italian on the
launch. “The capitan-a tell-a me ‘be back by six-a bell.’ You not
clear-a the launch, so now I go. I tell-a the capitan-a. He give-a you
what-a for.”
The launch had been thrust clear of the jetty; she lay two boat-lengths
away, canted so that the current was swinging her.
“Come back with that launch, you Jesus-Maria!”
The Italian made an obscene gesture and sent the launch at full speed
for the distant ship.
“There,” one of the men said, “there you are, O’Brien; half the cases
not ashore, all because you want to hold a private Old Bailey.”
“And I’m going to hold it,” O’Brien said. “This man is a police-spy and
I’m going to shoot him.”
“You’ll shoot him, hell,” Douglas said.
“Not on your life,” George said, “not on your life. He is a Protestant,
if you understand what I mean. And why is he a Protestant? Because he
isn’t a low-down vegetarian secre-ciety Buddhist. Because he isn’t a
Mahommedan. He might have been a Mahommedan. They offered him seven
wives, if you understand what I mean, and he scorned the action. ‘No,’
he said, ‘I’m a Protestant,’ he said, ‘to blazes with your houris,’ he
said. That’s right, isn’t it? That’s what he said. Isn’t it what you
said?”
“Now, George Henderson, mind yourself now, or I’ll put a head on you
which you’ll remember.”
“You’ll put a head on me? Who’ll put a head on me?”
“I will.”
“You silly blighter, we’re not in Ireland here, we’re talking religion
at El Cobre.”
“No, we’re not talking religion,” O’Brien said; “we’re landing rum, and
I’m going to see that we land it safely. What is this man but a spy?”
“He’s no spy,” Douglas said, “he’s a sailor like yourself.”
“Only he’s ate a damn sight less flapdoodle,” someone added.
“Well, if he’s no spy, what are we going to do with him?”
“Let him have Miguel and the horses and ride back to Las Palomas as he
wants.”
“So that he can leave word with the police in time to have us headed off
at the mines. To hell with him having the horses!”
“He cannot in any case have the horses,” said the man known as Antonio,
“since Miguel took the horses, some time since, by the footpath.”
“He can stay here, then, after we are gone.”
“Well, O’Brien, I wonder at you,” Douglas said. “Here’s a man half dead,
as you can see, from poison, and a better fellow, I daresay, than any of
us. If we leave him here, he’ll be dead before noon, from cold and
exposure. He’s coming in the cars with us to Tloatlucan, where he can
take the branch line to Las Palomas before noon. And meanwhile, boys,”
he added, raising his voice, “here’s a man pretty damn wet and sick;
what do you say to dibs all round to give him a dry shift? I say a pair
of trousers.”
They all said something out of the little they had. O’Brien moved away
to talk to the engine-driver. Douglas and Antonio brought Sard the dry
shift and helped him to change. “Here’s a dry shift,” Douglas said. “And
I’m afraid they’re like a pig’s breakfast, a little of all sorts.”
“Get on board here,” O’Brien said.
“On board, hell,” Douglas answered. “This man’s not shifted yet.”
“I don’t give a pea-vren. This ain’t Delmonico’s, nor Maggy Murphy’s.
This train’s going.”
“It’s going, hell,” Douglas answered.
“Very well, then; it’ll go without you.”
“Without me, hell!”
O’Brien turned from him savagely, darted forward to the engine-driver
and cursed the other hands into the cars. Douglas winked at Sard. “Chief
officer’s perk,” he said. “All the same, we’d better hop it.”
The nearest car to them was the last in the train, and empty but for
some tarpaulins and rolls of slickers. Douglas helped Sard into it, hove
his wet things after him, and was starting to heave himself in, when the
train started. A man less strong in the arms would have been pitched
headlong, but Douglas clambered into the car, made a warm corner for
Sard, covered him up and sat beside him.
“Ambitious swab, that terrier,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
“Very grateful to you,” Sard said, “for without you, things would have
gone hard with me. Who are you? Aren’t you Castleton? Weren’t you once
C.P.F.?”
“Yes. I used to be Castleton, C.P.F. I was a year senior to you,”
Douglas said. “You wouldn’t remember me, for that reason; but I
remembered you. You see, I’ve got a memory which can’t forget. I often
wish it could.”
“I remember you now, of course,” Sard said. “But when were you on board
the _Pathfinder_?”
“Never.”
“But how did you know about Captain Cary’s mole; and the cat, and the
monkey-winches?”
“Three days ago I passed under the _Pathfinder’s_ stern, as I went
ashore to see my girl. I saw a man with a mole on his chin doing
hygrometer at the taffrail. I knew it must be the captain. It couldn’t
have been anybody else. The cat was fooling about on deck and the old
man called it Nibbins. As for the monkey-winches on the fiferail, you
were clearing a boat with one of them. I thought it a dam’ fine little
contrivance.”
“But how did you know about the cabin bulkheads?”
“I didn’t. The point was that you did.”
“Well, you staggered me,” Sard said. “I was wondering when you could
have been on board.”
“It’s a dam’ easy game, being mysterious, when you’ve anything at all to
go on. Your Christian name’s Chisholm, isn’t it? I saw you first on 2nd
February, 1883. I remember you coming on board, by the tug, when you
were a new chum. The chests were hove in on the port lower deck and the
lock of your chest was broken by that old fool Goose-rump letting it
drop off the slide.”
“I remember,” Sard said. “You swore at old Goose-rump. You sailed with
him later, by the way. What became of old Goose-rump?”
“He went to hell on the Barbary coast.”
“What are you doing?”
“Running rum up to Entre las Montanas.”
“It must be exciting work,” Sard said.
“It’s the finest life on earth. That dam’ terrier is an ambitious swine,
but even he can’t spoil it. I count all my life just wasted till I began
rousting rum. I’ve been at it seven years.”
“You’ve got a ticket, haven’t you?”
“Ticket, hell. Yes, I’ve got a dam’ fine second mate’s ticket, for which
I could get four pounds a month and find my own tobacco. Ticket, hell!
Watch and watch, when it isn’t all hands, boxing another man’s yards
around. Ticket, hell! At this job I’m pretty well my own master; sleep
when I like, get drunk when I like, and see my girl when I like.”
“Are you married?”
“Married, hell.”
“Isn’t it a rather dangerous life? Things may have been slack, but
they’re tautening up. I hear that Colonel Mackenzie is going to put an
end to rum-running. The penalties are severe.”
“We’ve a stronger combination than some think.”
“I don’t doubt it. The combination is strengthening against you. Two
torpedo-boats on the coast would stop you.”
“We’d buy them.”
“Not with Colonel Mackenzie.”
“We’d get them, then.”
“How?”
“Put a stick of dynamite in the crankshaft.”
“Where do you go with this train of rum?”
“We go right up the mountains with it, till we reach the jumping-off
place.”
“Do you never have trouble?”
“We have had a certain amount of trouble. There was trouble on the Mesa
Line one time. But trouble, hell. You lie still and get your strength.”
“Heya, you, Doug!”
“Heya yourself.”
As the train jolted up towards the mines, along the bank of the river, a
man came catlike towards them, from truck to truck, from the direction
of the engine. He hung on somehow by his eyelids, and jangled as he came
with hook-pots of hot cazuela slung round his neck. From time to time
jolts of the truck spilt the hot broth on to his knees. When this
happened, he cursed in Spanish. He it was who called Douglas from his
talk.
“Cazuela,” he said. “Catch a hold. And here’s a hook-pot for the other
fella.”
“Got any pan?”
“Mucho pan.”
Douglas leaned out, took the hook-pots with the care of one well used to
guarding an allowance, gave a pot to Sard, and then salved the bread,
which was supplied in yellow hot buns split and filled with sausage and
peppers.
“That’s more homelike,” Doug said. “Heave round and eat: it will give
you strength.”
Sard did not want to eat: the thought of the hot dough made him faint,
but he sipped the broth and felt the better for it. He was warm again,
there in the shelter of the car under the tarpaulins. With the warmth
came a queer feeling in his skin, all altered by the poisons which had
afflicted it, that the norther was going to be a bad one. He felt too
weak to look at the heaven, but he said to Doug:
“Is it very black to the northward?”
“A bit dark.”
“Much lightning?”
“Yes. It has been flashing a little.”
“We’re in for a bad norther.”
“We’re in a norther,” Doug answered. “But we’re running out of it. But
you’d better sleep. I’ll cant these slickers from under you, for the
hands will want them. Now, sleep.”
Sard was so weary that he was almost asleep while Doug routed out the
slicker rolls. He felt Doug heave a tarpaulin over him and smelt the
overpowering sweet rum-like smell of the Lucky Hit being chewed in
Doug’s mouth; he noticed the stars going out under trails of smoke; then
the world ceased for him while the train jolted on.
He woke, or half woke, when the stopping of the train sent all the rear
trucks one after the other with a bumping clank into the buffers of the
truck in front of it. He did not know where he was and did not much
care, being as weak and drowsy as one full of a drug. He noticed that
Doug was gone, but heard, as it were far away, Doug’s voice saying
something to someone about uncoupling the last three trucks. In his
drowse he heard men swearing at chains which clanked: then he heard men
pushing the truck in which he was a little further down the line. He
heard their “O heave! O heave!” and “That’s got her. There she goes!”
and the sound of their feet padding beside the rails. He heard someone
say: “That’s you. Leave them there,” and then the motion stopped and the
feet moved away. The wind seemed to have risen during the passage from
the coast, but he could not care. He was not awake enough to care much
about anything. He heard in his drowse the noise of engines, steam was
being let off, a shunting engine went swiftly by, and above these noises
there came at intervals a dull grunting thud or stamp from some machine
or pump not far from the railway. Men moved to and fro, and voices
called, there was a noise of running water and of wind. Afterwards, it
seemed to him that while he was at this place, wherever it was, he heard
men running. The thought came into his brain that he was at Tloatlucan,
where he would presently get a shift-train to Las Palomas, but he felt
that all that would be presently, mañana, not then, not anything like
then. He lapsed into sleep again.
In his usual health, he would have been up and out striding on foot to
Las Palomas, without waiting for any shift-train, but he was only the
wreck of himself, all weak and weary. Perhaps a salvo of guns, a blast
of trumpets, or the noise of all three masts going over the side, would
have failed to rouse him then. He slept, as sailors say, “dead-oh.” He
would not have wakened for less than a kick in the face.