The Coast of Adventure Part 38

Miguel's white-clad figure, swaying in the channels, cut against the gloom, but Grahame could not hear his hail. Though he glanced at the compa.s.s now and then, he was feeling his way rather by instinct than definite guidance, and so far the upward sweep of the bows showed there was sufficient water under the vessel. Sometimes a sea came on board and poured aft in a frothing flood, but she was steadily forging ahead, and a few minutes would take her across the worst of the shoals.

Suddenly she stopped with a crash, lurched sideways, and lay still while a foam-tipped ma.s.s of water rolled up ahead. It broke on board, burying her forward half, and the next moment Grahame was wet to the waist; but she lifted as the roller surged by; and then struck the shoal again. A few more blows of that kind would crush in her bilge, but Grahame set his teeth and clung grimly to his wheel. There was nothing to be done but wait; the crash would warn Macallister what was required of him, and if he could not drive her off, they must cut the boats adrift and leave her to her fate.

Another sea came tumbling in, but while its crest broke across the rail it picked her up and she moved on slowly with the water sluicing aft down her inclined deck. For a few seconds Grahame held his breath, waiting for the shock; but she went on, and lifted her head buoyantly as the next comber rolled up. When she had lurched over it and the spray had blown away, he saw that the sea was more regular and the worst of the turmoil lay astern. Five minutes afterward, she reeled out into open water, and Macallister came on deck.

"We've started the bilge-pump, but it's no' drawing much," he said. "I dinna think she's the waur for the knocks she got."

"That's satisfactory. You know what you have to do."

Macallister smiled with quiet enjoyment.

"We've no' had the need to drive her yet, but noo I'll let ye see."

He went below, and Grahame gave Miguel an order, for in swinging round after leaving the lagoon the _Enchantress_ had brought the wind on her quarter, and she carried a good spread of sail. He would not, however, luff her off her course to make the work easier; the crew must hoist the canvas as best they could, and there was a furious banging and clatter of flying blocks as fore-staysail, foresail, and mainsail went up. Then she listed down with her rail in the white surges that boiled up to lee, while tall, hollow-fronted combers ranged up astern and sped after her.

Wire shrouds, strung to the breaking-point, shrieked in wild harmonies as the blasts struck them; chain funnel-guys roared in deeper tones, and there was a confused groaning of masts and booms. Spray swept her, lashing Grahame's back and blowing past his head in clouds, and now and then a sea-top broke on board; but she drove on furiously before the wind.

After a while Grahame called Miguel to the helm and stood in the lee of the deckhouse, pipe in mouth, for he had now time to think. He could make no plans until he landed, but it was plain that he must go to Rio Frio; and, if possible, he must leave Walthew behind. He could not allow the lad to run the risk, and Macallister would need him. Some help might be had from the revolutionaries, and he must try to find Don Martin. If he failed to do so, much would have to be left to chance.

Grahame looked at another side of the matter. Suppose he rescued Miss Cliffe, what then? Though the gun-running had been profitable, he was an adventurer with very limited means. He could not trade upon Cliffe's grat.i.tude, though he loved the girl. He did not know when he began to love her, but he had for some time made stern efforts to drive the thought of her out of his mind. Perhaps he might have succeeded had nothing unusual happened, for he knew his disadvantages; but now his determination suddenly had been swept away. Evelyn was in danger; somehow this made clear the strength of the feelings with which he had grappled. The future was clouded; there were difficulties to be faced; but he felt that if she had any love for him he could not give her up.

The gale freshened; but Grahame would not shorten sail. There was not much time to spare, and the gear was standing well. He could trust the helm to Miguel and might have slept, but, although he imagined his strength might be severely taxed during the next few days, it was impossible for him to rest. In spite of his anxiety, he was sensible of an exultant excitement. The girl he loved was in danger, but she had sent for him. Then, the adventure he was embarking on had a fascination of its own, and he smiled as he remembered that his ancestors had often in past days ridden across the dark marches, leading the Border Spears.

It was not for nothing the hot blood of the old mosstroopers ran in his veins.

Swept by the seas on her quarter, the _Enchantress_ drove on, and Grahame lurched about the slanted deck and stood amidst the spray that whirled across her stern. She was going fast; his glances at the recording log astonished him, for he had not believed her capable of the speed it showed. His fierce impatience seemed to have inspired thudding engines and quivering hull, and he thrilled when a great, white-topped comber rolled up and swept her on. Flame blew from the funnel, wet canvas, straining in black curves, reeled through the dark, and the sea sped back, snowy white, toward the plunging bows.

At last, however, lights shone in the gloom, and Grahame ordered the canvas to be lowered. It cost the crew an arduous struggle, but they made all fast, and Grahame, ringing for half-speed, took the wheel.

There was a point a short distance from the town that would break the sea, and by steaming in behind it he might get a boat away. Landing would be difficult, and it was important that he should find the right spot.

He watched the beach with his gla.s.ses as the _Enchantress_ swung insh.o.r.e, and when presently the combers changed to a steep, troubled swell that ended in a white band of surf, he stopped the engines and told Miguel to hoist out the gig. The navigation lights had been extinguished, but he thought that anybody carefully watching for the steamer could see her. The men had some trouble in lowering the boat, but as soon as she was in the water Grahame jumped on board and told the men to push off. Then, as they got out their oars, a dark figure leaped from the steamer's rail and Walthew, alighting in the sternsheets, turned to his comrade with a grin.

"I'm here, and you'll smash the boat if you try to send me back," he said. "You see, I suspected what you were getting after when you put me at a job it was awkward to leave."

"Well, I did my best, anyway," Grahame laughed.

Walthew took an oar, for the swell was high enough to make progress difficult, but they found smoother water near the land, and stopped pulling just outside the fringe of surf. Waiting for a slacker interval in the sh.o.r.eward rush of hissing rollers, they drove her in as fast as she could go, and jumped overboard when she touched the sand. A wave broke into her, but they ran her up safely, and Grahame turned to Walthew after they had emptied the water out.

"I don't think I'm straining my authority by telling you to go off with Miguel," he said.

"Anyhow, I'm not going," Walthew replied doggedly. "Our a.s.sociation is a partnership, and I mean to come along. I don't know that I'll be of much help to you, but the job you've undertaken is too big for one."

Grahame saw that objections would be useless, and, feeling that his pistol was loose, he walked up the beach, with Walthew following a few yards behind.

CHAPTER XXVI

TRAPPED

For a few minutes the men toiled silently across loose, wet sand, and then, on reaching a belt of shingle near high-water mark, stopped to look about. Lights gleamed in the town across the bay, but except for that it was very dark. A clump of trees that fringed the end of a ridge of higher ground could barely be distinguished, but Grahame decided that this must be the spot Evelyn had mentioned in her note. Though the shingle rolled beneath his feet, the sound it made was lost in the roar of the surf upon the point. Dry sand blew past, p.r.i.c.king his face, and when he turned toward the sea he saw a group of indistinct objects still standing about the boat.

"What are they waiting for?" he asked. "I told them to push off."

"I guess old Miguel takes an interest in us and wants to see we're all right. He knows something about these fellows' tricks, and may not share our confidence."

"Well, I guess those are the trees where we should meet our guide."

"The fellow might have come down to the beach," Walthew remarked. "I was busy helping Mack during the run and hadn't much time to think, but it now strikes me as curious that Miss Cliffe was able to send the note and arrange for a guide when she was a prisoner."

"She must have got into touch with some of Don Martin's spies, and his friends would be ready to help. But we had better get on."

They crossed the shingle, seeing nothing that suggested there was anybody about, but Walthew grew uneasy as they approached the trees. The belt of timber was wrapped in gloom, and rolled back up the rising ground in shadowy ma.s.ses that rustled in the wind. It had somehow a forbidding look, and the nearer he got the less he liked it. He was not daunted, and meant to go on, but his nerves were highly strung and his glances suspicious as he tried to pierce the dark.

They found a trail through tall gra.s.s and reeds, and followed it across a patch of boggy soil until it led them to an opening in the trees. Here a shadowy object rose out of the gloom, and Walthew instinctively felt for his pistol. The abrupt movement dislodged a small bundle of clothes which he carried by a strap across his shoulder, and it fell to the ground. Then he saw the man come forward, waving his hand.

"This way, senor!" he called to Grahame, who was some yards in front.

Walthew felt tempted to leave the bundle. He wanted to watch the man; but there was a packet of cartridges among the clothes he had dropped, and he thought they might prove useful. Stooping down, he felt among the gra.s.s, but had to move once or twice before he found the bundle; then, springing to his feet, he saw that Grahame and the other had vanished.

The next moment his comrade's voice reached him, hoa.r.s.e and breathless:

"Run!"

That Grahame said nothing more was ominous; but Walthew did not run back to the boat. Drawing his pistol, he plunged in among the trees, but as he reached them he felt a stunning blow on his head. He staggered and fell into a thicket, blinded by blood that ran into his eyes. A struggle seemed to be going on near by, and, getting upon his knees, he fired at random. He thought a man ran toward him, and he fired again, but his mind was confused and he could hardly see. For all that, he got upon his feet and stumbled forward, dazed but determined to rescue his comrade.

A few moments afterward it dawned on him that he was going the wrong way, for he seemed to have come out on the beach. Two or three men were hurrying toward him, but the pistol would not go off. Stumbling on with his hand clenched on the barrel, ready to use the b.u.t.t, he tripped and fell among the rattling shingle. Then his senses left him.

The next thing of which he was conscious was a cool splash on his face, and while he wondered what it was, he felt that he lay upon something that moved in an erratic manner. It was not shingle, for it was smooth when he touched it, but a minute or two pa.s.sed before he realized that he was lying in the sternsheets of the gig. She was plunging sharply, the spray flew aft in showers, and when he wiped his eyes he saw that the men were pulling hard. With some trouble he got to his knees, and the top of a wave that washed across the gunwale struck his face.

"Where is the senor Grahame?" he asked faintly.

"Who knows!" somebody answered. "It seems the _rurales_ have him. We came too late."

Walthew groaned, for his head was getting clearer. His comrade had fallen into a trap.

"Pull her round," he said. "We're going back!"

For a moment or two n.o.body replied. The gig lurched wildly, and a sea-top broke on board. Walthew dimly saw the men swing to and fro at the oars. Their blurred figures cut the sky as the bow went up, and then stood out against white foam as the craft plunged into a hollow.

"It is not possible, senor," Miguel said breathlessly.

Walthew scrambled to his feet, and stood swaying awkwardly with the violent motion, in danger of going overboard. The sea had got worse, and the savage wind lashed his wet face. It was blowing very hard, and the turn of the tide had brought broken water nearer insh.o.r.e; he could hear the roar of the surf upon the beach. It would now be dangerous to land; but he must try to rescue his comrade. He seized the oar the man nearest to him pulled. The fellow pushed him back and, losing his balance as the boat plunged over a comber, he fell heavily upon the floorings.

"We will smash the boat if we land, and there are _rurales_ on the beach," he heard Miguel say. "The sea is bad; perhaps we cannot reach the steamer."

Walthew realized that Miguel was right. The men were unarmed, except for their knives, and something had gone wrong with his pistol. Even if they escaped being swamped by the surf, it would be impossible to cross the beach in face of a hostile force. He lay still with a groan. He felt faint, his head ached excruciatingly, and blood still trickled into his eyes. He had not seen the _Enchantress_ when he stood up, and the desperate way the men were rowing showed that they found it hard to drive the boat offsh.o.r.e.

After a while, however, a hail came out of the dark, the men pulled furiously, and then threw down their oars. There was a crash and a rope fell into the boat, which surged violently forward, grinding against the steamer's side. Walthew did not know how he got on board, and he imagined that he fainted soon afterward, for the next thing he remembered was trying to get up from the top grating in the engine-room, where Macallister sat beside him, holding a rag and a can of hot water.