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.”