After a few days, Columbine sailed west, and one night lurched slowly across the languid swell towards the coast. There was a full moon, but Marston, standing near the negro pilot at the wheel, could not see much. Mist drifted about the forest ahead and he heard an ominous roar of surf. Although no break in the coast was distinguishable, the schooner was obviously drifting with the tide toward an opening. The wind was light and blew off the land, laden with a smell of spices and river mud. Marston did not like the smell: he had known it in Africa and when one felt the sour damp one took quinine. He had studied the chart, which did not tell him much, and since there were no marks to steer for he must trust the negro pilot.
There was a risk about going in at night and Marston would sooner have hove to and waited, but the tide rose a few inches higher than at noon, and Wyndham seldom shirked a risk when he had something to gain. By and by he jumped down from the rail where he had been using the lead.
"I expect we'll get in, but I don't know about getting out if we're loaded deep," he said.
"Do you expect much of a load?" Marston asked, because the chart did not indicate a port.
"It depends on our luck. Small quantities of stuff come down; scarce dyestuffs, rubber, and forest produce that manufacturing chemists use. We have a half-breed agent. White men can't stand the climate long, and the natives are rather a curious lot."
"Negroes?" said Marston thoughtfully.
Wyndham laughed. "There are negroes. I understand the population's pretty mixed, with a predominating strain of African blood. I expect you don't like that, but trade's generally good at places where steamers don't touch. Profits go up when competition's languid."
Marston did not like it. He had thought his giving Wyndham money would limit their business to trading at civilized ports. He imagined Harry knew this and ought to have been satisfied, but he banished his feeling of annoyance. After all, he had made no stipulation and was perhaps indulging an illogical prejudice. He must, of course, trust his partner.
The yacht stopped with a sudden jar and her stern swung round. The sails flapped and her main boom lurched across and brought up with a crash. She bumped hard once or twice, and then floated off and went on again. The misty forest was nearer and a dim white belt indicated surf. It looked as if they were steering for an unbroken beach. Then a wave of thicker mist rolled about them and the forest was blotted out. Wyndham jumped on the rail, and Marston heard the splash of the lead. After that there was silence except for the roar of the surf, and Marston went forward to see if the anchor was clear, but Wyndham said nothing and the schooner stole on. Although the breeze was very light, the tide carried her forward and Marston felt there was something ghostly about her noiseless progress. By and by, however, Wyndham threw the lead on the deck.
"Another half-fathom! We're across the shoals," he said. "I expect the pilot trusts the stream to keep us in the channel."