Gaining the broad esplanade he made for the nearest parapet. It was at the corner of a bastion where stood a small, round sentry tower. With arms outspread he clung to this support while his swimming gaze raked the harbor. It was not yet noon, for the white hull and the yellow funnel of the Tarragona glistened alongside the cargo sheds. The distance was not far. Through a gateway in the wall he might reach the beach and so leave the city behind him. Unless his strength should utterly forsake him, a merciful deliverance was beckoning.
He found it much easier, however, to cling to the small round sentry tower than to resume his pitiable pilgrimage. He tried it once, twice, and stumbled drunkenly. But he was not beaten—he could not be—while the blessed sight of the Tarragona compelled him. He tried again and advanced toward a square, grim mass of stone that marked the nearest gateway.
Then he heard three blasts blown on a steamer’s whistle, deep-throated and prolonged. He knew the Tarragona’s voice and what this signal meant. It was her courteous adieu to Cartagena. She was outward bound, through the Boca Chica and to the rolling spaces of the Caribbean. Richard Cary dragged himself to the parapet and stood looking at his ship, but only for a moment. Then he buried his face in his arms. Sobs shook him. It was the cruelest joke that ever a man had played on him. He damned Captain Sterry for a dirty hound that would leave his second mate in a fix like this.
Ashamed of crying like a silly woman, he retraced his steps to the sentry tower. It was shady inside, with deep slits of windows. He did not wish to see the Tarragona move away from the wharf. He slid to the floor and sat propped against the wall, his chin against his breast. His ruling impulse had kept delirium under for a little while. Now he became a prey to all manner of curious thoughts. Dominant was the resolve that they should not take him alive. He whetted the edge of the machete on a rough stone, and tested the balance of it and the grip of the hilt. He would give a good account of himself on the wall of Cartagena.
CHAPTER IX
THE GOOD HERMIT OF LA POPA
The cloth bound round his tousled head, the torn shirt that bared his chest, the pongee trousers soiled with sweat and dust, the strips of canvas wrapped about his feet, made this wounded fugitive the image of a buccaneer as he sat waiting in the round watch-tower with the machete across his knees. It was not long before the temper of savage defiance yielded to exhaustion. Oblivion enfolded his senses and he relaxed in a stupor that was a counterfeit of sleep. The scowling visage took on the gentler aspect, boyish and engaging, that was familiar to his shipmates. It was an interlude.
He did not stir when the stone barracks inside the city wall were agitated by some loud excitement. There was confused shouting, orders bandied to and fro, the shrill alerte of a bugle, squads of soldiers pattering at the double-quick. All this indicated that the hapless privates, Francisco and Manuel, had found an audience.
The hue-and-cry passed by the broad ramp that led to the top of the wall. It was perhaps assumed that the mad Americano would spread havoc in the city streets or break for the harbor to hide in some boat and escape by sea. It was the first duty of the soldiers to protect the people of Cartagena. Therefore they scattered to warn and search, ready to shoot on sight.
Meanwhile the hunted man’s respite was unbroken. When, at length, he lifted his head and hastily caught up the machete to resume his sullen vigil, the prison area had resumed its wonted quietude. There were no sounds to suggest an alarm. The sun had passed the meridian by an hour or so, as Richard Cary discovered through a slitted window. He was surprised that his hiding-place had not been discovered. He could hope for no such good fortune as concealing himself in the watch-tower until nightfall. And how would that aid him? He was trapped. Death clamored for him in the city. It was certain to overtake him in the swamps and jungle if he should succeed in stealing away. The sea was also impossible. He could never reach it.