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.