Dawn had no more than touched Cartagena with rosy fingers when Mr. Panchito was lifted from the cushions and stood upon his feet. Captain Cary was holding a steaming cup of coffee under his nose. The second mate rubbed his kinky head with both hands, yawned, and sighed a long “Si, señor.” Gently but firmly he was led forward and escorted into the wheel-house. Did he know the channel out through the lagoon? To Cary’s gestures he nodded confident assent. Through the voice tube the chief engineer assured them that she could flop her propeller over if nobody spoke harshly to her. Leaving Mr. Panchito propped against the steering-wheel, Cary ran to the bow to handle the anchor winch himself.
He opened the valves and grasped the lever. Steam hissed from rusty connections, but the piston began to chug back and forth. Anxiously he threw the winch into gear. With a frightful clamor the drum very slowly revolved, dragging in the links of the cable. If the winch didn’t fly into fragments or pull itself out of the deck, the anchor would have to break out of the mud.
A series of protesting shrieks from the laboring winch, a dead stop, another effort, and it was taking hold in grim earnest. The cable was coming home link by link. Cary jumped to look overside. The huge ring of the anchor came surging out of the water. The Valkyrie was free. Her master let the winch revolve until the anchor hung flat against the bow. This was good enough. It could be stowed later.
He waved his hand to Mr. Panchito who had drooped himself over a window ledge of the wheel-house. The pink shirt moved over to the steering-wheel. The whistle of the Valkyrie blew no farewell to the port of Cartagena. It would have been a foolish waste of steam.
The steamer sluggishly gathered headway, riding light in ballast. It was odd to see her heading for sea without any visible crew. Two hombres were in the wheel-house. Not a soul moved on deck.
Safely she avoided the shoals and made the wide circuit to swing into the narrow fairway of the Boca Chica between the mouldering, grass-grown forts. By now Captain Richard Cary was pacing the bridge in solitary grandeur. His brow was serene with contentment. The ship was heaving under his feet as she felt the swell of the wide Caribbean. He was gazing ahead.
“ ‘Now ees what?’ ” he said to himself. A rumbling cough made him whirl about. Mr. Bradley Duff was clinging to a stanchion with one hand. The other tenderly caressed his scalp. On his puffy features was written a bitter resentment. The night’s rest had not sweetened his temper. Cary was quick to offer amends.
“I hated to have to do it, Mr. Duff. Señor Bazán was near dying in my room, and I didn’t dare jolt him with any more excitement. You refused to listen to me—”
“I went in and saw the old gentleman just now,” grumpily replied the chief officer. “He set me straight about you. I didn’t air my troubles. He has chirked up quite a bit. But what was the sense in all the hush stuff? Why didn’t the old coot tell me you were coming aboard to take command? Do you think I’d ’a’ blabbed it ashore? It was nothing to me if a big Yankee sailorman had enjoyed beating up the town.”
“You wouldn’t have blabbed when you were sober,” said Cary. “It was the Colombian crew that made Señor Bazán nervous. They had some foolish notions about me.”