By and by a shadowy figure came out from the cabin hatch. It made no noise and Marston would not have seen it had not the indistinct black object for a moment cut against the light. Outside the beam from the open hatch all was misty and dark. Still Marston thought the fellow knew he was there, because he vanished as if he had gone behind the mast. Marston did not bother about him and went down to the cabin.
There was liquor on the table and Wyndham had obviously just drained the glass he held. His hand shook as he put it down, his face was rather white, and drops of sweat stood on his forehead. It looked as if he had got a knock, although Marston knew Harry's nerve was good.
"I couldn't get near the curlew, so I came back," he remarked, awkwardly.
Wyndham looked up, with an obvious effort for calm. "Oh, well, since you are here, you might turn out the boys and heave up the slack cable."
Marston noted that Wyndham's voice was hoarse, but thought it better to conquer his curiosity. Harry might give him his confidence later, and in the meantime to heave the cable taut would obviate their bringing the boys up again. The tide was rising and they wanted to float the schooner off the mud. He went forward to call the crew and the clank of the windlass and rattle of chain were soothing, since they indicated that Columbine was ready for sea. Marston owned that he would be glad to get away from the lagoon. He was occupied for some time and when he went back to the cabin Wyndham looked calm.
"We'll keep her off the beach after this," he said. "Sorry you didn't get a shot. The curlew seem as wild as they are at home."
"I don't want her to take the beach again," Marston remarked. "When do we sail?"
"You'll sail as soon as the pilot thinks there's water enough on the bar. He comes to-morrow."
"But you mean to stay?"
"I must stay," said Wyndham. "We haven't an agent and I'm on the track of some business I can't neglect."
Marston saw there was no use in urging his comrade to go. Harry's mouth was ominously firm. He wondered whether Harry would tell him what the mulatto had talked about, but he did not and soon after supper they went to bed.
CHAPTER XI
MARSTON GOES TO SEA
The new moon shone in a clear sky and the tide was nearly full. Puffs of warm land-breeze shook the mangroves and drove small ripples against Columbine's side. She rode to the flood stream, ready for sea, and the clank of her windlass rolled across the swamps. The negro crew were shortening cable and sang as they hove at the levers.
Wyndham was talking to Peters, who had arrived in the afternoon, and Marston, standing near them, frowned. He was annoyed that Peters had come, because he had wanted to talk to Wyndham and after the other's arrival this was impossible. It was unlucky he had put it off, but he did not see why Harry had urged the fellow to stay and go back to the village with him when the schooner sailed. Marston felt rather hurt, since it almost looked as if Harry had kept Peters in order to prevent him trying to satisfy his curiosity.
Marston was curious. The old mulatto had told Harry something that had given him a bad jar; Bob could not forget his comrade's strained look when he entered the cabin, and he had found no clew to the puzzle. It was a relief to go to sea, but the satisfaction he had expected to get was dulled. He felt as if he were running away and leaving his partner when the latter needed him. Yet somebody must go and Harry would not.
"Short up, sah!" a Krooboy shouted when the windlass stopped. The pilot gave an order, and the foresail began to rise with a rattle of blocks. The canvas flapped and swelled, and Marston went forward.
"Break out the anchor," he said. "Hoist the inner jib."
Dark figures rose and fell with the windlass-bars; slowly at first, then faster, as with a harsh clank the chain ran through the pipe. Marston had generally found the noise inspiriting. It hinted at adventure on the open sea, but it did not move him now; he was not leaving the lagoon for good. Yet he was soothed when Columbine began to move. After lying on the mud, he liked to feel her lift as she met the gentle swell the tide brought in, and hear the ripple splash about her bows. The mangroves stole past, a gap opened in the trees, and a faintly-glittering track led out to sea.
"Hoist the mainsail," said the pilot, and the splash of ripples was louder when the dark canvas rose.
She drove out with the land-breeze and met the rollers on the bar. They were not high and hardly broke, only one here and there melting into foam. She lurched across with dry decks, and when the leadsman got deeper water the pilot brought her round and pulled up his canoe. Marston went to the gangway with Wyndham and Peters, and the latter laughed as he gave him his hand.
"I don't know if we'll meet again, but it's possible," he said. "You offered a good reward for some information not long since. I wonder whether you were rash."
"The offer stands," Marston replied. "The man who tells me all about our agent's death will find me generous."
"Oh, well," said Peters. "I can't state that I expect to claim the reward, but after all I might. Then I hope we'll both be satisfied."
Marston let him go. He would have given much for ten minutes' frank talk with Wyndham, but this was impossible. The pilot was waiting and the yacht drifting near a dangerous shoal. He resigned himself and gave his comrade his hand.
"Run no risks and take care of yourself until I come back," he said.
"Good luck!" said Wyndham and jumped into the canoe.
Marston signed to the steersman, the sails filled, and the canoe dropped astern. Columbine gathered speed and listed down, throwing spray about while the water foamed below her lee rail. Small white waves rolled down the glittering track ahead and Marston's mood got lighter. After all, it was a relief to put to sea; the salt wind was tonic and blew morbid thoughts away. It was bracing to grapple with breaking waves and savage squalls.
He looked astern. The canoe had vanished and a misty line indicated the land. Marston was conscious of a strange repugnance as he watched it fade. Sickness lurked in the steamy forest, where the gloom was touched by mystery and something of horror. For a time, he had done with it, and he would come back strengthened and invigorated by the change.
He gave the helmsman the course, and going to the cabin, opened a tin box that held letters for England and manifests of cargo. He must copy these out on the bills of lading when he transshipped the goods and as he studied the lists he felt some surprise. Columbine did not carry much but her freight was valuable. Some had been put on board without his knowing and he thought it strange Wyndham had not talked about its cost. For example, there were small pearls. One found pearls at places on the Caribbean, but the fisheries were jealously guarded and none were near the lagoon. Then there was a packet of ambergris and Marston knew ambergris was worth much. Don Felix had said nothing about this curious stuff, which the cachalot whales throw up, and Marston wondered where Wyndham had got it.
The voyage was obviously going to pay, but the strange thing was, their cargo for the most part had come down after the agent died. To some extent this bore out Marston's conclusion that the old mulatto was the Bat and had power over Don Felix's uncivilized customers. Marston began to muse about the fellow. He had power; one felt it, although he was old and repulsive. Something indicated that he had inherited from his white ancestors qualities not often found in half-breeds. Marston began to see that this was partly why the fellow repelled him; one got a hint of intelligence put to a base use.
The matter was not important, and he pondered about his finding Wyndham and the other in the cabin. Harry was badly shaken, although Marston knew his pluck. Something very strange and startling was needed to drive the blood from his face and bring the sweat to his forehead. All the same, it was ridiculous to imagine the mulatto had frightened him. The old fellow was clever and no doubt claimed to be a magician in the bush, but Harry was not the man to be cheated by his tricks. After a time, Marston gave it up and went on deck.
Columbine leaned over to the steady breeze. The sea was flecked with white and a spray shower leaped about her bows. A foaming wake trailed behind her and Marston's heart got light as he heard the shrouds hum and felt her measured swing. He liked the sense of speed and buoyancy, the feeling that he had control of straining wood and sail. To fight the sudden wild Northers and keep her off reefs and shoals was a man's job, but it was a job he knew. He did not know the other that Mabel had given him, and often felt puzzled. Yet he had undertaken it and meant to make good. By-and-by he went down to the cabin and to bed.
After a quick run he reached port, transacted some business, shipped his cargo home by steamer, and then returned to the lagoon, where he found Wyndham had another load ready. On the night after his arrival they sat in the cabin, talking, and although Wyndham said nothing about the mulatto he was frank. Indeed, Marston smiled when he remembered the doubts with which he had left his comrade. All the same, he thought he noted something about Harry he had not known before.
"You will sail again as soon as we can load the cargo, but for another port," Wyndham said. "We have, so to speak, found a treasure house and want to keep it dark. If other folks get to know, the treasure will soon be picked up. Anybody can buy a pretty good chart of the coast for a few shillings, and we have been lucky so far, largely because the shoals keep steamers out."
"The thing will be known sometime," Marston remarked.
"Of course, but I hope to get the most part of the stuff that's worth getting before our rivals come in."
"After that you'll let this branch of the business go?"
"I think not," Wyndham replied. "If I can find a good agent, we ought to hold our ground in the regular trade, although the profits will not be large."
"But you, yourself, don't mean to stay very long?"
"No," said Wyndham. "When I get the best of the produce that seems to have been piling up and appoint our agent, I'll willingly clear out; but I don't expect to do so for three or four months. I've got my chance now and must seize it."
"Three months is a long time to stay at the lagoon. Besides, who will look after the business at home?"
"My manager is pretty capable, though he's young and recently promoted. Would you like to go?"
Marston laughed. "I'm not a business man. Would you trust me?"
"I don't think it would be rash. You're a careful fellow, Bob, and it begins to look as if you had talents you didn't know. You have transacted our business like a shipping clerk."
For a moment or two Marston hesitated. Wyndham looked amused and Bob admitted that the situation had a touch of humor. He meant to stay at a place for which he had a strange, superstitious dislike, in order to help his comrade, who would sooner be left alone.
"I may go by-and-by, but I won't go yet," he replied.
They let the matter drop and in the morning Wyndham went up the creek in the boat. He stated, rather vaguely, that he must arrange about some cargo and it was three or four days before he returned. Then Marston sailed with another load for a different port, and the French creole who shipped the goods to England was frankly surprised by their value. Indeed, his remarks indicated that the freight was worth much more than Marston had thought. The latter returned to the lagoon, satisfied in one way, but disturbed in another, and did not see much of his comrade.
Wyndham often left the vessel, and although he did not tell Marston where he went, the loaded canoes that came down the creek hinted that he was usefully engaged. It was plain that the business was remarkably profitable, but Marston imagined Wyndham was overdoing the thing. He began to look worn and was sometimes moody, for a white man cannot strain brain and body hard in the tropic swamps.
Marston got uneasy about him, but to some extent sympathized. They could not long enjoy their monopoly, rivals would soon be attracted to the lagoon, and Harry was justified in seizing his chance. He had not thought Harry greedy, but there was much at stake; Chisholm's approval, Harry's business standing, and his marriage to Flora. Marston could understand his comrade's running heavy risks for a girl like that.
Still he was bothered because he did not know all the risks; it was possible that Harry was being driven far by his very natural ambition, but there were lengths to which one ought not to go.
Another thing puzzled Marston. Don Felix had known the negroes and had, moreover, negro blood in his veins, but the trade had not extended until he was dead. It was strange the efforts of a white man and a stranger had led to the sudden extension. Harry had obviously qualities and knowledge that had not marked the other. But what were the qualities, and what did he know? Although Marston sometimes brooded over this, he saw no light.
One evening he sat in the cabin and studied their trading accounts while Wyndham smoked. It was very hot and Marston's face and hands were wet with sweat and his eyes were dazzled. Flies hovered about the light and now and then a beetle struck the mosquito gauze in the skylight. Presently Marston put down his pen and frowned.
"My brain's dull to-night," he said. "I ought to be satisfied with the results of our venture, but there are things I don't see quite plain. For example, we have got a lot of stuff for which we don't seem to have paid."
"You are supercargo," Wyndham rejoined. "The accounts are yours and they're remarkably accurate. All we have got is properly charged against us."
"That is so; I have used your figures. All the same, we haven't handed over much money."
"The business is largely done by barter."
"Of course," said Marston, with a touch of impatience. "We haven't delivered much goods against the account."
"The goods will be delivered. Our customers haven't yet stated the articles they want."
"This means they trust us until we can bring the stuff from England or America? In fact, they're willing to trust us for some time?"
"It looks like that," said Wyndham and laughed. "Are you puzzled about it, Bob? After all, Wyndhams' has long traded here and the house's reputation is obviously pretty good."
"But I understand your agents never got such stuff as we have got."
"They were agents and we are principals; I expect that accounts for something," Wyndham replied with a twinkle. "Besides, Wyndhams' never had a supercargo like you."
Marston frowned and tried to think of some other matters that had excited his curiosity, but could not make the effort, and Wyndham put a bottle and glasses on the table.
"Shut the books and I'll mix a cocktail," he said. "You're working too hard and it's very hot."
They went to bed soon afterwards and when he awoke Marston's head ached and he did not get up. He thought he had a dose of fever and felt strangely annoyed. Somehow he had not expected to get fever; he had thought Harry might get it, and to be kept in his bunk was a complication he had not reckoned on. Although Wyndham dosed him as the medical book directed, the fever did not abate. For some days he tossed about in his narrow bunk with a throbbing head and pain in his limbs, and then lay half-conscious in limp exhaustion. He had strange dreams and long remembered ones; indeed, he sometimes doubted if it were all a dream.
He imagined he was back at the factory on the African river and Wyndham's uncle, the man who vanished, was in the big mildewed room. Marston saw him come out of his door and stand for a moment listening, with his face touched by the moonlight; and then run forward and stop by the body on the boards. The dream was horribly vivid and real, but the big room got hazy and melted, as it were, into Columbine's cabin.
Marston saw the lamp, turned low, hang at an angle to the beams, and the charts and cargo books in the net rack. He smelt the mud and heard the ripples splash against the schooner's side. Somebody sat in front of the table and when the man looked up he saw it was Rupert Wyndham. Marston knew him because he had seen his portrait, but his hair had gone white and his skin very dark. In fact, he did not look like a white man. He got up and his face and bent figure melted as the room at the factory had melted, but very slowly got distinct again and Marston thrilled with repulsion and horror. Rupert Wyndham had changed to the old mulatto.
His naked feet made no noise as he crossed the floor and Marston struggled to get up but could not. His lips refused to move when he tried to call for help; the old fellow had fixed his bloodshot eyes on him and he felt powerless. The mulatto stopped by his bunk, holding out a glass, and Marston knew he meant to poison him. He resolved he would not drink, but felt he must. There was something in the fellow's steady look that broke his resistance and for a few moments he fought a horrible battle against a strange conquering force. Then he took the glass and drained it, and the mulatto melted away. He did not vanish. This implied suddenness; he faded out of the cabin by imperceptible degrees.
Marston knew no more and awoke in daylight, haunted by the dream. He was surprised to feel he was not worse; indeed, his head did not ache and although he was very weak the pain in his limbs had gone. His throat was parched and there was a strange taste in his mouth, as if he had swallowed the draught he dreamed about. Wyndham sat on the locker and got up when he saw Marston was awake.
"You look different. I think you have seen the worst," he said. "I've been bothered about you, Bob."
Marston smiled. He did not want to talk and the relief he saw in his comrade's face was soothing. He went to sleep again and it was dark when he awoke. He did not dream that night and in a few days got, rather shakily, out of his bunk. Wyndham put some cushions for him on the locker and they began to talk.
"The boat's full to the hatches and we go to sea to-morrow," Wyndham said. "If the wind keeps fair, I expect to put you on board the Spanish liner for the Canaries in three or four days. You'll transfer to a homeward Cape boat when you arrive."
"But I don't want to go home yet," Marston objected.
"You are going all the same," Wyndham declared. "You have been very ill and a sick man hasn't much chance in this miasmatic air. There's no use in arguing; you have got to go."
Marston grumbled, but they sailed with the next high tide, and when they made the port where the Spanish steamer lay he let Wyndham help him on board.
PART II
WYNDHAM CLAIMS HIS REWARD
CHAPTER I
MABEL PONDERS
It was four o'clock in the afternoon and Marston sat by a window in an English country house. His pose was limp and his face was thin, for the fever had shaken him, but he felt his strength coming back. Outside, bare trees shook their branches in a fresh west wind, and a white belt of surf crept across the shining sands in the broad estuary. On the other side, the Welsh hills rose against the sunset in a smooth black line.
Marston felt pleasantly languid and altogether satisfied. Mabel had put a cushion under his head and given him a footstool. It was soothing to be taken care of by one whom one loved, and after the glare of the Caribbean and the gloom of the swamps, the soft colors and changing lights of the English landscape rested his eyes. For all that, they did not wander long from Mabel, who sat close by, quietly pondering. With her yellow hair and delicate pink skin she looked very English, and all that was English had an extra charm for Marston. He liked her thoughtful calm. Mabel was normal; she, so to speak, walked in the light, and the extravagant imaginings he had indulged at the lagoon vanished when she was about.
Yet he had been forced to remember much, for Chisholm and Flora had come to hear his story, and he had felt he must make them understand in order to do his comrade justice. Flora's grateful glance and the sparkle in Chisholm's eyes hinted that he had not altogether failed.
"It's a moving tale; I felt I was young again," Chisholm remarked when Marston stopped. "A daring voyage for a craft as old as Columbine and Harry obviously handled her well. Some folks declare we're decadent, but my notion is, a race that loves the sea can't lose its vigor, and the spirit that sent out the old adventurers is living yet. Well, I wish I had been with you!" He paused with an apologetic smile and turned to Flora. "It's plain that Harry has qualities."
"He has a good partner," Flora replied and gave Marston a friendly nod. "I mean that, Bob."
"The persistence of the family type is a curious thing," Chisholm resumed. "In old times, Wyndhams' sent out slavers and privateers, and although Harry's modern, he's taking the path his ancestors trod. Well, in a sense, he's lucky, because he can make seafaring pay. The rest of us must indulge it tamely on board a yacht and, however you economize, yachting costs you much."
"Harry has a talent for making his occupations pay," Marston agreed and noted that Flora knitted her brows.
"You are romantic, father," she said. "I don't think Harry is taking his ancestors' path. They were hard and reckless men and traded in flesh and blood. You trade in rubber and dyewoods, don't you, Bob?"
"For the most part. However, we get a bit of everything; ambergris, pearls, and curious drugs."
"I like pearls," Flora remarked, but stopped rather abruptly and Mabel gave Marston a quick glance. He thought he saw what she meant; he must not talk about pearls just then.
After a time Flora said they must go, and went out with Mabel, but Chisholm stopped by Marston's chair.
"It looks as if you were quite satisfied about this venture of Wyndham's, Bob," he said.
"Why, yes," Marston replied. "I've backed my approval by investing a good sum."
Chisholm was quiet for a moment or two, and then resumed: "That is not altogether what I meant; in fact, it's hard to state frankly what I do mean. I like Harry Wyndham. He's clever, resolute, and a good sportsman, but when he wanted to marry Flora I hesitated. Well, your story has given me some comfort. You have been with Wyndham and are satisfied. One can trust you."
"You are very kind, sir," Marston answered with a touch of awkwardness. "The business is risky, the climate's bad, and one must use some control. Leave liquor alone, for example; I think you understand! Still Harry's rather a Spartan; there's an ascetic vein in him. Besides, he won't stay long. As soon as he has put things straight he's coming back."
"Thank you," said Chisholm, but when he went off Marston felt embarrassed.
Chisholm trusted him and he was not sure he had been altogether frank. Wyndham, of course, was free from certain gross temptations to which some white men in the tropics were victims; but there were others, subtle and insidious, that rather appealed to the brain than the body. Marston could not declare that Harry resisted these. Yet it was impossible he should tell Chisholm his vague but disturbing doubts. It was some relief when Mabel returned and sat down opposite.
"Have they tired you, Bob?" she asked. "Light a cigarette and don't talk unless you want."
"I want to talk," said Marston, who used no reserve with her.
"Very well. To begin with, you saw my hint when Flora talked about the pearls."
Marston laughed. "After all, I'm not so dull as some people think. You didn't want Flora to know I had brought you pearls?"
"Something like that. Why did Harry send her none?"
"It's rather puzzling," Marston replied thoughtfully. "I suggested I should take a few to Flora, but he said they were not good enough. They're not really first-class pearls, you know. Then he said they might be unlucky. The strange thing is, I think he meant it."
"Yet you brought some for me? You're honest, but you don't always use much tact, dear Bob!"
"Oh, well. We're not superstitious and I'd no grounds for thinking the pearls would bring bad luck."
"It looks as if your partner had some grounds."
"Yes," said Marston. "I don't understand the thing. For that matter, I was puzzled about other things now and then, and although I wanted to get back to you I felt shabby about coming home. Somehow I had a notion I ought to stay. After all, you let me go and would like me to finish my job."
"You're rather a dear and very staunch," Mabel remarked with a gentle smile. "Anyhow, you were ill and had done enough."
She was quiet for a time and Marston was satisfied to smoke and study her. It had got dark, but the fire was bright and touched her face while she sat still, as if lost in concentrated thought. Marston thought her beautiful and she had beauty, but her beauty was not her strongest charm.
"Bob," she remarked presently, "yours was a curious dream."
"I had fever, you know, but the thing was remarkably real. It was like lantern pictures melting on the screen. Background and figures were accurate and lifelike. In the last scene, I knew I was in Columbine's cabin and can hardly persuade myself I was quite asleep. The tide splashed about the boat; I could smell the mud."
"Yet you saw Wyndham's uncle change into the horrible old mulatto."
Marston nodded. "He faded and got distinct again, different, but not different altogether. This was the puzzling thing. However, the story the agent told us about the Leopards had haunted me and I'd often thought about Rupert Wyndham. Perhaps it was because I saw his portrait and he was like my partner."
"You mean he was like him physically?"
"That's not all. Of course a portrait doesn't tell one very much, but I thought Harry had Rupert's temperament."
"I see," said Mabel, knitting her straight brows. "To begin with, do you know Rupert Wyndham's temperament?"
"In a way; Harry and Ellams, the agent, talked about him much. He was a daring man; I think reckless is the proper word. We sober folks have our code, we must do this and not the other; men like Rupert Wyndham have none. If a thing looked worth getting, he'd venture much and break rules for it. Harry, you know, is like that; I mean he'd venture much. Well, I think Rupert made some rash experiments in Africa. He studied the negroes' habits and tried to get their point of view."
"With an object, you suggest? What did he want?"
"Harry imagined it was power."
"Ah," said Mabel. "Harry wants Flora. And he has Rupert's recklessness!"
Marston made a sign of disagreement. "There's a difference. A man might do much for power; but for a girl like Flora he must be fastidious. It wouldn't help if he got money and lost her respect. Harry knows this. He's not a fool."
"But suppose Flora didn't know how he got his money?"
"Harry doesn't cheat. He wouldn't use means she disapproved and then claim his reward."
"Oh, well," said Mabel, "I think we'll let it go. I like you to trust your friends."
Soon afterwards a car came to the steps and Mabel saw that Marston put on a warm scarf and fastened his collar before he drove off. Then she went back to the fire and pondered his story and subsequent remarks. The story was strange, but she thought she saw a light where all was dark to Bob. She had long suspected that Wyndham was reckless and would not be bound by rules if the prize he sought made his breaking them worth while. Moreover, she had got books about West Africa and the Caribbean that touched on Fetish and Voodoo superstitions. Perhaps she was romantic, but it was possible Wyndham, led by strong temptation, had ventured where a white man ought not to go. With an effort, Mabel banished her doubts. After all, the thing was unthinkable. Bob had not been cheated; he knew Harry.
In the morning, Marston occupied himself with some old books in Wyndhams' office at the top of a big stone building. The office was comfortably furnished and there was a good picture of an old-fashioned sailing ship on the wall; the big single-top sails indicated when she was built. At the end of the street the window commanded, the masts and funnels of channel steamers rose above a warehouse where Wyndhams' barks and brigs had loaded goods they bartered for slaves. Marston glanced at the modern iron masts and smiled when he looked up, for the book he studied had nothing to do with business.
It was the log of the slaver Providence that Wyndham had talked about, and it related how they towed her with the boats when the negroes died in the suffocating hold. There was something about a sacrifice that did not bring the needed wind and its cost was charged against the freight. They were hard men, touched by strange superstitions, who towed the Providence, but their brutality was businesslike. Marston found an entry for the negroes used up at the oars, with their value at Jamaica properly noted.
After a time, he shut the log-book. He had read enough and resolved there would be a break in some of Wyndhams' traditions now he was a partner in the house. He had noted things he did not like, and Harry would support his new plans when he came home. By and by he heard steps in the clerks' office and a broker was announced. The latter came in and put a small brown jar on the table.
"I told your people we wanted some hard oil and they sent us samples," he said. "If the bulk's quite up to specimen, I think it ought to meet the bill. We must have prime quality for the particular job."
Marston picked up the jar, which held a quantity of thick yellow grease. It was palm oil and its strong but rather pleasant smell awoke vivid memories. He saw the whitewashed factory shine beside the muddy river and a gang of naked negroes filling big barrels in a compound tunneled by land-crabs' holes. The compound glowed with light against a background of forest wrapped in unchanging gloom, from which the palm oil came. For all that, the oil was a well-known article of commerce. There was nothing mysterious about its production and Marston would have been satisfied had Wyndhams' confined its trade to stuff like this. Then he saw the broker was waiting.