Hearts of Three 18

Hearts of Three 18

“It is an injury,” Captain Trefethen stated aggrievedly. “It is a

physical damage. No man can perpetrate a physical damage on a subject of

King George’s, God bless him, without furnishing a money requital.”

 

At this crass statement of the terms of the blackmail, Henry was for

forgetting himself and for leaping upon the creature. But, restrained by

Francis’ hand on his shoulder, he struggled to self-control, made a

noise like hearty laughter, dipped into his pocket for two ten-dollar

gold-pieces, and, as if they stung him, thrust them into Captain

Trefethen’s palm.

 

“Cheap at the price,” he could not help muttering aloud.

 

“It is a good price,” the skipper averred. “Twenty gold is always a good

price for a sore head. I am yours to command, sir. You are a sure-enough

gentleman. You may hit me any time for the price.”

 

“Me, sir, me!” the Kingston black named Percival volunteered with broad

and prideless chucklings of subservience. “Take a swat at me, sir, for

the same price, any time, now. And you may swat me as often as you

please to pay....”

 

But the episode was destined to terminate at that instant, for at that

instant a sailor called from amidships:

 

“Smoke! A steamer-smoke dead aft!”

 

The passage of an hour determined the nature and import of the smoke,

for the _Angelique_, falling into a calm, was overhauled with such

rapidity that the tugboat _Dolores_, at half a mile distance through the

binoculars, was seen fairly to bristle with armed men crowded on her

tiny for’ard deck. Both Henry and Francis could recognize the faces of

the Jefe Politico and of several of the gendarmes.

 

Old Enrico Solano’s nostrils began to dilate, as, with his four sons who

were aboard, he stationed them aft with him and prepared for the battle.

Leoncia, divided between Henry and Francis, was secretly distracted,

though outwardly she joined in laughter at the unkemptness of the little

tug, and in glee at a flaw of wind that tilted the _Angelique’s_ port

rail flush to the water and foamed her along at a nine-knot clip.

 

But weather and wind were erratic. The face of the lagoon was vexed with

squalls and alternate streaks of calm.

 

“We cannot escape, sir, I regret to inform you,” Captain Trefethen

informed Francis. “If the wind would hold, sir, yes. But the wind

baffles and breaks. We are crowded down upon the mainland. We are

cornered, sir, and as good as captured.”

 

Henry, who had been studying the near shore through the glasses, lowered

them and looked at Francis.

 

“Shout!” cried the latter. “You have a scheme. It’s sticking out all

over you. Name it.”

 

“Right there are the two _Tigres_ islands,” Henry elucidated. “They

guard the narrow entrance to Juchitan Inlet, which is called El Tigre.

Oh, it has the teeth of a tiger, believe me. On either side of them,

between them and the shore, it is too shoal to float a whaleboat unless

you know the winding channels, which I do know. But between them is deep

water, though the El Tigre Passage is so pinched that there is no room

to come about. A schooner can only run it with the wind abaft or abeam.

Now, the wind favors. We will run it. Which is only half my scheme——”

 

“And if the wind baffles or fails, sir—and the tide of the inlet runs

out and in like a race, as I well know—my beautiful schooner will go on

the rocks,” Captain Trefethen protested.

 

“For which, if it happens, I will pay you full value,” Francis assured

him shortly and brushed him aside. “—And now, Henry, what’s the other

half of your scheme?”

 

“I’m ashamed to tell you,” Henry laughed. “But it will be provocative of

more Spanish swearing than has been heard in Chiriqui Lagoon since old

Sir Henry sacked San Antonio and Bocas del Toro. You just watch.”

 

Leoncia clapped her hands, as with sparkling eyes she cried:

 

“It must be good, Henry. I can see it by your face. You must tell _me_.”

 

And, aside, his arm around her to steady her on the reeling deck, Henry

whispered closely in her ear, while Francis, to hide his perturbation at

the sight of them, made shift through the binoculars to study the faces

on the pursuing tug. Captain Trefethen grinned maliciously and exchanged

significant glances with the pale-yellow sailor.

 

“Now, skipper,” said Henry, returning. “We’re just opposite El Tigre.

Put up your helm and run for the passage. Also, and pronto, I want a

coil of half-inch, old, soft, manila rope, plenty of rope-yarns and sail

twine, that case of beer from the lazarette, that five-gallon kerosene

can that was emptied last night, and the coffee-pot from the galley.”

 

“But I am distrained to remark to your attention that that rope is worth

good money, sir,” Captain Trefethen complained, as Henry set to work on

the heterogeneous gear.

 

“You will be paid,” Francis hushed him.

 

“And the coffee-pot—it is almost new.”

 

“You will be paid.”

 

The skipper sighed and surrendered, although he sighed again at Henry’s

next act, which was to uncork the bottles and begin emptying the beer

out into the scuppers.

 

“Please, sir,” begged Percival. “If you must empty the beer please empty

it into me.”

 

No further beer was wasted, and the crew swiftly laid the empty bottles

beside Henry. At intervals of six feet he fastened the recorked bottles

to the half-inch line. Also, he cut off two-fathom lengths of the line

and attached them like streamers between the beer bottles. The

coffee-pot and two empty coffee tins were likewise added among the

bottles. To one end of the main-line he made fast the kerosene can, to

the other end the empty beer-case, and looked up to Francis, who

replied:

 

“Oh, I got you five minutes ago. El Tigre must be narrow, or else the

tug will go around that stuff.”

 

“El Tigre is just that narrow,” was the response. “There’s one place

where the channel isn’t forty feet between the shoals. If the skipper

misses our trap, he’ll go around, aground. Say, they’ll be able to wade

ashore from the tug if that happens.—Come on, now, we’ll get the stuff

aft and ready to toss out. You take starboard and I’ll take port, and

when I give the word you shoot that beer case out to the side as far as

you can.”

 

Though the wind eased down, the _Angelique_, square before it, managed

to make five knots, while the _Dolores_, doing six, slowly overhauled

her. As the rifles began to speak from the _Dolores_, the skipper, under

the direction of Henry and Francis, built up on the schooner’s stern a

low barricade of sacks of potatoes and onions, of old sails, and of

hawser coils. Crouching low in the shelter of this, the helmsman,

managed to steer. Leoncia refused to go below as the firing became more

continuous, but compromised by lying down behind the cabin-house. The

rest of the sailors sought similar shelter in nooks and corners, while

the Solano men, lying aft, returned the fire of the tug.

 

Henry and Francis, in their chosen positions and waiting until the

narrowness of El Tigre was reached, took a hand in the free and easy

battle.

 

“My congratulations, sir,” Captain Trefethen said to Francis, the Indian

of him compelling him to raise his head to peer across the rail, the

negro of him flattening his body down until almost it seemed to bore

into the deck. “That was Captain Rosaro himself that was steering, and

the way he jumped and grabbed his hand would lead one to conclude that

you had very adequately put a bullet through it. That Captain Rosaro is

a very hot-tempered hombre, sir. I can almost hear him blaspheming now.”

 

“Stand ready for the word, Francis,” Henry said, laying down his rifle

and carefully studying the low shores of the islands of El Tigre on

either side of them. “We’re almost ready. Take your time when I give the

word, and at ‘three’ let her go.”

 

The tug was two hundred yards away and overtaking fast, when Henry gave

the word. He and Francis stood up, and at “three” made their fling. To

either side can and beer-case flew, dragging behind them through the air

the beaded rope of pots and cans and bottles and rope-streamers.

 

In their interest, Henry and Francis remained standing in order to watch

the maw of their trap as denoted by the spread of miscellaneous objects

on the surface of their troubled wake. A fusillade of rifle shots from

the tug made them drop back flat to the deck; but, peering over the

rail, they saw the tug’s forefoot press the floated rope down and under.

A minute later they saw the tug slow down to a stop.

 

“Some mess wrapped around that propeller,” Francis applauded. “Henry,

salute.”

 

“Now, if the wind holds ...” said Henry modestly.

 

The _Angelique_ sailed on, leaving the motionless tug to grow smaller in

the distance, but not so small that they could not see her drift

helplessly onto the shoal, and see men going over the side and wading

about.

 

“We just must sing our little song,” Henry cried jubilantly, starting up

the stave of “Back to Back Against the Mainmast.”

 

“Which is all very nice, sir,” Captain Trefethen interrupted at the

conclusion of the first chorus, his eyes glistening and his shoulders

still jiggling to the rhythm of the song. “But the wind has ceased, sir.

We are becalmed. How are we to get out of Juchitan Inlet without wind?

The _Dolores_ is not wrecked. She is merely delayed. Some nigger will go

down and clear her propeller, and then she has us right where she wants

us.”

 

“It’s not so far to shore,” Henry adjudged with a measuring eye as he

turned to Enrico.

 

“What kind of a shore have they got ashore here, Senor Solano?” he

queried. “Maya Indians and haciendados—which?”

 

“Haciendados and Mayas, both,” Enrico answered. “But I know the country

well. If the schooner is not safe, we should be safe ashore. We can get

horses and saddles and beef and corn. The Cordilleras are beyond. What more should we want?”