Hurricane Page 3

  “Who is she?” said Spar.

  “Daughter of Clyde Mannering, head of a rival central. Old man Perry is trying to squeeze old Mannering out and old Mannering thinks marrying his girl to young Perry will seal the bargain.”

  “Oh,” said Spar, seeing light. “Have you any spare clothes?”

  “I keep the slop chest under that leather seat. You’ll find dungarees and so forth in there. It’s all there is.”

  “Just so they’re dry,” said Spar. He kneeled down by the transom and pulled out several suits until he found one of the right size. To the pile he added a slicker and a cap. Then he stood up and removed his sopping shirt. He did so thoughtlessly, anxious to be rid of his wet clothes. He eyed the private shower which opened out from the big cabin and picked up the dry clothing.

  But Larson had watched the movement and Larson had seen certain marks across Spar’s great back which had been laid there with a whip. “So that’s what you are,” said Larson.

  “What?” said Spar, startled, facing the former captain.

  “I wondered why you were here, how you were at liberty to take the job. Hell, I never thought I’d get that low. Handing my job over to a penal colony convict.”

  “So what?” said Spar.

  “Escaped convict,” muttered Larson. “Well, jailbird, you’re in good company. Murderers and God knows what else. I thought your face looked drawn. I thought you were too alert and watchful. What am I supposed to do?”

  “Anything you like,” said Spar, dropping the clothes and stepping forward.

  “Do you think I’ll keep this to myself?”

  “I think you will,” replied Spar.

  Larson carelessly dropped his hand to his hip pocket. Spar stepped another pace ahead. “Don’t pull it.”

  Larson jumped back, dragging at his gun. Spar struck with all the power of his arm. Larson dropped back against the transom, head limp, blood spurting from his torn cheek.

  Spar dragged the man to his feet and knocked him down again. The madness had come back to his eyes. His mouth was twisted into an ugly grin. He reached again for Larson’s jacket and then, with an effort, stood up straight.

  “Get up,” said Spar. “If you can’t stand the idea of a man getting free from French Guiana and hell itself, run ashore and yap your news to the police. Now stand up and take this locker and get the hell out!”

  Larson crawled to his feet, dazed. He shouldered his trunk and staggered with it out to the deck. A sailor came and took it from him, the pair went over the side, and the ship’s tender spluttered away through the rain.

  Spar stood breathing hard, fists still tight. A trickle of blood ran down his knuckles and dripped to the rug. Presently he picked up the clothes and went into the shower.

  “Get up,” said Spar. “If you can’t stand the idea of a man

  getting free from French Guiana and hell itself,

  run ashore and yap your news to the police.”

  He found a razor and shaved and, looking into the mirror, he was startled at the worn, bitter lines of his face. At thirty he looked old. But then five years in French Guiana are not apt to give a man anything but bitter lines.

  The Saint was responsible for every twist. The Saint had done that to him. And for a full minute, Spar was in the grip of fury. His impulse was to go ashore instantly, leave this chance for escape, and find that devil and kill him as he had promised himself for five years that he would do.

  Then he remembered that Larson had preceded him ashore and the authorities would soon be out to investigate. He went on with his bath and finally dressed himself in the clean clothes.

  The dungarees were not much of a uniform, but the brass buckle sparkled brazenly and the officer’s cap was aslant over his lean, hard face. He looked capable.

  He heard the return of the launch and presently footsteps on the deck below. Drawing on the slicker he went out with the rain hammering and stinging his face and found Folston coming up to the bridge.

  “All here?” said Spar.

  “Oh, rather,” replied Folston. “Old Perry says to weigh away as soon as you can. Tom Perry is in his bunk and the girls are in the salon. Could we have something to eat, fellow?”

  “Find the steward yourself,” said Spar, annoyed by the overbearing tone of the man. “I’m here to run this hooker and you’re here to ride in it. Get below and keep out of my sight.”

  “Oh, rather,” said Folston. “Feel your authority, do you? See here, my man, I’ll have you understand that I am Count Folston and I have no intention whatever of—”

  Spar lifted Count Folston off the ladder and to the lower deck. “There’s the salon,” said Spar. “Stay in it.”

  Folston glared and then shrugged. He went into the cabin and Spar continued aft to the engine room hatch. He swung down the maze of steel ladders until he came to the control platform.

  A young white man was there, reading. He sat up when Spar approached. “Hello, who are you?”

  “I’m Captain Spar, taking Larson’s place. Get going. We go out in a few minutes.”

  “Out?” said the engineer. “Hell, man, it’s blowing blazes and it’ll blow harder before it blows less.”

  “Turn them over,” said Spar and went above to the fo’c’s’le. There he found several black sailors sitting sleepily about a dice game. They blinked at him.

  “I’m your captain,” said Spar. “On deck, the lot of you. Who’s bosun here?”

  “I am,” said an aged, bulky black man.

  “Then you’re mate. Weigh anchor.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” said the new mate, puffing up with importance. “Look alive, you sons. Yes, sir, Captain sir, coming right up, sir.”

  Spar went back to the bridge. The deck was throbbing under his feet. The Diesels were going. A helmsman came and stood over the dim light of the binnacle. The anchor chain began to rasp up through the hawse.

  Spar eyed the channel, the point to his port, the shoal buoys to his starboard, and slammed the telegraph down, up and down, to half speed ahead.

  The Venture shook harder under the shove of the engines, the black rain-lashed sea parted before the bows, and they headed out.

  Spar was grinning to himself. He felt better than he had felt for five years. The sensation of command, the feel of clean clothes. His lucky star was riding in the low black sky.

  They successfully negotiated the channel and stood into the choppy whitecaps of the Caribbean. The compass swung to three hundred and thirty degrees and Spar jangled the engine room for another five knots. From the wing he could see the lights of the island.

  “Well, my fine Saint,” said Spar, “I’ll be coming back in a short time. You’ll know what hit you, never fear.”

  “What was that?” said a voice behind him.

  Spar turned and stared into the blue eyes of Peg Mannering. “Oh, er, nothing. Better get below, miss, it’s wet as all hell up here.”

  “Get below? Young Perry is getting drunk again. Can you do anything about it? You look . . . well . . .”

  Spar smiled. “If you want me to, I’ll try. But perhaps he’d be better off drunk in his cabin than bothering the deck.”

  “No, no. When he is drunk, he . . . Please do something about it, Captain. Mr. Perry gave you orders to that effect. Please.”

  “I can’t leave the bridge this minute, but I’ll be down shortly. This blow is heavier out here in the open sea and we’re still in close to land. Go below and I’ll—”

  “May I stay here, please?” said Peg Mannering.

  “Why, certainly, if you don’t mind the spray. If you wish, you can have my cabin.”

  Folston’s mincing voice sounded at the top of the ladder. “Certainly you can have his cabin, Peg. Certainly. I’m sure our jailbird would love it.”

  Spar whirled about and faced the dapper count.

  “Jailbird?” said Peg Mannering.

  “Certainly, haven’t you heard?” said Folston. “Larson told me when he came in from th
e ship. This fine convict knocked Larson’s teeth down his throat and threw him down the gangway just because he found Larson packing in the cabin.”

  “If I were you,” said Spar, stepping very close, “I would be very careful of what I said.”

  “Oh, I shall, I shall,” said Folston in mock terror. “Pray don’t frighten me, dear convict.”

  “Convict?” said Peg Mannering, groping along the rail, moving away from Spar.

  “From French Guiana,” said Folston. “Perhaps the French would like to see him. I believe he is very valuable down there in the labor camps.”

  “Devil’s Island!” said Peg Mannering, nervously.

  Spar glared at them both. “Yes, Devil’s Island. Certainly. Why not? But right now, it so happens that you are on an American ship over which the French have no jurisdiction. My papers have never been revoked, I am still a master mariner—and I still command the Venture.

  “This ship may be the property of Frederick Perry and you may be all the kings and queens of the Continent. But right now you’re passengers under my care.

  “As for my right to be here, I’ve sailed these seas for years. I know them and they know me. And convict or no, the sea will let me pass. The sea isn’t waiting on judgment from spoiled, pampered fools.

  “As for your right here, you haven’t any whatever. This sea is my sea, not yours. Look at it tonight. Swinging by and whipping at us, trying to drag us down. It’s angry, but not at me. It’s angry because you have no right here. It’s trying to reach up and take you and drag you down into its blackness and swallow you up forever.

  “Now get below.”

  Peg Mannering stared, afraid, at Spar and then looked down at the white-capped sea, whose waves looked like oily mountains topped with the teeth of spray.

  “Get below,” said Spar.

  Folston smiled. “Very pretty, convict. Very pretty. We go because we don’t exactly enjoy the stink of a prison camp. Come along, Peg.”

  But Peg Mannering stayed where she was and shook her head. “No. I’m afraid I would rather stand here than watch Tom Perry.”

  Folston shrugged. “There’s no accounting for tastes,” and disappeared down the hatch.

  Spar turned his back on the girl and looked into the binnacle. The helmsman, who had heard Folston’s remarks, edged cautiously away. Spar gave him a scornful glance and went back to the wing.

  Peg Mannering, slicker wrapped tightly about her slender figure, watched him. She had never seen a man like Captain Spar. He was so definite in his actions, so sure of himself now that he stood on a deck. She remembered how he had looked back in the drawing room of the Perry house.

  He was handsome in his way. His eyes were odd, very light against the darkness of his face, and his skin showed the marks of fever, but something about the triangle of his eyes and mouth reassured her.

  “It has been said,” murmured Peg Mannering, “that a wolf is more to be trusted than a snake, however charming.”

  “Must I be a wolf?” said Spar.

  “Aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m just a convict. Didn’t you hear Folston? Who is that man?”

  “He has great wealth, they say. He thinks he has enough to buy anything he wants.”

  “And you say he’s wrong.”

  “Yes. Gold tarnishes in his hands.”

  Spar looked at her intently. “Just why are you going to marry Tom Perry?”

  The direct shaft startled her. “That is out of my hands.”

  “But not out of mine,” said Spar.

  “What do you mean? You can’t do anything.”

  “Oh, I know. I’m just a convict and I’ll probably end up back in French Guiana. Larson will squeal, the New York immigration men will hold me, and I’ll be shipped back. That’s what happens when you fight the law. But right now . . .”

  “You mean . . .” she backed away from him. “You mean you’d kill him?”

  “No, nothing so crude. Convict, yes, but not a fool. If Tom Perry was removed, Folston would still be there. Folston has his eye on you. I know it. I can feel it. And your destination is not in your hands. Things haven’t changed much since the slave markets of the Barbary Coast.”

  “You . . . take a great deal upon yourself.”

  “And why not? What do I lose? I know where I’m headed. I may get out of it, and if I do, I have business back in Martinique. But while I still breathe clean air and while I still keep away from swamps, I can do a few things. It won’t make my lot any worse. I owe you a debt.”

  “Owe . . . me”

  “Yes. Before I saw you, I had nothing but death on my mind. You made me wake out of a five years’ sleep. Just by looking at you, that’s all. I owe you for that. Wolves can look at queens.”

  Piqued, but not knowing why, Peg Mannering stepped back from him. “And queens can order wolves shot. Don’t forget that.”

  “I suppose so, Miss Mannering. I hope for his sake that Tom Perry—or Folston—can shoot quite straight and quite well.”

  He left her in the wing and went to the binnacle. Once more the helmsman drew away from him as though afraid, but Spar stood there, looking out through the spattered glass, watching the drive of rain across the decks.

  In three hours, the blow began to pick up. They were well out into the Caribbean and received the full lash of the wind. The yacht was plunging her bows into the waves, and sometimes the bows stayed down for seconds at a time, shuddering. Then it would soar skyward again, rolling with a sick lurch and once more head down.

  The deck was shifting under Spar’s widespread feet, but he held to nothing. He seemed to be enjoying the storm, enjoying the clean ferocity of it.

  From time to time, crashing sounds came from the main deck. Lashings were coming free and boats and rigging were giving way to crash through the darkness, reducing all to wet splinters in their path.

  No sea is rougher or blacker or more spiteful than the Caribbean in a storm. The mother of hurricanes was fast building up the velocity of wind and the height of waves. Even now large vessels were going ashore in the hammered ports of the Antilles.

  Sky and water met in the whirling embrace of blackness. Rain blotted out any light or gleam which remained. Combers raced across the decks, smashing into the masts and cabins and roaring back through the scuppers and into the sea.

  The velocity of the wind had increased until it was impossible to hear anything below a shout. The Diesels throbbed, pounding against the waves.

  Spar, aware though he was of their danger, grinned to himself. He whistled down the speaking tube to the engine room and when answer came back, he said, “Half speed.”

  “It’s about time,” cried the harried engineer.

  Spar looked back to the wing of the bridge. Peg Mannering still stood there, leaning against the rail, drenched with water and whipped by the wind. Spar grinned again and looked back to the wild sea.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Hurricane Hill

  CAPTAIN SPAR had not realized how late it had become. But dawn was nothing more than a graying of the sky and water, and the twilight of day only gave the storm greater strength.

  The Venture rolled and bucked and shuddered in the sea, plunging ahead a foot for every fathom up and down. Peg Mannering had wearied and Spar had sent her into his cabin.

  Soon the black of former acquaintance came on the bridge, overbearing and disdainful, holding on to the dodger.

  “Is the ship all right?” said Chacktar.

  Spar stared at the scornful face. “Yes, go back and tell them so.”

  “Remember, you saw Tom Perry kill those men. Otherwise, convict, back you go.”

  Spar stepped very close to the black. “The title is Captain, if you please.”

  Chacktar laughed. “Ho, ho, the convict feels his metal.”

  Spar tried to hold his temper in with but small success. Suddenly, at the sight of the disdainful black face, his control snapped. “Metal, hell! You’re going to feel something else!�
��

  He started for Chacktar, but the black dodged nimbly and scurried down the ladder. Spar had no time to calm himself before young Tom Perry, weaving back and forth up the lunging ladder, approached the bridge.

  Tom Perry, very drunk but wholly in possession of his strength, grabbed hold of Spar’s slicker. “See here, fellow. See here. You can’t do that!”

  “Can’t do what?”

  “Can’t stay out here. We’ll all drown. You’ve got to make land, hear me? I order you to make land right away. Any old land. Hear me?”

  “I’m proceeding to New York, under your father’s orders.”

  “No, no, to hell with my father. He don’t care what happens to me. No, he don’t care about nothing. He thinks in dollar marks, he does. Listen here, you captain, you make land right away.”

  “Sorry,” said Spar, firmly.

  “What’s this? What’s this? You disobey my orders? Say, I’ll have you fired for this. Fired right away.”

  Spar pried the fingers off his slicker and pushed Tom back against the rail. “Get as drunk as you want, but let me take care of this ship.”

  “Oh, so it’s insubordination, huh? You’re gonna get tough, huh? Chacktar! Chacktar! Come up here!”

  Chacktar appeared at the head of the ladder. Behind him, Spar could see Folston and Peg Mannering. The three came up to the deck.

  Chacktar said, “What do you try to do, Captain? Kill us?”

  A fourth person, Felice Bereau, came up and approached Spar with an unsteady walk, holding fast to the rail. “Oh, Captain, can’t you do something about this? We’ll all drown!” She fixed a ravishing glance upon Spar and moved a little closer, intimately. “You wouldn’t want poor Felice to drown, would you?”

  “What makes you think we’ll drown?” Spar asked them.

  They all looked at Folston who colored a little. Perry said, “He knows more about the sea than you do, Captain. He says we’re rolling too much. He says we’ll go under if we don’t make for Hurricane Hill.”