The Message Page 2

  CHAPTER I

  DERELICTS

  "It's fine!" said Arthur Warden, lowering his binoculars so as to gluthis eyes with the full spectacle. "In fact, it's more than fine, it'sglorious!"

  He spoke aloud in his enthusiasm. A stout, elderly man who stoodnear--a man with "retired tradesman" writ large on face andfigure--believed that the tall, spare-built yachtsman was praising theweather.

  "Yes, sir," he chortled pompously, "this is a reel August day. _I_ knewit. Fust thing this morning I tole my missus we was in for a scorcher."

  Warden gradually became aware that these ineptitudes were by wayof comment. He turned and read the weather-prophet's label at aglance. But life was too gracious at that moment, and he was far toowell-disposed toward all men, that he should dream of inflicting a snub.

  "That was rather clever of you," he agreed genially. "Now, though thebarometer stood high, I personally was dreading a fog three hours ago."

  The portly one gurgled.

  "I've got a glass," he announced. "Gev' three pun' ten for it, butthere's a barrowmeter in my bones that's worth a dozen o' them things.I'll back rheumatiz an' a side o' bacon any day to beat the best glassever invented."

  All unknowing, here was the touch of genius that makes men listen.Warden showed his interest.

  "A side of bacon!" he repeated.

  "Yes, sir. Nothing to ekal it. I was in the trade, so I know wot I'mtalkin' about. And, when you come to think of it, why not? Pig skinan' salt--one of 'em won't have any truck wi' damp--doesn't want itan' shows it--an' t'other sucks it up like a calf drinkin' milk. I'vehandled bacon in tons, every brand in the market, an' you can't smokeany of 'em on a muggy day."

  "Does your theory account for the old-fashioned notion that pigs cansee the wind?"

  The stout man considered the point. It was new to him, and he was aConservative.

  "I'm better acquent wi' bacon," he said stubbornly.

  "So I gather. I was only developing your very original idea, on theprinciple that

  "'You may break, you may shatter, the vase if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.'"

  The ex-bacon-factor rapped an emphatic stick on the pavement. Though hehoped some of his friends would see him hob-nobbing "with a swell," herefused to be made game of.

  "Wot 'as scent got to do with it?" he demanded wrathfully.

  "Everything. Believe me, pigs have been used as pointers. And considerthe porcine love of flowers. Why, there once was a pig named Maudbecause it _would_ come into the garden."

  Had Warden laughed he might have given the cue that was lacking. Buthis clean-cut, somewhat sallow face did not relax, and an angry manpuffed away from him in a red temper.

  He caught scraps of soliloquy.

  "A pig named Maud!... Did anybody ever hear the like?... An' becos itkem into a garden.... Might just as well 'ave called it Maria."

  Then Warden, left at peace with the world, devoted himself again tothe exquisite panorama of Cowes on a sunlit Monday of the town's greatweek. In front sparkled the waters of the Solent, the Bond Street ofocean highways. A breath of air from the west rippled over a strongcurrent sweeping eastward. It merely kissed the emerald plain intotiny facets. It was so light a breeze that any ordinary sailing craftwould have failed to make headway against the tide, and the gay flagsand bunting of an innumerable pleasure fleet hung sleepily from theirstaffs and halyards. Yet it sufficed to bring a covey of white-wingedyachts flying back to Cowes after rounding the East Lepe buoy.Jackyard topsails and bowsprit spinnakers preened before it. Thoughalmost imperceptible on shore, it awoke these gorgeous butterflies ofthe sea into life and motion. Huge 23-meter cutters, such as _WhiteHeather II_, _Brynhild_ and _Nyria_, splendid cruisers like _Maoona,errymaid_, _Shima_, _Creole_, and _Britomart_, swooped grandly into themidst of the anchored craft as though bent on self-destruction. To theunskilled eye it seemed a sheer miracle that any of them should emergefrom the chaos of yachts, redwings, launches, motorboats, excursionsteamers, and smaller fry that beset their path. But Cowes is nothingif not nautical. Those who understood knew that bowsprits and dinghiesof moored yachts would be cleared magically, and even spinnaker boomstopped to avoid lesser obstruction. Those who did not understand--whoheard no syllable of the full and free language that greeted aninane row-boat essaying an adventurous crossing of the course--gazedbreathlessly at these wondrous argosies, and marveled at their escapefrom disaster. Then the white fleet swept past the mouth of the river,and vanished behind Old Castle Point on the way to far distant buoy orlight-ship that marked the beginning of the homeward run. And that wasall--a brief flight of fairy ships--and Cowes forthwith settled down todecorous junketing.

  Away to the northwest a gathering of gray-hulled monsters had thundereda royal salute of twenty-one guns, and the smoke-cloud still lay in ablue film on the Hampshire coast. The _Dreadnought_ was hauling at heranchors before taking a king and an emperor to witness the prowess ofher gunners. The emperor's private yacht, a half-fledged man-o'-war,was creeping in the wake of the competing yachts. Perchance herofficers might see more of British gunnery practice than of the racing.

  Close at hand a swarm of launches and ships' boats buzzed round thelanding slip of the Royal Yacht Club. The beautiful lawn and gardenswere living parterres of color, for the Castle is a famous rendezvousof well-dressed women. Parties were assembling for luncheon either inthe clubhouse or on board the palatial vessels in the roads. To themultitude, yachting at Cowes consists of the blare of a starting-gun,the brief vision of a cluster of yachts careening under an amazingpress of canvas, and, for the rest, gossip, eating, bridge--with apicnic or a dance to eke out the afternoon and evening.

  Arthur Warden soon turned his back on the social Paradise he was notprivileged to enter. He was resigned to the fact that the breezewhich sent the competitors in the various matches spinning merrily toSpithead would not move his hired cutter a yard against the tide. So,having nothing better to do, he sauntered along the promenade towardthe main street. On the way he passed the one-time purveyor of baconsitting beside a lady who by long association had grown to resemble him.

  "Now I wonder if her name is Maria," he mused.

  Drifting with the holiday crowd, he bought some picture postcards, abox of cigarettes, and a basket of hothouse peaches. Being a dilettantein some respects, he admired and became the prospective owner of thefruit before he learned the price. There were four peaches in thebasket, and they cost him ten shillings.

  "Ah," he said, as the shopkeeper threw the half sovereign carelesslyinto the till, "I see you have catered for Lucullus?"

  "I don't think so, sir," said the greengrocer affably. "Where does helive?"

  "He had villas at Tusculum and Neapolis."

  "There's no such places in the Isle of Wight, sir."

  "Strange! Has not the game-dealer across the street supplied him withpeacocks' tongues?"

  The man grinned.

  "Somebody's bin gettin' at you, sir," he cried.

  "True, very true. Yet, according to Horace, I sup with Lucullusto-night."

  "Horace said that, did he?"

  The greengrocer suddenly turned and peered down a stairway.

  "Horace!" he yelled, "who's this here Lucullus you've bin gassin'about?"

  A shock-headed boy appeared.

  "Loo who?" said he.

  Warden departed swiftly.

  "My humor does not appeal to Cowes," he reflected. "I have scored twofailures. Having conjured Horace from a coal-cellar let me now conferwith Diogenes in his tub."

  Applied to Peter Evans, and his phenomenally small dinghy, the phrasewas a happy enough description of the ex-pilot who owned the _Nancy_.Evans and his craft had gone out of commission together. Both werefamous in the annals of Channel pilotage, but an accident had deprivedPeter of his left leg, so he earned a livelihood by summer cruisinground the coast, and he was now awaiting his present employer at a quayin the river Medina.

  But Warden's pace slackened again
, once he was clear of the fruiterer'sshop. Sailing was out of the question until the breeze freshened. Itwas in his mind to bid Peter meet him again at four o'clock. Meanwhile,he would go to Newport by train, and ramble in Parkhurst Forest fora couple of hours. Recalling that happy-go-lucky mood in later daysof storm and stress, he tried to piece together the trivial incidentsthat were even then conspiring to bring about the great climax of hislife. A pace to left or right, a classical quip at his extravagance inthe matter of the peaches, a slight hampering of free movement becausethe Portsmouth ferry-boat happened to be disgorging some hundreds ofsightseers into the main street of West Cowes--each of these things, soinsignificant, so commonplace, helped to bring him to the one spot onearth where fate, the enchantress, had set her snare in the guise of apretty girl.

  For it was undeniably a pretty face that was lifted to his when a younglady, detaching herself from the living torrent that delayed him for afew seconds on the pavement, appealed for information.

  "Will you please tell me how I can ascertain the berth of the yacht_Sans Souci_?" she asked.

  It has been seen that he was glib enough of speech, yet now he wastongue-tied. In the very instant that the girl put forward her simplerequest, his eyes were fixed on the swarthy features of a Portuguesefreebooter known to him as the greatest among the many scoundrelsinfesting the hinterland of Nigeria. There was no mistaking the man.The Panama hat, spotless linen, fashionable suit and glossy boots ofa typical visitor to Cowes certainly offered strong contrast to thesoiled garb of the balked slave-trader whom he had driven out of aburning and blood-bespattered African village a brief year earlier.But, on that occasion, Arthur Warden had gazed steadily at MiguelFiguero along the barrel of a revolver; under such circumstances onedoes not forget.

  For a little space, then, the Englishman's imagination wandered farafield. Instinctively he raised his hat as he turned to the girl andrepeated her concluding words.

  "The _Sans Souci_, did you say?"

  "Yes, a steam-yacht--Mr. Baumgartner's."

  She paused. Though Warden was listening now, his wits were stillwool-gathering. His subconscious judgment was weighing Figuero'smotives in coming to England, and, of all places, to Cowes. Of the manymen he had encountered during an active life this inland pirate wasabsolutely the last he would expect to meet during Regatta Week in theIsle of Wight.

  The girl, half aware of his obsession, became confused--even a trifleresentful.

  "I am sorry to trouble you," she went on nervously. "I had no ideathere would be such a crowd, and I spoke to you because--because youlooked as if you might know----"

  Then he recovered his self-possession, and proceeded to surprise her.

  "I _do_ know," he broke in hurriedly. "Pray allow me to apologize. Thesun was in my eyes, and he permits no competition. Against him, evenyou would dazzle in vain. To make amends, let me take you to the _SansSouci_. She is moored quite close to my cutter, and my dinghy is notfifty yards distant."

  The girl drew back a little. This offer of service was rather tooprompt, while its wording was peculiar, to say the least. She was sogood-looking that young men were apt to place themselves unreservedlyat her disposal without reference to sun, moon, or stars.

  "I think I would prefer to hire a boat," she said coldly. "I shouldexplain that an officer on board the steamer told me I ought todiscover the whereabouts of the yacht before starting, or the boatmanwould take me out of my way and overcharge."

  "Exactly. That officer's name was Solomon. Now, I propose to take youstraight there for nothing. Come with me as far as the quay. One glanceat Peter will restore the confidence you have lost in me."

  Then he smiled, and a woman can interpret a man's smile with almostuncanny prescience. The whiff of pique blew away, and she temporized.

  "Is the _Sans Souci_ a long way out?"

  "Nearly a mile. And look! We can eat these while Peter toils."

  He opened the paper bag and showed her the peaches. She laughedlightly. Were she a Frenchwoman she would have said, "But, sir, you aredroll." Being English, she came to the point.

  "Where is the quay you speak of?"

  "Here. Close at hand."

  As they walked off together she discovered out of the corner of hereye that his glance was searching the thinning mob of her fellowpassengers. She guessed that he had recognized some person unexpectedly.

  "Are you sure I am not trespassing on your time?" she demanded.

  "Quite sure. When I said the sun was in my eyes I used poetic license.I meant the West African sun. A man who arrived on your steamerreminded me of Nigeria--where we--er--became acquainted."

  "There! You want to speak to him, of course," and she halted suddenly.

  He smiled again, and held out the bag.

  "He is a Portuguese gin-trader--and worse. And he is gone. Would youhave me run after him and offer peaches that were meant for you?"

  "But that is ridiculous."

  "Most certainly."

  "I don't mean that. How could you possibly have provided peaches forme?"

  "I don't know. Ask the fairies who arrange these things. Ten minutesago I had no more notion of buying fruit than of buying an aeroplane.Ten minutes ago you and I had never met. Yet here we are, you and Iand the luscious four. And there is Peter, sailing master, cook, andgeneral factotem of the _Nancy_ cutter. Don't you think Peter's woodenleg induces trust? He calls it a prop, which suggests both moral andphysical support. By the way, have you ever noticed that wooden-leggedmen are invariably fat? And C?sar vouched for the integrity of fat men."

  Though the girl began to find his chatter agreeable, she was secretlydismayed when she compared the gigantic Peter with the diminutivedinghy. She had never before seen so broad a man or so small a boat.But she had grit, and was unwilling to voice her doubt.

  "Will it hold us?" she inquired with apparent unconcern.

  "Oh, yes. When Peter was a pilot that little craft carried him and histwo mates through many a heavy sea. Don't be afraid. We will put yousafely on board the _Sans Souci_. Now, you sit there and hold the bag.I'll take my two at once, please, as I find room forrard."

  "Not much of a breeze for cruisin', Mr. Warden," grinned Peter,casting an appreciative eye over the latest addition to the _Nancy's_muster-roll.

  "We're not bound for a cruise, Peter, worse luck," said Warden. "Theyoung lady wishes to reach that big yacht moored abreast of the cutter.So give way, O heart of oak! Thou wert christened stone, yet a goodname is rather to be chosen than great riches."

  Peter winked solemnly at the fair unknown.

  "He do go on, don't he, miss?" he said.

  The girl nodded, for ripe peach is an engrossing fruit. She wasenjoying her little adventure. It savored of romance. Already herslight feeling of nervousness had vanished. In her heart of hearts shehoped that Mr. Warden might prove to be a friend of the Baumgartners.

  Under Peter's powerful strokes the dinghy sped rapidly into the openwaters of the Solent. At that hour there was but slight stir in theroadstead. Everybody afloat seemed to be eating. Each launch and yachtthey passed held a luncheon party beneath awnings or in a deck saloon.Through the golden stillness came the pleasant notes of a band playingin the grounds of the clubhouse. A bugle sounded faint and shrill fromthe deck of a distant warship. Sitting in this cockleshell of a craft,so near the glistening water that one might trail both hands in it,was vastly agreeable after a long journey by rail and steamer. Fromsea level the girl obtained an entirely different picture of Cowes andthe Solent from that glimpsed from the throbbing ferry-boat. The seaappeared to have risen, the wooded hills and clusters of houses tohave sunk bodily. Already the shore was curiously remote. A sense ofbrooding peace fell on her like a mantle. She sighed, and wondered whyshe was so content.

  Peter's airy summary of his master's habits seemed to have cast a spellon their tongues. For fully five minutes no one spoke. The wondroussilence was broken only by the rhythmical clank of the oars, the lightplash of the boat's movement, the strai
ns of a waltz from the Castlelawn, and the musical laughter of women from the yachts.

  Owing to the shortness of the dinghy, and the fact that the girl facedWarden, with Peter intervening, the two younger people were compelledto look at each other occasionally. The man saw a sweetly pretty facedowered with a rare conjunction of myosotis blue eyes and purpleeyelashes, and crowned with a mass of dark brown hair. Accent, manner,and attire bespoke good breeding. She was dressed well, though simply,in blue canvas. Being somewhat of an artist, he did not fail to notethat her hat, blouse, gloves and boots, though probably inexpensive,harmonized in brown tints. She was young, perhaps twenty-two. Guessingat random, he imagined her the daughter of some country rector, and,from recent observation of the Baumgartners, eked out by their publicrepute, he admitted a certain sentiment of surprise that such blatantparvenus should be on her visiting list.

  For her part, the girl had long since discovered that herself-appointed guide was an army man. West Africa gave a hint offoreign service that was borne out by a paleness beneath the tan ofthe yachtsman. A regimental mess, too, is a university in itself,conferring a well-defined tone, a subtle distinctiveness. Each line ofhis sinewy frame told of drill, and his rather stern face was eloquentof one accustomed to command.

  These professional hall-marks were not lost on her. She had mixed incircles where they were recognized. And she was prepared to like him.In her woman's phrase, she thought it was "nice of him" not to questionher. She was quite sure that if they met again ashore that afternoon hewould leave her the option of renewing or dropping their acquaintanceas she thought fit. Yet, for one so ready of speech after the firstawkward moment outside the steamer pier, it was surprising that heshould now be so taciturn.

  When he did address her, he kept strictly to the purpose of theirexpedition.

  "That is the _San Souci_," he said, pointing to a large white yacht inthe distance. "A splendid vessel. Built on the Clyde, I believe?"

  "Ay, three hunnerd tons, an' good for ten knots in any or'nary sea,"put in Peter.

  "You know her, of course?" went on Warden.

  "No. I have never before set eyes on her."

  "Well, you will enjoy your visit all the more, perhaps. From lastnight's indications, you should have plenty of amusement on board."

  "Are there many people there, then?"

  "I am not sure. The owners gave a big dinner party yesterday. Thelaunch was coming and going at all hours."

  "What is that?" she asked inconsequently, indicating with a glance asmall round object bobbing merrily westward some few yards away.

  "It is difficult to say. Looks like a float broken loose from a fishingnet," said Warden.

  "No, sir, it ain't that," pronounced Peter. "Nets have corks an' buoys,an' that ain't neether."

  "You may think it absurd," cried the girl, "yet I fancied just now thatI caught a resemblance to a face, a distorted black face; but it hasturned round."

  The boatman lay on his oars, and they all looked at the dancing yellowball hurrying to the open sea.

  "At first sight it suggests a piratical pumpkin," said Warden.

  "But I have been watching it quite a long time, and I am certain itis black on the other side. There! Surely I am not mistaken. And thepeople on that yacht have seen it, too."

  The girl's face flushed with excitement. The thing had really startledher, and the two men were ready to agree that it now presented amask-like visage, more than half submerged, as it swirled about ina chance eddy. That some loungers on a yacht close at hand had alsonoticed it was made evident by their haste to run down a gangway into aboat fastened alongside.

  "After it, Peter!" cried Warden. "It is the lady's trover by the lawof the high seas. Bend your back for the honor of the _Nancy_. Port abit--port. Steady all. Keep her there."

  In her eagerness, the girl tried to rise to her feet.

  "Sit still, miss," growled Peter, laboring mightily. "Judging by theposition of that other craft, an' from wot I know of Mr. Warden,there'll be a devil of a bump in 'arf a tick."

  "Starboard a point," cooed Warden, on his knees in the bows. "Steady asshe goes."

  Suddenly he sprang upright.

  "Hard a-starboard!" he shouted, and leaped overboard.

  A yell from the opposing boat, a scream from the girl, a sharp crack asan oar-blade snapped against the sturdy ribs of the dinghy, and the twoboats shot past each other, Peter's prompt obedience to orders havingaverted a collision.

  "My godfather!" he roared, "'e 'ad to jump for it. But don't you worry,miss--'e can swim like a herrin'."

  Nevertheless, the girl did worry, as her white face and straining eyeswell showed. Peter swung the dinghy about so nimbly that she lost allsense of direction. It seemed as if the laughing Solent had swallowedWarden, and she gazed affrightedly on every side but the right one.

  "Oh, how could he do it?" she wailed. "I shall never forgive myself--"

  Then she heard a deep breath from the water behind her, and she turnedto see Warden, with blood streaming from a gash across his forehead,swimming easily with one hand. She whisked round and knelt on the seat.

  "Quick!" she cried. "Come close. I can hold you."

  "Please do not be alarmed on my account," he said coolly. "I fear Ilook rather ghastly, but the injury is nothing, a mere glancing blowfrom an oar."

  Even in her unnerved condition she could not fail to realize that hewas in no desperate plight. But she was very frightened, and graspedhis wrist tenaciously when his fingers rested on the stern rail. Yet,even under such trying circumstances, she was helpful. Though halfsobbing, and utterly distressed, she dipped her handkerchief in thewater and stooped until she could wash the wound sufficiently to revealits extent. He was right. The skin was broken, but the cut had no depth.

  "Why did you behave so madly?" she asked with quivering lips.

  "It was method, not madness, fair maid," he said, smiling up at her."Our opponents had four oars and a light skiff against Peter's two anda dinghy that is broad as it is long. To equalize the handicap I had tojump, else you would have lost your trophy. By the way, here it is!"

  With his disengaged hand he gave her a smooth, highly polished ovalobject which proved to be a good deal larger than it looked whenafloat. The girl threw it into the bottom of the boat without payingthe least heed to it. She was greatly flurried, and, womanlike, wantedto box Warden's ears for his absurd action.

  "You have terrified me out of my wits," she gasped. "Can you manage toclimb on board?"

  "That would be difficult--perhaps dangerous. Peter, pull up to thenearest ship's ladder. Then I can regain my perch forrard."

  But Peter was gazing with an extraordinary expression of awe, almostof fear, at the unusual cause of so much commotion.

  "Well, sink me!" he muttered, "if that ain't Ole Nick's own himmidge,it's his head stoker's. I've never seen anything like it, no, not inall my born days. My aunt! It's ugly enough to cause a riot."