The Isle of Seven Moons/Chapter 33
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE BLACK YACHT
Her grief for the lifeless changed to concern for the living, as she saw Linda walking towards them. That same strained expression—of alarm, bitterness, and appeal, harshened the soft curves of the other's features, now at the height of their bloom.
Two teeth, as white as foam, bit the coral corner of Sally's mouth, as she puzzled over it all. People were so foolish. Why couldn't they be sensible! Ben was bad enough lately. Could it be? No it must not be. He (she wasn't thinking of Ben in that flash) was just the sort of a man to make a girl happy. Was she herself crazy? They must get back to Salthaven and normal ways of living soon or—(she didn't finish the disjointed sentence in her own mind). To her he could be nothing but a friend. She wanted him to be a friend always. Something would be missing if she never saw him again. But Ben was her boy, her own. Ben was a part of her as a child is of its mother. Fate had so willed it, or God, she thought reverently. And there was no use making that gentle-hearted girl feel badly—who showed so plainly
The sailors were beating the brake and undergrowth, and looking in every likely hiding-place, for a half-mile around the spot in the verdure where the furrows left the sand. There was no trace of the murderers nor of the missing treasure, except one trail that led into a tangle of vines, then stopped short. And the chest was pretty heavy for the shoulders of even five stout-muscled men.
The figure of Pierre the boatman, in trousers and jumper of coarse stained duck, appeared in the opening of the old pathway.
"Are you ready, Linda?" the Frenchman asked. "Pierre will bring the launch from the harbour here. We will not risk a meeting with those kindly gentlemen on the yacht."
"No, Monsieur, I am not going, after all"
"But you must, it is death if you stay."
"Every day it will be death if I go. To see you again—never? No, no," she shook her head with a flash of the old coquetry, the more pathetic because so bravely assumed, "I could not stand that."
Her eyes were quite calm, but her hands played nervously with the gay ribbon at her waist, one of the few weapons which she had brought in that small bundle of hers, and into which she had thrust, not without design, a flower, a many-rayed thing of orange splendour.
"When one is away, it is easy to forget, Linda. The life of love—poof! No longer than the flight of a snowflake from the sky to the wave." But the eyes belied the light voice.
From the bright ribbon one hand rose to her heart.
"Snowflakes! There are none here. Brrr!" She shivered. "You think of the love of the North." One beautiful shoulder shrugged towards the other girl, who was helping in the search, fifty yards from where they stood. The gesture was slight, for open jealousy might bring about the very thing she feared.
"The life of a spark then, blown by the wind," he returned, thinking how like his life, how unlike his own feeling, the figure was. "It dances merrily, a little way—then—puff—it is gone."
"When a woman loves truly—it is no little spark." One word followed, a French term of endearment, so low as to be almost unheard. "It is a great fire that burns always, like that in the old mountain you tell me of—very warm—and very deep. The wild tornado cannot blow it out—only the cold earth, when one is very old."
She sighed once—a long troubled sigh with a little catch in it, and he did not know what to answer, except:
"You will forget, Linda—and you will be happy."
"Never, Monsieur—but it is not for a woman to speak so. Already I have said too much"
Pierre had reached them and interrupted volubly. Point-blank, he refused to sail that morning. He had heard of the gold. Men of his shrewd, crafty type could smell it out very quickly. Protests were vain and Larone, with the few francs left, could advance no substantial argument which the sullen Pierre would understand. Not one league would the little launch sail until he had his share of the gold.
The boatman sat him down on the sand, and set to making an hour-glass of his hands, which was of small practical help, all the while casting crafty glances over his shoulder at the searchers. Not one inch would he budge. So, his own offer of assistance having been very bluntly refused by Ben, Larone, hurt at the suspicion but smiling courteously and patiently, left on a reconnaissance of his own.
"They must have the treasure on the yacht," said Benson, after six toilsome hours had passed in the fruitless quest. "Toted it over in the tender, piecemeal—in sacks or somethin'. Let's take the long-boat and find out."
"What, and leave Sally here?"
"Take Dick and Jack Beam with us," was his answer to the Captain's objection, "and leave Ben and Yeo with her. Give her a revolver. She can shoot 'n she won't turn her head, either, when she pulls the trigger. The thieves won't trouble her now they've got what they're after."
"Thieves, did you call them? Do you realize they're murderers!"
"I guess they done it, all right, Cap'n, and we ought to be huntin' them pizen snakes instead of lookin' fur filthy dollars."
They looked over at the headland. A little coil of smoke floated away like a feather in a lazy breeze.
"She's getting up steam, now."
"All right," said the Captain. "We'll search that yacht if she's armed like a dreadnought," and he issued his orders, which were promptly put into effect except as to the disposition of Ben.
"What! Me on watch here while you're getting in that mess!" he protested. "Let the gypsy stay, and Zeke Yeo, the burglars are on the yacht and she'll be safe. They'll be away from the place in an hour if we don't start."
The Captain yielded, and Spanish Dick and Yeo were left on guard. The crew ran the boat out into the surf and leaped aboard. Then they skirted the shore, twenty strokes to the minute, fast travelling for a heavy skiff in a tumbling sea, and entered South Harbour.
In the opening, at the Captain's command, they rested on their oars.
"What do you want to do, men?" he asked the crew. "The murderers are probably armed and I've no right to risk your lives."
"Murderers is right, sir," growled Benson. "We'll string em all to that gaff there afore the sun goes down; what do you say, boys?"
"Ay, ay, sir, we got a plenty o' rope—let the bloody dogs swing for it."
The Captain looked through his glass. On deck there was but one on watch. That individual had seen the boat and called a warning. Now a second figure was climbing over the companionway. That made two. Where were the others? Near the shore the launch rose gently on the swell, and on the mountain-side a little thin spiral of smoke wavered. A fire—probably near the haunted house, which was concealed by the foliage.
He gave the word and they pulled for the yacht. Three lengths away, a face appeared over the taffrail, forward,—an ugly face with a left eye that was now no more than a slit in a huge discoloured circle. Aft, rose the wicked saw mouth, with the brown-stained teeth, and the green bleary eyes.
"Belay, there, ye crawlin' sons of cuttlefishes," was the gracious greeting, backed by his companion's insolent hail and the more eloquent forty-five.
"Sheer off, or I'll drill lead into yer blasted hides with this here little riveter."
The blades swept through the water—a boat's length nearer. From the rail came a crack like the snap of a black-snake whip. A singing little object cut the crest of the wave near the bow oar; another sent a little fountain of spray over the stroke and went ricocheting on its way.
Truer was Captain Brent's aim. A maddened yelp like a mongrel's when struck by a stone, issued from the wicked saw teeth. The grey head ducked.
"Winged by"
Another length, the rudder swung, the starboard oars were shipped suddenly, and the boat sheered alongside.
Over the rail tumbled the sailors, but the two faces—the one with the discoloured eye and the scar, and the old man, had disappeared. Deck and cabin were searched—no sign of the chest or the fugitives, except the half-sullen, half-defiant girl who had commented so disrespectfully on the Captain's figure during their first and more formal visit to the yacht.
"Now, yaller bird," said Benson, "be nice an' ladylike and tell us where yer mates went."
Carlotta jerked her head saucily towards shore.
Three heads, like tiny corks on the water, were edging toward's the beach,—Pete's and Old Man Veldmann's and a third, that of the sailor who, mutinous at first, had later been won over by MacAllister's wiles and the lure of the gold. But what was that thing just behind the last swimmer,—long, grey-white, and elliptically curved, like the white-leaded underparts of an overturned boat? A triangular object like the centreboard of a small craft was now visible. But the shape was not drifting or floating. It was curving swiftly on.
"A shark, so help me," shouted Benson.
The arms of the swimmers were reaching out frantically—and the watchers were armed, but not a single barrel was sighted over the rail. Cruel, perhaps, but they were stern men of the sea, and those struggling heads yonder had murdered their friend. If one of Nature's executioners, that grey-finned thing hurtling through the waves, could get them, why
"More speed to those fins!" Could she have heard that hoarse prayer of Benson's and seen the savage look on his face, Sally would have wondered still more at the strange ways of men.
Then rending the air, came the agonized cry of a soul in the jaws of the executioner. The startled sea-birds above echoed it weirdly back again. Through his glass, the Captain looked once—saw the head sucked from under, very swiftly. It did not bob up as before, only the waters were darkened suddenly, as if a cask of wine had been spilled into the brine. He shot the glasses back in the case and turned away his head.
"The law of the sea has taken its course," he said grimly;
"And the curse of the gold," the bosun.
The sailor of the old Alice, though not the worst of the renegade crew, had paid the price of covetousness.
There was little inclination for conversation now, and they continued the search, but not a gold ingot could they find.
"The female corby's below—" Benson reported, "bad case o' nerves after what just happened. She's pitchin' and tossin' in her bunk like a catboat in a blow."
By stress of atrocious threats, which he never would have fulfilled, he forced her into the captain's presence. The latter addressed her sternly:
"See here—that won't do any good. I want you to answer a few questions. I don't know what you're doing here with this crew, but your friends have murdered one of my men."
"Murdered!" she gasped.
"Yaller bird's play-action'," sneered the incredulous boatswain, but the surprise and fear seemed natural.
"Yes, foully—if you're innocent, you may prove it by your answers."
"What do you want?" She choked out the question.
"Who killed Old Joe?"
"I don't know—didn't know it was him that was killed—didn't know anyone was killed."
"Now be careful."
"It's God's own truth."
"Don't be frightened. If you tell us, we'll protect you."
"The only thing I know was, that it wasn't the Kid."
"The Kid? Who—Huntington?"
Averting her face, a strange attitude for one of her assurance, she nodded. Tears had inundated with rivulets the rouge on her face, the lids were swollen, and she had intermittent attacks of sniffles—truly, a different girl than Carlotta of the spotlight. A searching one was being turned on her now and for once she did not relish her conspicuousness.
"Was it one of the other four?"
"Maybe—if you say someone was croaked. I didn't see it, an' they didn't tell me."
"Didn't they tell you about the gold?"
"No."
"Think hard now. We don't want to be rough."
"Well, it isn't here anyway."
"Where is it then?"
"Oh, I'll tell you all I know—if you only won't take it out on the Kid. He's a fool Kid, but he'd never croak a guy."
"All right, we'll be fair with him."
"Well, they said they planted the gold somewhere on the island. They wouldn't tell me where. Afraid I'll double-cross 'em."
"Are you sure about that? Isn't it here?"
"Yes, I'll swear it—on a Bible—a stack of 'em if you want—Old 'n New Testament." She had regained some of her composure, as this snappiness showed.
"Be careful now."
"It's the truth, whole truth, nothin' but the truth—" she chanted. "Look, if you like."
That most of her meagre evidence was true, the Captain believed. He called Ben aside.
"It might be wise to hold the yacht and nab the rascals when they come aboard."
"But we can't leave Sally with those thugs loose on the island."
"That's just what I'm afraid of. The old devil and the chap you licked are watching us, you can bet, and they won't try to hoard tonight. Better hold the boat for hostage, steam to the Cape, get Sally, Dick, and Yeo, then beat around to Rainbow Bay. We can get reinforcements from the North Star and search the island thoroughly, or wait for them. Their provisions are on board and they've no way of escape, so they'll have to give themselves up in the end.
"Benson, do you understand the dark and devious ways of a steam-engine?"
"Are you insultin' me, Captain," the bosun replied, with injured dignity. "Do you think I'm that treacherous and degraded? Jack Beam here onct lowered himself by flirtin' with one of the damned things, on some ugly hulk of a Fruit Steamer. But he saw the light and reformed, swearin' never to ship again 'cept on an honest, God-fearin' square-rigger."
"Beam, can you run it?"
"I'll take a try at it, sir."
Steam was already up, the rascals evidently having planned departure, and a little later, Carlotta from the porthole saw the darkling shores apparently moving. She rushed on deck to welcome her friends, but instead of the imperturbable MacAllister she found Captain Brent at the wheel. And then she repeated the old tricks of her Standish régime—"Worse 'n nine drownin' cats all fightin' in a sack," the bosun described it—but it did her no good, and she subsided when the skipper threatened to put her in irons, or, if they could not be found on board, to lash her to the mast instead.
In the East the moon appeared as they neared the Cape.
"Looks like one of them gold coins of the treasure chest, balancin' itself there on the tree-tops, don't it now," remarked Benson, with his head on one side.
"They all roll away, when we chase 'em, they're that pesky—but, by , what's that! they're seven of 'em—red, too. What does that mean?"
"Where did you get it? I don't see no seven."
"That's the funny thing about it—I hain't had any licker—but I saw them seven—blood red, I'd swear it. But we're anchorin'.—Lend a hand there."
After the anchor chains had rattled out and the yacht had been moored, the boat slipped from her side to the shore. But they found only Linda cowering by the fire, Zeke Yeo with a broken head, and Spanish Dick swiftly patrolling the camp, and looking apprehensively into the massed shadows of the trees inland, from which some night bird or mocking voice hooted mournfully at them.