Читать книгу Captain Cain - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 5

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“Now, lads!” began Captain Cain briskly, as the men, their hunger appeased, were once more indulging in the luxury known to blue-jackets as “three draws and a spit.” “We’ll hold a council of war. I said ‘council of war’ purposely, because, as you are aware, we’re at war with mankind. We’re fugitives on the face of the earth. The wilds of Australia or the backwoods of Canada are as dangerous to us as the heart of London—perhaps more so, since the world is small when one doesn’t want it to be. The general presumption is that we’re dead, lying six fathoms deep out there; but that doesn’t justify our going home quietly and turning over a new leaf. In short, we’re forced to live on our wits, and if necessary use brute strength to obtain the direst necessaries of life.

“Now, then, I’ve been thinking things out. As you know, that rogue, Pengelly, cached a lot of booty taken from the Bronx City. The spot is within six miles of here. I mean to find the stuff, which will, I hope, provide sufficient for our immediate needs. There’s gold dust, I believe, although I didn’t actually see it.”

“Quite right, sir,” agreed Cross; “I seed Pengelly and a party hide the loot. Afterwards ’e gave every man a chance to make a note of the bearings in case of accident.”

“And probably gave the wrong bearings,” added Cain. “However, he’s not likely to be hanging around over Tom Tiddler’s ground—something will be hanging round his neck before very long, unless I’m very much mistaken. But to proceed. We’ve a boat in which we ought to be able to make our way to within a few miles of the Gambia. There we ought with luck to be able to be picked up by a vessel bound for South America. We must decide what yarn to pitch into them later on. Once in South America there’ll be heaps of opportunities of making a fortune in a very little while. How? you ask. Wait for the first revolution that crops up. You won’t have to wait very long. Then seize opportunity with both hands, especially if opportunity is ballasted with gold.

“In any case, you stick to me, and I’ll stick to you, and pull you through. You’ve all been proper jonnick in the past, and I won’t forget it. You know I’m a man of my word. Now it’s close on dead low water. In half an hour the young flood will be setting up the Faltuba River, so let’s get a move on.”

The boat was righted and launched. A quantity of maize was placed in the after-locker and a plentiful supply of turtle flesh hung up to dry in the now powerful rays of the sun. Each man examined and cleaned his pistol so as to be prepared for any emergency that might involve the use of the weapons.

By this time the tide had changed. All along the shore the sand was discoloured by a dark line—oil from the depth-charged submarine that had drifted ashore during the night. A hundred yards or so away was a barrel with a sodden, smoke-begrimed piece of bunting hanging disconsolately from a staff passing through the bung. It was the mark-buoy the Canvey had laid down to indicate the position of the submerged Alerte. Of other flotsam there was no sign.

It required quite a tough tussle with the oars to take the whaler out of the mouth of the little river, but once on the lagoon progress was easy, especially as the estuary of the Faltuba was reached. Every one, Cain included, took a turn at the oars, and although no great amount of energy was displayed, the task soon became decidedly exhausting.

The sun beat down with terrific violence, and the only protection for the man’s heads was the red woollen caps they had hastily put on when they made their hurried exit from the doomed submarine. Their feet, too, were bare, the men having discarded their ordinary foot-gear when they put on their diving-suits.

Not only were the direct rays of the sun unpleasantly hot. The reflected glare from the mirror-like surface of the water was almost as fierce. The metal-work of the boat was so hot that to touch it with the bare hand would result in a painful blister.

Presently the sandy shores of the lagoon gave place to the mud-banked, mangrove-bounded river. Here the conditions were worse, for added to the heat in the sickly miasmic mist that ascended in dense columns from the now turgid water, to disperse before it rose high enough to form a screen to the rays of the sun.

The river had afforded a depressing aspect when viewed from the Alerte; now viewed but a few feet from the water’s edge it looked the absolute limit of desolation and discomfort.

“Nearly there, sir,” announced Barnard. The bo’sun was rowing stroke. He had wiped the perspiration from his eyes by the simple expedient of rubbing them with the moist sleeve of his shirt. For the last quarter of an hour he had been rowing blindly, for the sweat was pouring down his face. “Just round that bend. A couple o’ hundred yards, or three, maybe.”

Cain grunted. In spite of the physical strength and grim determination he was feeling the effect of the hothouse-like conditions; but realising that he could stand it far better than either Davidge or Cross, he was voluntarily extending his spell at the heavy ash oar.

The bend negotiated, the landing-place appeared in sight, but now an unexpected hitch occurred. The booty had been taken ashore from the Alerte at about high-water. It was now only the second hour of the flood, and a hundred yards of soft, vilely-smelling mud separated the water from the river-bank. To attempt to traverse that distance even by the aid of boards was impossible. The slime was so soft that an oar thrust blade downwards as far as the loom met with little resistance and failed to find hard bottom.

There was nothing for it but to wait until the tide rose sufficiently to float the whaler over the mud. That meant at least three hours of tedious inaction in the miasmic air.

Thrusting an oar into the mud and bending the painter to it the men let the whaler swing to the strong flood-tide, hoping fervently that this flimsy mooring would hold. Then they prepared to endure the discomforts as best they might.

At the captain’s suggestion they stretched their diving-suits from gunwale to gunwale to form some sort of protection from the sun, as the men lay in the bottom-boards. The rubbered canvas did serve as a shade, but underneath the air was stifling. Myriads of flies appeared and added to the general discomfort. They settled on hands, feet and faces until the sun-scorched flesh was black with the troublesome insects. It was almost useless to attempt to brush them away, for the next instant the flies swarmed again to the attack. To make matters worse, the sun-dried turtle flesh turned putrid and added its quota to the variety of offensive odours. The meat was promptly ditched.

In vain the men tried to smoke. Flies hovered over the glowing pipe-bowls, collapsing in dozens upon the hot tobacco. Even Davidge, who in times of shortage had been known to smoke a weird mixture of tea-leaves and rope-yarn, drew the line at flies in his pipe.

Hardly a word was spoken. With parched mouths and swollen tongues the men sat in silence, looking from time to time with blood-shot eyes at the slowly rising level of the water and at the tardy retreat of that expanse of mud which separated them from the key that was to open for them the gate of fresh adventure and good fortune.

“’S’pose tide’ll make high enough, sir?” hazarded the bo’sun.

Cain nodded.

“Bound to,” he replied shortly. “New moon was the day before yesterday.”

In any case, he mused, they would have to be mighty smart in recovering the booty, if they didn’t want the whaler left high and dry for another ten hours.

“Ditch-crawling isn’t in my line,” he concluded. “Give me the open sea any day of the week. Confound the mud!”

At an hour before the expected time of high-water, Cain roused himself. The flood-tide had eased off considerably, although there was a distinct strain on the painter. The loom of the oar was six feet beneath the surface.

“We can do it now, men!” he declared.

The others bestirred themselves. The oar was recovered and the boat urged shorewards. Thirty feet from the bank she smelt the mud.

“Keep going!” shouted the captain, and leaning forward he lent his weight to the stroke oar. Finally the whaler lost way ten feet from the shore with a bank of liquid mud of her own making showing up on either side.

“Try with an oar for’ard!” ordered Cain.

The blade struck hard bottom at eighteen inches.

“Good enough!” declared the captain, and using the oar as a jumping-pole he cleared the remaining expanse of slime, landing cleanly on the hard ground. Davidge followed, and having thrown the slack of the painter ashore, Cross rejoined his chum. The bo’sun was the last to essay the feat, landing on all-fours in six inches of particularly obnoxious slime.

The painter having been secured to a snag, the whole party hurried to the spot where Pengelly had buried the booty. Barnard had not the slightest doubt that he would be able to recognise the spot without the aid of cross-bearings.

“There it is, sir!” he exclaimed. “In that hollow.”

Notwithstanding the heat, the party broke into a run. Cain was the first to reach the much-desired site. When he did, he stopped dead.

So did the others. The soil had only recently been disturbed, but disturbed it had been. Instead of an almost imperceptible mound already covered with coarse vegetation, a yawning cavity was exposed to view, but of the eagerly-wished-for plunder not a sign!

For full thirty seconds no one spoke. The eyes of the other three travelled first from the rifled hiding-place to the impassive features of the captain and then back to the scene of their shattered hopes. After all their endeavours, their discomforts and their sanguine expectations was this to be their reward?

“Some one’s been ’ere afore us!” exclaimed Cross.

“Quite a logical statement supported by circumstantial evidence,” rejoined Captain Cain dryly.

“Eh, what, sir?” asked the man. “I don’t quite ketch wot you mean, sir.”

“Merely that I agree with your remark,” replied the captain.

“Who could it have been?” queried the bo’sun. “’Tain’t Pengelly or any of the others: that’s a dead cert. Do you think, sir, that some of them blabbed to the skipper of the cruiser and he sent a boat back after dark?”

“No, I do not,” declared Cain. “The Canvey cleared right off. I was keeping watch all night. It was bright starlight. Nothing could have crossed the lagoon without being sighted. It’s the natives who have collared the loot. Ten to one they were watching everything that occurred and had the stuff up the moment the Alerte went downstream. For all we know, they may be keeping us under observation at the present moment.”

“An’ larfin’ fit to bust their sides,” added Cross. “That is if a blessed savage can enjoy a joke. I’d like to ketch ’em at it; that’s all.”

“Well, it’s no use hanging on to the slack, men,” decided Cain briskly. “Success never comes by giving way before difficulties. We’ve got to surmount them. If we stand here kagging much longer the tide will leave the boat high and dry. Our best plan is to get out of this cursed river as quickly as we can. Then we can make a fresh start on another tack. If we don’t succeed, then my name’s not—what it is.”