The Eleventh Hour (Gibbon)

by Perceval Gibbon

For works with similar titles, see The Eleventh Hour.

The Eleventh Hour

BY PERCEVAL GIBBON

"On no condition is extradition allowed in Callao."

THE red tiles of his villa gleamed through palms, and from his deep veranda, where there never failed a grateful shadow, he could see every ship that came up to the shallow anchorage. They were not many; the town of Inhambane has little to do with the world, and the coastwise mail-boat came but once a fortnight as a matter of formality. Its coming marked a festival for every one, from the swarthy intendente in his white linen and gold lace, to the Kafirs that lived under the bananas inshore. Down they would troop to the boats, and presently the decks under the long awnings would be thronged with them, and the shrill of their voices travelled over the blue stillness of the bay to where he would sit watching alone.

He was a tall man, in the early ripeness of life, loosely knit, and stooping in the shoulders. His head was bald and white; the vivacity of the face, the sharpness of the features, and something of slippery strength in the expression and glance were at variance with a kind of large clumsiness in his every attitude. He was elephantine and Puck-like at the same time. In Inhambane he was held in high respect, for he had more money than any of the Portuguese officers had dreamed of, and a waif word that had drifted in from the outside world as to how he got it impaired that respect not at all. There would be smiles, sometimes, as they passed his veranda on their way down to the mail-boat. He had seen such smiles, and the thumb jerked over shoulder that pointed him out, and he knew exactly what was being said.

"He could be arrested as soon as he set foot on her deck," one was explaining to another. "An English steamer is England, they hold. So he stays ashore."

He knew it as though he had heard the voice so carefully lowered, with the scrupulous courtesy of the evil-speaker; but he gave no outward sign of trouble. The shape of a smile, its empty body, with none of its purpose or effect, had permanent habitation on his lips, and this at times he would seem to retain and fix with just a tremor of effort. Beyond that he acknowledged no wounds. Passengers going from Durban to Beira or farther sometimes snatched an hour ashore in little, glowing Inhambane, and these had a way of walking past his house and looking at him furtively. He was the local object of interest; but he could bear even that. One might have thought him callous, indurated to his shame, as he sat there in the cool, his big head propped on one hand, smiling in effigy. The eyes, restless and alert, drove off the curious; they had the malice of hostile force. None knew of the effort with which he drove himself to this periodical abasement, as a salutary thing, as some expiation for the sin which had been too easy.

Thus he sat, one still, fiery afternoon, when the newly come mail-boat was framed in the radiant blue of the harbor, and the beach that girt it was like a golden wire. About the flanks of the steamer the boats and canoes hung like a litter of young at the teat, and he could see the traffic that flowed up and down the accommodation ladder. The voices of the folk that cluttered her decks were silvered as they reached him over the gleaming water. He marked it all with a passive interest that was not quite idle, for he noted each incident. He saw that some were coming ashore; they put off as soon as the anchor rattled down, and among them was a white parasol. A muscle in his cheek flickered as he looked up. There had not been a white woman in Inhambane for years, and he made as if to reach the field-glasses that were near. But he let them lie; without doubt they would soon be walking past him, and the parasol would screen the glances of some miss who would talk about him afterwards. He could get a good look at her then.

The steamers waste as little time as may be at Inhambane; three hours suffice them, as a rule. This one managed it in even less. She crawled over the shallows to the anchorage at two in the afternoon, interrupting every siesta in the local government; and at a few minutes past four her anchor was up and she was steaming for the sea. She moved out from among the vociferous boats majestically; floated slowly past the dumb fort, found the unmarked channel, and woke to full speed as she pointed her nose east and hurried to be clear of the shoals that complicate the mouth of the harbor before darkness should wipe out the steering beacons. From his veranda he watched her to the palm-clad point, and then sat back wondering, for he had not seen the white parasol go aboard again. Usually the steamer's departure unlatched a kind of embarrassment that kept him to his house so long as she remained. He did not so much mind their staring at him there; he was entrenched, as it were, and fortified by possessions which they could easily envy. But he did not care to meet English folk on the streets; he feared that an instinct to cringe or run might get the better of him. His was no pedestal of shame to flaunt a daring hardihood upon. This time, however, he showed none of his wonted alacrity to quit his place on the veranda, beside the tall French windows of the great salon that was dimly to be seen within. The thought of the white parasol stayed him, and he lingered in the attitude of thought.

The cool of evening was giving place to the chill of night, and a wind rustled in the feathery palm-tops, when at last he heard approaching footsteps. The white parasol was nearing his door; with its bearer walked a tall man in white. There were lights in the salon by now; they shone out brightly, reflected from black parquet and smooth walls, and made a radiance in the gloom of the garden. Into this walked the newcomers, and their faces were illuminated by it, so that the man on the veranda could see them and scan them while he was himself no more than a pale silhouette.

The tall man stepped forward, lifting his hat, peering towards the figure that rose from the deep chair to meet him.

"Mr. Dunbar?" he said, tentatively.

"That is my name," answered the other. He was looking towards the girl where she stood prodding the earth with the point of her parasol, and noting that she did not stare at him.

"We are in a difficulty," said the tall man. His voice had the fluency of one accustomed to asking favors. "We are passengers from the mail-boat that came to-day, and, somehow, we have been left behind." He laughed gently and deprecatingly. "We can't speak Portuguese, and it seems that you are the only English-speaking person here."

Dunbar nodded. "That is so," he said. "You had better come inside."

He stood apart to let them pass, and the tall man turned to the girl. She hesitated; there was a palpable unwillingness in her; but after a moment or two she walked up the steps and entered. Dunbar gave her a chair, and she sat down frigidly, and so remained, her eyes on the floor. The grandeurs of the room, so strangely placed at the last vedette of civilization, won no glance from her. Dunbar looked at her for a moment, and the curve of his lips was deepened as he turned again to her companion.

That gentleman drew up a chair for himself, and hitched it along till he faced his host at close quarters. He was pleasantly blond, with a neat mustache and a slightly indeterminate chin, and he had a confidential manner. His attitude, as he leaned forward, suggested a business interview, but his manner was otherwise spacious, even grandiose.

"My name," he said, "is Martyn. With a 'y' you know, I haven't a card with me; didn't expect to pay calls, you know. I'm—er—in the army."

"What army?" asked Dunbar, gravely.

"Oh, I'm an Englishman, of course," replied the other, unmoved. "I mention the matter as a sort of reference. This lady is Miss Ryan. We came ashore together, and it's chiefly on her account that I have insisted—that is to say, that I've ventured to trouble you."

He paused, but the girl sat silent, her eyes fixed on the floor. She was not frowning; there was hostility, proudest humiliation, grudged defeat, and bitter defiance expressed in every line of her figure, but her face spoke it only in a mute immobility, that woodenness and dollishness which denote the woman at bay. Dunbar looked long at her, and his was the habit of assessing accessories. He saw the pallor of the young face, the tight mouth, the set jaw, and with them he noted, with a leap of the pulses, the infantile curve of the neck and the soft wave of the hair where it swept back from the ears.

He turned to Martyn. "You have some suggestion to make?" he asked.

Martyn shrugged his shoulders, smiling. "We are in a very awkward position," he said, easily. "These boats really serve next to no purpose at all. No whistle or anything to give warning that she means to cut and run. I fancy I shall make it hot for somebody as soon as I get within touch of the telegraph-wire again. You see," he went on, and this time he sank his voice and puckered his face to the authentic pitch of candor—"you see, it's distinctly unpleasant for Miss Ryan."

"H'm." Dunbar glanced at the girl in time to catch her little start. Martyn saw it too, and continued.

"Actually compromising," he said.

Dunbar rose to his feet and walked a few paces up and down the polished floor. Martyn sat back, bland and complacent, yet watching him warily. His eyes were bright with something like anticipation.

"You had better have some dinner now," said Dunbar at last. "We can talk then, since nothing can be done tonight. I suppose you know you're practically marooned till the next steamer comes? There's no telegraph here, and no railway. You know that?"

"Worse luck," assented Martyn, glancing at the girl to see that she had heard.

"Then if Miss Ryan will let me ring for one of the women she can go and prepare for dinner," said Dunbar. He addressed Martyn, not the girl.

"I don't want dinner."The girl spoke for the first time. She too addressed Martyn only.

Dunbar stood back, and saw perplexity and not a little irritation replace the suavity of Mr. Martyn.

"Really," said that gentleman, "I don't see why you should refuse. We must have something to eat, and since Mr. Dunbar is good enough to receive us—"

"Perhaps," said Dunbar, steadily, "Miss Ryan would like to dine alone. That can easily be arranged."

She raised her head at this, and gave him back look for look.

"I will change my mind," she said. "If you will send the maid to me—"

He hastened to ring. "I'm afraid there are only Kafir women," he said. "Inhambane boasts no others. But perhaps they will serve."

She gave him half a bow, and followed the stout negress who appeared at the door. His eyes went with her, and the swing of her skirt, as she turned aside again, made an immediate appeal to his memories and emotions.

As the door closed behind her, Martyn gave a deep sigh of relief and turned to Dunbar again.

"Queer creatures, women," he said, as he dropped to a seat. "I've had to do with a good many in my time. A chap does in the army, you know."

"Does he?" said Dunbar. "How do you know he does?"

Martyn laughed. He could laugh very readily. One less adroit than Dunbar in sounding expression for the thought beneath might have regarded his easy laughter as the index of a light heart and an unsuspicious mind. He kept his quick eye on the younger one till the laughter ceased.

"Oh, come now," said Martyn. "That's not fair. Wish I had a card with me. I know all this looks beastly funny. But about that girl. She's compromised, of course, and I dare say she's realized it, and that's what has put her temper out of joint. She—she actually has a notion that I lost the way and missed the steamer on purpose."

"So you were her guide, eh?" asked Dunbar. He was standing gauntly before the other, looking down at him, with hands clasped behind his back.

"That was the idea," Martyn admitted. He became even more confidential. "But I say, old chap, I hope you don't mind my depending on you to see us through? I can repair the matter of the compromising, you know. I've already spoken to her about that. But we came ashore with just what we had in our pockets, and—"

Dunbar silenced him with a hand-wave. "Do you mean to tell me," he demanded, slowly, "that you've actually told her she was in danger of slander, and have offered to protect her by marriage?"

"On my honor, I have," affirmed Martyn. He had mistaken the purport of the question. "You can ask her, if you doubt me. It's the least I could do. One must run straight."

"Must one?" There was the chill of hammered metal in the tone. "Well, you'd like a wash before dinner, no doubt. Clean hands are a comfort, aren't they? Let me show you a room."

Dunbar's own preparations were quick, for he was back in the salon ten minutes afterwards. Here, standing at the window, he waited, looking out at the whispering darkness with a certain expectancy, till Miss Ryan entered. He turned and brought her a chair.

She did not sit down, but stood with her hand resting on its high back, as though to make it a rampart between them.

"Mr. Dunbar," she said, breathlessly.

"I am at your service," he answered.

Her stolid enmity had given place to trepidation. She eyed him nervously.

"I wanted to tell you," she said, speaking as though with difficulty, "that I know all about you. Everything—I know everything."

She broke off and waited for his riposte. He only bowed.

"My father," she went on, "was one of—one of your—"

He helped her out. "One of my victims?" he suggested, gently. The spasm of effort reinforced the habit of his composure. "I am sorry," he said.

"When the Emancipator broke," she went on, "and you ran away"—the steady gaze of his eyes wavered an instant, and she saw it—"yes, ran away with the money, my father was made penniless. I could never tell you with what an energy of loathing and contempt I think of you."

"There is no need," he answered. "I know already."

She shook her head impatiently. "You can't know. But now that I have told you, as clearly as I can, you can decide whether you will help me or not. For I am in such need of help that I will accept it even of you. I daren't refuse it, and—and—you owe me something."

It was his turn to shake his head. "That must stand," he answered. "I will help you apart from that, or not at all. You are right when you say you need help."

She had some answer to make, but at that moment Martyn entered, spruce and pleasant, and they went to dinner.

Dunbar gave his arm to the girl, and she took it; both saw Martyn's eyebrows rise.

"Well, old chap," said Martyn, when they were seated in the punka-cooled dining-room, that was separated from the veranda only by screens of bamboo, "have you decided what you're going to do with us?"

"I have an idea," replied Dunbar, "that you won't require my hospitality, after all. It's just possible that the mail-boat did not get clear of the mouth before dark."

"What do you mean?" demanded Martyn. "She's eating up the miles between here and Beira by now."

Dunbar turned to the girl. "There are no buoys, you know, and no lights," he explained. " And if she didn't succeed in getting out before sundown she wouldn't take any risks. There are miles of sand-banks between here and the sea, and she'd simply anchor till daylight. So there's just a bare chance that she may be there now."

"Rot!" said Martyn. "It's a thousand to one against it. And, anyhow, it's twenty miles off. How the deuce are you going to get to her by sunrise, even if she is there? She left early, too, on purpose to get out. So there's nothing in that, anyhow."

Dunbar heard him out with a deadly patience. "Indeed!" he said, and turned again to the girl, who was waiting with both hands clutching the table.

"There is a launch," he said, "a steam-launch of sorts, the property of the Portugee who draws pay as harbor-master, or port-captain, or something. I can get that, but—well, it burns wood."

"What does that matter?" she asked.

"I've used her before," he explained. "She will carry fuel enough to take us down to the bar, but if your ship isn't there we shall have to sail back, and we sha'n't be here till to-morrow afternoon. She can squatter along fairly well under steam, but she sails like a raft."

"That settles it, then," said Martyn, sharply. "You can't drift about all night."

"When can we start?" asked the girl.

"As soon as we have eaten our dinner," answered Dunbar. "You must make as good a meal as you can, you know."

Martyn picked the serviette from his knees and flung it on the table. His face was flushed, and he spoke angrily.

"Now, look here," he said, "there's no use talking, because I won't have it. Miss Ryan is responsible to me, in a way. I've got to put her straight with the world, and so when I say that I won't allow her to go chasing that damned steamboat like this there's got to be an end of the matter. Dunbar, you've got to drop it."

The girl rose in her seat and looked at him with a white and angry face.

"I shall be ready when you are," she said to Dunbar, and walked forth.

Dunbar went on with his meal. Martyn glared at him, and curious creases came out on the fall of his chin, as though his mouth were made up to blubber.

"Have some more Burgundy," said the elder man at last. "You've made a mistake, Mr. Martyn. You'd better not talk about it any more."

"Look here," said Martyn. "Who are you to interfere like this? Which of us has got to marry that girl—you or I?"

"Neither of us," answered the other. "I'm married already, and you—" he barked a short laugh. "Where are you going to sleep to-night?" he demanded.

"What do you mean?"

Dunbar leaned back in his chair, and looked him up and down.

"You want it plainer than that, eh? Well, listen to this. I don't like you at all, and since you have insulted my guest, insulted your host, and finished your dinner, I mean to be rid of you. I suppose you have something nasty to say as a last word? Well, leave it unsaid. Leave it unsaid, my man, or I'll have you flogged. That's all. You can go now."

"I say," said Martyn, standing up; "I say. Don't take it like that, old man. If you're so set on this boating trip, I suppose we'll have to come, but—"

"You needn't come," replied Dunbar, rising. "You can't come, anyhow. Now, out with you."

A minute afterwards Martyn was gone.

There was a slender crescent of moon aloft when the launch was at last poled off the beach and steam turned on. Over her boiler the wood was stacked high, and aft the girl and Dunbar sat in the shadow of it. Two silent natives attended to the engine, and on the fagots forward sat the stout negress who was shipped as chaperon. Dunbar steered, and as the little scrap-heap of an engine broke into its measured thud and wheeze they shot out and headed down for the point. The launch had seen much better days since she was stolen from the booms of a man-of-war at Zanzibar, but she could still plug her nose along at a fair gait, and the fort, the loopholed church of Inhambane, and the tower of the lazar-house slid past in good time. The native stoker and engineer squatted in the glow of the furnace door, cast into striking relief against it, like great toads, and overhead a wonder of white stars stood in a dome of velvet.

For half an hour there was no sound but that of the engine and the wash of water as it raced aft to the white ribbon of the wake, save when, at short intervals, the furnace door clanged open and a billet or two of wood crashed into the fire. At such times the glow would lighten to a hot glare, and in it the girl, sitting silent beside him, took occasion to glance at Dunbar. He was leaning back, his arm resting along the tiller, his big face upturned. It had an expression to make her wonder—something so still, so acquiescent of any fate, so peaceful, governed the keen strength of the features. When the furnace was opened again it was still there, and she felt a need of trivial speech to parry the sombre association of the vast night, the dark water, and this monstrous and wonderful man.

"So this is the only steam-vessel in Inhambane," she said, tentatively. He nodded.

"Yes," he said, "the only one now. I had a yacht here once, a beauty. She could have taken you round to Beira and beaten the mail-boat by a day. But I had to get rid of her."

"Why?" she asked.

He turned to look at her. "She was a British ship," he said. "My captain conceived the idea of arresting me on board of her."

The silence fell again, till she broke it.

"I shouldn't like to think you were happy," she said, wistfully.

He smiled, but the smile was not of ridicule or amusement. It was not even bitter.

"No," he answered at last. "That would be too much. I have still my sense of shame."

They spoke no more then, till, when the hours had lengthened to four, the launch crawled over a shoal and rounded a spit.

"There's your mail-boat," he said, pointing.

A light was hanging over the water, a couple of miles away, and the lean moon just sufficed to make visible the bulk of the steamer. Dunbar thrust the tiller over, and they headed down to it.

The girl caught his arm. "Mr. Dunbar," she said, and almost choked on the words—"Mr. Dunbar, the mail-boat's a British ship, too."

"Well?" He was smiling again, and the smile was now no shell of laughter.

"Had you not better—" she began, but he stayed her.

"We shall be fellow passengers for a day or two," he said. "I'm going home. I've had enough of it. Do you remember I wouldn't let you claim an obligation? That was because I am going to face my obligations in the mass. I think I was meant for something better than a thief in hiding."

They clucked and wheezed down to the steamer, and their line was caught and made fast. A parley resulted in the lowering of the accommodation ladder, and Dunbar followed Miss Ryan to the deck.

The captain was there and he greeted the girl warmly.

"You're in luck, Miss Ryan," he was saying. "I'd have tried a rocket or two, if I'd had any, to let the town know we were still here. Lord sakes! who's this?"

"I'm Henry Dunbar, captain," was the answer. "Will you give me a free passage to British territory?"

The captain bit his cigar in two in sheer astonishment.

"You bet your last cent I will," he answered with emphasis. "I'd sail you to Newgate with pleasure."