XIII
ONCE assured that his surf-boat would keep afloat, Blake took the oars and began to row. But even as he swung the boat lumberingly about he realized that he could make no headway with such a load, for almost a foot of water still surged along its bottom. So he put down the oars and began to bale again. He did not stop until the boat was emptied. Then he carefully replugged the bullet-hole, took up the oars again, and once more began to row.
He rowed, always keeping his bow towards the far-off spangle of lights which showed where the Trunella lay at anchor.
He rowed doggedly, determinedly. He rowed until his arms were tired and his back ached. But still he did not stop. It occurred to him, suddenly, that there might be a tide running against him, that with all his labor he might be making no actual headway. Disturbed by this thought, he fixed his attention on two almost convergent lights on shore, rowing with renewed energy as he watched them. He had the satisfaction of seeing these two lights slowly come together, and he knew he was making some progress.
Still another thought came to him as he rowed doggedly on. And that was the fear that at any moment, now, the quick equatorial morning might dawn. He had no means of judging the time. To strike a light was impossible, for his matches were water-soaked. Even his watch, he found, had been stopped by its bath in sea-water. But he felt that long hours had passed since midnight, that it must be close to the break of morning. And the fear of being overtaken by daylight filled him with a new and more frantic energy.
He rowed feverishly on, until the lights of the Trunella stood high above him and he could hear the lonely sound of her bells as the watch was struck. Then he turned and studied the dark hull of the steamer as she loomed up closer in front of him. He could see her only in outline, at first, picked out here and there by a light. But there seemed something disheartening, something intimidating, in her very quietness, something suggestive of a plague-ship deserted by crew and passengers alike. That dark and silent hull at which he stared seemed to house untold possibilities of evil.
Yet Blake remembered that it also housed Binhart. And with that thought in his mind he no longer cared to hesitate. He rowed in under the shadowy counter, bumping about the rudder-post. Then he worked his way forward, feeling quietly along her side-plates, foot by foot.
He had more than half circled the ship before he came to her landing-ladder. The grilled platform at the bottom of this row of steps stood nearly as high as his shoulders, as though the ladder-end had been hauled up for the night.
Blake balanced himself on the bow of his surf -boat and tugged and strained until he gained the ladder-bottom. He stood there, recovering his breath, for a moment or two, peering up towards the inhospitable silence above him. But still he saw no sign of life. No word or challenge was flung down at him. Then, after a moment's thought, he lay flat on the grill and deliberately pushed the surf-boat off into the darkness. He wanted no more of it. He knew, now, there could be no going back.
He climbed cautiously up the slowly swaying steps, standing for a puzzled moment at the top and peering about him. Then he crept along the deserted deck, where a month of utter idleness, apparently, had left discipline relaxed. He shied away from the lights, here and there, that dazzled his eyes after his long hours of darkness. With an instinct not unlike that which drives the hiding wharf-rat into the deepest corner at hand, he made his way down through the body of the ship. He shambled and skulked his way down, a hatless and ragged and uncouth figure, wandering on along gloomy gangways and corridors until he found himself on the threshold of the engine-room itself.
He was about to back out of this entrance and strike still deeper when he found himself confronted by an engineer smoking a short brier-root pipe. The pale blue eyes of this sandy-headed engineer were wide with wonder, startled and incredulous wonder, as they stared at the ragged figure in the doorway.
"Where in the name o' God did you come from?" demanded the man with the brier-root pipe.
"I came out from Guayaquil," answered Blake, reaching searchingly down in his wet pocket. "And I can't go back."
The sandy-headed man backed away.
"From the fever camps?"
Blake could afford to smile at the movement.
"Don't worry—there 's no fever 'round me. That's what I 've been through!" And he showed the bullet-holes through his tattered coat-cloth.
"How'd you get here?"
"Rowed out in a surf-boat—and I can't go back!"
The sandy-headed engineer continued to stare at the uncouth figure in front of him, to stare at it with vague and impersonal wonder. And in facing that sandy-headed stranger, Blake new, he was facing a judge whose decision was to be of vast moment in his future destiny, whose word, perhaps, was to decide on the success or failure of much wandering about the earth.
"I can't go back!" repeated Blake, as he reached out and dropped a clutter of gold into the palm of the other man. The pale blue eyes looked at the gold, looked out along the gangway, and then looked back at the waiting stranger.
"That Alfaro gang after you?" he inquired.
"They 're all after me!" answered the swaying figure in rags. They were talking together, by this time, almost in whispers, like two conspirators. The young engineer seemed puzzled. But a wave of relief swept through Blake when in the pale blue eyes he saw almost a look of pity.
"What d' you want me to do?" he finally asked.
Blake, instead of answering that question, asked another.
"When do you move out of here?"
The engineer put the coins in his pocket.
"Before noon to-morrow, thank God! The Yorktown ought to be here by morning—she 's to give us our release!"
"Then you 'll sail by noon?"
"We 've got to! They 've tied us up here over a month, without reason. They worked that old yellow-jack gag—and not a touch of fever aboard all that time!"
A great wave of contentment surged through Blake's weary body. He put his hand up on the smaller man's shoulder.
"Then you just get me out o' sight until we 're off, and I 'll fix things so you 'll never be sorry for it!"
The pale-eyed engineer studied the problem. Then he studied the figure in front of him.
"There's nothing crooked behind this?"
Blake forced a laugh from his weary lungs. "I 'll prove that in two days by wireless—and pay first-class passage to the next port of call!"
"I 'm fourth engineer on board here, and the Old Man would sure fire me, if—"
"But you needn't even know about me," contended Blake. "Just let me crawl in somewhere where I can sleep!"
"You need it, all right, by that face of yours!"
"I sure do," acknowledged the other as he stood awaiting his judge's decision.
"Then I 'd better get you down to my bunk. But remember, I can only stow you there until we get under way—perhaps not that long!"
He stepped cautiously out and looked along the gangway. "This is your funeral, mind, when the row comes. You 've got to face that, yourself!"
"Oh, I'll face it, all right!" was Blake's calmly contented answer. "All I want now is about nine hours' sleep!"
"Come on, then," said the fourth engineer. And Blake followed after as he started deeper down into the body of the ship. And already, deep below him, he could hear the stokers at work in their hole.