Columbine's gig rubbed against the landing steps and Wyndham and Marston lounged about the end of the mole. The sun had sunk behind a high, black range and the land-breeze had begun to blow in gentle gusts that crisped the greasy water and dropped again. When the crew were trimming ballast in the hold, a man shouted that some chain Wyndham had ordered had arrived, and he and Marston pulled the gig to the steps. After putting the chain on board, they strolled to the town, where they drank a glass of wine and bought a newspaper; and then went back to the mole. For the last few nights they had slept on board, but it was early in the evening and the top of the wall was cooler than the deck of the yacht. Besides, a Spanish liner was steering for the port and they waited to watch her passengers land.

Presently Wyndham looked up from the newspaper. "It's lucky we bought the Diario. It declares the report that the Sta Catalina mission was recently plundered is not confirmed."

"Isn't that Father Sebastian's station?" Marston asked.

Wyndham nodded. "A few mud huts, and a small, thatched church! Still, it belongs to a famous Order and pious folk no doubt sent gifts, because the Diario's remarks indicate that the Virgin's jewels were supposed to have been stolen. If this is true, the thing's significant. The most part of the people here are pretty staunch Catholics."

"But the newspaper states the report is not confirmed."

"It is not denied," said Wyndham, meaningly. "I imagine the Government had given the editor a hint. You see, the desecration of a church by negroes would rouse the citizens' feelings and lead to a popular demand for swift punishment. If the President complied, the Bat would know about it, and the republicans would lose the advantage of surprise. All the same, they must strike soon, because the Bat will now get ready."

"Then, why do you think he let his people rob the mission?"

"I don't think he did so. Perhaps some were too keen and got out of control; perhaps some meant to force Larrinaga to put him down. They're a treacherous lot and given to intrigue. However, there's another bit of news. The gunboat, Campeador, has gone into Anagas, damaged, after stranding, and will need extensive repairs. I expect this is true, because folks at Anagas could see the boat."

"It's important," Marston declared. "If the gunboat's damaged, Don Ramon can't use her to carry his troops. Still I suppose the Government tug could tow them along the coast on board the lighters. They are overhauling her at San Cristobal. Looks as if we had better find out when they'll finish the job."

Wyndham nodded. San Cristobal was some distance off; a small town with a good harbor, where there was a foundry and a coaling wharf. Yet it would be dangerous to make open inquiries about the tug or to visit the place, because Wyndham had grounds for imagining they were watched. Indeed, one of the port-guards was lounging near them. When a whistle screamed he looked up and saw the liner circle outside the mole. Foam broke about her side as the screw turned astern, a row of lights flashed into brightness, and big electric hatch lamps blazed up on deck. She stopped, the anchor splashed, and the doctor's noisy launch went off. Then the yellow flag came down and shore boats crowded about the ship.

It was nearly dark when the returning boats pulled towards the mole. A steamer was anchored near the entrance, and Columbine rode between her and the wall, leaving a narrow channel through which the boats must pass. When the first was close by Wyndham glanced carelessly at the passengers, but after a few moments his glance got fixed. Among the row of faces there was one he thought he knew and as the boat drew level with him he clenched his fist.

"Look at the third man in the stern-sheets, Bob," he said.

Marston looked and started. "It's Peters! This is going to make things awkward. The brute has lost no time. D'you think he knows we're here?"

"He knows Columbine," said Wyndham. "I imagine he sees her." Peters turned his head and his movements indicated that he was talking to the sailor who rowed on the thwart in front.

"That is enough," Marston remarked. "He'll try us again in the morning, and if we're firm, he'll see what he can do with Larrinaga. We are going to be firm. I won't buy off the brute.""Then we had better get to sea, but we must find out about the tug before we start. On the whole, I think we'll get about it now."

Marston was surprised. "San Cristobal's a long way off, and I don't know if we could hire horses. Then I doubt if we could return by noon to-morrow, and one of the port-guards might board Columbine in the morning. Larrinaga would guess our object if he found out where we'd gone."

"Exactly," said Wyndham. "We can't go by road, but the gig is here and we'd shorten the distance by sailing across the bay. In fact, if we're lucky, we ought to have an hour or two to look about and then get back by daybreak. The land-breeze will soon blow fresh; a fair wind both ways."

"By George!" said Marston. "The thing can be done!"

Running down the steps, they pushed off the gig. She was a well-built boat, twenty feet long, and on the African coast Marston had got a Fanti carpenter to fit her with a centerboard. She carried a big sail when she had a crew on board, and now the heavy chain would make good ballast. When they had got a compass, a lantern, and some food from Columbine, they pulled off among some shore boats going to the liner, and vanished into the darkness round her stern.

"If the port-guard saw us, he'd reckon we meant to board the mailboat, but it's possible he didn't pick us out from the others," Wyndham remarked. "Well, the breeze is freshening. Let's put up the mast."

They were occupied for some minutes, and then Wyndham sat down at the tiller and the gig, leaning over, gathered speed. Marston had had the lugsail and jib made in England by a famous yacht-chandler, and the boat was fast. Foam piled up at her lee bow, lapped the gunwale at her waist, and boiled round her stern. The breeze came down in gusts from the high land, and now and then the boat, listing sharply, shipped some water. Wyndham might have avoided this by slackening the sheet, but he held on to the rope and kept his course. Although the night was dark, he could see the hills against the sky and for a time he followed the coast. Then, when the shore curved back in a wide bay, he told Marston to put the compass on the thwart and light the lantern.

"Get out the baler and bucket, afterwards," he said. "There's room enough for the wind to knock up the sea, and she'll take some water on board as we reach across. Time's valuable and we must hold her to it, without shortening sail."

Marston crouched behind the lifted weather gunwale and lighted the lantern; then he saw that halyards and sheets were clear, and afterwards pulled up the well-board in the stern flooring. Sitting down with the baler in his hand by the hole, he waited and looked about. The sea began to break as they drew out from the land. Showers of spray beat into the hollow of the jib and the splashes that blew across the weather bow got heavier. The wind was not, as they had hoped, abeam, but a point or two ahead, and Marston lowered the centerboard, which jolted in its trunk when she plunged. She was not shipping much water yet and he wondered whether he could light his pipe. Then Wyndham said, "Look out!"

A white comber rose to windward, there was a thud, and jib and short bowsprit vanished. A white cloud hid the mainsail and foaming water flooded aft. As he used the baler Marston heard the sheet-blocks rattle. Wyndham was easing her while he threw the water out. It was hard to fill the bucket because the flood washed to and fro, but he knew the job was urgent. He was wet and breathless when he looked up.

"A nasty one!" he gasped.

"Here's another," said Wyndham, and flying water whipped Marston's face.

After this he was kept occupied. Sometimes he used the bucket and sometimes the baler, for water came on board fast. Now and then he imagined Wyndham slackened the sheet to ease a plunge that might swamp the boat, but this was Harry's business and he must not neglect his. Balancing himself against the lurching, he scooped up the splashing flood. When a gust heeled the boat over it gained on him, and then as the pressure slackened he held his own, but while he used his best efforts he could not bale her dry. At length, when his arms ached and he was very wet, he stopped for a few moments.

"Don't know if I can keep it up for long; I'm horribly cramped," he said. "Can't we drop the lug and tie in a reef?"

"I doubt if she'd hold her course with sail shortened," Wyndham replied. "The breeze has drawn another point ahead and we'll lose time we can't spare if we're forced to tack. Stick it out, Bob. We'll get smoother water when we pick up the land again."

He stopped and jerked the tiller, a moment too late, for a sea came over the bow. The water foamed about Marston's knees, the lantern went out, and he thought he felt the compass strike his legs.

"Bale!" said Wyndham, sharply. "She'll capsize if she ships another before you get this lot out."

Marston did his best, while the lantern and compass washed against the bucket. There was no use in stopping to pick them up, since he could not get a light and Harry was now steering by the wind. He must keep her as near it as she would point until they crossed the bay and found the land again. Marston hoped this would be soon. For some time he did not look up and afterwards wondered how Wyndham kept her afloat, but at length the plunges got easier and the water did not come on board so fast. By degrees, he got it under, and stopping to stretch his cramped limbs, looked to windward. The sea was smoother and the breeze not so fresh. There was a vague dark line not far off and he knew they were approaching the beach.

"We'll be round the point in a few minutes," said Wyndham. "Bale her dry, and then look out for the red light at San Cristobal."

Soon after he stopped baling, Marston saw a red twinkle. The gig was sailing very fast, swaying down and recovering buoyantly as the gusts came and went. The lug-yard bent in a strained curve and showers of spray blew into the sail. Marston, stooping behind the gunwale, managed to strike a match and told Wyndham the time when he had looked at his watch.

"We have made a good run, but she'll beat it going back, when we'll have the wind a point or two aft," he added. "This ought to give us an hour, or perhaps an hour-and-a-half, at the port.""It will be enough. Unluckily, the tide is ebbing yet, and although there's not much rise and fall, I don't know if we can both leave the boat. It would be awkward if she grounded and we couldn't shove her off."

Marston nodded. The gig was heavy and he doubted if they could launch her down a beach. It would be risky to tie her to landing steps, because the port-guards watched the harbors at night. Vessels were not allowed to enter after dark. Yet he did not want to be separated from Harry.

In the meantime, they were fast coming up with the light, and when a high, dark wall ran out in front Wyndham luffed the boat and they lowered sail and took down the mast. Marston sculled her past the wall, and the narrow harbor opened up. A few anchor lights swung languidly inside, and the indistinct, dark shape of a steamer shut out part of the wall. When they got near her Marston stopped sculling.

"The repairing slip is up at the top by the foundry," he said. "I expect the brigantine to starboard has a rope out. If we try to get across, we might make a splash. If we go the other side, we'll pass close under the steamer's rail. She's a pretty big boat; they'll have a Sereno on board, and keep harbor watch. If somebody hailed us, it might bring the port-guard."

Wyndham nodded and for a few moments they looked about. The harbor was long and narrow. For the most part, the town at its end was dark, but two or three big electric lamps threw a silver gleam across indistinct masses of foliage. Marston thought these were trees on the marina at the water's edge. If so, the faint light lower down came from the office of the port-captain. Turning to the wall abreast of the gig, he imagined he saw some steps.

"Perhaps you had better land me and wait while I try to find the tug," he said. "I ought to get back in an hour."

"The awkward part is going along the mole," Wyndham replied. "You'll have to pass two or three vessels and somebody may speak to you. This must be risked one way, but instead of coming back, it might be prudent to cross the land end of the mole and join me on the beach in front of the marina. There's not much surf to bother us, but it will make some noise and if anybody is about you won't be heard."

Marston agreed, and sculling to the steps, jumped out. He pushed off the gig, and Wyndham picked up the oar. In another few moments the boat vanished in the dark.