Hurricane (4 page)

CHAPTER THREE

Hurricane

C
APTAIN SPAR
alighted in the darkness by the small landing stage which Fort-de-France uses for its public wharf. To his left he could see the gleam of the granite war memorial, to his right he could see the single row of dingy taverns. The car drove away and left him alone in the rain.

He could see the lights of two ships in the anchorage. One he knew to be the freighter which had befriended him, the other must be the
Venture
. Their uneven paths of light came across to him, dull in the flurries of water and wind.

Several rowboats bobbed in against the wharf. Spar cast about for some minutes before he could find a boatman who would take him to the ship. Then he sat in the stern while the boatman pulled sleepily at the oars, and watched the white sides of the
Venture
.

The yacht was of considerable size. A Diesel-engined vessel of about a hundred and ten feet, a steel ocean charger glittering with wet brass and clean paint.

Spar gave the boatman two francs and went up the
gangway
to the deserted deck. Up to that moment he had felt lost and strange, but the contact of the planking with his soggy shoes gave him an almost electric shock.

How good it was to be in command again.

Some of the half-mad look went out of his silver gray eyes. Some of the slump went out of his shoulders. He clattered up the bridge ladder to the
superstructure
and entered a cabin.

The man with the four gold stripes was there, hastily throwing his dunnage into a locker trunk. He looked up with hostile glance when Spar entered and then went on packing.

“So they sent you,” said the man with the gold stripes. “Well, sailor, you can take it from Dan Larson that you’re up against a whole ocean full of trouble. Mind you,” he added, throwing suits of whites into the top compartment, punctuating his speech with the slap of cloth, “I don’t hold anything against you. I’m genuinely glad to be out of it with a whole skin.”

“Why so?” said Spar.

“Aw, you don’t know. You don’t know. I took this job when I was on the beach. It seemed fine, being all dressed up and having nothing to do. But I learned different, believe me. Tonight—well, tonight the glass says that we’re in for a hell of a blow. I wouldn’t put out, myself, but you’ll have to if Perry hired you. You’ll weather it if you’re good enough. If you’re good enough. The crew is black and they haven’t enough sense to be afraid. They’ll obey you—if you’re
hard-boiled
.

“But wait until you have Tom Perry on this tub. Just wait. He’s an arrogant, besotted, worthless wastrel, that’s what.
Three sheets to the wind
forever. He’ll try to boss you and take command if you don’t watch it.”

“I’ve got my orders from Perry,” said Spar.

“That won’t help you. And if you don’t watch Perry, the old man, you’ll be swimming in boiling oil. He’s ruthless. How do you think he built up a central on Martinique if he isn’t ruthless?”

“I don’t know. The others are all coming with Perry.”

Larson stopped, jaw slack. “That bunch? Good God, what have you got yourself into? They’re no good. All except Miss Mannering. She’s okay, though I don’t see how she fits into the picture at all.”

“Who is she?” said Spar.

“Daughter of Clyde Mannering, head of a rival central. Old man Perry is trying to squeeze old Mannering out and old Mannering thinks marrying his girl to young Perry will seal the bargain.”

“Oh,” said Spar, seeing light. “Have you any spare clothes?”

“I keep the
slop chest
under that leather seat. You’ll find dungarees and so forth in there. It’s all there is.”

“Just so they’re dry,” said Spar. He kneeled down by the
transom
and pulled out several suits until he found one of the right size. To the pile he added a slicker and a cap. Then he stood up and removed his sopping shirt. He did so thoughtlessly, anxious to be rid of his wet clothes. He eyed the private shower which opened out from the big cabin and picked up the dry clothing.

But Larson had watched the movement and Larson had seen certain marks across Spar’s great back which had been laid there with a whip. “So that’s what you are,” said Larson.

“What?” said Spar, startled, facing the former captain.

“I wondered why you were here, how you were at liberty to take the job. Hell, I never thought I’d get that low. Handing my job over to a
penal colony convict
.”

“So what?” said Spar.

“Escaped convict,” muttered Larson. “Well, jailbird, you’re in good company. Murderers and God knows what else. I thought your face looked drawn. I thought you were too alert and watchful. What am I supposed to do?”

“Anything you like,” said Spar, dropping the clothes and stepping forward.

“Do you think I’ll keep this to myself?”

“I think you will,” replied Spar.

Larson carelessly dropped his hand to his hip pocket. Spar stepped another pace ahead. “Don’t pull it.”

Larson jumped back, dragging at his gun. Spar struck with all the power of his arm. Larson dropped back against the transom, head limp, blood spurting from his torn cheek.

Spar dragged the man to his feet and knocked him down again. The madness had come back to his eyes. His mouth was twisted into an ugly grin. He reached again for Larson’s jacket and then, with an effort, stood up straight.

“Get up,” said Spar. “If you can’t stand the idea of a man getting free from French Guiana and hell itself, run ashore and yap your news to the police. Now stand up and take this locker and get the hell out!”

Larson crawled to his feet, dazed. He shouldered his trunk and staggered with it out to the deck. A sailor came and took it from him, the pair went over the side, and the ship’s
tender
spluttered away through the rain.

Spar stood breathing hard, fists still tight. A trickle of blood ran down his knuckles and dripped to the rug. Presently he picked up the clothes and went into the shower.

“Get up,” said Spar. “If you can’t stand the idea of a man
getting free from French Guiana and hell itself,
run ashore and yap your news to the police.”

He found a razor and shaved and, looking into the mirror, he was startled at the worn, bitter lines of his face. At thirty he looked old. But then five years in French Guiana are not apt to give a man anything but bitter lines.

The Saint was responsible for every twist. The Saint had done that to him. And for a full minute, Spar was in the grip of fury. His impulse was to go ashore instantly, leave this chance for escape, and find that devil and kill him as he had promised himself for five years that he would do.

Then he remembered that Larson had preceded him ashore and the authorities would soon be out to investigate. He went on with his bath and finally dressed himself in the clean clothes.

The dungarees were not much of a uniform, but the brass buckle sparkled brazenly and the officer’s cap was aslant over his lean, hard face. He looked capable.

He heard the return of the launch and presently footsteps on the deck below. Drawing on the slicker he went out with the rain hammering and stinging his face and found Folston coming up to the bridge.

“All here?” said Spar.

“Oh, rather,” replied Folston. “Old Perry says to weigh away as soon as you can. Tom Perry is in his bunk and the girls are in the salon. Could we have something to eat, fellow?”

“Find the steward yourself,” said Spar, annoyed by the overbearing tone of the man. “I’m here to run this
hooker
and you’re here to ride in it. Get below and keep out of my sight.”

“Oh, rather,” said Folston. “Feel your authority, do you? See here, my man, I’ll have you understand that I am Count Folston and I have no intention whatever of—”

Spar lifted Count Folston off the ladder and to the lower deck. “There’s the salon,” said Spar. “Stay in it.”

Folston glared and then shrugged. He went into the cabin and Spar continued aft to the engine room hatch. He swung down the maze of steel ladders until he came to the control platform.

A young white man was there, reading. He sat up when Spar approached. “Hello, who are you?”

“I’m Captain Spar, taking Larson’s place. Get going. We go out in a few minutes.”

“Out?” said the engineer. “Hell, man, it’s blowing blazes and it’ll blow harder before it blows less.”

“Turn them over,” said Spar and went above to the fo’c’s’le. There he found several black sailors sitting sleepily about a dice game. They blinked at him.

“I’m your captain,” said Spar. “On deck, the lot of you. Who’s
bosun
here?”

“I am,” said an aged, bulky black man.

“Then you’re mate.
Weigh anchor
.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” said the new mate, puffing up with importance. “Look alive, you sons. Yes, sir, Captain sir, coming right up, sir.”

Spar went back to the bridge. The deck was throbbing under his feet. The Diesels were going. A helmsman came and stood over the dim light of the
binnacle
. The anchor chain began to rasp up through the
hawse
.

Spar eyed the channel, the point to his port, the shoal buoys to his starboard, and slammed the
telegraph
down, up and down, to half speed ahead.

The
Venture
shook harder under the shove of the engines, the black rain-lashed sea parted before the bows, and they headed out.

Spar was grinning to himself. He felt better than he had felt for five years. The sensation of command, the feel of clean clothes. His lucky star was riding in the low black sky.

They successfully negotiated the channel and stood into the choppy whitecaps of the Caribbean. The compass swung to three hundred and thirty degrees and Spar jangled the engine room for another five
knots
. From the
wing
he could see the lights of the island.

“Well, my fine Saint,” said Spar, “I’ll be coming back in a short time. You’ll know what hit you, never fear.”

“What was that?” said a voice behind him.

Spar turned and stared into the blue eyes of Peg Mannering. “Oh, er, nothing. Better get below, miss, it’s wet as all hell up here.”

“Get below? Young Perry is getting drunk again. Can you do anything about it? You look . . . well . . .”

Spar smiled. “If you want me to, I’ll try. But perhaps he’d be better off drunk in his cabin than bothering the deck.”

“No, no. When he is drunk, he . . . Please do something about it, Captain. Mr. Perry gave you orders to that effect. Please.”

“I can’t leave the bridge this minute, but I’ll be down shortly. This blow is heavier out here in the open sea and we’re still in close to land. Go below and I’ll—”

“May I stay here, please?” said Peg Mannering.

“Why, certainly, if you don’t mind the spray. If you wish, you can have my cabin.”

Folston’s mincing voice sounded at the top of the ladder. “Certainly you can have his cabin, Peg. Certainly. I’m sure our jailbird would love it.”

Spar whirled about and faced the dapper count.

“Jailbird?” said Peg Mannering.