Wyndham's Pal. Bindloss Harold
sail and sent up the biggest topsail drenched with salt water. Sometimes it and the light balloon jib filled and although the lower canvas would not draw, Columbine began to move. One could not feel her progress, there was no strain on the helm, but silky ripples left her side and slowly trailed astern.
For all that, she went the wrong way, heading south into the calm, and they could not bring her round. Her rudder had no grip when they turned the wheel, and sometimes she stopped for an hour and then crawled on again. The Krooboys panted in the shade of the shaking sails, and Marston groaned and swore when he took his glasses and slackly climbed the rigging. The dark-blue lines were plainer, three or four miles off, and he thought they marked the edge of the Trade-breeze.
Wyndham alone looked unmoved; he lay in a canvas chair under the awning, and smoked and seemed to dream. Marston wondered what he dreamed about and hoped it was Flora. In the afternoon Marston felt he must find some relief.
"I want to launch a boat and tow her," he said. "There's wind enough not far off to keep her steering."
Wyndham nodded. "Very well. It's recorded that they towed the Providence for three days and used up a dozen negroes in the boats, besides some gallons of rum. The fellow who kept the log was obviously methodical. However, I want to keep our boys, and you can't tow in the sun."
"It's unthinkable," Marston agreed. "We'll begin at dark."
CHAPTER VII
THE TOW
At sunset they hoisted out two boats, for wages are low in Africa and Columbine carried a big crew. Wyndham stopped on board to steer while Marston went in the gig, and the sun touched the horizon when he began to uncoil a heavy warp. He was only occupied for a few minutes but when he had finished it was dark. The relief from the glare was soothing and the gloom was marked by a mistiness that gave him hope. He knew a faint haze often follows the North-East Trades.
The Krooboys dipped the oars, and the water glimmered with luminous spangles under the blades and fell like drops of liquid fire. This was all the light, except for the sparkle at Columbine's bows as she slowly forged ahead. She came on, towering above the boats in a vague dark mass, until she sank with the swell and the tightening rope jerked them rudely back. On heaving water, towing a large vessel is strenuous work, for her progress is a series of plunges and one cannot keep an even strain on the rope.
When they began to row Marston's boat was drawn back under the yacht's iron martingale. Her bowsprit loomed above it, threatening and big, and the oars bent as the Kroos drove the boat ahead. In a few moments she stopped and forged back towards the yacht, but the jerk was less violent. Columbine was moving faster and the heavy warp worked like a spring, easing the shock. Marston's business, however, was to tow her round and when she began to turn he had trouble to keep his boat in line. The tightening rope rasped across her stern, the gig swerved and listed over, until it looked as if she would capsize. The oars on one side were buried deep, the men could not clear them for another stroke, and the threatening martingale rose and fell close astern.
Marston, when the rope would let him, sculled with a long oar, and presently the skin peeled from his hands. His throat got parched, sweat ran down his face and he gasped with straining breath, but it was better to use his strength than risk the martingale's being driven into his back. They pulled her round and it was easier afterwards although he could not relax much. The yacht was stealing through the water, but they must keep up her speed or the violent jerks would begin again. It was only possible to rest for a moment on the crest of the swell when the warp absorbed the backward pull.
A negro began to sing and the rest took up the chorus. The air was strange and dreary but somehow musical, and Marston imagined it was very old. He understood the Kroos had sung their paddling chanties long before the Elizabethan slavers touched the fever-coast. The night was very calm and dark. The figures of the men were indistinct, but when the song stopped Marston heard their labored breathing and the regular splash of oars. They rowed well and he hoped their toil was not wasted. By daybreak they might reach the edge of the wind, but the fickle zephyrs might die away and the fiery dawn break across another glassy calm.
When he was not sculling Marston mused. He was rich and owned it strange that he was there, laboring in the boat, as the slavers labored when they towed the Providence, two hundred years ago. He wondered why men went to sea in sailing ships, to bear fatigues nobody endured at home, to fight for life on slanted yards, and stagger waist-deep about flooded decks. Yet one went, and sometimes went for no reward. The thing was puzzling.
After all, the sea had a touch of romance one felt nowhere else. It was something to brave the middle passage, although one had enough fresh water and no frenzied slaves on board. Marston thought about the old brigs – they towed the Providence three days, under the burning tropic sun. He could picture her. She rode low in the water, with her stone ballast, and freight of parched humanity packed close on the tween-decks and in the bottom hold. She had tall masts, for speed was needed, and the weight aloft would make her plunge and roll. The jerks on the towline embarrassed the boats, but white men drove the exhausted negroes with whips and curses until they dropped the oars and died. Yet they towed her three days.
Marston could not see his watch and wondered how long it was to sunrise. It was unthinkable they should go on rowing in the heat of day; he was tired now and remembering the dark ripples alone sustained him. He thought they had nearly reached the spot where the surface was disturbed, but the fickle puffs of wind might have dropped. Stopping sculling for a few moments, he turned his head. His face was wet with sweat but he felt no coolness on his skin. It was very dark and ominously calm.
He took up the long oar again, twisting it with bleeding hands and bracing his legs. They must keep Columbine moving and his business was to hold the boat straight; trouble with the warp would follow if she took a sheer. For all that, he could not hold out long. He had taken life easily and his body revolted from the strain. In fact, he was beaten now, but it counted for much that the Krooboys rowed. They were raw savages and he was white. They owned his control, but all the advantages money could buy for him had gone. Nothing was left but the primitive strength and stubbornness of human nature. He must not be beaten; he owed it to the ruling stock from which he sprang, and with a stern effort he tugged at the oar.
At length, he felt an elusive chill, and wiping his wet face, looked about. In the east, it was not quite so dark, and when he turned his head the yacht looked blacker and not so large. Hull and sails were no longer blurred; their outline was getting sharp, and he noted that the balloon jib swelled in a gentle curve. One side of his face got cold and when he began to scull again he thought the strain on the rope was less.
A belt of smoky red spread swiftly along the horizon, he heard the high gaff topsail flap, booms rattled and then the yacht got quiet. The tow rope sank and when it tightened there was no jerk. Columbine was stealing up behind them.
"In oars!" said Marston hoarsely. "Let go the warp!"
The boat drifted back to the schooner and bumped against her side until somebody caught a trailing rope. Marston with an effort climbed the rail and dropping on deck saw Wyndham at the wheel.
"Shall we hoist in? The boys are done," he said.
Wyndham nodded. "Day's breaking; it will soon be blazing hot. The sun may kill the wind, but I don't know. It's a fiery dawn."
Blocks began to rattle and when the first boat swung across the rail Marston looked about. Broad beams of light stretched across the sky and the red sun rose out of the sea. He went to a chair under the awning and threw himself down. He had earned a few minutes' rest, but when they had gone he did not move and Wyndham smiled as he noted his even breath. Beckoning a Krooboy, he sent him for a blanket and gently covered the sleeping man.
Marston was wakened by a lurch that threw him off the chair, and getting up stiffly he noted the sharp slant of deck. Then he saw foam boil behind the lee rail and straining curves of canvas that kept their hollowness when the yacht rolled to windward. She trailed a snowy wake across the backs of the sparkling seas and her rigging hummed on a high, piercing note. The sky was blue, but the blue was dim and the sunshine had lost its dazzling glare. One felt a bracing quality in the breeze.
"Looks