The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  When he reached the camp, he found O’Sullivan hustling their supplies back into the boat and Rosemonde emerging to lend a hand. A moment later Doña Juliana left the shelter, which Desmond promptly stripped from its supports.

  “I’ve no time to be talkin’ now,” he exclaimed hurriedly. “Roll down the boat, Michael Terence! A minute’s delay may mean all of us with our throats cut.”

  The two men shoved the boat at the water, the women watching in silent anxiety. Then, with the last of the dunnage loaded in, Desmond left the fiddler to hold the craft while he returned for the ladies. He picked up Doña Juliana with a word of apology for his haste and waded out with her to the bow; but Rosemonde had followed, careless of the knee-deep water, and was climbing into the stern sheets before Desmond could assist her.

  “All right, Michael Terence!” exclaimed Desmond as he clambered in. “Straight out to the reef, me lad; there’s an opening in it almost opposite us. Quick, now!”

  At each instant he expected to hear bullets singing out from shore, but the long oars urged the boat out toward the reef, and there was no alarm. The island remained black and silent. While he rowed, Desmond gave a brief exposition of the situation for the benefit of his companions.

  “Easy up, now,” he admonished O’Sullivan. “The reef opening is just ahead. Miss Juliana, will you have the kindness to lean over the bow and keep watch for rocks? We’ll have to watch over our shoulders and may miss a few. All right, Michael Terence—pull!”

  The oars dipped and gripped. The boat roared down into a hollow between the seas, her bottom scraped, then she was ascending the next sea with a surging hiss of foam, and with two strokes they were out beyond the reef.

  “Thank the saints!” muttered Desmond. “Now let ’em fire all they wish! Where did ye leave that boat, me lad?”

  “What boat?” demanded Rosemonde, knowing nothing of the treasure.

  “The other one,” and Desmond laughed softly. “Pull ahead, Michael Terence! She can’t be far away—down near the other reef opening, mostlike. Keep watch for an empty boat, ladies!”

  The ladies made no response. The island had become formless, a vague black shape which closed sea and sky, and which was still entirely devoid of any light or sound.

  Desmond knew that the other boat could not have drifted far. Being high in the water, the set of the wind would naturally hold her back toward the reel, as would the attraction of the land. Besides, it was unlikely that O’Sullivan had taken her far out, as he confessed himself to be no great swimmer and had been afraid to venture far.

  “I see something!” called Juliana softly from the bow. “Off to the left, something black on the water—”

  “Right,” added Desmond, getting a glimpse of the thing himself. He felt no strong excitement over the possibility of finding the treasure; merely a laughing recklessness. Money of itself meant too little to him for the thought to rule in his mind.

  “Now ahead of us!” cried Doña Juliana quickly. “Be careful—”

  They slid down a long wave, and with a final tug on his oar Desmond sent them alongside an empty boat that loomed suddenly from the darkness. He rose and pulled the other craft around until he could get at its stern.

  Ah! There was a rope, cunningly fastened—and another; from them a square box. No large affair, this; only a box two feet by one, of narra or ironwood. Getting a secure grip upon a handle which his fingers encountered, Desmond cut the lines with his knife and hauled the box aboard.

  “Done!” he exclaimed, tossing it at the fiddler’s feet. “We’ll open it by daylight, me lad—”

  “What’s in it?” asked Rosemonde.

  “Ah, that’s a surprise!” Desmond chuckled. “Eh, Michael Terence? A bit of a surprise, if our luck holds good. Get the mast and sail out o’ that boat now. We’ll leave ’em this canvas, for I’ve no time to be bothered with it—”

  “See here!” exclaimed O’Sullivan, who was trembling with mingled cold and excitement. “Is it goin’ to leave them the other boat ye are? And where are we goin’ to, anyhow?”

  Desmond laughed. “Going? D’ye know that by tomorrow night we’ll reach the mainland, or before? Coast o’ China, Michael Terence; whether it’s French China or the real thing I don’t know nor care. Sure, we’ll be leavin’ them this boat. Let ’em fight for it if they can swim out and get it. All aboard now! Catch this spar and sail out—”

  “We’re going out to sea and to China?” demanded Doña Juliana, awe in her voice.

  “We’re nearly to China now, mo cuisle,” returned Desmond with infectious gaiety. “And by tomorrow night, praise be, we’ll have finished the trip.”

  “But these waves—these mountains of water—”

  “Sure, they’re just mountains of water, and who’s afraid of water? Get ye some dry clothes, Michael Terence. Rosemonde, have ye dry stockings and shoes? Then we’ll give you and Miss Juliana the fore part o’ the craft, once we get the sail up, and you’ll have the best going in the way o’ privacy, fairy mistress of me heart! To work, Michael Terence!”

  As he dragged the mast and sail from the other boat he uttered a sharp exclamation and paused suddenly. From the dark line of the island came the crack of a pistol; close upon this came a second shot, and then silence again.

  When the dawn lightened over Paracel Island, bringing the reef and shore and trees into faint relief against the dark western sky, it showed a dark head bobbing out beyond the reef. This bobbing head approached a larger black mass floating upon the waves and merged with it.

  Meantime, aboard the wreck of the schooner, three men were busily engaged packing a common seaman’s chest with small, gaudily labeled tins. As the dawn lightened they broke off work at a hail from the shore. It was Prince Chan who hailed, and Balderson stood in the rigging to make answer.

  “What you want, huh?”

  “We’ve found the boat.” answered the Manchu.

  An oath fell from Balderson. “Got the chest, did you?”

  “No. Desmond had taken it and left the boat floating. Throw in the opium and we’ll take you into partnership.”

  “Hell!” spake one of the three men to Balderson. “What’ll he do with the dope?”

  “Answer quickly,” floated the suave voice of the prince. “We must leave at once. We have sighted the sail of Desmond’s boat, and he is heading due west. We can dispose of the opium if we reach the French-China coast, but only in small quantities.”

  “Throw in with ’em!” advised the man King. “They got Billy, but we got a few of them to even up. There’s seven of them and three of us. Let’s go.”

  “All right,” boomed Balderson’s voice. “Bring your boat along and load up. We agree.”

  Half an hour later, the boat, under a sail rigged by Balderson’s deft hands, bore out from Paracel Island and rounded the southern end. Sunrise was breaking. In the boat were crowded seven Manchus and the three white men. Amidships was the seaman’s chest with its load of five-tael opium tins.

  The morning was half gone when, as the boat topped a great wave, Balderson stood erect in the stern and gazed westward.

  “After ’em!” he cried, his yellow beard afloat in the wind. “We’ll not catch up, huh? But we’ll be on their heels.”

  “That’s very good,” said Prince Chan, smiling thinly. “The money will be easily divided. And the women will—”

  “I want the one we agreed on, remember?” scowled Balderson.

  “Of course,” agreed the suave Manchu. “And I want the other one, certainly!”

  The two men grinned each at the other, and Balderson reflected that chinks were human beings after all.

  CHAPTER XII

  O’SULLIVAN PUTS HIS FOOT IN IT

  Instead of reaching the mainland within ten hours, as Desmond had hopefully stated, the boat was two days at sea. It was not until close to sunset of the second day that she came into the river mouth under the headland of Faifoo. Only thirty kilometers to the north was Tourane, but Des
mond, being no seaman, was glad enough to see a civilized town where he struck land. True, Faifoo was purely Chinese in looks and population—one of the strange bits of northern civilization that may be found set down as disjointed points in Annam—but it was nonetheless civilized. The natives in the fishing sampans spoke French after their fashion, and at the landing quay French was the universal tongue.

  During these two days the situation aboard the boat had become tinged with a vague unpleasantness—at least, so far as Desmond was concerned. In Arevalo’s chest he had found an even two-hundred-thousand dollars in bank notes. When he spoke of dividing this Doña Juliana had with much dignity refused any share of it except a sum sufficient to take her home to Manila; she stated frankly that she was wealthy and did not need it.

  Rosemonde likewise refused.

  “It is true that I am a nurse,” she said with a touch of hauteur, “but I am so by choice and not by necessity, Monsieur Desmond! Thank you. I prefer to do without it.”

  Desmond had no knowledge whatever that, while he had slept, Michael Terence O’Sullivan had entertained the two ladies with a life history of Sir Gerald Desmond which was largely fable, but true enough to facts to leave the baronet dead broke. Thus Desmond could not understand the double refusal to touch the money.

  “Then it’s between us, Michael Terence,” he said finally. “Shut up the box and stow it away, me lad, and we’ll settle it when we get ashore.”

  He was quite well aware that in landing at any civilized port their story was going to create a sensation—and the chest of money was going to create suspicion. Therefore, when they discovered at the Faifoo quay that it was taken for granted they were a coasting party of visitors from Tourane, Desmond was hugely relieved. He saw difficulties vanishing, no port officer being in evidence, and he made inquiries about a hotel.

  There was no hotel, it proved, except one kept by an Annamese; however, two rooms for guests were maintained at the Résidence, which the quay porters recommended. The French resident being in charge of the place, Desmond knew that the ordeal must be faced. So, hiring porters to carry the ironwood box and their other effects, he gave the word and they started across the Chinese city.

  “Leave the talking to me,” said Rosemonde as Desmond was bemoaning the inquisition which would come. He began now to realize why Captain Canaughan had been daunted by the same predicament.

  “Leave the talking to me, and it will be arranged. I have my papers and a tongue.”

  “But I must go back to Manila!” exclaimed Doña Juliana, giving Rosemonde a look that was by no means sweet. “If you tell them a host of lies there will be trouble—”

  Rosemonde tossed her chin in air. “Ho! Lies? Mais, non! I shall tell them the exact truth—only I shall leave out whatever I desire. You shall go back safely, Doña Juliana, but remember you cannot go from here. We must go to Tourane, and then to Haiphong or elsewhere to catch a Manila boat. We cannot hasten matters.”

  Desmond perceived with growing uneasiness that there was a distinct coldness between the two ladies. He unfortunately commented upon it and deplored it, and the chill grew more observable. O’Sullivan, meantime, was walking close behind the porter who carried the box containing two-hundred-thousand in cash.

  Upon reaching the Résidence, the dusk of evening settling upon the town, the party was met by Monsieur Jacquard, the resident. He proved to be a burly, bearded Frenchman, more artist than political agent who received them with open arms and exceeding great courtesy. His wife took charge of Rosemonde and Doña Juliana; he himself conducted Desmond and O’Sullivan to a room, and at sight of the latter’s fiddle case he cried out joyfully, for he himself was a musician.

  Supplied with razors, clean clothes, and all things necessary, Desmond and the fiddler set about making themselves presentable. They purposely delayed progress, however, in order that Rosemonde might have an opportunity to settle matters. At length, looking like new men in their “whites,” and leaving the ironwood box tucked away beneath a cot, they followed a native boy to the library, where Rosemonde and their genial hosts awaited them. Doña Juliana, it seemed, was prostrated by a severe headache and did not appear.

  “The formalities are finished—the story is told—and I congratulate Monsieur Desmond upon reaching safety,” said the resident. “What a tale! It is a veritable epic. And now let us dine, my friends; if the salt has not hardened the gay fingers of Monsieur O’Sullivan, we shall have music later.”

  “If ye knew what was in that box upstairs there’d be music,” murmured the fiddler, upon Desmond’s translation. The Jacquards knew no English, and O’Sullivan knew no French, which was perhaps just as well.

  While they dined, amid the sparkling silver and lights of the Résidence, another small boat had moored beside the one which they had lately abandoned at the landing quay. A brisk interchange of Chinese, and its crew, bearings a seaman’s chest in their midst, vanished among the winding, twisting streets of the Chinese city. Behind them, their boat slowly settled and sank; the plug had been knocked out. Only coolies had observed their arrival, and these would say nothing of it.

  Desmond, from the table talk, divined that Rosemonde had pictured the schooner as wrecked on Paracel Island, whither the Chang Yan had put in for water; and that she had accompanied Desmond and the others in the schooner’s boat, after finding that the junk would remain at the island to repair damages caused by the hurricane.

  There was room for disquiet, however, chiefly because of Doña Juliana. Desmond regretted the seeming lack of harmony that existed and was at a loss for a reason. However, finding himself engaged in entertaining the fat and placid Madame Jacquard, he gave up all other thought and devoted himself to his hostess with some success.

  After dinner O’Sullivan tinkered with his fiddle, Monsieur Jacquard opened his piano, and these two gave themselves up to the universal language of music. Madame Jacquard departed to visit Doña Juliana with motherly solicitude, and Desmond found himself with Rosemonde, unheeded by the two musicians.

  “You look melancholy, my Irishman!” said Rosemonde, smilingly inspecting him.

  “And why not?” demanded Desmond dolefully. “Here we’ve won out, and what’s the end? You and Juliana unpleasant to each other, me and the fiddler wondering at it, and every one unhappy all around. Thunder o’ Finn! If I could understand women—”

  Rosemonde tittered a trill of gay laughter. Then she sobered quickly.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she returned gravely. “Do you know what’s wrong with that poor girl upstairs? She’s ill with shame and love and heartsickness over your brutality. Mon Dieu! You’ve treated her with a cold politeness—ugh!”

  “Divil take it!” exclaimed Desmond astonished. “Would you have the nerve to insinuate that she—she—”

  “Loves you?” broke in Rosemonde coolly. “Of course she does. Any fool could see it. And you’ve flirted outrageously with her.”

  “I have not,” said Desmond flatly, a slow flush rising to his brow. “I’ve said no more than am man would say to a pretty girl upon me word! It’s you that I think of by day and night, Rosemonde—”

  “You have no lack of assurance,” she said eying him with a cold appraisal. “Besides why?”

  “Why?” repeated Desmond, perplexed.

  “Mais oui—pourquoi?” If there was a smile in her eyes he failed to see it. “I am an old woman—”

  “You’re twenty two, for ye told me so yourself,” interpolated Desmond.

  “La! I am a widow, and who loves a widow? A poor broken thing—”

  “Listen to me now!” Desmond leaned forward. “Fairy mistress, why will ye be tormenting me so? I love you with all me soul—and it’s not the outside of you that I love most, Rosemonde; it’s all of you! It’s the flaming spirit that makes you! Maid, wife, or widow, I’d love ye all the same. Praise be what difference does the past make to the future?”

  Rosemonde listened, a sudden whiteness in her face as the earnest
force of Desmond’s appeal reached her with its conviction. At this instant however the music ceased and Monsieur Jacquard whirled his piano stool about with a triumphant flourish.

  “Mes amis, is our duet satisfaction?”

  “Admirable!” responded Rosemonde with enthusiasm.

  “Teach him to play Shan Gow’s hornpipe me lad,” suggested Desmond hopefully, but Rosemonde, stifling a yawn, stated that she meant to retire. Madame Jacquard appeared, and the two departed in company.

  The good lady returned presently with word that Doña Juliana would be none the worse in the morning and promised a speedy recovery from her trying experiences. Desmond talked over the situation with the resident, and ascertained that the best means of reaching Tourane and civilization would be to await the next coastal steamer, which would be in three days’ time.

  “Of course,” commented Jacquard with a shrug, “you might summon an automobile from Tourane, or you might take a sampan from here. However, we shall be only too happy to have all of you with us for a day or two, and I think the ladies need the rest.”

  “Agreed and many thanks to you,” assented Desmond. With sudden panic he realized that at Tourane their paths would part, Rosemonde would go to her nursing station at Ben Ho.

  “And you will return to Manila with Doña Juliana I presume?”

  “No,” said Desmond. “I’m going to America. When I was playing in hard luck some time ago I swore that I would become an American and, now that my luck has turned, I shall keep the vow.”

  “Congratulations!” said the good resident an intense admirer of l’Amerique. “But we must not keep these gentlemen from their needed rest, my dear. I trust that a bed will be acceptable, eh?”

  “It’ll be Paradise,” and Desmond smiled with an effort. He was thinking about Rosemonde and her words regarding Doña Juliana.

  When he and the fiddler were alone in their room, Desmond turned suddenly to his friend.

  “Look ye now, Michael Terence!” he said gravely. “I have a question to ask of ye, for it’s an observant man ye are, and I want ye to tell me the truth. Have I been actin’ toward Miss Juliana in any but a gentlemanly fashion.”