Wyndham's Pal

Wyndham's Pal
Harold Bindloss

Bindloss Harold

Wyndham's Pal

PART I

THE LURE OF AMBITION

CHAPTER I

THE COMMODORE'S CUP

The breeze had dropped as the tide ebbed, and Red Rose plunged languidly across the shining swell. Faint mist obscured the horizon and the yachts engaged in the fifty-mile race had vanished, although Wyndham thought he had not long since distinguished a sail in the distance. He was curious about this because if he had seen canvas it was Deva's, and her skipper had probably seen Red Rose. The rest of the fleet was scattered about to the north. Wyndham had noted their positions carefully before the haze rolled up. He wanted to win and meant to leave nothing to chance.

In the meantime, the yacht crept slowly through the sparkling water, close-hauled to a light wind that Wyndham knew would not last. Her canvas, tapering in a tall white pyramid, swayed with a regular heave against the sky. In her shadow, the sea was a cool, luminous green, but the sun was hot and Wyndham had taken off his coat. He wore a white jersey, blue trousers, and very neat white shoes. His age was twenty-six, his figure was thin but athletic, and the molding of his face was good. On the whole, he was a handsome man and was generally marked by a careless, twinkling smile. The smile, however, was to some extent deceptive, and at times his blue eyes were hard. Wyndham was popular; he had a way of inspiring confidence, and knew and used his talent.

Marston, who sat on the yacht's coaming, splicing a rope, trusted Wyndham far. Marston's round face was burned red and generally wore a look of tranquil good-humor; his mouth was large and his eyes were calm. People thought him dull and he was not clever, but Wyndham knew his comrade's stability. Although Bob was honest and trustful, he was firm. It was characteristic that the splice he slowly made was very neat.

Their paid hand was occupied at the clanking pump, for Red Rose had shipped some water while the breeze was fresh. This was not remarkable, since the boat was small, but Wyndham knew, though Marston did not, that a quantity of water had come in between her working planks. She was old and needed repairs Wyndham could not afford. For all that, he hoped to win the Commodore's cup. He had particular grounds for wanting the cup, and Wyndham's habit was to get what he wanted.

"I think the splice will stand," Marston said, throwing down the rope.

"Your work does stand," Wyndham remarked.

"Oh, well," said Marston, deprecatingly, "I'm slow, but I like a good job. Saves time in the end, because you needn't do the thing again."

"You're a philosopher, Bob. My plan is generally hit or miss. But can you see Deva?"

Marston searched the horizon. The gently heaving sea was empty and Red Rose alone in a misty circle three or four miles across. Except for a few razor-bills, nothing but the ripple she trailed broke the reflection of the calm sky. Then his glance, traveling north, stopped and fixed on something faintly distinguishable against the thin mist.

"No," he said, "I don't see her. Thought I did some time since but she's faded. What's that in the distance on our starboard bow?"

"It's hard to tell. Might be a big black-backed gull resting on the water. The misty light magnifies things."

"Shall I get the glasses?"

"Not unless you want them. They're under the stuff we stowed away in the locker aft. If Charley has finished pumping, you might help him get out the spinnaker. We'll have the wind fair when the flood begins to run."

Marston and the fisher-lad vanished down the forecastle hatch, and Wyndham studied the distant object. He did not yet need the sail the others had gone for, but he was afraid of Charley's keen eyes. A buoy indicating a shoal was not far off and the sailing directions for the race stated that all marks of this kind must be kept on the port hand, but Wyndham knew the coast and imagined the tide was still ebbing in a neighboring river mouth. The main stream ran north and would carry the boats off their course, but near the shore another stream ran west across some wide shoals. If he could steer Red Rose into this current, it would help her on while her rivals, farther off the land, drifted back. When the others came up with the sail Wyndham wondered whether Marston would ask for the chart, but he did not. The object they had seen had vanished, for although the wind was light the boat slowly forged ahead. The color of the smooth undulations indicated that the depth got less.

"Looks as if we were near West Hodden sand," Marston remarked. "They had a dispute at the committee about keeping us outside the bank. Makes a longer run, but some of the deep boats might have touched bottom if they'd tried to cross at low-water. Anyhow, it doesn't matter, so long as we all keep out."

Wyndham nodded and began to talk about something else.

"I hope we'll get fine weather, because I need bracing up. When you have not much money, business is a grind and I'm rather young to carry the responsibilities of the house. Things might have been easier, had Jim Wyndham not died two or three days after he fell ill."

Marston knew something about this. Wyndham Brothers was a small old-fashioned firm and Harry had recently taken control on his uncle's sudden death. James Wyndham was extravagant and Marston imagined he had left his affairs involved. Marston had no occupation and all the money he needed. Moreover, he was Harry's friend.

"Well," he said, "if you're short of capital, I think some could be got. Sound investments don't pay much, and now and then I feel I'd like a venture."

"You're a good sort, Bob. For all that, you had better leave business alone, because you would get robbed. Of course, if I saw a safe and profitable speculation, I might let you join, but just now I'm occupied trying to put things straight. Some are badly tangled. I used to think I could carve my way to fortune if I got a chance, but so far it's been my luck to use broken tools."

Marston thought this was so. Harry was a good shot and racing skipper, but he had never had a first-class gun or boat. Still, he used the make-shifts well and sometimes beat better men.

"Yours is a pretty old house, isn't it?" Marston remarked.

"Wyndhams' was founded in the days of the slavers and privateers and has traded in West Africa and South America ever since. The house was famous, but its decline began when steamers knocked out the sailing ships. We stuck to the old vessels and own one or two small schooners yet, though they're only used for collecting cargo at beaches steamboats do not touch. Some of the documents I've recently studied tell a romantic tale. The Wyndhams were all adventurers and a number did not die in bed. One or two vanished abroad. As perhaps you know, my uncle Rupert did."

"I heard something about this," said Marston. "What happened?"

"Nobody knows. He left the West Indian factory; sailed off in a canoe and was not seen again. Books and money were in order and his health was pretty good. There was no explanation; he vanished, that's all. I saw him once in England and thought him a sober business man. One got no hint of wildness, but the house's records indicate a vein of romantic extravagance in my ancestors. For all that, my father was a quiet country parson and I have felt nothing of the kind."

Marston pondered. He knew Harry Wyndham rather well and had noted, in moments of excitement and strain, a curious recklessness that was perhaps not altogether normal. For example, there was the race when Red Rose and another yacht met close-hauled. Red Rose was on the port tack, and the rule was she must give way, but, until the last minute, Harry sat unmoved at the tiller. Marston remembered the piled-up foam about the plunging hulls as the yachts converged, the slanted pyramids of sail that looked as if they must shock, and the horrible tension he had felt. Then, when collision was imminent, Wyndham gave the other room and afterwards laughed.

"I was tempted to find out how it would feel if we rammed her," he confessed.

This, however, was some time since, and Marston did not dwell on the incident. His temperament was essentially normal.

"No sign of a breeze from the east yet," he said.

"All the same, it will come," Wyndham rejoined.

Marston looked about. The sun was getting low and it was nearly calm. Now and then the topsail flapped and the mainsail hung slack. Blocks rattled as the heavy boom jerked about. The swell was smooth and in color a curious shining green, as if the light were reflected through it from beneath. It looked as if they were crossing a big sand, but Marston did not sound. Harry knew the coast, and the sailing directions required them to keep outside the shoals.

In the distance a steamer's smoke trailed across the sky; one heard her engines beat with a monotonous rhythm. In front, the mist was melting and vague gray hills were faintly distinguishable. The yacht's deck was damp, but for the rolling she hardly moved.

"We had better get some food," said Marston. "I'll light the stove."

He went to the cabin and when, after the rude meal, they lounged and smoked, the mist suddenly rolled away. Long hills, with woods among their folds, ran back on the port hand; in the distance, a big black headland cut against the sunset. The water astern was hazy and dotted by sails. It was now a glassy calm.

"We're nearer the coast than I reckoned, but the ebb has given us a big lift," Marston observed.

"The rest are a long way back, although I think they're moving."

"They've got the breeze and will bring it up," said Wyndham. "Hoist the spinnaker."

For the next few minutes Marston and the paid hand were occupied with the big triangular sail, which extended from the masthead to the end of a boom they thrust over the boat's side. A British yacht's spinnaker is not fitted with a gaff. At first the spinnaker hung slack, but presently lifted in gentle curves; then the water splashed against the planks and Red Rose began to move. She gathered speed. There was a humming noise astern, mast and rigging creaked, and foam leaped at the bows. It got cold, white ripples streaked the sea, and the wake ran back in a foaming wedge. The spinnaker swelled like a balloon and, with the tall mainsail on the other side, dwarfed the speeding hull.

The sun dipped, the dark sea stood up in ridges above Red Rose's rail, spray began to fly, and one heard the rush of wind and groaning of spars. The boat yawed about and steering needed skill, since, if Wyndham let her swerve, spinnaker or mainsail would swing across and mast or boom would go. For all that, he risked a glance over his shoulder now and then. Some of the boats were coming up; they were bigger craft and gave Red Rose time by the handicap. She, however, gave time to others, and must save it in order to win.

Wyndham let go while the sea got rough, for the flood tide now ran against the freshening wind. While he swayed with the tiller she plunged and rolled about, lifting her bows out of boiling foam and sometimes burying them deep. Water flowed across her deck and presently began to splash beneath the cockpit floor, and Charley started the clanking pump. A full moon had risen and two big boats, with canvas that cut black against the silver light, were getting near.

"I think we'll save our time," Wyndham said.

Marston looked at the high topsail and bending spinnaker boom. He would have liked to haul the topsail down, but his comrade's voice had a strange gay note that he had heard before. Harry meant to carry on; he would drive the boat until something broke. Then Marston looked ahead. The big promontory was not far off and moonlight touched the towering crags. The sea was all white, for the current, setting strongly round the head, ran in angry combers against the wind.

"We are going to get wet in the tide-race," he said. "You might find slacker water if you edged her off a bit."