cartoner was preparing to leave st. petersburg when he received a letter from deulin. the frenchman wrote from cracow, and mentioned in a rather rambling letter that wanda was staying with a relative in that ancient city. he also thought it probable that she would make a stay in england pending the settlement of certain family affairs.
“i suppose,” wrote deulin, “that you will soon be on your way home. i think it likely we shall both be sent to madrid before long. at all events, i hope we may meet somewhere. if you are passing through dantzic on your homeward journey, you will find your old friend cable there.”
this last sentence was partly disfigured by a peculiar-shaped blot. the writer had evidently dropped his pen, all laden with ink, upon the letter as he wrote it. and cartoner knew that this was the kernel, as it were, of this chatty epistle. he was bidden to make it convenient to go to dantzic and to see captain cable there.
he arrived in dantzic early in the morning, and did not go to a hotel. he left his luggage at the station and walked down to the lange brucke, where the river steamers start for neufahrwasser.
the boats ran every hour, and cartoner had not long to wait. he was not pressed for time, however, on his homeward journey, as he was more or less his own master while travelling, and could break his journey at dantzic quite as easily as at berlin.
neufahrwasser is slowly absorbing the commerce of dantzic, and none but small vessels go up the river to the city now. captain cable was deeply versed in those by-paths of maritime knowledge which enable small vessels to hold their own in these days of monopoly.
cartoner knew that he would find the minnie not in dock, but in one of the river anchorages, which are not only cheaper, but are more convenient for a vessel wanting to go to sea at short notice. and captain cable had a habit of going to sea at short notice.
cartoner was not far wrong. for his own steamer passed the minnie just above neufahrwasser, where the river is broad and many vessels lie in mid-stream. the minnie was deeply laden and lay anchored bow and stern, with the rapid tide rustling round her chains. she was ready for sea. cartoner could see that. but she flew no bluepeter nor heralded her departure, as some captains, and especially foreigners, love to do. it adds to their sense of importance, and this was a modern quality little cultivated by captain cable. neither was his steam aggressively in evidence. the minnie did not catch the eye of the river-side idler, but conveyed the impression that she was a small, insignificant craft minding her own business, and would be much obliged if you would mind yours.
cartoner had to walk back by the river-side and then take a boat from the steps opposite to the anchorage. he bade the boatman wait while he clambered on board. captain cable had been informed of the approach of a shore boat, and was standing squarely on his own iron main-deck when cartoner put his leg across the rail.
“come below,” he said, without enthusiasm. “it wasn't you that i was expecting. i tell you that.”
cartoner followed the captain into the little, low cabin, which smelled of petroleum, as usual. the minnie was a hospitable ship, according to her facilities, and her skipper began by polishing a tumbler with a corner of the table-cloth. then he indicated the vacant swing-back bench at the far side of the table, and sat down opposite to cartoner himself.
“was up the baltic,” he explained. “pit props. got a full cargo on board. got an offer such as a poor sailorman couldn't afford to let slip to come to dantzic and wait here till two gents came aboard. that's all i'm going to tell you.”
“that's all i want to know,” answered cartoner.
“but, dammy, it's not all i want to know!” shouted cable, suddenly, with a bang of his little, thick fist on the table. “i've been thinking since i lay here—been sleeping badly, and took the anchor watch meself—what i want to know is whether i'm to be treated gentlemanly!”
“in what way?” inquired cartoner, gently. and the sound of his voice seemed to pacify the captain.
“of course,” he admitted, “i'm not a gentleman, i know that; but in seafaring things i'll be treated as such. truth is, i'm afraid it's something to do with this news from st. petersburg. and i don't take any bombmen on board my ship, and that's flat.”
“i think i can assure you on that point,” said cartoner. “nobody who had to do with the assassination of the czar is likely to be in dantzic. but i do not know whom you are to take on board here.”
“may be as you can guess,” suggested the captain.
“yes, i think i can guess,” admitted cartoner, with his slow smile.
“but you won't tell me?”
“no. when do you expect them?”
“i'll answer that and ask you another,” said captain cable, getting a yellow decanter from a locker beneath the table. “that's port—ship-chandler's port. i won't say it's got a bokay, mind.”
for captain cable's hospitality was not showy or self-sufficient.
“i'll answer that and ask you another. i expected them last night. they'll likely come down with the tide, soon after midnight to-night. and now i'll ask you, what brought you aboard this ship, here in dantzic river, mr. cartoner?”
“a letter from a frenchman you know as well as i do—paul deulin. like to read it?”
and cartoner laid the letter before captain cable, who smiled contemptuously. he knew what was expected of a gentleman better than even to glance at it as it lay before him in its envelope.
“no, i wouldn't,” he answered. he scratched his head reflectively, and looked beneath his bushy brows at cartoner as if he expected the ship-chandler's port to have an immediate effect of some sort.
“got your luggage in the boat alongside?” he asked, at length.
“no. it's at the station.”
“then let me send a hand ashore for it. got three germans furard. you'll come aboard and see this thing through, i hope.”
“thank you,” answered cartoner. he handed captain cable the ticket for his luggage.
“mate's receipt?” inquired the captain.
and cartoner nodded. the captain pushed the decanter towards his guest as he rose to go and give the necessary orders.
“no stint of the wine,” he said, and went out on deck.
when he came back he laid the whole question aside, and devoted himself to the entertainment of his guest. they both slept in the afternoon. for the captain had been up all night, and fully expected to see no bed the following night.
“if they come down with the tide we'll go to sea on the same ebb,” he said, as he lay down on his state-room locker and composed himself to sleep.
he sent the hands below at ten o'clock, saying he would keep the anchor watch himself. he wanted no forecastle gossip, he said to cartoner, and did not trouble to explain that he had kept the watch three nights in succession on that account. cartoner and he walked the deck side by side, treading softly for the sake of the sleepers under deck. for the same reason, perhaps, they were silent.
once only captain cable spoke in little more than a whisper.
“hope he is pleased with himself,” he said, as he stood at the stern rail, looking up river, as it happened, towards cracow. “for it is his doing, you and me waiting his orders here this cold night. they're tricky—the french. he's a tricky man.”
“yes,” admitted cartoner, who knew that the captain spoke of deulin, “he is a tricky man.”
after this they walked backward and forward for an hour without speaking. then captain cable suddenly raised his hand and pointed into the night.
“there's a boat yonder,” he said, “coming down quiet, under the lee of the land.”
they stood listening, and presently heard the sound of oars used with great caution. a boat was crossing the river now and coming towards them. captain cable went forward and took a coil of rope. he clambered laboriously to the rail and stood there, watching the shadowy shape of the boat, which was now within hail. it was swinging round on the tide with perfect calculation and a most excellent skill.
“stand by,” said captain cable, gruffly, and the coils of his rope uncurled against the sky, to fall in a straight line across the boat.
cartoner could see a man catch the rope neatly and make it fast with two turns. in a moment the boat came softly nestling against the steamer as a kitten may nestle against its mother.
the man, who seemed to be the sole occupant, stood up, resting his hand on the rail of the minnie. his head came up over the rail, and he peered into cartoner's face.
“you!” he exclaimed.
“yes,” answered cartoner, watching his hands, for there was a sort of exultation in kosmaroff's voice, as if fate had offered him a chance which he never expected.
cable came aft and stood beside cartoner.
“i want to go to sea this tide,” he said. “where is the other man?”
“the other man is prince martin bukaty,” was the answer. “help me to lift him on board.”
“why can't he come on board himself?”
“because he is dead,” answered kosmaroff, with a break in his voice. and he lurched forward against the rail. cartoner caught him by one arm and held him up.
“i am so weak!” he murmured, “so weak! i am famished!”
cartoner lifted him bodily over the rail, and cable received him, half fainting, in his arms. the next moment cartoner was kneeling in the boat that rode alongside. he slowly raised martin, and with an effort held him towards the captain, who was sitting astride on the rail. thus they got him on board and carried him to the cabin. they passed through it to that which was grandly called the captain's state-room. they laid him on the locker which served for a bed, while kosmaroff, supporting himself against the bulkhead, watched them in silence.
the captain glanced at martin, and then, catching sight of kosmaroff's face, he hurried to the cabin, to return in a minute with the inevitable decanter, yellow with age and rust.
“here,” he said, “drink that. eat a bit o' biscuit. you're done.”
kosmaroff did as he was told. his eyes had the unmistakable glitter of starvation and exhaustion. they were fixed on cartoner's face, with a hundred unasked questions in them.
“how did it happen?” asked cartoner, at length.
“they fired on us crossing the frontier, and hit him. pity it was not me. he is a much greater loss than i should have been. that was the night before last. he died before the morning.”
“tut! tut!” muttered captain cable, with an unwritable expression of pity. “there was the makings of a man in him,” he said—“the makings of a man!”
and what captain cable held worthy of the name of man is not so common as to be lost to the world with indifference. he stood reflecting for a moment while kosmaroff ate the ship's biscuit offered to him in the lid of a box, and cartoner stared thoughtfully at the flickering lamp.
“i'll take him out to sea and bury him there,” said cable, at length, “if so be as that's agreeable to you. there's many a good man buried at sea, and when my time comes i'll ask for no better berth.”
“that is the only thing to be done,” said cartoner.
kosmaroff glanced towards the bed.
“yes,” he said, “that will do. he will lay quiet enough there.”
and all three, perhaps, thought of all that they were to bury beneath the sea with this last of the bukatys.
captain cable was the first to move. he turned and glanced at the clock.
“i'll turn the hands out,” he said, “and we'll get to sea on the ebb. but i'll have to send ashore for a pilot.”
“no,” answered kosmaroff, rising and finishing his wine, “you need not do that. i can take you out to sea.”
the captain nodded curtly and went on deck, leaving kosmaroff and cartoner alone in the cabin in the silent presence of the man who had been the friend of both.
“will you answer me a question?” asked kosmaroff, suddenly.
“if i can,” was the reply, economical of words.
“where were you on the 13th of march?”
cartoner reflected for a moment, and then replied:
“in st. petersburg.”
“then i do not understand you,” said kosmaroff. “i don't understand how we failed. for you know we have failed, i suppose?”
“i know nothing,” answered cartoner. “but i conclude you have failed, since you are here—and he is there.”
and he pointed towards martin.
“thanks to you.”
“no, i had nothing to do with it,” said cartoner.
“you cannot expect me to believe that.”
“i do not care,” replied the english diplomat, gently, “whether you believe it or not.”
kosmaroff moved towards the door. he carefully avoided passing near cartoner, as if too close a proximity might make him forget himself.
“i will tell you one thing,” he said, in a hard, low voice. “it will not do for you to show your face in poland. don't ever forget that i will take any chance i get to kill you! there is not room for you and me in poland!”
“if i am sent there i shall go,” replied cartoner. and there crept to one side of kosmaroff's face that slow smile which seemed to give him pain.
“i believe you will.”
then he went to the door. for captain cable could be heard on deck giving his orders, and already the winches were at work. but the pole paused on the threshold and looked back. then he came into the cabin again with his hand in the pocket of his threadbare workman's jacket.
“look here,” he said, bringing out a folded envelope and laying it on the cabin-table between them. “a dead man's wish. get that to miss cahere. there is no message.”
cartoner took up the envelope and put it in his pocket.
“i shall not see her, but i will see that she gets it,” he said.
the dawn was in the sky before the minnie swept out past the pier-head light of neufahrwasser. it was almost daylight when she slowed down in the bay to drop her pilot. kosmaroff's boat was towing astern, jumping and straining in the wash of the screw. they hauled it up under the quarter, and in the dim light of coming day cable and cartoner drew near to the pole, who had just quitted the wheel.
the three men stood together for a moment in silence. there was much to be said. there was a multitude of questions to be asked and answered. but none of the three had the intention of doing either one or the other.
“if you want a passage home,” said cable, gruffly, “cut your boat adrift. you're welcome.”
“thank you,” was the answer. “i am going back to poland to try again.”
he turned to cartoner, and peered in the half-light into the face of the only man he had had dealings with who had not been afraid of him. “perhaps we shall meet again soon,” he said, “in poland.”
“not yet,” replied cartoner. “i am under orders for madrid.”
kosmaroff stood by the rail for a moment, looking down into his boat. then he turned suddenly to cartoner, and made him a short, formal bow.
“good-bye,” he said.
cartoner nodded, and said nothing.
kosmaroff then turned towards cable, who was standing with his hands thrust into his jacket-pockets, looking ahead towards the open sea.
“captain,” he said, and held out his hand so that cable could not help seeing it. the captain hesitated, and at length withdrew his hand from the shelter of his pocket.
“good-bye, mister,” he said.
then kosmaroff climbed down into his boat. they cut the rope adrift, and he sat down to the oars.
there was a lurid streak of dawn low down in the sky, and kosmaroff headed his boat towards it across the chill, green waters. above the promise of a stormy day towered a great bank of torn clouds hanging over poland.
