Aground Part 7

So he couldn't resist the temptation to do a little needling of his own, Ingram thought. "The head is nothing, my General," he replied in Spanish. "In the great cause of freedom, I spit on all discomfort. Rut let us consider the General's neck. How does it stretch?"

"Shut up and start moving those crates," Ruiz said in English, "before you get another lump on your head."

Ingram shrugged, and began easing one of the boxes down into the raft. It was an awkward maneuver, but he managed it without capsizing. He slid another down beside it. They lay between his outstretched feet and projected out over the stern.

"Will it carry another?" Ruiz asked. "See for yourself, cabron." cabron." The raft was down by the stern, and cranky. One more would make it unmanageable or capsize it. "Okay. Get going." The raft was down by the stern, and cranky. One more would make it unmanageable or capsize it. "Okay. Get going."

He rowed up around the bow of the schooner and across the channel. Morrison had waded out again, without the gun, and was standing in waist-deep water waiting for him. The s.h.i.+rt stretched across his ma.s.sive chest and shoulders was wet with sweat. "Shake it up, Herman. You're taking too long."

"This is not my idea," Ingram replied coldly.

"Never mind your idea. Try dragging your feet, and you'll get worked over with a gun barrel." He heaved one of the crates over his left shoulder, took the other under his arm, and went plowing across the flat toward dry ground. As if they were empty, Ingram thought. He looked at his watch; it was seven minutes past eight. At the end of the next round trip he checked the time again and saw it had taken eleven minutes. Call it five trips an hour. Two hundred pounds each time-that would mean at least fourteen hours to move seven tons. And just one way. They'd still have to wait for the next tide, try to get her off, and bring it all back. And he was clocking it at slack water; wait'll that tide started to run.

On the next trip, while Morrison was picking up the crates, he said, "This'll take three days, at the minimum."

The big man scarcely paused. "So?"

"She'll never make it across the Caribbean, anyway. She's overloaded."

"This is June; she'll make it. Hollister said so."

"Sure. He said he could navigate, too. And look where you are."

"Shut up and get going."

An hour went by. The current was picking up now as the tide ebbed westward off the bank; with each trip it became worse. By ten o'clock perspiration was running from his body and his arms ached from the battle with the oars. It was the loaded trip that was the killer; he was quartering across the current with the raft low in the water, and he had to point farther and farther upstream in order to make it before he was swept away to the west of the sand spit. In another half hour he had to row straight upstream from the schooner until he was above Morrison, and then turn across. It took fifteen minutes of furiously paced rowing, during which a slow or missed beat meant losing ground already gained. When Morrison caught hold of the raft, water was running past his legs.

Ingram looked at him through the blur of sweat in his eyes. "That's it until the tide slacks. Unless you want to do it."

Morrison nodded. "I see what you mean. We'll knock off and have a sandwich. Hold it here till I get back."

Ingram stepped out and held the raft while the big man carried the two crates ash.o.r.e; it was easier than doing it with the oars, and he couldn't get any wetter than he was already. Morrison came back carrying the BAR, and got in. "That makes twenty-four," he said.

A little over a ton, Ingram thought; they'd barely started. He rowed back to the Dragoon Dragoon. When he stepped aboard, the cramped leg gave way under him, and he had to grab a lifeline to keep from falling. A light breeze had come up at mid-morning, but it had died away again, and the deck was blistering under the brutal weight of the sun. Rae Osborne's face was flushed, and tendrils of hair were plastered to her forehead as she collapsed on the cus.h.i.+ons in the c.o.c.kpit. Not far from a case of heat prostration or sunstroke, he thought. And there was no escape from the sun; below decks would be unbearable.

"There's an awning down in the sail locker," he told Morrison. "If you thought you could take that gun out of my back for five minutes, I'd bring it up and rig it."

"Go ahead," Morrison said.

He went down the forward hatch with Ruiz watching him from above. There were three bunks in the narrow cabin just forward of the galley, with suitcases and scattered articles of clothing on two of them. He opened the small access door to the locker in the eyes of the s.h.i.+p and poked around in stifling semi-darkness among coils of line and bags of spare sails until he found the awning. He boosted it up the hatch to Ruiz, then carried it aft and rigged it above the c.o.c.kpit. The air was still far from cool beneath it, but it did offer shelter from the pitiless glare of the sun. They sat down, with Morrison perched on the corner of the deckhouse holding the BAR. It's an extension of his personality, Ingram thought; he probably never feels comfortable without it.

"Who wants a sandwich?" Morrison asked.

Ingram shook his head; it was too hot to eat anything.

"Makes me sick at my stomach to think about it," Rae Osborne said. She sat up and dug listlessly in her purse for a cigarette.

Ruiz went below and returned a few minutes later with two sandwiches. He and Morrison ate in silence. Morrison threw the remainder of his overboard, watched it float away on the tide, and set the gun behind him on the deckhouse. "Mind the store," he said to Ruiz, and went below. Ingram looked at the gun. Ruiz intercepted the glance, and shook his head, the slim Latin face devoid of any expression whatever. It was useless, Ingram knew. They were a team, and a good one, in the skilled profession of violence-whatever their particular branch of it was.

When Morrison returned he was carrying a tall gla.s.s containing some colorless fluid and three ice cubes. Rae Osborne looked at it with interest. "What's that?"

"Rum," he said.

"Is there any more?"

"Whole case of it, Toots. You'll have to use water, though. We're out of c.o.kes."

She brightened visibly. "You've convinced me. Which way's the bar?"

"Straight ahead till you come to a room full of dirty dishes. Bottle's on the sink, reefer's under it. Bring Herman one while you're at it."

"I don't want any," Ingram said.

She disappeared below. Well, maybe that was the practical att.i.tude; if you couldn't whip 'em, join 'em, especially if they had anything to drink. He removed the soggy leather case from his s.h.i.+rt, found a cigar that might be dry enough to burn, and lighted it. He stepped back to the binnacle, removed the hood, and looked at the compa.s.s again. The heading had changed to 012. He nodded thoughtfully. Rae Osborne came up the ladder, carrying her drink, and sat down with her feet stretched out across the c.o.c.kpit.

"This is more like it," she said to Morrison. "What about these guns? Where are you going with them?"

"A place called Bahia San Felipe, just north of the Ca.n.a.l."

"You going to start a revolution, or what?"

Morrison shook his head. "We're just supplying the stuff this time."

"How did Patrick Ives get mixed up in it? It's a little out of his line."

Morrison chuckled. "Money. That's in his line, isn't it?"

"Yes. I think you could say that. And then say it again. But just how did you meet?"

"I ran into him in a bar in Miami two or three weeks ago. We got to talking about gun-running, among other things. It was a big business around there for a while during the Cuban fracas, you remember, and the Feds were still uncovering a batch now and then. Anyway, I happened to mention I knew where there was a whole s.h.i.+pment hid out in an old house down near Homestead-"

"How did you know about it?" Rae Osborne asked.

"From one of the boys that'd been flying it in for this particular outfit. I was in the racket myself, and knew quite a few of 'em. Anyway, this Hollister-or Ives as you call him-got interested in it and wanted to know what I thought the s.h.i.+pment was worth. I told him probably a hundred grand-that is, delivered to somebody that needed it bad enough. So he wanted to know if it would be possible to lift the stuff and maybe peddle it somewhere. I told him getting away with it would be a cinch, but that there wasn't much market for it at present. Then I remembered Carlos. We'd been in a couple of Central American revolutions together, besides the Cuban one, and he knew most of the politicos-in-exile that Miami's always full of, and could probably come up with a customer if we could figure out a way to deliver. That's when Ives got the idea of liberating the Dragoon Dragoon. He said he could sail it, and knew how to navigate. The only trouble was, it'd been some time since he'd been aboard the boat, and he didn't know what kind of condition it was in-naturally, we couldn't steal it and then go in a s.h.i.+pyard somewhere-so we'd have to look it over first. He couldn't go himself because the watchman might recognize him and blow the whistle on him afterward, and Carlos and I didn't know anything about boats, so we had to send somebody else."

Rae Osborne took another sip of her drink. "Do the people who owned the guns know who got away with them?"

Morrison shook his head. "Not a chance. We took 'em out of the house at night with a truck we rented under a phony name."

"How did you get them aboard the Dragoon?" Dragoon?"

"We brought her into a place down in the Keys after dark and put 'em aboard with a couple of skiffs, along with the supplies and gasoline we'd picked up at different places. We spent the rest of the night slapping a coat of paint on her, and got out just before daylight. That was still before anybody even realized she was stolen."

"And you're still determined to deliver the guns?"

"Of course."

"How long do you think it'll take?"

"Less than two weeks. After we get loose here, I mean. What do you think, Herman?"

"It would depend on the weather," Ingram said. "And to a great extent on whether you ever got there at all."

"You've got a negative att.i.tude, pal. Learn to look on the bright side."

Rae Osborne shrugged, and drained her gla.s.s. "Well, I'd have given odds I'd never be in the gun-running business, but I guess you never know. I think we ought to have another one."

"Sure." Morrison grinned. "I'll go with you. I could use one too."

They went down the ladder. In a moment the sound of laughter issued from below. Ingram puffed his cigar and tried to read Ruiz' expression, but it was inscrutable. He knows it, though, he thought; we're headed for more trouble, if we didn't have enough already. The two of them came back shortly with fresh drinks.

"You're sure I get the Dragoon Dragoon back?" she asked. back?" she asked.

"Natch. What do I want with it? As soon as the guns are off and we get paid, Carlos and I take it on the Arthur Duffy, Arthur Duffy, and you and Herman can sail it back to Key West. We'll see you get enough supplies and fresh water for the trip. What's to complain about-a Caribbean cruise, with me along as social director? h.e.l.l, if we'd advertised, we'd have had to fight the girls off with clubs." and you and Herman can sail it back to Key West. We'll see you get enough supplies and fresh water for the trip. What's to complain about-a Caribbean cruise, with me along as social director? h.e.l.l, if we'd advertised, we'd have had to fight the girls off with clubs."

She laughed. "You know what I like about you? It's your modesty."

Ingram looked at her with disgust, thinking that boredom must be a terrible thing. She was already telling people about it at c.o.c.ktail parties. All the way across the Caribbean, darling, with this whole load of guns and bullets and stuff that might blow up any minute or something, and this absolute brute of a man that looked like Genghis Khan except he was kind of cute in a hairy sort of way if you know what I mean, and always carrying this awful machine gun in his arm ... All the way across the Caribbean, darling, with this whole load of guns and bullets and stuff that might blow up any minute or something, and this absolute brute of a man that looked like Genghis Khan except he was kind of cute in a hairy sort of way if you know what I mean, and always carrying this awful machine gun in his arm ... It was just a lark, like trying to get an extra carton of cigarettes past the Customs inspector. It was just a lark, like trying to get an extra carton of cigarettes past the Customs inspector.

He wondered if it would do any good to tell her the chances were excellent she'd never even get across the Caribbean in a boat loaded as the Dragoon Dragoon was, and that if she did and was lucky enough not to be killed outright by the Guarda Costas she'd probably have her boat confiscated and spend several years in a verminous prison where the United States State Department couldn't do anything for her at all. Then he shrugged. It didn't seem worth the effort. was, and that if she did and was lucky enough not to be killed outright by the Guarda Costas she'd probably have her boat confiscated and spend several years in a verminous prison where the United States State Department couldn't do anything for her at all. Then he shrugged. It didn't seem worth the effort.

7

By 12:30 p.m. the outgoing tide had slowed enough to permit resumption of the unloading operation. The work went on through the blistering heat of afternoon. The tide was at slack low shortly after two, with the Dragoon's Dragoon's list at its most p.r.o.nounced. Ingram's shoulders ached, and he lost count of the number of trips he had made. On the sand spit, the pile of boxes grew larger hour by hour. The tide began to flood. By five p.m. the current was again becoming a problem, and at a little before six Morrison called a halt and rode the raft back to the list at its most p.r.o.nounced. Ingram's shoulders ached, and he lost count of the number of trips he had made. On the sand spit, the pile of boxes grew larger hour by hour. The tide began to flood. By five p.m. the current was again becoming a problem, and at a little before six Morrison called a halt and rode the raft back to the Dragoon. Dragoon.

"That's all the rifles," he said, as they sat in the c.o.c.kpit in their dripping clothes. "Let's see-sixty times a hundred. . ."

Three tons off, Ingram thought. The schooner's list was decreasing now by slow degrees as the tide rose, and it should be about two hours more until slack high. It would be interesting to see how far she might be from floating then, but he was almost too tired to care. Ruiz brought up a plate of sandwiches and they ate on deck while sunset died beyond the Santaren Channel in a thundering orchestration of color. Ingram watched it, remembering other tropical sunsets down the long roll of the years and wondering how many were left now in his own personal account. Probably not many, from the looks of things at the moment. He couldn't see any way out, and all he could do was go on waiting for something to break.

But what? he wondered. Even if Morrison took off that prosthetic BAR when he went to sleep, which appeared unlikely, he was still no match for the man in a fight. Not now, at forty-three-and the chances were he never had been. And there was always Ruiz and his Colt. There was something a little mad, he thought, in this harping on those two guns when the Dragoon's Dragoon's whole cargo consisted of a hundred-thousand-dollar a.s.sortment of deadly weapons, but they were all crated and out of reach, and the ammunition for them was crated separately. whole cargo consisted of a hundred-thousand-dollar a.s.sortment of deadly weapons, but they were all crated and out of reach, and the ammunition for them was crated separately.

He was roused from the quiet futility of his thoughts by a shrill laugh from Rae Osborne. She and Morrison were dipping into the rum again, and apparently Morrison had just said something very funny. He let his gaze slide past their oasis of alcoholic gaiety to where Ruiz sat cross-legged atop the deckhouse, and this time the grave imperturbability of the mask had slipped a little and he could see, in addition to the Spanish contempt for drunkenness, the growing shadow of concern. Ruiz knew him, so that probably meant he was inclined to get pretty goaty and unb.u.t.toned among the grapes. You had to admit they had all the ingredients for a memorable cruise-a boisterous giant, an a.r.s.enal of weapons, plenty of rum, and a bored and stupid woman apparently bent on agitating the mixture to see what would happen.

"Maybe Herman'd like a drink," Morrison said. Rae Osborne shrugged. "Herman's not stapled to the deck. Let him go get one."

Morrison lighted a cigarette and spoke to Ruiz. "We better figure out what we're going to do with 'em tonight, unless we want to take turns standing watch. Tie 'em up, or lock 'em in one of those staterooms?"

"It's pretty stuffy down there till after midnight," Ruiz said. "Why not put them on the island? They can't get off as long as we've got the raft."

"Sure, that'd do it. Lieutenant, you're now a captain." Rae Osborne rattled the ice in her gla.s.s and said sulkily, "You mean I've got to go over on that crummy sand bar and sleep on the ground like Daniel Boone? I want another drink first." "Sure, Baby Doll. Have all you want." "Besides, what could I do to that hunk of brute force, anyway? You afraid I might overpower you, or something?"

Morrison grinned. "On second thought, maybe we'll reconsider the first thought. Our yacht is your yacht. Drink up."

"Open another bottle, Commodore, and alert the riot squad. Can you get any mambo music on that radio?"

Ruiz stood up and spoke to Ingram. "You ready to go?"

"Yes," Ingram said. He looked at Rae Osborne. "You're sure you want to stay?"

She considered this thoughtfully. "If I have your permission, Herman. Tell you what-you go check the action on that sand bar, and if it's real frantic, drop me a line."

Morrison spread his hands. "Looks like you lose, Herman."

"I guess so," Ingram said. "Anyway, it's one interpretation."

Rae Osborne smiled. "Don't mind Captain Ingram. He's full of deep remarks like that. He's a philosopher. With corners, that is."

Ingram nodded curtly to Ruiz. "Let's go."

He took the oars while Ruiz sat in the stern holding the Colt. It was dusk now, and the flow of the tide was decreasing as it approached high slack. The sand spit was a low, dark shadow marked by the pale gleam of the boxes where Morrison had stacked them near the southern end. Neither of them said anything until the raft grounded in the shallows beyond the channel. Ingram got out. Ruiz moved over and took the oars. "Buenas noches." "Buenas noches."

"Buenas noches," Ingram said. The raft moved away in the thickening twilight, and he waded ash.o.r.e to stand for a moment beside the piled boxes, savoring the unbroken quiet and the clean salt smell of solitude and night. Then some faint remnant of deep-water surge flattened by miles of shoals and bars curled forward and died with a gentle slap against the sand, and somewhere beyond him in the darkness a cruising barracuda slashed at bait. Everybody, he supposed, had something he hated above all else to leave, and this was his: the tropic sea. In a dozen lifetimes he'd never have grown tired of it. Ingram said. The raft moved away in the thickening twilight, and he waded ash.o.r.e to stand for a moment beside the piled boxes, savoring the unbroken quiet and the clean salt smell of solitude and night. Then some faint remnant of deep-water surge flattened by miles of shoals and bars curled forward and died with a gentle slap against the sand, and somewhere beyond him in the darkness a cruising barracuda slashed at bait. Everybody, he supposed, had something he hated above all else to leave, and this was his: the tropic sea. In a dozen lifetimes he'd never have grown tired of it.

The bottle of water was near his feet. He picked it up, and judged it was still half full. He wondered how many cigars he had, wis.h.i.+ng he'd thought to get more from his suitcase before leaving the schooner, but when he opened the case and probed with his fingers he discovered he had three. That was plenty. He lighted one and sat down on the sand with his back against the boxes.

Could he get aboard later on when they would be asleep? He could swim that far, but getting onto the schooner would be something else. They'd be too smart to leave the raft in the water so he could climb into it and reach the deck. How about the bobstay? He should be able to reach the lower end of that and work his way hand over hand up to the bowsprit. But the chances of doing it without waking either of them were admittedly dim; at any rate, he'd have to wait until after midnight.

A shriek of laughter reached his ears, and then the sound of music. They'd switched on the all-wave radio. He lay back on the sand and watched the slow wheel of the constellations while the sound of revelry came to him across the night. For a while he pictured the inevitable progress of the brawl, but gave it up with the acc.u.mulation of disgust and tried to shut it out. It was none of his business. His thoughts broke off then as he caught the sound of oars. He heard the raft sc.r.a.pe on sand, and stood up. The slender figure would be Ruiz. It waded ash.o.r.e in the starlit darkness and pulled the raft onto the beach. He appeared to be carrying something in his arm.

"Over here," Ingram said quietly.

"Don't try to get behind me, amigo." amigo."

"I'm not," Ingram replied. He flicked on the cigar lighter. "Party get a little rough for you?"

Ruiz came into the circle of light, the fatal olive face as expressionless as ever. "I brought you some bedding," he said, dropping a blanket and pillow on the sand. "Gets a little cool out here before morning."

"Thanks a lot," Ingram said. "Sit down and talk for a while. You smoke cigars?"

"I've got cigarettes, thanks." He took one out and lighted it, squatting on his heels just precisely out of reach with the eternal vigilance of the professional. A sh.e.l.lburst of maracas and Cuban drums came to them across the water. "Estan bailando," "Estan bailando," he said with faint reluctance, as though he felt he should say something of the party but wished to make it as little as possible. Well, if they were dancing, Ingram thought, the brawl must be still on a more or less vertical plane. He wondered what difference it made. he said with faint reluctance, as though he felt he should say something of the party but wished to make it as little as possible. Well, if they were dancing, Ingram thought, the brawl must be still on a more or less vertical plane. He wondered what difference it made.

"What kind of guy is Morrison?" he asked.

"Rugged. And very smart."

"How long have you known him?"

"Off and on, since the war. We were in New Guinea together, and later sent in with a kind of s.h.a.ggy and irregular outfit in the Philippines. On that guerrilla stuff, he could write the book."

"That where he learned Spanish?"