Almost immediately a voice, startlingly near, called upon them to halt. They crouched low in the boat. In a mist it is very difficult to locate sound. They looked round in all directions. The voice seemed to have come from above. It was raised again, and seemed to be behind them this time.
“Stop, or we fire!” it said, in Russian. Then followed a sharp whistle, which was answered by two or three others. There were at least three boats close at hand, seeking to locate each other before they fired.
Immediately afterwards the firing began, and was taken up by the more distant boats. A bullet splashed in the water close behind Kosmaroff’s oar, with a sharp spit like that of an angry cat. Martin gave a suppressed laugh. Kosmaroff only smiled.
Then two bullets struck the boat simultaneously, one on the sternpost, fired from behind, the other full on the side amidships, where Martin lay concealed.
Neither of the two men moved or made a sound. Kosmaroff leaned forward and peered into the fog. The patrol-boats were behind now, and the officers were calling to each other.
“What was it—a boat or a floating tree?” they heard them ask each other.
Kosmaroff was staring ahead, but he saw Martin make a quick movement in the bottom of the boat.
“What is it?” he whispered.
“A bullet,” answered Martin. “It came through the side of the boat, low down. It struck me in the back—the spine. I cannot move my legs. But I have stopped the water from coming in. I have my finger in the hole the bullet made below the waterline. I can hold on till we have passed through Thorn.”
He spoke in his natural voice, quite cheerfully. They were not out of danger yet. Kosmaroff could not quit the steering-oar. He glanced at Martin, and then looked ahead again uneasily.
Martin was the first to speak. He raised himself on his elbow, and with a jerk of the wrist threw something towards Kosmaroff. It was an envelope, closed and doubled over.
“Put that in your pocket,” he said. And Kosmaroff obeyed.
“You know Miss Cahere, who was at the Europe?” asked Martin, suddenly, after a pause.
Kosmaroff smiled the queer smile that twisted his face all to one side.
“Yes, I know her.”
“Give her that, or get it to her,” said Martin.
“But—”
“Yes,” said Martin, answering the unasked question, “I am badly hit, unless you can do something for me after we are past Thorn.”
And his voice was still cheerful.
XXXVI
Captain Cable Soils His Hands
Cartoner was preparing to leave St. Petersburg when he received a letter from Deulin. The Frenchman wrote from Krakow, 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 Danzig 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 Danzig and to see Captain Cable there.
He arrived in Danzig 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 Danzig quite as easily as at Berlin.
Neufahrwasser is slowly absorbing the commerce of Danzig, and none but small vessels go up the river to the city now. Captain Cable was deeply versed in those bypaths 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 midstream. 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 riverside 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 riverside 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
