# The Barren Islands/Chapter 4

pp. 176–179.

### CHAPTER IV

WHEN Trenchard came on deck after breakfast, the schooner was heeling over to a spanking breeze. She was just doubling Cape St. Andrew, whose palms and sandy point lay far off to port, and was well inside the long shoals which kept steamers fifteen miles out to sea. The ocean horizon was empty. The gunboat might be dismissed from calculations.
Trenchard went to his mate, glanced at the compass, cocked an eye at the canvas aloft, and made no comment. The schooner was not the same ship which he had seen in Majunga harbor. Now her topmasts were up, her own heavy spread of canvas had been bent, and the decks were shipshape; also, slings were out and she was getting a new coat of paint above the waterline.
“You know the anchorage a mile north of Lava Island, at the south end of the Barrens?” said Trenchard. “We're to meet a dhow there and take aboard cargo, but I'm a bit suspicious. In the capital, we heard that the Tonkin expected to catch us—that chap Brouillan from Nosi Bé is in command of her. He was at the capital when I left, but may be anywhere now. We're to meet the dhow Friday. She belongs to an Arab merchant, Ali el Khadar, one of those big chaps.”
Yusuf nodded. “By Allah, rais, you need suspect nothing from that man! If there is any plot, Ali and his house are not in it. He has interests all over the south of Madagascar and does a good deal of trading with the natives. What is the cargo?”
“Not mentioned.”
“Then it is gold, which he must smuggle out of the country to Zanzibar. Perhaps the plot was concerned with this man whom you brought aboard. Did he signal the gunboat?”
Trenchard shrugged. He told Yusuf who Forillon was—whereat the Arab frowned in perplexity.
“Whether or not he signaled,” said Trenchard, “I can't make up my mind. At the same time, I'm going to run a blazer on him. You're in ballast, I see. Have any trouble while I was gone?”
“None, rais. I went to the Mauritius and brought over two cargoes to Diego Suarez.”
“Good. Give Forillon his breakfast, then send him to me. Leave his wrists ironed. Any weapons on him?”
Yusuf jerked up his head in negation, and went forward. Trenchard stretched out in his long deck-chair, eyed the inland coast hills and lighted his pipe.
He could not make up his mind about Forillon. Two accidents had happened, both perfectly excusable; but Trenchard seldom excused accidents, and he had already set down Forillon as a man who rarely made mistakes, certainly as no bungler. To offset his suspicions were two very important facts in favor of the fugitive. One, Forillon had nothing to gain by betraying Trenchard; the other, Brouillan was on his way south to take charge of the Tonkin and had had nothing to do with events at Majunga. So Trenchard did not know what to think, though he was inclined to give Forillon the benefit of the doubt.
AS he sat in the lee of the upper rail—his chair lashed down—and looked out over the miles of seaward reefs where the rolling breakers burst and foamed heavily, the thought of what he must do brought him sadness. Trenchard liked other men, if they gave him a chance; he was no ravening wolf who hated his own kind. If he had to fight, he would fight terribly, but he would also go a long way around to avoid the encounter. He reckoned Forillon as a brave man, too, and gave him respect—traitor or not.
“Confound it, I'm fair forced into this business!” he reflected unhappily. “Ram Das and the others, and these chaps aboard here, all know that I'll protect 'em at all costs. Forillon, if by any chance he is a traitor to me, has seen too much and knows too much. I gave him fair warning—”
He stiffened suddenly. Could this be the reason why Forillon had taken such desperate chances to signal the gunboat—granted that he had tried to signal her? Could it be because of the very warning which Trenchard had given him?
Trenchard chewed hard on that cud, and did not like the taste of it. Then he saw Yusuf coming aft, Forillon marching along beside him with that stiff-kneed, stubborn walk which so expressed the man's character. Unwashed, unshaven, filthy, the fugitive none the less held his heavy chin high, and his blue eyes looked straight and square at the skipper who awaited him, so that for a little Trenchard almost dismissed his doubts. None the less, he forced himself to that game which he must now play. The two men came aft and stopped by the deck-chair, and Trenchard nodded to the mate.
“Sit down,” he said in French, then let his eyes dwell frostily on Forillon's gaze. The Frenchman sat down, crossed his legs, smiled slightly, and indicated his ironed wrists.
“Is this the way I gain liberty, M. Trenchard?” he asked quietly.
Trenchard regarded him with that cool calm which men found so baffling.
“Let us have a little talk,” he said. “You have breakfasted well, I trust?”
“Excellently, thanks,” said Forillon composedly. “In view of the unlucky blunder which I made last night, very well indeed! Still, that was due to the unsteady boat.”
Trenchard blew out a thin cloud of smoke. “You are not the man to make blunders, or to excuse them,” he returned. “Perhaps, in your hours of reflection, it has occurred to you that I took excellent precautions to avoid being injured by your signals, and that I took no chances whatever on this schooner being picked up by the gunboat.”
He paused reflectively. Yusuf, squatting behind Forillon, grinned suddenly, for he comprehended something of Trenchard's intent. These two men understood each other thoroughly. Forillon, however, looked a bit puzzled.
“It is perhaps natural,” he said slowly, “that you should suspect me. Two accidents happened—”
“Why did I give you permission to smoke, if not to make sure of you?” said Trenchard softly, and let this sink in. Then he played his high card. “On my last evening in Tananarive, I had a very pleasant chat with Lieutenant Brouillan—who did not recognize me at all—and with his uncle the colonel. Brouillan was in high spirits, and told us all about his scheme for capturing the pirate Trenchard. I trust this will enlighten you?”
FORILEON sat motionless; under his iron control not a muscle moved; even his eyelids did not flicker. He could not control the reflex of the heart, however. Beneath his sun-red skin, beneath his stubble of beard, the color slowly ebbed from his face. He knew only too well that in this game he had staked his life. In the coldly inexorable eyes of Trenchard he read a doom which could not be avoided. The ghastly realization broke upon him that all the while this man had known the whole plot, that Brouillan had betrayed everything, that the elaborately detailed preparations had been blasted in a moment. So the blood ebbed, leaving his face a livid gray, as though the cold shadow of death had chilled his heart.
Trenchard appeared not to see. “There is only one thing that do not understand,” he went on, “though of course you can explain it. That is your present position as a fugitive. I did not care to ask Brouillan too many questions, you comprehend.”
The certainty of Trenchard's attitude, the frightful shock which this exposure had brought, left Forillon with all defenses smashed.
“It—it was arranged,” he muttered. “It was to open the way—I was to get aboard here, and then—the chance offered first at Boyanna——”
Trenchard nodded, and gave no sign of the miserable triumph which he felt. He could not congratulate himself on having bluffed this man.
“So, when that rubber-broker got word to you, it looked like a good chance to nab me in Boyanna Bay, eh? And you got word to the Sagittaire in a hurry. You should have known that Collard was an old woman and would bungle it. Hm! So you let yourself be temporarily branded in all eyes as a criminal, a fugitive; you staked not only your life, but your good record and your reputation, upon winning! And with everything set to win—Brouillan talks in a Tananarive café! Not you, but Brouillan, lost the game; only, you pay. What do you think of that, eh?”
“C'est la guerre,” said Forillon, nearly himself again, unafraid, collected.
“No, it is not war,” returned Trenchard in a grave tone. “It is the thoughtless sacrifice of a good and devoted man who has staked everything, by a fool of an officer who has staked nothing. That is not war; it is murder. As I warned you at Soalala, I have no choice in the matter. For myself, I respect and would not harm you; but for those who trust to me, I must see that you do not live to tell tales.”
Forillon nodded composedly.
“To each of us his duty, M. Trenchard,” he said in a firm voice. “That is perfectly understood.”
Trenchard looked at Yusuf, who had risen. The Arab lifted his brows slightly and touched his knife. Trenchard shook his head, and spoke in Swahili.
“No. This is a brave man, Yusuf. Assign Hazo as a guard; let him be taken below, given my razors and clothes. Let him wash and have his irons removed.”
He made a gesture to Forillon. “For the present, make yourself comfortable.”
“Thank you,” said Forillon, and rose.
THERE was no mention of parole, for Trenchard had read his man thoroughly. Forillon was one of those men who regard their duty as a stern and terrible god; his duty was to betray Trenchard, and he regarded nothing else. No parole was necessary, however, for the schooner was a prison from which Forillon could not escape, and which he would never leave alive. A giant brown man was summoned and given charge of him; all the crew were made up of Hovas, the finest race of Madagascar, stalwart and soldierly men who in their hearts hated the French. The prisoner and his guard vanished below; Yusuf departed to sleep; and Trenchard had the deck.
There was no satisfaction in this victory. It was easy now to see with what solicitous care Brouillan had prepared every step of his plot. Forillon had been a devoted sacrifice, had been “planted” as an escaped criminal, with the idea of placing him aboard the schooner as a secret agent. Had not the chance to nab Trenchard in Boyanna Bay looked too good to be passed by, the scheme must have succeeded. Forillon, at some port or other, would have sent word to Brouillan where the schooner lay. Failing that, Forillon would have learned enough of Trenchard and his methods to gather him in, and also many of his friends. Taken all in all, the scheme must have won in the-end.
Trenchard watched with gloomy eyes as Forillon came from below, naked, and went into the waist of the schooner, where the Hovas doused him with buckets of water. Then he went below again, with Hazo at his shoulder.
“The most decent way out of it,” thought Trenchard, “will be to give him a chance to fight me, and then down him. But why should I risk my life? I can't hang the beggar, and I can't tell Yusuf to knife him. Damn it! If I turn him over to that dhow we'll meet, the poor devil will be unmercifully tortured to death. Blessed if I know what to do, for a fact. I ought to justify my reputation and go in for cold-blooded murder. Only wish I could!”
Often it is easier to gain a reputation than, once gained, to live up to it.
Trenchard, with the cape behind, headed south along the coast, inside the Pracel Bank. Here, except on his private charts, the shore-line was little known, the reefs were poorly charted; he was in no danger of encountering troublesome ships. Thirty-five miles inland towered up the tremendous landmark of the volcanic Ambohitrosi Peaks—two huge cones, with a smaller peak in the center. With these to steer by, with a leadsman to keep track of the bottom, and a keen-eyed Hova aloft to mark coral patches, Trenchard held his schooner driving to the south.
TOWARD noon a new Forillon came on deck—shaven, bathed, clad in fresh whites; yet his new aspect only emphasized the impression of dogged tenacity which marked him out. He came aft, nodded to Trenchard and lighted a cigarette. His perfect coolness, his calm self-control, had quite returned, and he ignored the ever-watchful Hova who towered always at his elbow. Trenchard liked the man's deep poise, liked his quiet strength, and as they avoided more intimate matters and talked of wind and weather, he felt himself gaining respect for this enemy.
Then, just as eight bells rang out high twelve and the watches were changing, came the ironical touch of fate which placed Trenchard in torment.
The schooner was scarcely moving, for a light calm had fallen and only her topsails had a breath of air. Two of the crew were down in slings, seizing the opportunity to get the new coat of brown paint over her lee counter; Trenchard, leaning over the rail, was watching their work. Another man was going up the shrouds above him, with a bucket of tar. At this instant, the schooner came to an abrupt stop.
Some unguessed and unseen spur of coral caught and held her for an instant; with a heave, a smashing slat of canvas and rigging, a groaning wrench of spars and timbers, she lost way and then swung over and up into the wind, hanging on the pinnacle of coral. With the abrupt shock, the Hova in the shrouds lost his tar-bucket, which was unsecured by a lanyard; it fell from his hand, struck Trenchard over the skull, and carried him across the rail. It was all one of those peculiar combinations which to a landsman would seem impossible—an unsecured bucket aloft, an unseen pinnacle of coral far below, a man leaning over the rail at the precise spot and time to bring the coincidence aright.
Of all those aboard, only the helmsman and Forillon saw the bucket strike Trenchard. Then the schooner was bearing away on her course while men ran and shouted, and Yusuf came leaping on deck with a storm of Swahili, and at the stern rail the brown giant Hazo stood shaking a useless knife at the water. For in a flash Forillon had gone over the rail and was now heading down through the clear water, his figure still dimly seen by those who watched.
By the time Yusuf brought up the ship again, got a boat over the side and understood just what had occurred, minutes had elapsed. The six oarsmen sent the whale-boat foaming across the water, to where the red hair of Forillon shone in the sunlight. He waited, holding the retrieved and senseless figure of Trenchard, until the boat was alongside; then they were both hauled aboard, the skipper with no worse hurt than a bump behind his ear, Forillon laughing.
It was a little thing, a combination of circumstances, a coincidence; at the same time, Trenchard wakened to the realization that Forillon had saved his life. What was more to the point, the action had been done instinctively, without thought of consequences, without any calculation.
Trenchard realized all this as he sat in his deck-chair that afternoon, while Forillon was sleeping below, and the realization was torment.