# War Drums (Sass)/Chapter 7

THE moon and Lachlan McDonald were good friends. He had upon various occasions celebrated her pale beauty in highly decorated verse to which Mr. Francis O'Sullivan, perhaps a partial critic, had given unstinted praise. Yet he was glad to note that on this night she hid her face.
Had she peeped out from behind the gray clouds drifting slowly from the east she might not have recognized at once the young fashioner of rhymes to whom she owed those lyrics. Never before had she seen Lachlan McDonald as he was now—a swaggering young soldier of fortune. A red feather nodded in his broad-brimmed hat; a scarlet sash was wound about his buff jacket; a serviceable rapier swung at his side. Withal, there was something foreign about his gear or about the way in which he wore it—something that smacked not at all of Charles Town or the English folk who dwelt there.
That foreign touch was the result of more than a little thought on Lachlan's part, assisted by certain suggestions from Almayne, who knew something of Spanish styles and tricks of dress as manifested in St. Augustine. What manner of man was Don Ruy Ortiz of Barcelona Lachlan did not know. But since ​Montiano had stated in his letter that Don Ruy had only recently arrived from Spain, it was fairly certain that Lance Falcon had never seen him; and all that was needed, therefore, was to simulate a type—the type of young Spanish gallant seeking profit and adventure in Spain's great New World. Swarthy as the swarthiest Spaniard, lean, lithe and straight as a sapling pine, Lachlan McDonald on this night might well have been Don Ruy Ortiz to any man to whom the latter was unknown.
There was one disagreeable possibility that might spoil everything at the start—the possibility that Falcon might recognize this false Ortiz as the man with whom he had wrestled in the Stanwicke garden. Determinedly Lachlan put this thought from him; and logic seemed, in a measure at least, to be on his side. He had leaped upon Falcon from behind. The latter had not see his assailant's face until after some minutes of desperate struggle, and by then that face was grimed and bloody. He had seen it, moreover, only in the half-light of dusk. He would hardly recognize it, Lachlan told himself, when he saw it again.
There was no time to lose. At 12 o'clock the real Ruy Ortiz would board Captain Falcon's brig at her anchorage in midstream off the old Cypress wharf; and before that hour arrived the false Ortiz must have concluded his business and bidden his host good-bye. Two hours, supposing that all went well, should allow ample margin; but all might not go well.
Lachlan walked swiftly, therefore, by the most ​direct course, towards the place for which he was heading, passing presently beyond the old city wall and out upon the meadows and commons to the west of it where as yet only a few houses had been built. A creek made in here; and at a small-boat landing on the shore of this creek a tall figure loomed suddenly in the darkness and held out a hand in greeting.
It was Almayne—no longer clad in hunter's garb, however, but looking a nondescript seaman in soiled, open-necked shirt and loose trousers, a blue handkerchief about his head, a cutlass strapped to his belt. A few words passed between them; then they dropped from the end of the landing into a long cypress pirogue that waited there. Amidship sat two figures almost indistinguishable in the gloom, the two Muskogee warriors of Tallasee. To these Lachlan whispered a grave greeting in their own tongue.
"Striking Hawk—Little Mink, my brothers," he said, "you have come, as you promised. It is well."
He stood before them a moment, looking from one to the other.
"My brothers," he continued, "we are Muskogee warriors of the Family of the Wind, but this night we must seem to be what we are not. I, Lachlan, am become a Spaniard of St. Augustine, and you, my brothers, are Appalache warriors, the Spaniards' friends. And we came here in a Spanish sloop that lies in the River of Stono, beyond the Wappoo marshes, so that she may not be seen from the town."
The two Indians nodded gravely. Lachlan passed ​on and took his seat in the stern. Almayne loosed the rope which held the pirogue to the landing, pushed the boat clear, and seated himself on the forward thwart. In a moment the long paddles wielded by the two Indians were driving the canoe swiftly and noiselessly down the winding creek towards the river.
Across the broad Ashley opened the mouth of Wappoo Creek, connecting the Ashley and the Stono. So that they might seem to have come from the direc tion of Wappoo they headed well out into the river. Then they swung to the left and dropped straight down the Ashley toward two lights, one just above the other, that glimmered faintly far out in the stream.
Suddenly the brig loomed black before them, not ten yards distant. Lachlan had expected a hail, but it appeared that in the darkness their approach had not been observed. In a whisper Almayne suggested that they hail the brig; but Lachlan shook his head. Silently they ran under the vessel's stern, then eased the pirogue along to the ship's waist where her rail was nearest the water-line.
No sound came from her. Lachlan rose, placed his foot in Little Mink's cupped hands, reached upward and grasped the bulwark. Next moment he stood on the brig's deck.
He stood silent, watchful, his back to the bulwark, his hand on his sword-hilt, his eyes searching the gloom. He saw nothing, heard nothing. The dim deck lay empty before him; ahead and to his right he could barely discern the foremast towering upward like a ​pine. If there were any living thing on Lance Falcon's ship, it kept itself hidden and it made no sound. Yet somehow Lachlan knew suddenly, with a queer tingling of his spine, that unseen eyes were fixed upon him.
The knowledge startled yet steadied him. His left hand left his sword-hilt and, sweeping off his hat, he bowed low.
"By our Lady, Captain Falcon," he said in Spanish, "yours is a merry ship! For a moment I thought I had stepped into a tomb."
There followed several seconds of silence. Then a tall form detached itself from the shadows, and a deep voice spoke out of the darkness.
"Welcome, Don Ruy Ortiz," it said. "I have been waiting for you. It is generally the custom of my visitors to ask my permission before they tread my deck."
Lachlan laughed easily.
"A thousand pardons," he replied, "if I have transgressed a rule of the sea. I know little of such matters."
His tone changed suddenly, became stern and hard as steel.
"As for your permission, Captain Falcon, I came not here to seek favours. If you like not the manner of my coming, there are those who, perhaps, can alter your tastes."
It was a bold stroke. For a tense moment Lachlan awaited its effect, his hand once more on his sword-​hilt, his face close to that of the tall man who confronted him. He could hear the latter's quick, hard breathing, could almost see his lips frame an oath. But it was a short-lived crisis. Almost instantly the oath became a laugh.
"My faith, Señor, I had not meant to ruffle your feelings!" exclaimed Falcon, "but only to give you friendly counsel. He who boards a ship unannounced in the night may find his head split by a cutlass before he can speak his name."
Lachlan bowed gravely.
"I shall treasure your advice, Captain Falcon," he replied. "And now to business. The sooner it is despatched the better. My paddlers will await me in their canoe."
Hehad hoped that that business might be conducted in the darkness of the brig's deck; but Falcon led the way aft, and Lachlan followed perforce. Falcon entered the cabin ahead of him, lit lamps, poured red wine from a handsome silver vessel, and motioning him to a chair beside the table, seated himself opposite.
"I have sent my men ashore, Sefor," he said, "except three or four who are asleep below deck. My crew will return in an hour, and till then we shall not be disturbed. . . . By my faith, Don Ruy Ortiz, I think I have somewhere seen you before."
Lachlan looked his host coolly in the eye.
"It is not likely, Captain Falcon," he replied, "unless you have travelled in Catalonia or Valencia or ​have visited the Sicilian coast where I served in Gonsalvo's command. I came only last month to St. Augustine, and I have yet to pay my respects to the English in Charles Town."
For a long moment he endured the ordeal calmly, while Falcon stared at him frowning; then the latter smiled and made a gesture with his hands as though to dismiss the matter.
"'Tis some trick of the memory," he said lightly, "some whimsy of the mind. And now, sir, to our affair. You have certain tidings to give me, I believe."