At sunrise, Mayne hoisted the house-flag, and the Stars and Stripes drooped languidly half way up the ensign staff, until the glassy calm broke and the sea breeze straightened the blue and silver folds.  By and by he changed the course and mountains rose ahead, although a bank of cloud hid the plain and mangrove forest at their feet.  In the afternoon, he searched the haze with his glasses, and getting a bearing stopped the engines near Salinas Point at dusk.

“If the weather’s good, I’ll wait three days,” he said.  “Then, if you send no word, I’ll pull out for Havana and get the engines properly fixed.  Better take this bag of Spanish money; minted silver goes and you may find the dagos shy of the president’s notes.”

Kit took the money, a boat was swung out, and four sailors carried the plain, flag-wrapped coffin down the ladder.  They were rough men, but Kit imagined he could trust them.  Another crew picked up the oars, greasy caps were lifted, the Rio Negro’s whistle screamed a last salute, and the boat stole away.  Mayne steamed off to anchor on good holding ground, and Kit sat at the tiller, with his eyes fixed on the misty coast.

It was dark when he heard breakers and saw the glimmer of surf.  There were shoals all round him, but he had been told about a bay where a creek flowed through a sheltered channel.  He did not know if he could find the channel, and if not the boat might be wrecked, but something must be left to luck and they pulled on before the curling swell.  She struck, and stopped until a comber rolled up astern.  It broke and half buried her in rushing foam, but she lifted, lurched ahead, and did not strike again.  The men were nearly knee-deep as they baled the water out and one was afterwards idle because his oar had gone.  In spite of this, they made the creek and drifted quietly into the gloom of the mangroves with the flowing tide.

After a time, the water got shallow and they pushed her across the mud while leaves and rotting branches floated up the creek.  No light pierced the forest, and the feeble beam of Kit’s lantern scarcely touched the shadowy trunks that moved past until they came to an opening.  Kit thought this was the spot he had been told about and turned the boat.  She would not float to the bank and he and his four men got out and lifted the coffin.  They sank in treacherous mud, but reached a belt of sand riddled by land-crab’s holes.  All was very quiet except for the ripple of the tide and the noise made by the scuttling crabs.  The sand, however, was dry and warm and they sat down to wait for morning when the boat went away.

CHAPTER X

THE ROAD TO THE MISSION

The sun was high when Kit and his tired men reached the village.  He was wet with sweat and the moisture that had dripped upon him from the leaves in the early morning, and the men gasped when they put down their load.  Two wore greasy engine-room overalls, and two ragged suits of duck; their soft hats were stained and battered and they looked like ruffians.  Although Mayne paid good wages, respectable seamen avoided the Rio Negro and her crew were, as a rule, accustomed to fight with knives and sandbags on disorderly water-fronts.  Now they carried pistols, hidden as far as possible, but ready for use.