Майн Рид
The Flag of Distress: A Story of the South Sea
Chapter Twenty Seven.
An Inhospitable Hostelry
Harry Blew stands in the doorway of the “Sailor’s Home,” watching the two gentlemen as they walk away, his eyes glowing with gratitude and sparkling with joy. And no wonder, considering the change in his situation brought about by their influence. Ten minutes before, his spirits were at the lowest and darkest. But the prospect of treble, or quadruple pay on board a snug ship, though it be a trading-vessel, with the additional chance of being mate instead of foremast-man, has given him a fillip, not only restoring them to their ordinary condition of cheeriness, but raising them to the highest exaltation.
The only damper is regret at parting with the fine young fellow who has done so much for him. But he has passed through that already, when separating from his ship, and can now better bear it under the reflection that, though apart from his patron, he will have an opportunity of doing something to show his gratitude. He knows how much Crozier is interested in the wellbeing of Carmen Montijo – for Harry has been made acquainted with her name, as also that of Iñez Alvarez – and to be entrusted with a sort of guardianship over these young ladies is a proud thought to the ex-man-o’-war’s man – a fine feather in his cap.
To carry out the confidence thus reposed in him will be a labour of love; and he vows in his heart it shall be done, if need be, at the risk of life.
Indeed, the interview just ended has made a new man of him in more senses than one; for upon the spot he registers a mental resolve to give up dram-drinking for ever, or at all events till he has seen his charge – the two Spanish señoritas – safe landed at Panama, and the Chilian ship snug in the harbour of Valparaiso. After that, he is less sure that he may not again go upon a spree, and possibly a big one.
Heaving a sigh as the English officers pass out of sight, he turns back into the bar-room. It is no longer a question of his going aboard the Crusader. He must remain ashore, to be up betimes in the morning, so that he may be early at the office of the ship-agent.
And now, again, a shadow, though only a slight one, comes over his countenance. He has still before him the undetermined question, where he is to sleep. Notwithstanding his fine prospects for the future, the present is still unchanged, and yet unprovided for.
Unfortunately, he did not think of this while the officers were with him, else a word would have made all well. Either of them, he doubted not, would have relieved his necessities had they been but told of them. Too late now; they are gone out of sight, out of hail, and whether he cannot tell or guess; and to attempt searching for them in such crowded streets would be only a waste of time.
While thus ruefully reflecting, he is confronted by the bar-keeper, whose usually grave countenance is now beset with smiles. The fellow has got it into his head that his sailor-guest is no longer impecunious. The navy gentlemen just gone have no doubt been to engage him for their ship, and perhaps made him an advance of wages.
“Well, my salt,” says he, in a tone of jocular familiarity, “I guess you’ve got the shiners now, an’ kin settle up your score?”
“No, indeed, sir,” answers Harry, more than ever taken aback; “I’m sorry to say I ha’n’t.”
“You hain’t! Then what hev them gold-buttoned fellers been palaverin’ ye about?”
“Not about money, master. Them’s two o’ the officers belongin’ to my old ship – the British frigate Crusader. An’ fine young fellows they be too.”
“Much good their finikin fineness seems to hev done you! So they hain’t gin you nuthin’ better than their talk, hev they? Nuthin’ besides?”
“Nothing besides,” rejoins Blew, restraining his temper, a little touched by the bar-keeper’s inquisitiveness, as also his impertinent manner.
“Nuthin’ but fine words, eh? Well, thar’s plenty o’ them ’bout hyar, but they won’t butter no parsnips; and let me tell you, my sailor-man, they won’t pay your board bill.”
“I know that,” returns the other, still keeping his temper. “But I hope to have money soon.”
“Oh! that’s been your story for the last two days; but it won’t bamboozle me any longer. You get no more credit here.”
“Can’t I have supper, and bed for another night?”
“No; that you can’t – not so much as a shake-down.”
“I’ll pay for them first thing in the mornin’.”
“You’ll pay for ’em this night – now, if you calc’late to get ’em. An’ if you’ve no cash, tain’t any use talkin’. What d’ye think we keep a tavern for? ’Twould soon be to let – bar, beds, and all – if we’d only such customers as you. So, the sooner you slope, the better the landlord ’ll like it. He’s jest gin me orders to tell ye to clar out.”
“It’s gallows hard, master,” says Harry, heaving a sigh; “the more so, as I’ve got the promise o’ a good berth ’board a ship that’s down in the harbour. The gentlemen you seed have just been to tell me about it.”
“Then why didn’t they give you the money to clar your kit?”
“They’d have done that – no doubt of it – if I’d only thought o’ askin’ them. I forgot all about it.”
“Ah, that’s all very fine – a likely tale; but I don’t believe a word of it. If they cared to have you in their ship, they’d have given you the wherewithal to git there. But, come! it’s no use shilly-shallyin’ any longer. The landlord won’t like it. He’s gin his orders sharp: Pay or go.”
“Well, I suppose I must go.”
“You must; an’, as I have already said, the sooner you’re off the better.”
After delivering this stern ultimatum, the bar-keeper jauntily returns behind his bar, to look more blandly on two guests who have presented themselves at it, called for “brandy smashes,” and tossed down a couple of dollars to pay for them.
Harry Blew turns towards the door; and, without saying another word, steps out of the room.
Once on the street, he does not stop or stand hesitating. The hospitality of the so-called “home” has proved a sorry sham; and, indignant at the shabby treatment received, he is but too glad to get away from the place. All his life used to snug quarters in a fine ship’s forecastle, with everything found for him, he has never before experienced the pang of having no place to lay his head. He not only feels it now, in all its unpleasantness, but fancies the passers-by can tell all about the humiliating position he is placed in.
Haunted by this fancy – urged on by it – he quickens his steps; nor stays them till out of sight of the “Sailor’s Home,” out of the street in which the detestable tavern stands. He even dislikes the idea of having to go back for his chest; which, however, he must some time do.
Meanwhile what is to become of him for the remainder of that night? Where is he to obtain supper, and a bed? About the latter he cares the least; and having had no dinner and but a spare breakfast he is hungry – half-famished – and could eat a pound or two of the saltest and toughest junk ever drawn out of a ship’s cask.
In this unhappy frame of body as of mind he strays on along the street. There is no lack of food before his eyes, almost within reach of his hand; but only to tantalise, and still further whet the edge of his appetite. Eating-houses are open all around him; and under their blazing gas-jets he can see steaming dishes, and savoury joints, in the act of being set upon tables surrounded by guests seeming hungry as himself, but otherwise better off. He, too, might enter there without fear of being challenged as an intruder; for among the men inside are many in coarse garb, some of them not so respectably apparelled as himself. But what would be the use of his going into a restaurant without even a penny in his pockets? He could only gaze at dishes he may not eat, and dare not call for. He remembers his late discomfiture too keenly to risk having it repeated.
Thus reflecting, he turns his back upon the tables so temptingly spread, and keeps on along the street.
Again the double question recurs: Where is he to get supper, and where sleep?
And again he regrets not having given his confidence to the young gentlemen, and told them of the “fix” he was in. Either would have relieved him on the instant, without a word. But it is too late now to think of it, or hope seeing them in the streets. By this time, in all likelihood, they have started back to their ship.
How he wishes himself aboard the Crusader! How happy he would feel in her forecastle, among his old shipmates! It cannot be; and therefore it is idle to ponder upon it.
What on earth is he to do?
A thought strikes him.
It is of the ship-agent whose card Crozier left with him, and which he has thrust into his coat-pocket. He draws the bit of pasteboard out, and holds it up to a street-lamp, to make himself acquainted with the ship-agent’s address. The name he remembers, and needs not that.
Though but a common sailor, Harry is not altogether illiterate. The seaport town where he first saw the light had a public school for the poorer people, in which he was taught to read and write. By the former of these elementary branches – supplemented by a smattering of Spanish, picked up in South American ports – he is enabled to decipher the writing upon the card – for it is in writing – and so gets the correct address, both the street and number.
Having returned it to his pocket, he buttons up his dreadnought; and, taking a fresh hitch at his duck trousers, starts off again – this time with fixed intent: to find Don Tomas Silvestre.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
The “Hell” El Dorado
A Monté Bank in the city of San Francisco, in the establishment y-cleped “El Dorado” – partly drinking-house, for the rest devoted to gambling on the grandest scale. The two are carried on simultaneously, and in a large oblong saloon. The portion of it devoted to Bacchus is at the end farthest from the entrance-door; where the shrine of the jolly god is represented by a liquor-bar extending from side to side, and backed by an array of shining bottles, glittering glasses, and sparkling decanters; his “worship” administered by half-a-dozen “bartenders,” resplendent in white shirts with wrist ruffles, and big diamond breast-pins – real, not paste!
The altar of Fortuna is altogether of a different shape and pattern, occupying more space. It is not compact, but extended over the floor, in the form of five tables, large as if for billiards; though not one of them is of this kind. Billiards would be too slow a game for the frequenters of “El Dorado.” These could not patiently wait for the scoring of fifty points, even though the stake were a thousand dollars. “No, no! Monté for me!” would be the word of every one of them; or a few might say “Faro.” And of the five tables in the saloon, four are for the former game, the fifth furnished for the latter; though there is but little apparent difference in the furniture of the two; both having a simple cover of green baize, or broadcloth, with certain crossing lines traced upon it, that of the Faro table having the full suite of thirteen cards arranged in two rows, face upwards and fixed; while on the Monté tables but two cards appear thus – the Queen and Knave; or, as designated in the game – purely Spanish and Spanish-American – “Caballo” and “Sota.” They are essentially card games, and altogether of chance, just as is the casting of dice.
Other gambling contrivances have place in the “El Dorado;” for it is a “hell” of the most complete kind; but these are of slight importance compared with the great games, Monté and Faro – the real pièces de résistance– while the others are only side-dishes, indulged in by such saunterers about the saloon as do not contemplate serious play. Of all, Monté is the main attraction, its convenient simplicity – for it is simple as “heads or tails” – making it possible for the veriest greenhorn to take part in it, with as much likelihood of winning as the oldest habitus of the hell. Originally Mexican, in many of the western states it has become Americanised.
Of the visible insignia of the game, and in addition to the two cards with their faces turned up, there is a complete pack, with several stacks of circular-shaped and variously coloured pieces of ivory – the “cheques” or counters of the game. These rest upon the table to the right or left of the dealer – usually the “banker” himself – in charge of his “croupier,” who pays them out, or draws them in, as the bank loses or wins, along with such coin as may have been staked upon the albur.
Around the table’s edge, and in front of each player, is his own private pile, usually a mixture of doubloons, dollars, and ivory cheques, with bags or packets of gold-dust and nuggets. Of bank-notes there are few, or none – the currency of California being through the medium of metal; at this date, 1849, most of it unminted, and in its crude state, as it came out of the mine, or the river’s mud. By the croupier’s hand is a pair of scales with weights appertaining; their purpose being to ascertain the value of such little gold packages as are “punted” upon the cards – this only needed to be known when the bank is loser. Otherwise, they are ruthlessly raked in alongside the other deposits, without any note made of the amount.
The dealer sits centrally at the side of the table, in a grand chair, cards in hand. After shuffling, he turns their faces up, one by one, and with measured slowness. He interrupts himself at intervals as the face of a card is exposed, making a point for or against him in the game. Calling this out in calm voice and long-drawn monotone, he waits for the croupier to square accounts; which the latter does by drawing in, or pushing out, the coins and cheques, with the nimbleness of a presti-digitateur. Old bets are rearranged, new ones made, and the dealing proceeds.
Around the tables sit, or stand, the players, exhibiting a variety of facial types, and national costumes. For there you may see not only human specimens of every known nationality, but of every rank in the social scale, with the callings and professions that appertain to it; an assemblage such as is rarely, if ever, observed elsewhere: gentlemen who may have won university honours; officers wearing gold straps on their shoulders, or bands of lace around the rims of their caps; native Californians, resplendent in slashed and buttoned velveteens; States’ lawyers, and doctors, in sober black; even judges, who that same morning were seated upon the bench – may be all observed at the Monté table, mingling with men in red flannel shirts, blanket coats, and trousers tucked into the tops of mud-bedaubed boots; with sailors in pea-jackets of coarse pilot, or Guernsey smocks, unwashed, unkempt, unshorn; not only mingling with, but jostled by them – rudely, if occasion call.
All are on an equality here; no class distinction in the saloon “El Dorado;” for all are on the same errand – to get rich by gambling. The gold gleaming over the table is reflected in their faces. Not in smiles, or cheerfully; but by an expression of hungry cupidity – fixed, as if stamped into their features. No sign of hilarity, or joyfulness; not a word of badinage passing about, or between; scarce a syllable spoken, save the call-words of the dealer, or an occasional remark by the croupier, explanatory of some disputed point about the placing, or payment, of stakes.
And if there be little light humour, neither is there much of ill-manners. Strangely assorted as is the motley crowd – in part composed of the roughest specimens of humanity – noisy speech is exceptional, and rude or boisterous behaviour rare. Either shown would be resented, and soon silenced; though, perhaps, not till after some noises of still louder nature – the excited, angry clamour of a quarrel, succeeded by the cracking of pistols; then a man borne off wounded, in all likelihood to die, or already dead, and stretched along the sanded floor, to be taken unconcernedly up, and carried feet-foremost out of the room.
And yet, in an instant, it will all be over. The gamesters, temporarily attracted from the tables, will return to them; the dealing of the cards will be resumed; and, amidst the chinking of coin, and the rattling of cheques, the sanguinary drama will not only cease to be talked about, but thought of. Bowie-knives and pistols are the police that preserve order in the gambling-saloons of San Francisco.
Although the “El Dorado” is owned by a single individual, this is only as regards the house itself, with the drinking-bar and its appurtenances. The gaming-tables are under separate and distinct proprietorship; each belonging to a “banker,” who supplies the cash capital, and other necessaries for the game – in short, “runs” the table, to use a Californian phrase. As a general rule, the owner of a table is himself the dealer, and usually, indeed almost universally, a distinguished “sportsman” – this being the appellation of the Western States’ professional gambler, occasionally abbreviated to “sport.” He is a man of peculiar characteristics, though not confined to California. His “species” may be met with all over the United States, but more frequently in those of the south and south-west; the Mississippi valley being his congenial coursing-ground, and its two great metropolitan cities, New Orleans and Saint Louis, his chief centres of operation. Natchez, Memphis, Vicksburg, Louisville, and Cincinnati permanently have him; but places more provincial, he only honours with an occasional visit. He is encountered aboard all the big steamboats – those called “crack,” and carrying the wealthier class of passengers; while the others he leaves to the more timid and less noted practitioners of his calling.
Wherever seen, the “sport” is resplendent in shirt-front, glittering studs, with a grand cluster of diamonds on his finger sparkling like star, or stalactite, as he deals out the cards. He is, in truth, an elegant of the first water, apparelled and perfumed as a D’Orsay, or Beau Brummell; and, although ranking socially lower than these, with a sense of honour quite as high, perhaps higher than had either.
Chapter Twenty Nine.
A Monté Bank in Full Blast
In the hell “El Dorado,” as already said, there are five gambling tables, side by side, but with wide spaces between for the players. Presiding over the one which stands central is a man of about thirty years of age, of good figure, and well-formed features – the latter denoting Spanish descent – his cheeks clean shaven, the upper lip moustached, the under having a pointed imperial or “goatee,” which extends below the extremity of his chin. He has his hat on – so has everybody in the room – a white beaver, set upon a thick shock of black wavy hair, its brim shadowing a face that would be eminently handsome, but for the eyes, these showing sullen, if not sinister. Like his hair, they are coal-black, though he rarely raises their lids, his gaze being habitually fixed on the cards in his hands. Only once has he looked up and around, on hearing a name pronounced bearing an odd resemblance to that of the game he is engaged in, though merely a coincidence. It is “Montijo.” Two native Californians standing close behind him are engaged in a dialogue, in which they incidentally speak of Don Gregorio. It is a matter of no moment – only a slight allusion – and, as their conversation is almost instantly over, the Monté dealer again drops his long dark lashes, and goes on with the game, his features resuming their wonted impassibility.
Though to all appearance immobile as those of the Sphinx, one watching him closely could see that there is something in his mind besides Monté. For although the play is running high, and large bets are being laid, he seems regardless about the result of the game – for this night only, since it has never been so before. His air is at times abstracted – more than ever after hearing that name – while he deals out the cards carelessly, once or twice making mistakes. But as these have been trifling, and readily rectified, the players around the table have taken no particular notice of them, nor yet of his abstraction. It is not sufficiently manifest to attract attention; and with the wonderful command he has over himself, none of them suspect that he is at that moment a prey to reflections of the strongest and bitterest kind.
There is one, however, who is aware of it, knowing the cause; this, a man seated on the players’ side of the table, and directly opposite the dealer. He is a personage of somewhat squat frame, a little below medium height, of swarth complexion, and straight black hair; to all appearance a native Californian, though not wearing the national costume, but simply a suit of dark broadcloth. He lays his bet, staking large sums, apparently indifferent as to the result; while at the same time eyeing the deposits of the other players with eager, nervous anxiety, as though their losses and gains concerned him more than his own – the former, to all appearance, gladdening, the the latter making him sad!
His behaviour might be deemed strange, and doubtless would, were there any one to observe it. But there is not; each player is absorbed in his own play, and the calculation of chances.
In addition to watching his fellow-gamesters around the table, the seemingly eccentric individual ever and anon turns his eye upon the dealer – its expression at such times being that of intense earnestness, with something that resembles reproof – as if he were annoyed by the latter handling his cards so carelessly, and would sharply rebuke him, could he get the opportunity without being observed. The secret of the whole matter being, that he is a sleeping partner in the Monté bank – the moneyed one too; most of its capital having been supplied by him. Hence his indifference to the fate of his own stakes – for winning or losing is all the same to him – and his anxiety about those of the general circle of players.
His partnership is not suspected; or, if so, only by the initiated. Although sitting face to face with the dealer, no sign of recognition passes between them, nor is any speech exchanged. They seem to have no acquaintance with one another, beyond that begot out of the game.
And so the play proceeds, amidst the clinking of coin, and clattering of ivory pieces, these monotonous sounds diversified by the calls “Sota” this, and “Caballo” that, with now and then a “Carajo!” or it may be “Just my luck!” from the lips of some mortified loser. But, beyond such slight ebullition, ill-temper does not show itself, or, at all events, does not lead to any altercation with the dealer. That would be dangerous, as all are aware. On the table, close to his right elbow, rests a double-barrelled pistol, both barrels of which are loaded. And though no one takes particular notice of it, any more than it were a pair of snuffers on their tray, or one of the ordinary implements of the game, most know well enough that he who keeps this standing symbol of menace before their eyes is prepared to use it on slight provocation.
It is ten o’clock, and the bank is in full blast. Up to this hour the players in one thin row around the tables were staking only a few dollars at a time – as skirmishers in advance of the main army, firing stray shots from pieces of light calibre. Now the heavy artillery has come up, the ranks are filled, and the files become doubled around the different tables – two circles of players, in places three, engaging in the game. And instead of silver dollars, gold eagles and doubloons – the last being the great guns – are flung down upon the green baize, with a rattle continuous as the firing of musketry. The battle of the night has begun.
But Monté and Faro are not the only attractions of the “El Dorado.” The shrine of Bacchus – its drinking-bar – has its worshippers as well; a score of them standing in front of it, with others constantly coming and going.
Among the latest arrivals are two young men in the attire of navy officers. At a distance it is not easy to distinguish the naval uniforms of nations – almost universally dark blue, with gold bands and buttons. More especially is it difficult when these are of the two cognate branches of the great Anglo-Saxon race – English and American. While still upon the street, the officers in question might have been taken for either; but once within the saloon, and under the light of its numerous lamps, the special insignia on their caps proclaim them as belonging to a British man-of-war. And so do they – since they are Edward Crozier and Willie Cadwallader.
They have entered without any definite design, further than, as Crozier said, to “have a shy at the tiger.” Besides, as they have been told, a night in San Francisco would not be complete without a look in upon “El Dorado.”
Soon as inside the saloon, they step towards its drinking-bar, Crozier saying —
“Come, Cad! let’s do some sparkling.”
“All right,” responds the descendant of the Cymri, his face already a little flushed with what they have had at the Parker.
“Pint bottle of champagne!” calls Crozier.
“We’ve no pints here,” saucily responds the bar-tender – a gentleman in shirt-sleeves, with gold buckles on his embroidered braces – too grand to append the courtesy of “sir.”
“Nothing less than quarts,” he deigns to add.
“A quart bottle, then!” cries Crozier, tossing down a doubloon to pay for it. “A gallon, if you’ll only have the goodness to give it us.”
The sight of the gold coin, with a closer inspection of his customers, and perhaps some dread of a second sharp rejoinder, secures the attention of the dignified Californian Ganymede, who, re-using his hauteur, condescends to serve them.
While drinking the champagne, the young officers direct their eyes towards that part of the saloon occupied by the gamesters; where they see several clusters of men collected around distinct tables, some sitting, others standing. They know what it means, and that there is Monté in their midst.
Though Cadwallader has often heard of the game, he has never played it, or been a spectator to its play. Crozier, who has both seen and played it, promises to initiate him.
Tossing off their glasses, and receiving the change – not much out of a doubloon – they approach one of the Monté tables – that in the centre of the saloon, around which there are players, standing and sitting three deep.
It is some time before they can squeeze through the two outside concentric rings, and get within betting distance of the table. Those already around it are not men to be pushed rudely apart, or make way for a couple of youngsters, however imposing their appearance, or impatient their manner. A mere officer’s uniform is not much there, no matter the nationality. Besides, in the circle are officers of far higher rank than they, though belonging to a different service: naval captains and commanders, and of army men, majors, colonels – even generals. What care these for a pair of boisterous subalterns? Or what reck the rough gold-diggers, and stalwart trappers, seen around the table, for any or all of them? It is a chain, however ill-assorted in its links, not to be severed sans cérémonie; and the young English officers must bide their time. A little patience, and their turn will come too.
Practising this, they wait for it with the best grace they can. And not very long. One after another the more unfortunate of the gamesters get played out; each, as he sees his last dollar swept away from him by the ruthless rake of the croupier, heaving a sigh, and retiring from the table; most of them with seeming reluctance, and looking back, as a stripped traveller at the footpad who has turned his pockets inside out.
Soon the outer ring is broken, leaving spaces between, into one of which slips Crozier, Cadwallader pressing in along side of him.
Gradually they squeeze nearer and nearer, till they are close to the table’s edge.
Having, at length, obtained a position, where they can conveniently place bets, they are about plunging their hands into their pockets for the necessary stakes, when all at once the act is interrupted. The two turn towards one another with eyes, attitude, everything expressing not only surprise, but stark, speech-depriving astonishment.
For on the opposite side of the table, seated in a grand chair, presiding over the game, and dealing out the cards, Crozier sees the man who has been making love to Carmen Montijo – his rival of the morning – while, at the same instant. Cadwallader has caught sight of his rival – the suitor of Iñez Alvarez!
