Майн Рид
The Flag of Distress: A Story of the South Sea
Chapter Thirty.
Fighting the Tiger
At sight of De Lara and Calderon, the English officers stand speechless, as if suddenly struck dumb; for a pang has shot through their hearts, bitter as poison itself.
Crozier feels it keenest, since it is an affair which most concerns him. The suitor of Carmen Montijo a “sport” – a common gambler!
Cadwallader is less affected, though he too is annoyed. For although Calderon is in the circle of outside players – apparently a simple punter, like the rest – the companionship of the morning, with the relations existing between the two men, tell of their being socially the same. He already knows his rival to be a blackguard; in all likelihood he is also a blackleg.
Quick as thought itself, these reflections pass through the minds of the young Englishmen; though for some time neither says a word – their looks alone communicating to each other what both bitterly feel.
Fortunately, their surprise is not noted by the players around the table. Each is engrossed in his own play, and gives but a glance at the new-comers, whose naval uniforms are not the only ones there.
But there are two who take note of them in a more particular manner: these, Faustino Calderon and Francisco de Lara. Calderon, looking along the table – for he is on that same side – regards them with glances furtive almost timid. Very different is the manner of De Lara. At sight of Crozier he suspends the deal, his face suddenly turning pale, while a spark of angry light flashes forth from his eyes. The passionate display is to all appearance unobserved; or, if so, attributed to some trifling cause, as annoyance at the game going against him. It is almost instantly over; and the disturbed features of the Monté dealer resume their habitual expression of stern placidity.
The English officers having recovered from their first shock of astonishment, also find restored to them the faculty of speech; and now exchange thoughts, though not about that which so disturbs them. By a sort of tacit understanding it is left to another time, Crozier only saying —
“We’ll talk of it when we get aboard ship. That’s the place for sailors to take counsel together, with a clear head, such as we will want. At this precious minute, I feel like a fish out of water.”
“By Jove! so do I.”
“The thing we’re both thinking of has raised the devil in me. But let us not bother about it now. I’ve got something else in my mind. I’m half-mad, and intend fighting the tiger.”
“Fighting the tiger! What do you mean by that, Ned? I don’t quite comprehend.”
“You soon will. If you wish it, I’ll give you a little preliminary explanation.”
“Yes, do. Perhaps I can assist you.”
“No, you can’t. There’s only one who can.”
“Who is he?”
“It is not a he, but a she: the Goddess of Fortune. I intend soliciting her favours; if she but grant them, I’ll smash Mr De Lara’s Monté bank.”
“Impossible! There’s no probability of your being able to do that.”
“Not much probability, I admit. Still there’s a possibility. I’ve seen such a thing done before now. Bold play and big luck combined will do it. I’m in for the first; whether I have the last, remains to be seen. In any case, I’ll either break the bank, or lose all I’ve got on me – which by chance is a pretty big stake to begin with. So here goes!”
Up to this time their conversation has been carried on in a low tone; no one hearing or caring to listen to it – all being too much absorbed in their own calculations to take heed of the bets or combinations of others. If any one gives a glance at them, and sees them engaged in their sotto-voce dialogue, it is but to suppose they are discussing which card they had best bet upon – whether the Sota or Caballo; and whether it would be prudent to risk a whole dollar, or limit their lay to the more modest sum of fifty cents.
They who may have been thus conjecturing, with everybody else, are taken by surprise, in fact, somewhat startled, when the older of the two officers, bending across the table, tosses a hundred pound Bank of England note upon the baize, with as much nonchalance as if it were but a five-dollar bill!
“Shall I give you cheques for it?” asks the croupier, after examining the crisp note – current over all the earth – and knowing it good as gold.
“No,” answers Crozier; “not yet. You can give that after the bet’s decided – if I win it. If not, you can take the note. I place it on the Queen, against the Knave.”
The croupier, simply nodding assent, places the note as directed.
During the interregnum in which this little episode occurs, the English officers, hitherto scarce noticed, are broadly stared at, and closely scrutinised – Crozier becoming the cynosure of every eye. He stands it with a placid tranquillity, which shows him as careless about what they may think him, as he is of his cash.
Meanwhile, the cards have had a fresh shuffle, and the deal begins anew; all eyes again turning upon the game. In earnest expectancy; those who, like Crozier, have placed upon the Queen, wishing her to show her face first. And she does.
“Caballo en la puerta mozo!” (The Queen in the door wins) cries the dealer, the words drawled out with evident reluctance, while a flash of fierce anger is seen scintillating in his eyes.
“Will you take it in cheques?” asks the croupier addressing himself to Crozier, after settling the smaller bets. “Or shall I pay you in specie?”
“You needn’t pay yet. Let the note lie. Only cover it with a like amount. I go it double, and again upon the Queen.”
Stakes are re-laid – some changed – others left standing or doubled, as Crozier’s, which is now a bet for two hundred pounds.
On goes the game, the piece of smooth pasteboard slipping silently from the jewelled fingers of the dealer, whose eye is bent upon the cards, as if he saw through them – or would, if he could. But whatever his wish, he has no power to change the chances. If he have any professional tricks, there is no opportunity for him to practise them. There are too many eyes looking on; too many pistols and bowie-knives about; too many men ready to stop any attempt at cheating, and punish it, if attempted.
Again he is compelled to call out:
“Caballo en la puerta mozo!”
“Now, sir,” says the croupier to Crozier, after settling other scores, “you want your money, I suppose?”
“Not yet. I’m not pressed, and can afford to wait. I again go double, and am still contented with my Queen.”
The dealing proceeds; with four hundred pounds lying on the Caballo to Crozier’s account – and ten times as much belonging to other bettors. For now that the luck seems to be running with the Englishman, most lay their stakes beside his.
Once again: “Caballo en la puerta mozo!”
And again Crozier declines to take up his bet.
He has now eight hundred pounds sterling upon the card – sixteen hundred on the turn of the game – while the others, thoroughly assured that his luck is on the run, double theirs, till the bets against the bank post up to as many thousands.
De Lara begins to look anxious, and not a little downhearted. Still more anxious, and lower in heart, appears him seated on the opposite side – Calderon; for it is his money that is moving away. He is visibly excited. On the contrary, Crozier is as cool as ever, his features set in a rigid determination to do what he promised – break the bank, or lose all he has got about him. The last, not likely yet, for soon again comes the cry:
“The Queen winner!”
There is a pause longer than usual, for the settling of such a large score; and after it an interval of inaction. The dealer seems inclined to discontinue; for still lying upon the Queen is Crozier’s stake, once more doubled, and now counting three thousand two hundred pounds!
Asked if he intends to let it remain, he replies sneeringly:
“Of course I do; I insist upon it. And once more I go for the Queen. Let those who like the Knave better, back him!”
“Go on! Go on!” is the cry around the table, from many voices speaking in tone of demand.
De Lara glances at Calderon furtively, but, to those observing it, with a look of interrogation. Whatever the sign, or answer, it decides him to go on dealing.
The bets are again made; to his dismay, almost everybody laying upon the Queen, and, as before, increasing their stakes. And in like proportion is heightened the interest in the game. It is too intense for any display of noisy excitement now. And there is less throughout the saloon; for many from the other tables, as all the saunterers, have collected round, and standing several deep, gaze over one another’s shoulders, with as much eager earnestness as if a man were expiring in their midst.
The ominous call at length comes – not in clear voice, or tone exultant, but feeble, and as if rung reluctantly from the lips of the Monté dealer. For it is again a verdict adverse to the bank:
“Caballo en la puerta mozo!”
As De Lara utters the words, he dashes the cards down, scattering them all over the table. Then rising excitedly from his chair, adds in faltering tone:
“Gentlemen, I’m sorry to tell you the bank’s broke!”
Chapter Thirty One.
A Plucky “Sport.”
“The bank’s broke!”
Three words, that, despite their bad grammar, have oft – too oft – startled the ear, and made woe in many a heart.
At hearing them, the gamesters of the “El Dorado” seated around Frank Lara’s Monté table spring to their feet, as if their chairs had suddenly become converted into iron at white heat. They rise simultaneously, as though all were united in a chain, elbow and elbow together.
But while thus gesturing alike, very different is the expression upon their faces. Some simply show surprise; others look incredulous; while not a few give evidence of anger.
For an instant there is silence – the surprise, the incredulity, the anger having suspended speech. This throughout the saloon; for all, bar-drinkers as well as gamesters, have caught the ominous words, and thoroughly understand their import. No longer resounds the chink of ivory cheques, or the metallic ring of doubloons and dollars. No longer the thudding down of decanters, nor the jingle of glasses. Instead, a stillness so profound that one entering at this moment might fancy it a Quakers’ meeting, but for the symbols seen around – these, anything but Quakerish. Easier to imagine it a grand gambling-hell, where dealers, croupiers, players, and spectators have all been suddenly turned to stone, or have become figures in wax-work.
The silence is of the shortest – as also the immobility of the men composing the different groups – only for a half-score seconds. Then there is noise enough, with plenty of gesticulation. A roar arises that fills the room; while men rush about wildly, madly, as if in the courtyard of a lunatic asylum. Some show anger – those who are losers by the breaking of the bank. Many have won large bets, their stakes still lying on the table, which they know will not be paid. The croupier has told them so, confessing his cash-box cleared out at the last settlement; even this having been effected with the now protested ivory cheques.
Some gather up their gold or silver, and stow it in safety, growling, but satisfied that things are no worse. Others are not so lenient. They do not believe there is a good cause for the suspension, and insist on being paid in full. They rail at the proprietor of the bank, adding menace. De Lara is the man thus marked. They see him before them, grandly dressed, glittering with diamonds. They talk of stripping him of his bijouterie.
“No, gentlemen!” he exclaims, with a sardonic sneer. “Not that, if you please – not yet. First hear me, and then it will be time for you to strike.”
“What have you to say?” demands one, with his fists full of ivory counters, unredeemed.
“Only that I’m not the owner of this bank, and never have been.”
“Who is, then?” ask several at the same time.
“Well; that I can’t tell you just now; and, what’s more, I won’t. No, that I won’t.”
The gambler says this with emphasis, and an air of sullen determination, that has its effect upon his questioners – even the most importunate. For a time it stays their talk, as well as action.
Seeing this, he follows it up with further speech, somewhat mere conciliatory.
“As I’ve said, gentlemen, I’m not the owner of this concern – only the dealer of the cards. You ask, who’s proprietor of the smashed table. It’s natural enough you should want to know. But it’s just as natural that it ain’t my business to tell you. If I did, it would be a shabby trick; and, I take it, you’re all men enough to see it in that light. If there’s any who isn’t, he can have my card, and call upon me at his convenience. My name’s Francisco de Lara – or Frank Lara, for short. I can be found here, or anywhere else in San Francisco, at such time as may suit anxious inquirers. And if any wants me now, and can’t wait, I’m good this minute for pistols across that bit of board we’ve just been seated at. Yes, gentlemen! Any of you who’d relish a little amusement of that kind, let him come on! It’ll be a change from the Monté. For my part, I’m tired of shuffling cards, and would like to rest my fingers on a trigger. Which of you feels disposed to give me the chance? Don’t all speak at once!”
No one feels disposed, and no one speaks; at least in hostile tone, or to take up the challenge. Instead, half a score surround the “sport,” and not only express their admiration of his pluck, but challenge him to an encounter of drinks, not pistols.
Turning towards the bar, they vociferate “Champagne.”
Contented with the turn things have taken, and proud at the volley of invitations, De Lara accepts; and soon the vintage of France is seen effervescing from a dozen tall glasses, and the Monté dealer stands drinking in the midst of his admirers.
Other groups draw up to the bar-counter, while twos and solitary tipplers fill the spaces between.
The temple of Fortuna is for a time deserted, her worshippers transferring their devotion to the shrine of Bacchus. The losers drink to drown disappointment, while the winners quaff cups in the exhilaration of success.
If a bad night for the bank, it is a good one for the bar. Decanters are speedily emptied, and bottles of many kinds go “down among the dead men.”
The excitement in the “El Dorado” is soon over. Occurrences of like kind, but often of more tragical termination, are too common in California to cause any long-sustained interest. Within the hour will arise some new event, equally stirring, leaving the old to live only in the recollection of those who have been active participants in it.
So with the breaking of Frank Lara’s bank. A stranger, entering the saloon an hour after, from what he there sees, could not tell, neither would he suspect that an incident of so serious nature had occurred. For in less than this time the same Monté table is again surrounded by gamesters, as if its play had never been suspended. The only difference observable is that quite another individual presides over it, dealing out the cards, while a new croupier has replaced him whose cash receipts so suddenly ran short of his required disbursements.
The explanation is simply that there has been a change of owners, another celebrated “sport” taking up the abandoned bank and opening it anew. With a few exceptions the customers are the same, their number not sensibly diminished. Most of the old players have returned to it, while the places of those who have defected, and gone off to other gambling resorts, are filled by fresh arrivals.
A small party of gentlemen, who think they have had play enough for that night, have left the “El Dorado” for good. Among these are the English officers, whose visit proved so prejudicial to the interests of the place.
De Lara, too, and Calderon, with other confederates, have forsaken the saloon. But whither gone no one knows, or seems to care; for the fortunes of fallen men soon cease to interest those who are themselves madly struggling to mount up.
Chapter Thirty Two.
A Supper Carte-Blanche
On parting from the “El Dorado,” Crozier and Cadwallader do not go directly aboard the Crusader. They know that their boat will be awaiting them at the place appointed. But the appointment is for a later hour; and as the breaking of the Monté bank, with the incidents attendant, occupied but a short while, there will be time for them to see a little more of San Francisco life. They have fallen in with several other young officers, naval like themselves, though not of their own ship, nor yet their own navy, or nation, but belonging to one cognate and kindred – Americans. Through the freemasonry of their common profession, with these they have fraternised, and it is agreed they shall all sup together. Crozier has invited the Americans to a repast the most recherché, as the costliest, that can be obtained at the grandest hotel in San Francisco, the Parker House. He adds humorously, that he is able to stand the treat. And well he may; since, besides the English money with which he entered the “El Dorado,” he has brought thousands of dollars out of it, and would have brought more had all the ivory cheques been honoured. As it is, his pockets are filled with notes and gold; as also those of Cadwallader, who helps him to carry the shining stuff. Part of the heavy metal he has been able to change into the more portable form of bank-notes. Yet the two are still heavily weighted – “laden like hucksters’ donkeys!” jokingly remarks Cadwallader, as they proceed towards the Parker.
At the hotel a private room is engaged; and, according to promise, Crozier bespeaks a repast of the most sumptuous kind, with carte-blanche for the best wines – champagne at three guineas a bottle, hock the same, and South-side Madeira still more. What difference to him?
The supper ordered in the double-quick soon makes its appearance. Sooner in San Francisco than in any other city in the world; in better style, too, and better worth the money; for the Golden City excels in the science of gastronomy. Even then, amidst her canvas sheds, and weather-boarded houses, could be obtained dishes of every kind known to Christendom, or Pagandom: the cuisine of France, Spain, and Italy; the roast beef of Old England, as the pork and beans of the New; the gumbo of Guinea, and sauerkraut of Germany, side by side with the swallow’s-nest soup and sea-slugs of China. Had Lucullus but lived in these days, he would have forsaken the banks of the Tiber, and made California his home.
The repast furnished by the Parker House, however splendid, has to be speedily despatched; for unfortunately time forbids the leisurely enjoyment of the viands, to a certain extent marring the pleasure of the occasion. All the officers, American as English, have to be on their respective ships at the stroke of twelve.
Reluctantly breaking up their hilarious company, they prepare to depart.
They have forsaken the supper-room, and passed on to the outer saloon of the hotel; like all such, furnished with a drinking-bar.
Before separating, and while buttoning up against the chill night-air, Crozier calls out:
“Come, gentlemen; one more glass! The stirrup-cup!”
In San Francisco this is always the wind up to a night of revelry. No matter how much wine has been quaffed, the carousal is not deemed complete without a last “valedictory” drink taken standing at the bar.
Giving way to the Californian custom, the officers range themselves along the marble slab; bending over which, the polite bar-keeper asks:
“What is it to be, gentlemen?”
There is a moment of hesitation, the gentlemen – already well wined – scarce knowing what to call for. Crozier cuts the Gordian knot by proposing:
“A round of punches à la Romaine!”
Universal assent to this delectable drink; as all know just the thing for a night-cap.
Soon the cooling beverage, compounded with snow from the Sierra Nevada, appears upon the counter, in huge glasses, piled high with the sparkling crystals; a spoon surmounting each – for punch à la Romaine is not to be drunk, but eaten.
Shovelling it down in haste, adieus are exchanged, with a hearty shake of hands. Then the American officers go off, leaving Crozier and Cadwallader in the saloon; these only staying to settle the account.
While standing by the bar, waiting for it to be brought, they cast a glance around the room. At first careless, it soon becomes concentrated on a group seen at some distance off, near one of the doors leading out, of which there are several. There are also several other groups; for the saloon is of large dimensions, besides being the most popular place of resort in San Francisco. And for San Francisco the hour is not yet late. Along the line of the drinking-bar, and over the white-sanded floor, are some scores of people of all qualities and kinds, in almost every variety of costume; though they who compose the party that has attracted the attention of the English officers show nothing particular – that is, to the eye of one unacquainted with them. There are four of them, two wearing broadcloth cloaks, the other two having their shoulders shrouded under serapes. Nothing in all that. The night is cold, indeed wet, and they are close to the door, to all appearance intending soon to step out. They have only paused to exchange a parting word, as if they designed to separate before issuing into the street.
Though the spot where they stand is in shadow – a folding screen separating it from the rest of the saloon – and it is not easy to get sight of their faces – the difficulty increased by broad-brimmed hats set slouchingly on their heads, with their cloaks and serapes drawn up around their throats – Crozier and Cadwallader have not only seen, but recognised them. A glance at their countenances, caught before the muffling was made, enabled the young officers to identify three of them as De Lara, Calderon, and the ci-devant croupier of the Monté bank. The fourth, whose face they have also seen, is a personage not known to them; but, judging by his features, a suitable associate for the other three.
Soon as catching sight of them, which he is the first to do, Crozier whispers to his companion:
“See, Will! Look yonder! Our friends from the ‘El Dorado!’”
“By Jove! them, sure enough. Do you think they’ve been following us?”
“I shouldn’t wonder. I was only surprised they didn’t do something, when they had us in their gambling den. After the heavy draw I made on Mr Lara’s bank, I expected no less than that he’d try to renew his acquaintance with me; all the more from his having been so free of it in the morning. Instead, he and his friend seemed to studiously avoid coming near us – not even casting a look in our direction. That rather puzzled me.”
“It needn’t. After what you gave him, I should think he’ll feel shy of another encounter.”
“No; that’s not it. Blackleg though the fellow be, he’s got game in him. He gave proof of it in the ‘El Dorado,’ defying, and backing everybody out. It was an exhibition of real courage, Will; and, to tell the truth, I couldn’t help admiring it – can’t now. When I saw him presiding over the gambling table, and dealing out the cards, I at once made up my mind that it would never do to meet him – even if he challenged me. Now, I’ve decided differently; and if he call me out, I’ll give him a chance to recover a little of his lost reputation. I will, upon my honour.”
“But why should you? A ‘sport,’ a professional gambler! The thing would be simply ridiculous.”
“Nothing of the kind – not here in California. On the contrary, I should cut a more ridiculous figure by refusing him satisfaction. It remains to be seen whether he’ll seek it according to the correct code.”
“That he won’t; at least, I don’t think he will. From the way that lot have got their heads together, it looks as if they meant mischief, now. They may have been watching their opportunity – to get us two alone. What a pity we didn’t see them before our friends went off! They’re good fellows, those Yankee officers, and would have stood by us.”
“No doubt they would. But it’s too late now. They’re beyond hailing distance, and we must take care of ourselves. Get your dirk ready, Will, and have your hand close to the butt of that shooting-iron, you took from Mr De Lara.”
“I have it that way. Never fear. Wouldn’t it be a good joke if I have to give the fellow a pill out of his own pistol?”
“No joking matter to us, if they’re meditating an attack. Though we disarmed him in the morning, he’ll be freshly provided, and with weapons in plenty. I’ll warrant each of the four has a battery concealed under his cloak. They appear as if concocting some scheme – which we’ll soon know all about – likely before leaving the house. Certainly, they’re up to something.”
“Four hundred and ninety dollars, gentlemen!”
The financial statement is made by the office clerk presenting the bill.
“There!” cries Crozier, flinging down a five hundred dollar bill. “Let that settle it. You can keep the change for yourself.”
“Thank ye,” dryly responds the Californian dispenser of drinks, taking the ten dollar tip with less show of gratitude than a London waiter would give for a fourpenny piece – little as that may be.
Turning to take departure, the young officers again look across the saloon, to learn how the hostile party has disposed itself. To their surprise, the gamblers are gone; having disappeared while the account was being paid.
“I don’t like the look of it,” says Crozier, in a whisper. “Less now than ever. No doubt we’ll find them outside. Well; we can’t stay here all night. If they attack us, we must do our best. Take a firm grip of your pistol, with your finger close to the trigger; and if any of them shows sign of shooting, see that you fire first. Follow me; and keep close!”
On the instant of delivering these injunctions, he starts towards the door, Cadwallader following as directed.
Both step out, and for a short while stand gazing interrogatively around them. People they see in numbers, some lounging by the hotel porch, others passing along the street. But none in cloaks or serapes. The gamblers must have gone clear away.
“After all, we may have been wronging them,” remarks Urozier, as in his nature, giving way to a generous impulse. “I can hardly think that a fellow who’s shown such courage would play the assassin. Maybe they were but putting their heads together about challenging us? If that’s it, we may expect to hear from them in the morning. It looks all right. Anyhow, we can’t stay dallying here. If we’re not aboard by eight bells, old Bracebridge ’ll masthead us. Let’s heave along, my hearty!”
So saying, he leads off, Cadwallader close on his quarter – both a little unsteady in their steps, partly from being loaded with the spoils of “El Dorado,” and partly from the effects of the Parker House wines, and punches à la Romaine.
