Майн Рид
The Flag of Distress: A Story of the South Sea
Chapter Thirty Three.
Harry Blew Homeless
While the exciting scene described as taking place in the saloon “El Dorado” was at its height, Harry Blew went past the door. Could the sailor have seen through walls, he would have entered the Hell. The sight of His former officers would have attracted him inside; there to remain, for more reasons than one.
Of one he had already thought. Conjecturing that the young gentleman might be going on a bit of spree, and knowing the dangers of such in San Francisco, it had occurred to him to accompany, or keep close after them – in order that he might be at hand, should they come into collision with any of the roughs and rowdies thick upon the street. Unfortunately, this idea, like that of asking them for a cash loan, had come too late; and they were out of sight ere he could take any steps towards its execution. A glance into the gambling-saloon would have brought both opportunities back again; and, instead of continuing to wander hungry through the streets, he would have had a splendid supper, and after it a bed, either in some respectable hostelry, or his old bunk aboard the Crusader.
It was not to be. While passing the “El Dorado,” he could know nothing of the friends that were so near; and thus unconscious, he leaves the glittering saloon behind, and a half-score others lighted with like brilliancy.
For a while longer he saunters slowly about, in the hope of yet encountering the officers. Several times he sees men in uniform, and makes after them, only to find they are not English.
At length giving it up, he quickens his pace, and strikes for the office of Silvestre, which he knows to be in the street fronting the water.
As San Francisco is not like an old seaport, where house-room is cheap and abundant, but every foot of roof-shelter utilised by day as by night, there is a chance the office may still be open. In all probability, the shipping-agent sleeps by the side of his ledger; or, if not, likely enough one of his clerks. In which case he, Harry Blew, may be allowed to lie along the floor, or get a shake-down in some adjoining shed. He would be but too glad to stretch himself on an old sack, a naked bench, or, for that matter, sit upright in a chair. For he is now fairly fagged out perambulating the unpaved streets of that inhospitable town.
Tacking from corner to corner, now and then hitching up his trousers, to give freer play to his feet, he at length comes out upon the street which fronts upon the bay. In his week’s cruising about the town he has acquired some knowledge of its topography, and knows well enough where he is; but not the office of the shipping-agent. It, therefore, takes him a considerable time to find it. Along the water’s edge the houses are irregularly placed, and numbered with like irregularity. Besides, there is scarce any light; the night has become dark, with a sky densely clouded, and the street-lamps burning whale-oil are dim, and at long distances apart. It is with difficulty he can make out the figures upon the doors. However, he is at length successful, and deciphers on one the number he is in search of – as also the name “Silvestre,” painted on a piece of tin attached to to the side-post, A survey of the house – indeed, a single glance at it – convinces him he has come thither to no purpose. It is a small wooden structure, not much bigger than a sentry-box, evidently only an office, with no capability of conversion to a bed-chamber. Still it has room enough to admit of a man’s lying at full length along its floor; and, as already said, he would be glad of so disposing himself for the night. There may be some one inside, though the one window – in size corresponding to the shanty itself – looks black and forbidding.
With no very sanguine hope, he lays hold of the door-handle, and gives it a twist. Locked, as he might have expected!
The test not satisfying him, he knocks. At first timidly; then a little bolder and louder; finally, giving a good round rap with his knuckles – hard as horn. At the same time he hails sailor-fashion:
“Ahoy, there; be there any one within?”
This in English; but, remembering that the ship-agent is a Spaniard, he follows his first hail with another in the Spanish tongue, adding the usual formulary:
“Abre la puerta!”
Neither to question, nor demand is there any response. Only the echo of his own voice reverberated along the line of houses, and dying away in the distance, as it mingles with the sough of the sea.
No use speaking, or knocking again. Undoubtedly, Silvestre’s office is closed for the night; and his clerks, if there be any, have their sleeping-quarters elsewhere.
Forced to this conclusion, though sadly dissatisfied with it, the ex-man-o’-war’s man turns away from the door, and once more goes cruising along the streets. But now, having no definite point to steer for, he makes short tacks and turns, like a ship sailing under an unfavourable wind – or as one disregarding the guidance of the compass, without steersman at the wheel.
After beating about for nearly another hour, he discovers himself contiguous to the water’s edge. His instincts have conducted him thither – as the seal, after a short inland excursion, finds its way back to the beach. Ah! if he could only swim like a seal!
This thought occurs to him as he stands looking over the sea in the direction of the Crusader. Were it possible to reach the frigate, all his troubles would soon be forgotten in the cheerful companionship of his old chums of the forepeak.
It can’t be. The man-of-war is anchored more than two miles off. Strong swimmer though he knows himself, it is too far. Besides, a fog has suddenly sprung up, overspreading the bay, so that the frigate is hidden from his sight. Even ships lying close in shore can be but faintly discerned through its film, and only the larger spars; the smaller ones, with the rigging-ropes, looking like the threads of a spider’s web.
Downhearted, almost despairing, Harry Blew halts upon the beach. What is he to do? Lie down on the sand, and there go to sleep? There are times when on the shores of San Francisco Bay this would not be much of a hardship. But now, it is the season of winter, when the Pacific current, coming from latitudes farther north, rolls in through the Golden Gate, bringing with it fogs that spread themselves over the great estuary inside. Although not frosty, these are cold enough to be uncomfortable, and the haze now is accompanied by a chill drizzling rain.
Standing under it, Harry Blew feels he is fast getting wet. If he do not obtain shelter, he will soon be soaked to the skin.
Looking inquiringly around, his eye rests upon a boat, which lies bottom upward on the beach, appearing through the thick rain like the carapace of a gigantic turtle. It is an old ship’s launch that has bilged, and either been abandoned as useless, or upturned to receive repairs. No matter what its history, it offers the hospitality so scurvily refused him at the “Sailor’s Home.” If it cannot give him supper, or bed, it will be some protection against the rain that has now commenced coming down in big clouting drops.
This deciding him, he creeps under the capsized launch, and lays himself at full length along the shingle.
Chapter Thirty Four.
In Dangerous Proximity
The spot upon which the ex-man-o’-war’s man has stretched himself is soft as a feather-bed. Still he does not fall asleep. The rain, filtering through the sand, soon finds its way under the boat; and, saturating his couch, makes it uncomfortable. This, with the cold night-air, keeps him awake.
He lies listening to the sough of the sea, and the big drops pattering upon the planks above.
Not long before other sounds salute his ear, distinguishable as human voices – men engaged in conversation.
As he continues to listen, the voices grow louder, those who converse evidently drawing nearer.
In a few seconds they are by the boat’s side, where they come to a stand. But though they have paused in their steps, they continue to talk in excited, earnest tones. And so loud, that he can hear every word they say; though the speakers are invisible to him. The capsized boat is not so flush with the sand as to prevent him from seeing the lower part of their legs, from the knees downward. Of these there are four pairs, two of them in trousers of the ordinary kind; the other two in calzoneras of velveteen, bordered at the bottoms with black stamped leather. But, that all four men are Californians, or Spaniards, he can tell by the language in which they are conversing – Spanish. A lucky chance that he understands something of this – if not for himself, for the friends who are dear to him.
The first intelligible speech that reaches his ear is an interrogatory:
“You’re sure, Calderon, they’ll come this way?”
“Quite sure, De Lara. When I stood by them at the hotel-bar, I heard the younger of the two tell one of the American officers that their boat was to meet them at the wooden muello– the new pier, as you know. To reach that they must pass by here; there’s no other way. And it can’t be long before they make appearance. They were leaving the hotel at the time we did, and where else should they go?”
“Not knowing,” – this from the voice of a third individual. “They may stay to take another copita, or half-a-dozen. These Inglese can drink like fish, and don’t seem to feel it.”
“The more they drink the better for us,” remarks a fourth. “Our work will be the easier.”
“It may not be so easy, Don Manuel,” puts in De Lara. “Young as they are, they’re very devils both. Besides, they’re well armed, and will battle like grizzly bears. I tell you, camarados, we’ll have work to do before we get back our money.”
“But do you intend killing them, De Lara?” asks he who has been called Calderon.
“Of course. We must, for our own sakes. ’Twould be madness not, even if we could get the money without it. The older, Crozier, is enormously rich, I’ve heard; could afford to buy up all the law there is in San Francisco. If we let them escape, he’d have the police after us like hounds upon a trail. Even if they shouldn’t recognise us now, they’d be sure to suspect who it was, and make the place too hot to hold us. Caspita! It’s not a question of choice, but a thing of necessity. We must kill them!”
Harry Blew hears the cold-blooded determination, comprehending it in all its terrible significance. It tells him the young officers are still in the town, and that these four men are about to waylay, rob, and murder them. What they mean by “getting back their money” is the only thing he does not comprehend. It is made clear as the conversation continues:
“I’m sure there’s nothing unfair in taking back our own. I, Frank Lara, say so. It was they who brought about the breaking of our bank, which was done in a mean, dastardly way. The Englishman had the luck, and all the others of his kind went with him. But for that we could have held out. It’s no use our whining about it. We’ve lost, and must make good our losses best way we can. We can’t, and be safe ourselves, if we let these gringos go.”
“Chingara! we’ll stop their breath, and let there be no more words about it.”
The merciless verdict is in the voice of Don Manuel.
“You’re all agreed, then?” asks De Lara.
“Si, si, si!” is the simultaneous answer of assent, Calderon alone seeming to give it with reluctance; though he hesitates from timidity, not mercy.
Harry Blew now knows all. The officers have been gaming, have won money, and the four fellows who talk so coolly of killing them are the chief gambler and his confederates.
What is he to do? How can he save the doomed men. Both are armed; Crozier has his sword, Cadwallader his dirk. Besides, the midshipman has a pistol, as he saw while they were talking to him at the Sailor’s Home. But then they are to be taken unawares – shot, or struck down, in the dark, without a chance of seeing the hand that strikes them! Even if warned and ready, it would be two against four. And he is himself altogether unarmed; for his jack-knife is gone – hypothecated to pay for his last jorum of grog! And the young officers have been drinking freely, as he gathers from what the ruffians say. They may be inebriated, or enough so to put them off their guard. Who would be expecting assassination? Who ever is, save a Mexican himself? Altogether unlikely that they should be thinking of such a thing. On the contrary, disregarding danger, they will come carelessly on, to fall like ripe corn before the sickle of the reaper.
The thought of such a fate for his friends fills the sailor with keenest apprehension; and again he asks himself how it is to be averted.
The four conspirators are not more than as many feet from the boat. By stretching out his hands he could grip them by the ankles, without altering his recumbent attitude one inch. And by doing this, he might give the guilty plotters such a scare as would cause them to retreat, and so baffle their design.
The thought comes before his mind, but is instantly abandoned. The fellows are not of the stuff to be frightened at shadows. By their talk, at least two are desperadoes, and to make known his presence would be only to add another victim to those already doomed to death.
But what is he to do? For the third time he asks himself this question, still unable to answer it.
While still painfully cogitating, his brain labouring to grasp some feasible plan of defence against the threatened danger, he is warned of a change. Some words spoken tell of it. It is De Lara who speaks them.
“By the way, camarados, we’re not in a good position here. They may sight us too soon. To make things sure, we must drop on them before they can draw their weapons. Else some of us may get dropped ourselves.”
“Where could we be better? I don’t see. The shadow of this old boat favours us.”
“Why not crawl under it?” asks Calderon. “There Argus himself couldn’t see us.”
Harry Blew’s heart beats at the double-quick. His time seems come, and he already fancies four pistols to his head, or the same number of poniards pointed at his ribs.
It is a moment of vivid anxiety – a crisis dread, terrible, almost agonising.
Fortunately it is not of long duration, ending almost on the instant. He is relieved at hearing one of them say:
“No; that won’t do. We’d have trouble in scrambling out again. While about it they’d see or hear us, and take to their heels. You must remember, it’s but a step to where their boat will be waiting them, with some eight or ten of those big British tars in it. If they got there before we overtook them, the tables would be turned on us.”
“You’re right, Don Manuel,” rejoins De Lara; “it won’t do to go under the boat, and there’s no need for us to stay by it. Mira! yonder’s a better place – by that wall. In its shadow no one can see us, and the gringos must pass within twenty feet of it. It’s the very spot for our purpose. Have with me!”
No one objecting, the four separate from the side of the boat and glide silently as spectres across the strip of sandy beach, their forms gradually growing indistinct in the fog, at length altogether disappearing beneath the sombre shadow of the wall.
Chapter Thirty Five.
Crusaders, to the Rescue!
“What am I to do!”
It is the ex-man-o’-war’s man, still lying under the launch, who thus interrogates himself. He has put the question for the fourth time that night, and now as emphatically as ever, but less despairingly.
True, the conspiring assassins have only stepped aside to a lurking place from which they may more conveniently pounce upon their quarry, and be surer of striking it. But their changed position has left him free to change his; which he at once determines upon doing. Their talk has told him where the man-of-war’s boat will be awaiting to take the officers back to their ship. He knows the new wharf referred to, the very stair at which the Crusaders have been accustomed to bring to.
It may be the cutter with her full crew of ten – or it may be but the gig. No matter which. There cannot be fewer than two oarsmen, and these will be sufficient. A brace of British tars, with himself to make three, and the officers to tot up five – that will be more than a match for four Spanish Californians. Four times four, thinks Harry Blew, even though the sailors, like himself, be unarmed, or with nothing but their knives and boat-hooks.
He has no fear, if he can but bring it to an encounter of this kind. The question is, can he do so? And first, can he creep out from under the launch, and steal away unobserved?
A glance of scrutiny towards the spot where the assassins have placed themselves in ambuscade, satisfies him that he can. The fog favours him. Through it he cannot see them; and should be himself equally invisible.
Another circumstance will be in his favour: on the soft, sandy beach his footsteps will make but slight noise: not enough to be heard above the hoarse continuous surging of the surf.
All this passes in a moment, and he has made up his mind to start; but hesitates from a new apprehension. Will he be in time? The stair at which the boat should lie is not over a quarter of a mile off, and will take but a few minutes to reach it. Even if he succeed in eluding the vigilance of the ambushed villains, will it be possible for him to get to the pier, communicate with the boat’s crew, and bring them back, before the officers reach the place of ambush?
To all this the answer is doubtful, and the doubt appals him. In his absence, the young gentlemen may arrive at the fatal spot. He may return to find their bodies lying lifeless along the sand, their pockets rifled, their murderers gone!
The thought holds him irresolute, doubting what course to take. Should he remain till they are heard approaching, then rush out, give them such warning as he may, throw himself by their side, and do his best to defend them? Unarmed, this would not be much. Against pistols and poniards he would scarce count as a combatant. It might but end in all three being slaughtered together! But there is also the danger of his being discovered in his attempt to slip away from his place of concealment. He may be followed, and overtaken; though he has little fear of this. Pursued he may be, but not overtaken. Despite his sea-legs, he knows himself a swift runner. Were he assured of a fair start, he can hold his distance against anything Spanish or Californian. In five minutes he might reach the pier – in five more be back. If he find the Crusaders there, a word will warn them. In all it would take about ten minutes. But, meanwhile, Crozier and Cadwallader may get upon the ground, and one minute – half a minute – after all would be over.
A terrible struggle agitates the breast of the man-o’-war’s man; in his thoughts is conflict agonising. On either side are pros and cons, requiring calm deliberation; and there is no time to deliberate. He must act.
But one more second spends he in consideration. He has confidence in the young officers. Both are brave as lions, and if attacked, will make a tough fight of it. Crozier has also caution, on which dependence may be placed; and at such a time of night he will not be going unguardedly. The strife, though unequal, might last long enough for him, Harry Blew, to bring the Crusaders– at least near enough to cry out – and cheer their officers with the hope of help at hand.
All this flits through Harry Blew’s brain in a tenth part of the time it takes to tell it. And having resolved how to act, he hastens to carry out his resolution – to proceed in quest of the boat’s crew.
Sprawling like a lizard from beneath the launch, he glides off silently along the strand. At first, with slow, cautious steps, and crouchingly, but soon erect, in a rapid run, as if for the saving of his life; for it is to save the lives of others, almost dear as his own.
The five minutes are not up, when his footsteps patter along the planking of the hollow wooden wharf; and in ten seconds after, he stands at the head of the sea-stairway, looking down.
Below is a boat with men in it – half-a-score of them – seated on the thwarts, some lolling over against the gunwales asleep. At a glance he can tell them to be Crusaders.
His hail startles them into activity; one and all recognising the voice of their old shipmate.
“Quick!” he cries; “quick, mates! This way, and along with me! Don’t stay to ask questions. Enough for you to know that the lives of your officers are in danger.”
It proves enough. The tars don’t wait for a word more; but spring from their recumbent attitude, and out of the boat.
Rushing up the pier steps, they cluster around their comrade. They have not needed instructions to arm themselves. Harry’s speech, with its tone, told of some shore hostility, and they have instinctively made ready to meet it; each laying hold of the weapon nearest to his hand; some a knife, some an oar, others a boat-hook.
“Heave with me, lads!” cries Harry; and they “heave” – at his heels – rushing after, as if to extinguish a fire in the forecastle.
Soon they are coursing along the strand, towards the upturned boat, silently, and without asking explanation. If they did, they could not get it; for their leader is panting, breathless, almost unable to utter a word. But five issue from his throat, jerked out disjointedly, and in hoarse utterance. They are:
“Crozier – Cadwallader – waylaid – robbers – murderers!”
Enough to spur the Crusaders to their best speed, if not already at it. But they are; every man of them straining his strength to the utmost.
As they rush on, cleaving the thick fog, Harry at their head listens intently. As yet he can distinguish no sound to alarm him; only the monotonous swashing of the sea, and the murmur of distant voices in the streets of the town. But no cries – no shouts, nor shots; nothing to tell of deadly strife.
“Thank the Lord!” says the brave sailor, half speaking to himself; “we’ll be in time to save them.”
The words have scarce passed from his lips, when he comes in sight of the capsized launch; and almost simultaneously sees two figures upon the beach beyond. They are of human shape, but through the fog looking grand as giants.
He is not beguiled by the deception; he knows it to be the two officers, their forms magnified by the mist. No others are likely to be coming that way; for he can see they are approaching; and, as can be told by their careless, swaggering gait, unsuspicious of danger, little dreaming of an ambuscade, that in ten seconds more may deprive them of existence! To him, hurrying to avert this catastrophe, it is a moment of intense apprehension – of dread chilling fear. He sees them almost up to the place where the assassins should spring out upon them. In another instant he may hear the cracking of pistols, and see flashes through the fogs. Expecting it even before he can speak, he nevertheless calls out:
“Avast there, Mr Crozier! We’re Crusaders. Stop where you are. Another step, and you’ll be shot at. There’s four men under that wall waiting to murder ye. D’ye know the names, Calderon and Lara? It’s them!”
At the first words, the young officers – for it is they – instantly come to a stand. The more promptly from being prepared to expect an attack, but without the warning. Well-timed it is; and they have not stopped a moment too soon.
Simultaneous with the sailor’s last word, the sombre space under the wall is lit up by four flashes, followed by the report of as many pistols, while the “tzip-tzip” of bullets, like hornets hurtle pass their ears, leaving no doubt as to who has been fired at.
Fired at, and fortunately missed; for neither feels hurt nor hit!
But the danger is not yet over. Quick following the first comes a second volley, and again with like result. Bad marksmen are they who design doing murder.
It is the last round of shots. In all likelihood, the pistols of the assassins are double-barrelled, and both barrels have been discharged. Before they can reload them, Harry Blew, with his Crusaders, has come up, and it is too late for De Lara and his confederates to use the steel.
Crozier and Cadwallader bound forward; and placing themselves at the head of the boat’s crew, advance toward the shadowed spot. They go with a rush, resolved on coming to close quarters with their dastardly assailants, and bringing the affair to a speedy termination.
But it is over already, to their surprise, as also chagrin. On reaching the wall, they find nothing there save stones and timber! The dark space for an instant illuminated by the pistol-flashes, has resumed its grim obscurity. The assassins have got away, escaping the chastisement they would surely have received had they stood their ground.
Some figures are seen in the distance, scuttling along a narrow lane. Cadwallader brings his pistol to bear on them, his finger upon the trigger. But it may not be they; and stayed by the uncertainty, he refrains from firing.
“Let them go!” counsels Crozier. “’Twould be no use looking for them now. Their crime will keep till morning; and since we know their names, it’ll be strange if we can’t find them; though not so strange if we should fail to get them punished. But that they shall be, if there’s a semblance of law to be found in San Francisco. Now, thanks, my brave Crusaders! And there’s a hundred pound note to be divided among you. Small reward for the saving of two lives, with a large sum of money. Certainly, had you not turned up so opportunely – But, Harry, how come you to be here? Never mind now! Let us get on board! and you, Blew, must go with us. It’ll do you no harm to spend one more night on your old ship. There you can tell me all.”
Harry joyfully complies with a requisition so much to his mind; and, instead of tossing discontentedly on a couch of wet sand, he that night sleeps soundly in his old bunk in the frigate’s forepeak.
