Майн Рид
The Flag of Distress: A Story of the South Sea
Chapter Forty Four.
“Ambre La Puerta!”
Another sun has shone upon San Francisco Bay, and again gone down in red gleam over the far-spreading Pacific, leaving the sky of a leaden colour, moonless and starless.
As the hour of midnight approaches it assumes the hue predicted by Rocas, and desired by Diaz. For the ocean fog has again rolled shoreward across the peninsula, and shrouds San Francisco as with a pall. The adjacent country is covered with its funereal curtain, embracing within its folds the house of Don Gregorio Montijo.
The inmates seem all asleep, as at this hour they should. No light is seen through the windows, nor any sound heard within the walls. Not even the baying of a watch-dog, the bellow of a stalled ox, or the stamping of a horse in the stables. Inside, as without, all is silence.
The profound silence seems strange, though favourable, to four men not far from the place, and gradually, but with slow steps, drawing nearer to it. For they are approaching by stealth, as can be told by their attitudes and gestures. They advance crouchingly, now and then stopping to take a survey of the terrain in front, as they do so exchanging whispered words with one another.
Through the hazy atmosphere their figures show weird-like – all the more from their grotesque gesticulations. Even if scrutinised closely, and in clearest light, they would present this appearance; for although in human shape, and wearing the garb of men, their faces more resemble those of demons. They are human countenances, nevertheless, but en-mascaradas.
Nothing more is needed to tell who, and what they are, with their purpose in thus approaching Don Gregorio’s house. They are burglars, designing to break into it.
It needs not the removal of their masks to identify them as the four conspirators left plotting in the rancho of Rafael Rocas.
They are now en route for putting their scheme into execution.
It would look as if Don Gregorio were never to get his gold to Panama – much less have it transported to Spain.
And his daughter! What of her, with Francisco de Lara drawing nigh as one of the nocturnal ravagers? His grand-daughter, too, Faustino Calderon being another?
One cognisant of the existing relations, and spectator of what is passing now – seeing the craped robbers as they steal on towards the house – would suppose it in danger of being doubly despoiled, and that its owner is to suffer desolation, not only in fortune, but in that far dearer to him – his family.
The burglars are approaching from the front, up the avenue, though not on it. They keep along its edge among the manzanita bushes. These, with the fog, afford sufficient screen to prevent their being observed from the house – even though sentinels were set upon its azotea. But there appears to be none; no eye to see, no voice to give warning, not even the bark of a watch, dog to wake those unconsciously slumbering within.
As already said, there is something strange in this. On a large grazing estate it is rare for the Molossian to be silent. More usually his sonorous voice is heard throughout the night, or at brief intervals.
Though anything but desirous to hear the barking of dogs, the burglars are themselves puzzled at the universal silence, so long continued. For before entering the enclosure they have been lying concealed in a thicket outside, their horses tied to trees, where they have now left them, and during all the time not a sound had reached their ears; no voice either of man or animal! They are now within sight of the house, its massive front looming large and dark through the mist – still no stir outside, and within the stillness of death itself!
Along with astonishment, a sense of awe is felt by one of the four criminals – Calderon, who has still some lingering reluctance as to the deed about to be done – or it may be but fear. The other three are too strong in courage, and too hardened in crime, for scruples of any kind.
Arriving at the end of the avenue, and within a short distance of the dwelling, they stop for a final consultation, still under cover of the manzanitas.
All silent as ever; no one stirring; no light from any window; the shutters closed behind the rejas– the great puerta as well!
“Now, about getting inside,” says De Lara; “what will be our best way?”
“In my opinion,” answers Diaz, “we’ll do best by climbing up to the azotea, and over it into the patio.”
“Where’s your ladder?” asks Rocas, in his gruff, blunt way.
“We must find one, or something that’ll serve instead. There should be loose timber lying about the corrals– enough to provide us with a climbing-pole.”
“And while searching for it, wake up some of the vaqueros. That won’t do.”
“Then what do you propose, Rafael?” interrogates the chief conspirator.
The seal-hunter, from a presumed acquaintance with housebreaking, is listened to with attention.
“Walk straight up to the door,” he answers; “knock, and ask to be admitted.”
“Ay; and have a blunderbuss fired at us, with a shower of bullets big as billiard balls. Carrai!”
It is Calderon who speaks thus apprehensively.
“Not the least danger of that,” rejoins Rocas. “Take my word, we’ll be let in.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Why? Because we have a claim on the hospitality of the house.”
“I don’t understand you, Rocas,” says De Lara.
“Haven’t we a good story to tell – simple, and to the purpose?”
“Still I don’t understand. Explain yourself, Rafael.”
“Don’t we come as messengers from the man-o’-war – from those officers you’ve been telling me about?”
“Ah! now I perceive your drift.”
“One can so announce himself, while the others keep out of sight. He can say he’s been sent by the young gentlemen on an errand to Don Gregorio, or the señoritas, if you like. Something of importance affecting their departure. True, by this they’ll know the ship’s weighed anchor. No matter; the story of a message will stand good all the same.”
“Rafael Rocas!” exclaims De Lara, “you’re a born genius. Instead of being forced to do a little smuggling now and then, you ought to be made administrator-general of customs. We shall act as you advise. No doubt the door will be opened. When it is, one can take charge of the janitor. He’s a sexagenarian, and won’t be hard to hold. If he struggle, let him be silenced. The rest of us can go ransacking. You, Calderon, are acquainted with the interior, and, as you say, know the room where Don Gregorio is most likely to keep his chest. You must lead us straight for that.”
“But, Francisco,” whispers Calderon in the ear of his confederate, after drawing him a little apart from the other two; “about the niñas? You don’t intend anything with them?”
“Certainly not – not to-night; nor in this fashion. I hope being able to approach them in gentler guise, and more becoming time. When they’re without a peso in the world, they’ll be less proud; and may be contented to stay a little longer in California. To-night we’ve enough on our hands without thinking of women. One thing at a time – their money first – themselves afterwards.”
“But suppose they should recognise us?”
“They can’t. Disguised as we are, I defy a man’s mother to know him. If they did, then – ”
“Then what?”
“No use reflecting what. Don’t be so scared, man! If I’d anticipated any chance of its coming to extremes of the kind you’re pondering upon, I wouldn’t be here prepared for only half measures. Perhaps we sha’n’t even wake the ladies up; and if we do, there’s not the slightest danger of our being known. So make your mind easy, and let’s get through with it. See! Diaz and Rocas are getting impatient! We must rejoin them, and proceed to business at once.”
The four housebreakers again set their heads together; and after a few whispered words, to settle all particulars about their plan of proceeding, advance towards the door.
Once up to it, they stand close in, concealed by its o’ershadowing arch.
With the butt of his pistol, De Lara knocks.
Diaz, unknown to the family, and therefore without fear of his voice being recognised, is to do the talking.
No one answers the knock; and it is repeated. Louder, and still louder.
The sexagenarian janitor sleeps soundly to-night, thinks De Lara, deeming it strange.
Another “rat-at-tat” with the pistol-butt, followed by the usual formulary:
“Ambre la puerta!”
At length comes a response from within; but not the customary “Quen es?” nor anything in Spanish. On the contrary, the speech which salutes the ears of those seeking admission is in a different tongue, and tone altogether unlike that of a native Californian.
“Who the old scratch are ye?” asks a voice from inside, while a heavy footstep is heard coming along the saguan. Before the startled burglars can shape a reply, the voice continues:
“Damn ye! What d’ye want anyhow – wakin’ a fellur out o’ his sleep at this time o’ the night? ’Twould sarve ye right if I sent a bullet through the door at ye. Take care what you’re about. I’ve got my shootin’-iron handy; a Colt’s revolver – biggest size at thet.”
“Por Dios! what does this mean?” mutters De Lara.
“Tell him, Diaz,” he adds, in sotto-voce to the cockfighter – “tell him we’re from the British man-o’-war with —Carrai! I forgot, you don’t speak English. I must do it myself. He won’t know who it is.” Then raising his voice: “We want to see Don Gregorio Montijo. We bring a message from the British man-o’-war – from the two officers.”
“Consarn the British man-o’-war!” interrupts the surly speaker inside; “an’ yur message, an’ yur two officers, I know nothin’ ’bout them. As for Don Gregorio, if ye want to get sight on him, ye’re a preeshus way wide o’ the mark. He ain’t here any more. He’s gin up the house, an’ tuk everything o’ hisn out o’t this mornin’. I’m only hyar in charge o’ the place. Guess you’ll find both the Don an’ his darters at the Parker– the most likeliest place to tree thet lot.”
Don Gregorio gone! – his gold – his girls! Only an empty house, in charge of a caretaker, who carries a Colt’s repeating pistol, biggest size, and would use it on the smallest provocation!
No good their going inside now, but a deal of danger. Anything but pleasant medicine would be a pill from that six-shooter.
“Carramba! Caraio! Chingara! Maldita!”
Such are the wild exclamations that issue from the lips of the disappointed housebreakers, as they turn away from the dismantled dwelling, and hasten to regain their horses.
Chapter Forty Five.
A Scratch Crew
It was a fortunate inspiration that led the ex-haciendado to have his gold secretly carried on board the Chilian ship; another, that influenced him to transfer his family, and household gods, to an hotel in the town.
It was all done in a day – that same day. Every hour, after the sailing of the Crusader, had he become more anxious; for every hour brought intelligence of some new act of outlawry in the neighbourhood, impressing him with the insecurity, not only of his Penates, but the lives of himself and his ladies. So long as the British ship lay in port, it seemed a protection to him; and although this may have been but fancy, it served somewhat to tranquillise his fears. Soon as she was gone, he gave way to them, summoned Silvestre, with a numerous retinue of cargadores, and swept the house clean of everything he intended taking – the furniture alone being left, as part of the purchased effects.
He has indeed reason to congratulate himself on his rapid removal, as he finds on the following day, when visiting his old home for some trifling purpose, and there hearing what had happened during the night.
The man in charge – a stalwart American, armed to the teeth – gives him a full account of the nocturnal visitors. There were four, he says – having counted them through the keyhole – inquiring for him, Don Gregorio. They appeared greatly disappointed at not getting an interview with him; and went off uttering adjurations in Spanish, though having held their parley in English.
A message from the British man-of-war! And brought by men who swore in Spanish! Strange all that, thinks Don Gregorio, knowing the Crusader should then be at least a hundred leagues off at sea.
Besides, the messengers have not presented themselves at the Parker House, to which the caretaker had directed them.
“What can it mean?” asks the ex-haciendado of himself.
Perhaps the sailor who is now first officer of the Chilian ship may know something of it; and he will question him next time he goes aboard.
He has, however, little hope of being enlightened in that quarter; his suspicions turning elsewhere. He cannot help connecting Messrs De Lara and Calderon with the occurrence. Crozier’s letter, coupled with the further information received from the bearer of it, has thrown such a light on the character of these two enhalleros, he can believe them capable of anything. After their attempt to rob the young officers, and murder them as well, they would not hesitate to serve others the same; and the demand for admission to his house may have been made by these very men, with a couple of confederates – their design to plunder it, if not do something worse.
Thus reflecting, he is thankful for having so unconsciously foiled them – indeed, deeming it a Providence.
Still is he all the more solicitous to leave a land beset with such dangers. Even in the town he does not feel safe. Robbers and murderers walk boldly abroad through the streets; not alone, but in the company of judges who have tried without condemning them; while lesser criminals stand by drinking-bars, hobnobbing with the constables who either hold them in charge, or have just released them, after a mock-hearing before some magistrate, with eyes blind as those of Justice herself – blinded by the gold-dust of California!
Notwithstanding all this, Don Gregorio need have no fear for his ladies. Their sojourn at the hotel may be somewhat irksome, and uncongenial; still they are safe. Rough-looking and boisterous as are some of their fellow-guests, they are yet in no way rude. The most refined or sensitive lady need not fear moving in their midst. A word or gesture of insult to her would call forth instant chastisement.
It is not on their account he continues anxious, but because of his unprotected treasure. Though secreted aboard the Condor, it is still unsafe. Should its whereabouts get whispered abroad, there are robbers bold enough, not only to take it from the Chilian skipper, but set fire to his ship, himself in her, and cover their crime by burning everything up.
Aware of all this, the ex-haciendado, with the help of friendly Silvestre, has half-a-dozen trusty men placed aboard of her – there to stay till a crew can be engaged. It is a costly matter, but money may save money, and now is not the time to cavil at expenses.
As yet, not a sailor has presented himself. None seem caring to ship “for Valparaiso and intermediate ports,” even at the double wages offered in the Diario. The Condor’s forecastle remains untenanted, except by the six longshore men, who temporarily occupy it, without exactly knowing why they are there; but contented to make no inquiry, so long as they are receiving their ten dollars a day. Of crew, there is only the captain himself, his first officer, and the cook. The orangs do not count.
Day by day, Don Gregorio grows more impatient, and is in constant communication with Silvestre.
“Offer higher wages,” he says. “Engage sailors at any price.”
The shipping-agent yields assent; inserts a second aviso in the Spanish paper, addressed to marineros of all nations. Triple wages to those who will take service on a well-appointed ship. In addition, all the usual allowances, the best of grub and grog. Surely this should get the Condor a crew.
And at length it does. Within twenty-four hours after the advertisement has appeared, sailors begin to show on her decks. They come singly, or in twos and threes; and keep coming till as many as half-a-score have presented themselves. They belong to different nationalities, speaking several tongues – among them English, French, and Danish. But the majority appear to be Spaniards, or Spanish-Americans – as might have been expected from the Condor being a Chilian ship.
Among them is the usual variety of facial expression; though, in one respect, a wonderful uniformity. Scarce a man of them whose countenance is not in some way unprepossessing – either naturally of sinister cast, or brought to it by a career of sinful dissipation. Several of them show signs of having been recently drinking – with eyes bleary and bloodshot. Of strife, too, its souvenirs visible in other eyes that are blackened, and scars upon cheeks not yet cicatrised. Some are still in a state of inebriety, and stagger as they stray about the decks.
Under any other circumstances, such sailors would stand no chance of getting shipped. As it is, they are accepted – not one refused. Captain Lantanas has no choice, and knows it. Without them he is helpless, and it would be hopeless for him to think of putting to sea. If he do not take them, the Candour may swing idly at her anchor for weeks, it might be months.
Quick as they came aboard, he enters their names on the ship’s books, while Harry Blew assigns them their separate bunks in the forepeak. One, a Spaniard, by name Padilla, shows credentials from some former ship, which procure him the berth of piloto-segundo (second mate).
After the ten had been taken, no more present themselves. Even the big bounty offered does not tempt another tar from the saloons of San Francisco. In any other seaport, it would empty every sailors’ boarding-house, to its last lodger.
And ten hands are not enough to work the good ship Condor.
Her captain knows it, and waits another day, hoping he may get a few more to complete her complement; but hopes in vain, the supply seems exhausted.
Becoming convinced of this, he determines to set sail with such crew as he has secured. But little more remains to be done; some stores to be shipped, provisions for the voyage, the best and freshest San Francisco can afford. For he who authorises their inlay cares not for the cost – only that things may be made comfortable. Don Gregorio gives carte-blanche for providing the vessel; and it is done according to his directions.
At length everything is ready, and the Condor only awaits her passengers. Her cabin has been handsomely furnished; its best state-room decorated to receive two ladies, fair as ever set foot on board ship.
Chapter Forty Six.
“Adios California!”
A bright sun rises over San Francisco, in all likelihood the last Don Gregorio Montijo will ever witness in California. For just as the orb of day shows its disc above the dome-shaped silhouette of Monte Diablo, flinging its golden shimmer across the bay, a boat leaves the town-pier, bearing him and his towards the Chilian vessel, whose signals for sailing are out.
Others are in the boat; a large party of ladies and gentlemen, who accompany them to do a last handshaking on board. For, in quitting California, the ex-haciendado leaves many friends behind; among them, some who will pass sleepless hours thinking of Carmen Montijo; and others whose hearts will be sore as their thoughts turn to Iñez Alvarez.
It may be that none of those are present now; and better for them if not; since the most painful of all partings is that where the lover sees his sweetheart sail away, with the knowledge she cares neither to stay, nor come back.
The young ladies going off show but little sign of regret at leaving. They are hindered by remembrance of the last words spoken at another parting, now painfully recalled: “Hasta Cadiz!” The thought of that takes the sting out of this.
The boat reaches the ship, and swinging around, lies alongside.
Captain Lantanas stands by the gangway to receive his passengers, with their friends; while his first officer helps them up the man-ropes.
Among the ladies, Harry Blew distinguishes the two he is to have charge of, and with them is specially careful. As their soft-gloved fingers rest in his rough horny hand, he mentally registers a vow that it shall never fail them in the hour of need – if such there ever be.
On the cabin-table is spread a refection of the best; and around it the leave-takers assemble, the Chilian skipper doing the honours of his ship. And gracefully, for he is a gentleman.
Half-an-hour of merry-making, light chatter, enlivened by the popping of corks, and clinking of glasses; then ten minutes of converse more serious; after which hurried graspings of the hand and a general scattering towards the shore-boat, which soon after moves off amid exclamations of “Adios!” and “Bueno viage!” accompanied by the waving of hands, and white slender fingers saluting with tremulous motion – like the quiver of a kestrel’s wing – the fashion of the Spanish-american fair.
While the boat is being rowed back to the shore, the Condor puts out her canvas, and stands away towards the Golden Gate.
She is soon out of sight of the port; having entered the strait which gives access to the great land-locked estuary. But a wind blowing in from the west hinders her; and she is all the day tacking through the eight miles of narrow water which connects San Francisco Bay with the Pacific.
The sun is nigh set as she passes the old Spanish fort and opens view of the outside ocean. But the heavenly orb that rose over Mont Diablo like a globe of gold goes down beyond ‘Los Farrallones’ more resembling a ball of fire about to be quenched hissing in the sea.
It is still only half-immersed behind the blue expanse, when, gliding out from the portals of the Golden Gate, the Condor rounds Seal Rock, and stands on her course West-South-West.
The wind shifts, the evening breeze begins to blow steadily from the land. This is favourable; and after tacks have been set, and sails sheeted home, there is but little work to be done.
It is the hour of the second dog-watch, and the sailors are all on deck, grouped about the fore hatch, and gleefully conversing. Here and there an odd individual stands by the side, with eyes turned shoreward, taking a last look at the land. Not as if he regretted leaving it, but is rather glad to get away. More than one of that crew have reason to feel thankful that the Chilian craft is carrying them from a country, where, had they stayed much longer, it would have been to find lodgment in a jail. Out at sea, their faces seem no better favoured than when they first stepped aboard. Scarce recovered from their shore carousing, they show swollen cheeks, and eyes inflamed with alcohol; countenances from which the breeze of the Pacific, however pure, cannot remove that sinister cast.
At sight of them, and the two fair creatures sailing in the same ship, a thought about the incongruity – as also the insecurity of such companionship – cannot help coming uppermost. It is like two beautiful birds of Paradise shut up in the same cage with wolves, tigers, and hyenas.
But the birds of Paradise are not troubling themselves about this, or anything else in the ship. Lingering abaft the binnacle, with their hands resting on the taffrail, they look back at the land, their eyes fixed upon the summit of a hill, ere long to become lost to their view by the setting of the sun. They have been standing so for some time in silence, when Iñez says:
“I can tell what you’re thinking of, tia.”
“Indeed, can you? Well, let me hear it.”
“You’re saying to yourself: ‘What a beautiful hill that is yonder; and how I should like to be once more upon its top – not alone, but with somebody beside me.’ Now, tell the truth, isn’t that it?”
“Those are your own thoughts, sobrina.”
“I admit it, and also that they are pleasant. So are yours; are they not?”
“Only in part. I have others, which I suppose you can share with me.”
“What others?”
“Reflections not at all agreeable, but quite the contrary.”
“Again distressing yourself about that! It don’t give me the slightest concern; and didn’t from the first.”
“No?”
“No!”
“Well; I must say you take things easily – which I don’t. A lover – engaged, too – to go away in that sans façon way! Not so much as a note, nor even a verbal message. Santissima! it was something more than rude – it was cruel; and I can’t help thinking so.”
“But there was a message in the letter to grandpapa, for both of us. What more would you wish?”
“Pff! who cares for parting compliments? A lepero would send better to his sweetheart in sleeveless camisa. That’s not the message for me.”
“How can you tell there wasn’t some other which has miscarried? I’m almost sure there has been; else why should somebody have knocked at the door an’ said so. The Americano left in charge of the house has told grandpa something about four men having come there the night after we left it. One may have been this messenger we’ve missed – the others going with him for company. And through his neglect we’ve not got letters intended for us. Or, if they haven’t written, it’s because they were pressed for time. However, we shall know when we meet them at Cadiz.”
“Ah! when we meet them there, I’ll demand an explanation from Eduardo. That shall I, and get it – or know the reason why.”
“He will have a good one, I warrant. There’s been a miscarriage, somehow. For hasn’t there been mystery all round? Luckily, no fighting, as we feared, and have reason to rejoice. Neither anything seen or heard of your California!! chivalry! That’s the strangest thing of all.”
“It is indeed strange,” rejoins Carmen, showing emotion; “I wonder what became of them. Nobody that we know has met either after that day; nor yet heard word of them.”
“Carmen, I believe one has heard of them.”
“Who?”
“Your father.”
“What makes you think so, Iñez!”
“Some words I overheard, while he was conversing with the English sailor who’s now in the ship with us. I’m almost certain there was something in Mr Crozier’s letter relating to De Lara and Calderon. What it was, grandpa seems desirous of keeping to himself; else he would have told us. We must endeavour to find it out from the sailor.”
“You’re a cunning schemer, sobrina. I should never have thought of that. We shall try. Now I remember, Eduardo once saved this man’s life. Wasn’t it a noble, daring deed? For all, I’m very angry with him, leaving me as he has done; and sha’n’t be pacified until I see him on his knees, and he apologise for it. That he shall do at Cadiz!”
“To confess the truth, tia, I was a little spited myself at first. On reflection, I feel sure there’s been some mischance, and we’ve been wronging them both. I sha’n’t blame my darling till I see him again. Then if he can’t clear himself, oh, won’t I!”
“You forgive too easily. I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. Look at yonder hill. Recall the pleasant hour passed upon it, and you will be lenient, as I am.”
Carmen obeys, and again turns her glance toward the spot consecrated by sweetest remembrances.
As she continues to gaze at it, the cloud lifts from her brow, replaced by a smile, and promises easy pardon to him who has offended her.
In silence the two stand, straining their eyes upon the far summit, till shore and sea become one – both blending into the purple of twilight.
“Adios, California!”
Land no longer in sight. The ship is au large on the ocean.
