Майн Рид
The Flag of Distress: A Story of the South Sea
Chapter Forty Seven.
A Tattoo that needs Retouching
The great Pacific current in many respects resembles the Gulf Stream of the Atlantic. Passing eastward under the Aleutian Archipelago, it impinges upon the American continent by Vancouver’s Island; thence setting southward, along the Californian coast, curves round horseshoe shape, and sets back for the central part of the South Sea, sweeping on past the Sandwich Isles.
By this disposition, a ship bound from San Francisco for Honolulu has the flow in her favour; and if the wind be also favourable, she will make fast way.
As chance has it, both are propitious to the Crusader, and the warship standing for the Sandwich Islands will likely reach them after an incredibly short voyage.
There are two individuals on board of her who wish it to be so; counting every day, almost every hour, of her course. Not that they have any desire to visit the dominions of King Kamehameha, or expect pleasure there. On the contrary, if left to themselves, the frigate’s stay in the harbour of Honolulu would not last longer than necessary to procure a boat-load of bananas, and replenish her hen-coops with fat Kanaka fowls.
It is scarce necessary to say that they, who are thus indifferent to the delights of Owyhee, are the late-made lieutenant, Crozier, and the midshipman, Cadwallader. For them the brown-skinned Hawaian beauties will have little attraction. Not the slightest danger of either yielding to the blandishments so lavishly bestowed upon sailors by these seductive damsels of the Southern Sea. For the hearts of both are yet thrilling with the remembrance of smiles vouchsafed them by other daughters of the sunny south, of a far different race – thrilling, too, with the anticipation of again basking in their smiles under the sky of Andalusia.
It needs hope – all they can command – to cheer them. Not because the time is great, and the place distant. Sailors are accustomed to long separation from those they love, and, therefore, habituated to patience. It is no particular uneasiness of this kind which shadows their brows, and makes every mile of the voyage seem a league.
Nor are their spirits clouded by any reflections on that, which so chafed them just before leaving San Francisco. If they have any feelings about it, they are rather those of repentance for suspicions, which both believe to have been unfounded, as unworthy.
What troubles them now – for they are troubled – has nought to do with that. Nor is it any doubt as to the loyalty of their fiancée; but fear for their safety. It is not well-defined; but like some dream which haunts them – at times so slight as to cause little concern, at others, filling them with keen anxiety.
But in whatever degree felt, it always assumes the same shape – two figures conspicuous in it, besides those of their betrothed sweethearts – two faces of evil omen, one that of Calderon, the other De Lara’s.
What the young officers saw of these men, and what more they learnt of them before leaving San Francisco, makes natural their misgivings, and justifies their fears. Something seems to whisper them, that there is danger to be dreaded from the gamblers – desperadoes as they have shown themselves – that through them some eventuality may arise, affecting the future of Carmen Montijo and Iñez Alvarez – even to prevent their escaping from California.
Escape! Yes; that is the word which Crozier and Cadwallader make use of in their conversation on the subject – the form in which their fear presents itself.
Before reaching the Sandwich Islands, they receive a scrap of intelligence, which in some respect cheers them. It has become known to the Crusader’s crew that the frigate is to make but short stay there – will not even enter the harbour of Honolulu. The commission entrusted to her captain is of no very important nature. He is simply to leave an official despatch, with some commands for the British consul: after which head round again, and straight for Panama.
“Good news; isn’t it, Ned?” says Cadwallader to his senior, as the two on watch together stand conversing. “With the quick time we’ve made from ’Frisco, as the Yankees call it, and no delay to speak of in the Sandwiches, we ought to get to the Isthmus nearly as soon as the Chilian ship.”
“True; but it will a good deal depend on the time the Chilian ship leaves San Francisco. No doubt she’d have great difficulty in getting a sufficient number of hands. Blew told you there was but the captain and himself!”
“Only they; and the cook, an old darkey – a runaway slave, he said. Besides a brace of great red baboons – orangs. That was the whole of her crew, by last report! Well; in one way we ought to be glad she’s so short,” continues the midshipman. “It may give us the chance of reaching Panama soon as she, if not before her; and, as the frigate’s destined to put into that port, we may meet the dear girls again, sooner than we expected.”
“I hope and trust we shall. I’d give a thousand pounds to be sure of it. It would lift a load off my mind – the heaviest I’ve ever had on it.”
“Off mine, too. But even if we don’t reach Panama soon as the Chilian craft, we’ll hear whether she’s passed through there. If she have, that’ll set things right enough. We’ll then know they’re safe, and will be so – ‘Hasta Cadiz’.”
“It seems a good omen,” says Crozier, reflectingly, “that we are not to be delayed at the Islands.”
“It does,” rejoins Cadwallader; “though, but for the other thing, I’d like it better if we had to stay there – only for a day or two.”
“For what reason?”
“There!” says the midshipman, pulling up his shirtsleeve, and laying bare his arm to the elbow. “Look at that, lieutenant!”
The lieutenant looks, and sees upon the skin, white as alabaster, a bit of tattooing. It is the figure of a young girl, somewhat scantily robed, with long streaming tresses: hair, contour, countenance, everything done in the deepest indigo.
“Some old sweetheart?” suggests Crozier.
“It is.”
“But she can’t be a Sandwich Island belle. You’ve never been there?”
“No, she isn’t. She’s a little Chileña, whose acquaintance I made last spring, while we lay at Valparaiso. Grummet, the cutter’s coxswain, did the tattoo for me, as we came up the Pacific. He hadn’t quite time to finish it as you see. There was to be a picture of the Chilian flag over her head, and underneath the girl’s name, or initials. I’m now glad they didn’t go in.”
“But what the deuce has all this to do with the Sandwich Islands?”
“Only, that, there, I intended to have the thing taken out again. Grummet tells me he can’t do it, but that the Kanakas can. He says they’ve got some trick for extracting the stain, without scarring the skin, or only very slightly.”
“But why should you care about removing it? I acknowledge tattooing is not nice, on the epidermis of a gentleman; and I’ve met scores, like yourself, sorry for having submitted to it. After all, what does it signify? Nobody need ever see it, unless you wish them to.”
“There’s where you mistake. Somebody might see it, without my wishing – sure to see it, if ever I get – ”
“What?”
“Spliced.”
“Ah! Iñez?”
“Yes; Iñez. Now you understand why I’d like to spend a day or two among the South Sea Islanders. If I can’t get the thing rubbed out, I’ll be in a pretty mess about it. I know Iñez would be indulgent in a good many ways; but when she sees that blue image on my arm, she’ll look black enough. And what am I to say to her? I told her, she was the first sweetheart I ever had; as you know, Ned, a little bit of a fib. Only a white one; for the Chileña was but a mere fancy, gone out of my mind long ago; as, no doubt, I am out of hers. The question is, how’s her picture to be got out of my skin? I’d give something to know.”
“If that’s all your trouble, you needn’t be at any expense – except what you may tip old Grummet. You say he has not completed the portrait of your Chileña. That’s plain enough, looking at the shortness of her skirts. Now let him go on, and lengthen them a little. Then finish by putting a Spanish flag over her head, instead of the Chilian, as you intended, and underneath the initials ‘I.A.’ With that on your arm, you may safely show it to Iñez.”
“A splendid idea! The very thing! The only difficulty is, that this picture of the Chilian girl isn’t anything like as good-looking as Iñez. Besides, it would never pass for her portrait.”
“Let me see. I’m not so sure about that. I think, with a few more touches, it will stand well enough for your Andalusian. Grummet’s given her all the wealth of hair you’re so constantly bragging about. The only poverty’s in that petticoat. But if you get the skirt stretched a bit, that will remedy it. You want sleeves, too, to make her a lady. Then set a tall tortoise-shell comb upon her crown, with a spread of lace over it, hanging down below the shoulders – the mantilla – and you’ll make almost as good an Andalusian of her as is Iñez herself.”
“By Jove! you’re right; it can be done. The bit added to the skirt will look like a flounced border; the Spanish ladies have such on their dresses. I’ve seen them. And a fan – they have that too. She must have one.”
“By all means, give her a fan. And as you’re doubtful about the likeness, let it be done so as to cover her face – at least the lower half of it; that will be just as they carry it. You can hide that nose, which is a trifle too snub for your fiancée. The eyes appear good enough.”
“The Chileña had splendid eyes!”
“Of course, or she wouldn’t have her portrait on your arm. But how did the artist know that? Has he ever seen the original?”
“No; I described her to him; and he’s well acquainted with the costume the Chilian girls wear. He’s seen plenty of such. I told him to make the face a nice oval, with a small mouth, and pretty pouting lips; then to give her great big eyes. You see he’s done all that.”
“He has, certainly.”
“About the feet? They’ll do, won’t they? They’re small enough, I should say.”
“Quite small enough; and those ankles are perfection. They ought to satisfy your Andalusian – almost flatter her.”
“Flatter her! I should think not. They might your Biscayan, with her big feet; but not Iñez; who’s got the tiniest little understandings I ever saw under the skirt of a petticoat – tall as she is.”
“Stuff!” scornfully retorts Crozier; “that’s a grand mistake people make about small feet. It’s not the size, but the shape, that’s to be admired. They should be in proportion to the rest of the body; otherwise they’re a monstrosity – as among the Chinese, for instance. And as for small feet in men, about which the French pride, and pinch themselves, why every tailor’s got that.”
“Ha, ha ha!” laughs the young Welshman. “A treatise on Orthopoedia, or whatever it’s called. Well, I shall let the Chilena’s feet stand, with the ankles too, and get Grummet to add on the toggery.”
“What if your Chileña should chance to set eyes on the improved portrait? Remember we’re to call at Valparaiso!”
“By Jove! I never thought of that.”
“If you should meet her, you’ll do well to keep your shirt-sleeves down, or you may get the picture scratched – your cheeks along with it.”
“Bah! there’s no danger of that. I don’t expect ever to see that girl again – don’t intend to. It wouldn’t be fair, after giving that engagement ring to Iñez. If we do put into Valparaiso, I’ll stay aboard all the time the frigate’s in port. That will insure against any – ”
“Land ho!”
Their dialogue is interrupted. The lookout on the masthead has sighted Mauna-Loa.
Chapter Forty Eight.
A Crew that means Mutiny
A Ship sailing down the Pacific, on the line of longitude 125 degrees West. Technically speaking, not a ship, but a barque, as may be told by her mizzen-sails, set fore and aft.
Of all craft encountered on the ocean, there is none so symmetrically beautiful as the barque. Just as the name looks well on the page of poetry and romance, so is the reality itself on the surface of the sea. The sight is simply perfection.
And about the vessel in question another graceful peculiarity is observable: her masts are of the special kind called polacca– in one piece from step to truck.
Such vessels are common enough in the Mediterranean, and not rare in Spanish-American ports. They may be seen at Monte Video, Buenos Ayres, and Valparaiso – to which last this barque belongs. For she is Chilian built; her tall tapering masts made of trees from the ancient forests of Araucania. Painted upon the stern is the name El Condor; and she is the craft commanded by Captain Antonio Lantanas.
This may seem strange. In the harbour of San Francisco the Condor was a ship. How can she now be a barque?
The answer is easy, as has been the transformation; and a word will explain it. For the working of her sails, a barque requires fewer hands than a ship. Finding himself with a short crew, Captain Lantanas has resorted to a stratagem, common in such cases, and converted his vessel accordingly. The conversion was effected on the day before leaving San Francisco; so that the Condor, entering the Golden Gate a ship, stood out of it a barque. As such she is now on the ocean, sailing southward along the line of longitude 125 degrees West. In the usual track taken by sailing-vessels between Upper California and the Isthmus, she has westered, to get well clear of the coast, and catch the regular winds, that, centuries ago, wafted the spice-laden Spanish galleons from the Philippines to Acapulco. A steamer would hug the shore, keeping the brown barren mountains of Lower California in view. Instead, the Condor has sheered wide from the land; and, in all probability, will not again sight it till she’s bearing up to Panama Bay.
It is the middle watch of the night – the first after leaving San Francisco. Eight bells have sounded, and the chief mate is in charge, the second having turned in, along with the division of crew allotted to him. The sea is tranquil, the breeze light, blowing from the desired quarter, so that there is nothing to call for any unusual vigilance.
True, the night is dark, but without portent of storm. It is, as Harry Blew knows, only a thick rain-cloud, such as often shadows this part of the Pacific.
But the darkness need not be dreaded. They are in too low a latitude to encounter icebergs; and upon the wide waters of the South Sea there is not much danger of collision with ships.
Notwithstanding these reasons for feeling secure, the chief officer of the Condor paces her decks with a brow clouded, as the heavens over his head; while the glance of his eye betrays anxiety of no ordinary kind. It cannot be from any apprehension about the weather. He does not regard the sky, nor the sea, nor the sails. On the contrary, he moves about, not with bold, manlike step, as one having command of a vessel, but stealthily, now and then stopping and standing in crouched attitude, within the deeper shadow thrown upon the decks by masts, bulwarks, and boats. He seems less to occupy himself about the ropes, spars, and sails, than the behaviour of those who work them. Not while they are working them either, but more when they are straying idly along the gangways, or clustered in some corner, and conversing. In short, he appears to be playing spy on them.
For this he has his reasons. And for all good ones. Before leaving port he had discovered the incapacity of the crew, so hastily scraped together. A bad lot, he could see at first sight – rough, ribald, and drunken. In all there are eleven of them, the second mate included; the last, as already stated, a Spaniard, by name Padilla. There are three others of the same race – Spaniards, or Spanish-Americans – Gil Gomez, José Hernandez, and Jacinto Velarde; two Englishmen, Jack Striker and Bill Davis; a Frenchman, by name La Crosse; a Dutchman, and a Dane; the remaining two being men whose nationality is difficult to determine, and scarce known to themselves – such as may be met on almost every ship that sails the sea.
The chief officer of the Condor, accustomed to a man-o’-war, with its rigid discipline, is already disgusted with what is going on aboard the merchantman. He was so before leaving San Francisco, having also some anxiety about the navigation of the vessel. With a crew so incapable, he anticipated difficulty, if not danger. But now that he is out upon the open ocean, he is sure of the first, and keenly apprehensive of the last. For, in less than a single day’s sailing, he has discovered that the sailors, besides counting short, are otherwise untrustworthy. Several of them are not sailors at all, but “longshore” men; one or two mere “land-lubbers,” who never laid hand upon a ship’s rope before clutching those of the Condor. With such, what chance will there be for working the ship in a storm? But there is a danger he dreads far more than the mismanagement of ropes and sails – insubordination. Even thus early, it has shown itself among the men, and may at any moment break out into open mutiny. All the more likely from the character of Captain Lantanas, with which he has become well acquainted.
The Chilian skipper is an easy-going man, given to reading books of natural history, and collecting curiosities – as evinced by his brace of Bornean apes, and other specimens picked up during his trading trip to the Indian Archipelago. A man in every way amiable, but just on this account the most unfitted to control a crew, such as that he has shipped for the voyage to Valparaiso.
Absorbed in his studies, he takes little notice of them, leaving them in the hands, and to the control, of his piloto, Harry Blew.
But the ex-man-o’-war’s man, though a typical British sailor, is not one of the happy-go-lucky kind. He has been entrusted with something more than the navigation of the Chilian ship – with the charge of two fair ladies in her cabin; and although these have not shown themselves on deck, he knows they are safe, and well waited on by the black cook; who is also steward, and who, under his rough sable skin, has a kindly, gentle heart.
It is when thinking of his cabin passengers, that the Condor’s first officer feels apprehensive, and then not from the incapacity of her sailors, but their bold, indeed almost insolent, behaviour. Their having shown something of this at first might have been excusable, or at all events, capable of explanation. They had not yet sobered down. Fresh from the streets of San Francisco, so lawless and licentious, it could not be expected. But most of them have been now some days aboard – no drink allowed them save the regular ration, with plenty of everything else. Kind treatment from captain and mate, and still they appear scowling and discontented, as if the slightest slur – an angry word, even a look – would make mutiny among them.
What can it mean? What do the men want?
A score of times has Harry Blew thus interrogated himself, without receiving satisfactory answer. It is to obtain this, he is now gliding silently about the decks, and here and there concealing himself in shadow, with the hope of overhearing some speech that will give him explanation of the conspiracy – if conspiracy it be.
And in this hope he is not deceived or disappointed, but successful beyond his most sanguine expectations. For he at length obtains a clue, not only to the insubordination of the sailors, but all else that has been puzzling him.
And a strange problem it is, its solution appalling.
He gets the latter while standing under a piece of sailcloth, spread from the rail to the top of the round-house – rigged up by the carpenter as a sun screen, while doing some work during the heat of the day, and so left. The sky being now starless and pitch-black, with this additional obstruction to light, Harry Blew stands in obscurity impenetrable to the eye. A man passing, so close as almost to touch, could not possibly see him.
Nor is he seen by two men, who, like himself, sauntering about, have come to a stop under the spread canvas. Unlike him, however, they are not silent, but engaged in conversation, in a low tone, still loud enough for him to hear every word said. And to every one he listens with interest so engrossing, that his breath is well nigh suspended.
He understands what is said; all the easier from their talk being carried on in English – his own tongue. For they who converse are Jack Striker and Bill Davis.
And long before their dialogue comes to a close, he has not only obtained intelligence of what has hitherto perplexed him, but gets a glimpse of something beyond – that which sets his hair on end, almost causing the blood to curdle in his veins.
