Майн Рид
The Flag of Distress: A Story of the South Sea
Chapter Fifty Four.
Coldly Received
The mal de mer is no respecter of persons. Voyagers of every age, and either sex, must pay toll to it; the which it indiscriminately, if not equally, exacts from the strong robust youth, and the frail delicate maiden. Even beauty must submit to this merciless malady; at whose touch red lips turn pale, and rose-tinted cheeks show wan and wasted. Afflicting, on first acquaintance with it, it is always more or less disagreeable, and ever ready at offering its hand to those who go down to the sea in ships – that hand whose very touch is palsy.
The voyage Carmen Montijo and Iñez Alvarez are now making is not their first. Both have been at sea before – in the passage out from Spain. But this does not exempt them from the terrible infliction, and both suffer from it.
Stricken down by it, they are for several days confined to the cabin; most of the time to their state-room; and, as ill-luck would have it, without any one of their own sex to wait upon them – a want due to circumstances partially accidental, but wholly unexpected. The Chilian skipper, not accustomed to have a stewardess on his ship, had never thought of such a thing; his whole attention being taken up in collecting that crew, so difficult to obtain; while their own waiting-maid, who was to have accompanied the young ladies on their voyage, failed them at the eleventh hour; having preferred undertaking a journey of a different kind – not to Spain, but the altar of Hymen. At the last moment of embarkation, she was missing; her Californian amante having persuaded her to remain behind.
Withal, the lady voyagers have not been so badly attended. The old negro cook – acting also as steward, comes up to the occasion; for he has a tender heart under his rough sable skin, and waits upon them with delicate assiduity.
And Captain Lantanas is equally assiduous in his attentions, placing most of his time at their disposal, with whatever else he can think of likely to alleviate their suffering.
In due course they recover; Carmen first, from being of more robust habit and stronger constitution. But both are at length able to show themselves out of their state-room, and after a day or two waiting for fine weather, they venture upon deck.
During this sojourn below, they have had no communication with any one, save Don Gregorio – who has been like themselves, invalided – and of course the captain and cook. But not any of the officers, or sailors, of the ship. Indeed, on these they have never set eyes, excepting on that day when they sailed out through the Golden Gate. But, then, their thoughts were otherwise occupied – too much engrossed with certain personages absent, to care for any that were present; least of all the sailors of the ship – these scarce getting a glance from them.
Still there is one they have a strong desire to see, and also speak with. Not a common sailor, but the piloto, or first officer, of the vessel – for they are aware the English seaman has been promoted to this responsible post.
During their forced confinement in the state-room, they have often held discourse about him; this connected with a subject that gives them the greatest concern, and no little pain. There is still rankling in their breasts that matter unexplained; no letters left by their lovers at their abrupt departure, save the one for Don Gregorio, with salutation to themselves, so coldly, ceremoniously formal. It is to inquire about that, they are so anxious for an interview with Harry Blew, hoping, almost believing him to have been entrusted with some verbal message he has not yet delivered.
From the terms in which Crozier spoke of him while giving account of how he had saved his life, it is natural to suppose, that between preserved and preserver there should be confidence of a very intimate kind. Therefore Carmen still more than half believes the sailor has a word for herself – kept back for the want of opportunity. She recalls certain things he said jocularly, on the day he brought Crozier’s letter to the house, and while she was herself showing him hospitality. These went so far as to show, that the ex-man-o’-war’s man was not altogether ignorant of the relations existing between her and his old officer. And now she longs to renew conversation with him, hoping to hear more of those same pleasant words – perhaps get explanation of the others not so pleasant – in the letter. Iñez is affected with a like longing, for she too feels the slight they conveyed – if not so much as her aunt, still enough to wish for their true interpretation.
Both thus basing their hopes on Harry Blew, they have been for some time on the lookout for him, though as yet unsuccessfully. Several times have they ascended to the deck; but without seeing him, or only afar off, and, to all appearance, busily engaged with his duties about the ship.
Of course they do not expect him to come to them; and, with the secret purpose they have conceived, dislike summoning him; while he on his part appears to keep aloof, or, at all events, does not draw near – perhaps not desiring to be deemed intrusive. For, although first officer of the vessel, he is still only a rough sailor, and may think himself ill qualified for the company of ladies.
Whatever the reason, they have been several times above, without finding an opportunity to speak with him; and for this they wait with irksome impatience.
At length, however, it seems to have arrived. They have come out on the quarter, in front of the round-house door, and are seated on chairs which the considerate skipper brought up for them. He is himself by their side, endeavouring to entertain them by pointing out the various objects on his vessel, and explaining their uses.
They give but little heed to the technical dissertations of the well-meaning man, and only a passing glance at the objects indicated. Even the two gigantic apes, that go gambolling about the decks – exhibiting uncouth gestures, and uttering hoarse cries – fail to fix their attention; though Captain Lantanas tells them many curious tales of these creatures —myas monkeys, he calls them, which he has brought with him from Borneo. Too simple-minded to observe the inattention of his listeners, he is proceeding still farther to illustrate the habits of the orangs, when his lecture on natural history is interrupted, by the necessity for his taking an observation of the sun. It is a few minutes before mid-day, and he must needs determine his latitude. So making apology to the ladies, he hurries down to the cabin to get his quadrant.
His leaving them is a relief, for they see the first mate moving about, and have hopes of being able to accost, and enter into conversation with him. True, he seems busy as ever; but it is nigh the hour when the men of the forecastle go down to their dinners, and then they may have the opportunity while he is disengaged.
For some time they sit watching, and waiting. He is in the waist with several of the sailors around him, occupied about one of the boats, there slung upon its davits.
While regarding him and his movements, the ladies cannot avoid also observing those of the men, nor help being struck by them. Not so much their movements, as their appearance, and the expression seen on some of their countenances. On no one of them is it pleasant, but on the contrary scowling and savage. Never before have they seen so many faces wearing such disagreeable looks, that is, gathered in one group – and they have passed through the streets of San Francisco, where the worst types may be met. Many of them – indeed nearly all – are not only unprepossessing, but positively forbidding; and the young girls, not desiring to encounter certain glances, sent towards them, with an impudent effrontery, turn their eyes away.
Just then, Harry Blew, separating from the sailors, is seen coming aft. It is in obedience to a message which the black cook has brought up out of the cabin – an order from Captain Lantanas for his first officer to meet him on the quarterdeck, and assist in “taking the sun.”
But the captain has not yet come up; and, on reaching the quarter, the ex-man-o’-war’s man, for the first time since he shipped on the Chilian craft, finds himself alone in the presence of the ladies.
They salute him with an empressement, which, to their surprise, is but coldly returned! Only a slight bow; after which he appears to busy himself with the log-slate lying on the capstan-head.
One closely scrutinising him, however, would see that this is pretence; for his eyes are not on the slate, but furtively turned towards the ship’s waist, watching the men, from whom he has just separated, and who seem to have their eyes upon him.
The young ladies thus repulsed – and almost rudely, as they take it – make no farther attempt to bring on a conversation; but, forsaking their chairs, hasten down the companion-stairs, and on to their own state-room – there to talk over a disappointment that has given chagrin to both, but which neither can satisfactorily explain.
The more they reflect on the conduct of the English sailor, the stranger it seems to them; and the greater is their vexation. For now they feel almost sure that something must have happened; that same thing – whatever it be – which dictated those cruel parting compliments. They seem doubly so now; for now they have evidence that such must have been the sentiment – almost proof of it in the behaviour of Harry Blew.
They are hurt by it – stung to the quick – and never again during that voyage do they attempt entering into conversation with the first officer of the Condor, nor with any one belonging to her – save her kindly captain, and the cook, equally kind to them, though in a different way.
Indeed, they no longer care to go on deck; only on rare occasions showing themselves there, as if they disliked looking upon him who has so rudely reminded them of the treason of their lovers.
Can it be treason? And if so, why? They ask these questions with eyes bent upon their fingers – on rings encircling them – placed there by those they are suspecting of disloyalty! The insignia should be proof of the contrary. But it is not, for love is above all things suspicious – however doting, ever doubting. Even on this evidence of its truth they no longer lean, and scarce console themselves with the hope, which that has hitherto been sustaining them. Now farther off than ever seems the realisation of that sweet expectancy hoped for and held out at last parting, promised in the phrase: “Hasta Cadiz!”
Chapter Fifty Five.
“Down Helm.”
“Land, ho!”
The cry is from a man stationed on the fore-topmast cross-trees of the Condor. Since sunrise he has been aloft – on the lookout for land. It is now near noon, and he has sighted it.
Captain Lantanas is not quite certain of what land it is. He knows it is the Veraguan coast, but does not recognise the particular place.
Noon soon after coming on, with an unclouded sky, enables him to catch the sun in its meridian altitude, and so make him sure of a good sight. It gives for latitude 7 degrees 20 minutes North, while his chronometer furnishes him with the longitude 82 degrees 12 minutes West.
As the Chilian is a skilled observer, and has confidence in the observations he has made, the land in sight should be the island of Coiba; or an island that covers it, called Hicaron. Both are off the coast of Veragua, westward from Panama Bay, and about a hundred miles from its mouth; into which the Condor is seeking to make entrance.
Having ciphered out his reckoning, the skipper enters it on his log:
“Latitude 7 degrees 20 minutes North, Longitude 82 degrees 12 minutes West Wind West-South-West. Light breeze.”
While penning these slight memoranda, little dreams the Chilian skipper how important they may one day become. The night before, while taking an observation of the stars, could he have read them astrologically, he might have discovered many a chance against his ever making another entry in that log-book.
A wind west-sou’-west is favourable for entering the Bay of Panama. A ship steering round Cabo Mala, once she has weathered this much-dreaded headland, will have it on her starboard quarter. But the Condor, coming down from north, gets it nearly abeam; and her captain, perceiving he has run a little too much coastwise, cries out to the man at the wheel —
“Hard a-starboard! Put the helm down! Keep well off the land!”
Saying this, he lights a cigarrito; for a minute or two amuses himself with his monkeys, always playful at meeting him; then, ascending to the poop-deck, enters into conversation with company more refined – his lady passengers.
These, with Don Gregorio, have gone up some time before, and stand on the port-side, gazing at the land – of course delightedly: since it is the first they have seen since the setting of that sun, whose last rays gleamed upon the portals of the Golden Gate, through which they had passed out of California.
The voyage has been somewhat wearisome: the Condor having encountered several adverse gales – to say nothing of the long period spent in traversing more than three thousand miles of ocean-waste, with only once or twice a white sail seen afar off, to vary its blue monotony.
The sight of terra firma, with the thought of soon setting foot on it, makes all joyous; and Captain Lantanas adds to their exhilaration by assuring them, that in less than twenty-four hours he will enter the Bay of Panama, and in twenty-four after, bring his barque alongside the wharf of that ancient port, so often pillaged by the filibusteros– better known as buccaneers. It is scarcely a damper when he adds, “Wind and weather permitting;” for the sky is of sapphire hue, and the gentle breeze wafting them smoothly along seems steady, and as if it would continue in the same quarter, which chances to be the right one.
After staying an hour or so on deck, indulging in cheerful converse, and happy anticipations, the tropic sun, grown too sultry for comfort, drives them down to the cabin, for shade and siesta– this last, a habit of all Spanish-Americans.
The Chilian skipper is also accustomed to take his afternoon nap; and this day, in particular, there is no need for his remaining longer on deck. He has determined his latitude, cast up his dead-reckoning, and set the Condor on her course. Sailing on a sea without icebergs, or other dangerous obstructions, he can go to sleep without anxiety on his mind.
So, leaving his second mate in charge – the first being off-watch – he descends to the cabin, and enters his sleeping-room on the starboard side.
But before lying down, he summons the cook, and gives orders for a dinner – to be dressed in the very best style the ship’s stores can furnish; this in celebration of the event of having sighted land.
Then, stretching himself along a sofa, he is soon slumbering; profoundly, as one with nothing on his conscience to keep him awake.
For a time, the barque’s decks appear deserted. No one seen, save the helmsman at the wheel, and the second mate standing by his side. The sailors not on duty have betaken themselves to the forecastle, and are lolling in their bunks; while those of the working-watch – with no work to do – have sought shady quarters, to escape from the sun’s heat, now excessive.
The breeze has been gradually dying away, and is now so light that the vessel scarce makes steerage way. The only vigorous movements are those made by the Bornean apes. To them the great heat, so far from being disagreeable, is altogether congenial. They chase one another along the decks, accompanying their grotesque romping by cries equally grotesque – a hoarse jabbering, that sounds with weird strangeness throughout the otherwise silent ship. Except this, everything is profoundly still; no surging of waves, no rush of wind through the rigging, no booming of it against the bellied sails; only now and then a flap of one blown back, and aboard. The breeze has fallen to “light;” and the Condor, though with all canvas spread, and studding-sails out, is scarce making two knots an hour. This too with the wind well upon her quarter.
Still, there is nothing strange about the barque making so little way. What is strange, is the direction in which the breeze is now striking her. It is upon her starboard quarter, instead of the beam, as it should be; and as Captain Lantanas left it on going below!
Yet, since he went below, the wind has not shifted, not by a single point!
The barque must have changed her course; and indeed, has done this; the man at the wheel having put the helm up, instead of down, causing her to draw closer to the land, in direct contradiction to the orders of the captain!
Is it ignorance on the steersman’s part? No, that cannot be. Gil Gomez has the helm; and being a seaman, should know how to handle it. Besides, Padilla is standing beside him; and the second mate, whatever his moral qualities, knows enough for the “conning” of a ship; and cannot fail to observe that the barque is running too much inshore.
Why the skipper’s orders are not being carried out, is because they who now guide the Condor’s course, do not intend that her keel shall ever cleave the waters of Panama Bay.
Why, this is told by the speech passing between them:
“You know all about the coast in there?” inquires Padilla, pointing to land looming up on the port-side.
“Every inch of it; at least, sufficient to make sure of a place where we can put in. That headland rising on the port-bow is Punta Marietta. We must stand well under, taking care not to round it before evening. If we did, and the breeze blow off-shore, which it surely will, we’d have trouble to make back. With this light wind, we won’t make much way before nightfall. When Lantanas and the rest are down at dinner, we can put about, and run along till we sight a likely landing place.”
“So far as being looked after by Lantanas,” observes the second mate, “we need have no fear. To-day the cabin-dinner is to be a grand spread. I overheard his orders to that effect. He intends making things pleasant for his passengers before parting with them. As a matter of course, he’ll stay all evening below – perhaps get fuddled to boot – which may spare us some trouble. It looks like luck, doesn’t it?”
“Not much matter about that,” rejoins Gomez; “it’ll have to end all the same. Only, as you say, his staying below will make things a little easier, and save some unpleasantness in the way of blood-spilling. After dinner, the señoritas are sure to come on deck. They’ve done so every night, and I hope they won’t make this night an exception. If Don Gregorio and the skipper keep downstairs, and – ”
The dialogue is interrupted by the striking of bells to summon the relief-watch on duty.
Soon as the change is effected, Harry Blew takes charge, Striker replacing Gomez at the helm.
Just at this instant, the head of Captain Lantanas shows above the coaming of the companion stair.
Gomez seeing him, glides back to the wheel, gives a strong pull at the spokes, Striker assisting him, so as to bring the barque’s head up, and the wind upon her beam.
“Good heavens!” exclaims the skipper excitedly, rushing on up the stair, and out. For he sees what not only excites his surprise, but makes him exceedingly angry.
Soon as setting his foot on deck, he steps briskly on to the rail, and looks out over the sea – shoreward, towards land, where no land should be seen!
First he glances ahead, then over the port-side, and again in the direction of the vessel’s course. What sees he there to make such an impression upon him? A high promontory stretching out into the ocean, almost butting against the bows of his ship! It is Punta Marietta! He knows the headland, but knows, too, it should not be on the bow had his instructions been attended to.
“Que cosa!” he cries in a bewildered way, rubbing his eyes, to make sure they are not deceiving him; then to the helmsman:
“What does this mean, sir? You’ve been keeping too close inshore – the very contrary to what I commanded! Helm down – hard!”
Striker grumblingly obeys, bringing the barque up close to wind. Then the skipper turning angrily upon him, demands to know why his orders have not been carried out.
The ex-convict excuses himself, saying, that he has just commenced his trick, and knows nothing of what has been done before. He is keeping the vessel too on the same course she was on, when he took her from the last steersman.
“Who was the last?” thunders the irate skipper.
“Gil Gomez,” gruffly replies Striker.
“Yes; it was he,” says the first mate, who has come aft along with the captain. “The watch was Señor Padilla’s, and Gomez has just left the wheel.”
“Where is Gomez?” asks the captain, still in a towering passion, unusual for him.
“Gone forward, sir: he’s down in the forecastle.”
“Call him up! Send him to me at once!”
The first officer hurries away towards the head, and soon returns, Gomez with him.
The latter meets the gaze of Lantanas with a sullen look, which seems to threaten disobedience.
“How is this?” asks the Chilian. “You had the wheel during the last watch. Where have you been running to?”
“In the course you commanded, Captain Lantanas.”
“That can’t be, sir. If you’d kept her on as I set her, the land couldn’t have been there, lying almost across, our cut-water. I understand my chart too well to have made such a mistake.”
“I don’t know anything about your chart,” sulkily rejoins the sailor. “All I know is, that I kept the barque’s head as directed. If she hasn’t answered to it, that’s no fault of mine; and I don’t much like being told it is.”
The puzzled skipper again rubs his eyes, and takes a fresh look at the coast-line. He is as much mystified as ever. Still the mistake may have been his own; and as the relieved steersman appears confident about it, he dismisses him without further parley, or reprimand.
Seeing that there will be no difficulty in yet clearing the point, his anger cools down, and he is but too glad to withdraw from an angry discussion uncongenial to his nature.
The Condor now hauled close to wind, soon regains lost weather-way, sufficient for the doubling of Punta Marietta; and before the bells of the second dog-watch are sounded, she is in a fair way of weathering the cape. The difficulty has been more easily removed by the wind veering suddenly round to the opposite point of the compass. For now near night, the land-breeze has commenced blowing off-shore.
Well acquainted with the coast, and noticing the change, Captain Lantanas believes all danger past; and with the tranquillity of his temper restored, goes back into his cabin, to join his passengers at dinner, just in the act of being served.
