Майн Рид
The Flag of Distress: A Story of the South Sea
Chapter Fifty Six.
Panama or Santiago?
It is the hour of setting the first night-watch, and the bells have been struck; not to summon any sailor from the forecastle, but intended only for the cabin and the ears of Captain Lantanas – lest the absence of the usual sound should awaken his suspicion, that all was not going right.
This night neither watch will be below, but all hands on deck, mates as foremast-men; and engaged in something besides the navigation of the vessel – in short, in destroying her! And, soon as the first shades of night descend over her, the crew is seen assembling by the manger-board close to the night-heads – all save the man who has charge of the steering, on this occasion Slush.
The muster by the manger-board is to take measures for carrying out their scheme of piracy and plunder, now on the eve of execution. The general plan is already understood by all; it but remains to settle some final details.
Considering the atrocity of their design, it is painful to see the first mate in their midst. A British sailor – to say nought of an old man-of-war’s man – better might have been expected of him. But he is there; and not only taking part with them, but apparently acting as their leader.
His speech too clearly proclaims him chief of the conspiring crew. His actions also, as they have ever been, since the day when he signified to Striker his intention to join them. After entering into the conspiracy, he has shown an assiduity to carry it out worthy of a better cause.
His first act was backing up Striker’s call for an equal division of the bounty. Holding the position of chief officer, this at once established his influence over the others; since increased by the zeal he has displayed – so that he now holds first place among the pirates, nearly all of them acknowledging, and submitting to, his authority.
If Edward Crozier could but see him now, and hear what he is saying, he would never more have faith in human being. Thinking of Carmen Montijo, the young officer has doubted women; witnessing the behaviour of Henry Blew, he might not only doubt man, but curse him.
Well for the recreant sailor, Crozier is not present in that conclave by the night-heads of the Condor. If he were, there would be speedy death to one he could not do otherwise than deem a traitor.
But the young officer is far away – a thousand miles of trackless ocean now between Condor and Crusader– little dreaming of the danger that threatens her to whom he has given heart, and promised hand; while Harry Blew is standing in the midst of ruffians plotting her ruin!
O man! O British sailor! where is your gratitude? What has become of your honour – your oath? The first gone; the second disregarded; the last broken!
Soon as together, the pirates enter upon discussion, the first question before them being about the place where they shall land.
Upon this point there is difference of opinion. Some are for going ashore at once, on a convenient part of the coast in sight; while others counsel running on till they enter Panama Bay.
At the head of those in favour of the latter is the chief mate, who gives his reasons thus:
“By runnin’ up into the Bay o’ Panyma, we’ll get closer to the town; an’ it’ll be easier to reach it after we’ve done the business we intend doin’, Panyma bein’ a seaport, an’ plenty o’ vessels sailin’ from it. After gettin’ there we’d be able to go every man his own way. Them as wants can cross over the Isthmus, an’ cut off on t’other side. An’ Panyma bein’ full o’ strangers goin’ to Californey, an’ returnin’ from it, we’d be less like to get noticed there. Whiles if we land on the coast here, where thar an’t no good-sized town, but only some bits o’ fishin’ villages, we’d be a marked lot – sartin to run a good chance o’ bein’ took up, an’ put into one o’ thar prisons. Just possible too, we might land on some part inhabited by wild Indyins, an’ lose not only the shinin’ stuff, but our scalps. I’ve heerd say thar’s the worst sort o’ savages livin’ on the coast ’long here. An’ supposin’ we meet neither Indyins nor whites, goin’ ashore in a wilderness covered wi’ woods, we might have trouble in makin’ our way out o’ them. Them thick forests o’ the tropics an’t so easy to travel through. I’ve know’d o’ sailors as got cast away, perishin’ in ’em afore they could reach any settlement. My advice, tharfore, shipmates, be, for us to take the barque on into the Bay; an’ when we’ve got near enough the port, to make sure o’ our bein’ able to reach it, then put in for the shore. Panyma Bay’s big enough to give us plenty choice o’ places for our purpose.”
“We’ve heard you out, Mr Blew,” rejoins Gomez, “Now, let me say in answer, you haven’t given a single reason for going by Panama Bay, that won’t stand good for doing the very opposite. But there’s one worth all, you haven’t mentioned, and it’s against you. While running up into the Bay, we’d be sure to meet other vessels coming out of it – scores of them. And supposing one should be a man-of-war – a British or American cruiser, say – and she takes it into her head to overhaul us; where would we be then?”
“An’ if they did,” returns Blew, “what need for us to be afeerd? Seein’ that the barque’s papers are all shipshape, they’d have to leave us as they found us. Let ’em overhaul, an’ be blowed!”
“They mightn’t leave us as they found us, for all that,” argues Gomez. “Just when they took it into their heads to board the barque, might be when we would be slipping out of her. How then? Besides, other ships would have the chance of spying us at that critical moment. As I’ve said, your other arguments are wrong; I’ll answer them in detail. But first, let me tell you all, I’ve got a pretty accurate knowledge of this coast. I ought to have, considering that I spent several years on and off it in a business which goes by the name of contraband. Now, all round the shores of Panama Bay there’s just the sort of wild forest-covered country Mr Blew talks about getting strayed in. We might land within twenty miles of that port, and yet not be able to reach it, without great difficulty. Danger, too, from the savages, our first officer seems so much afraid of. Whereas, by putting ashore anywhere along here, we won’t be far from the old Nicaraguan road, that runs all through the Isthmus. It will take us to the town of Panama; any that wish to go there. But there’s another town as big as it, and better for our purpose; one wherein we’ll be less likely to meet the unpleasant experience Mr Blew speaks of. It isn’t much of a place for prisons. I’m speaking of Santiago, the capital city of Veragua; which isn’t over a good day’s journey from the coast. And we can reach it by an easy road. Still that’s not the question of greatest importance. What most concerns us is the safety of the place when we get to it– and I can answer for Santiago. Unless customs have changed since I used to trifle away some time there – and people too – we’ll find some who’ll show us hospitality. With the money at our disposal – ay, a tenth part of it – I could buy up the alcalde of the town, and every judge in the province.”
“That’s the sort of town for us – and country too!” exclaim several voices. “Let’s steer for Santiago!”
“We’ll first have to put about,” explains Gomez, “and run along the coast, till we find a proper place for landing.”
“Yes,” rejoins Harry Blew, speaking satirically, and as if exasperated by the majority going against him. “An’ if we put about just now, we’ll stand a good chance of goin’ slap on them rocks on the port beam. Thar’s a line o’ breakers all along shore, far’s I can see. How’s a boat to be got through them? She’d be bilged to a sartinty.”
“There are breakers, as you say,” admits Gomez; “but their line doesn’t run continuous, as it appears to do. I remember several openings where a boat, or ship for that matter, may be safely got through. We must look out for one of them.”
“Vaya, camarados!” puts in Padilla, with a gesture of impatience. “We’re wasting time, which just now is valuable. Let’s have the barque about, and stand along the coast, as Gil Gomez proposes. I second his proposal; but, if you like, let it go to a vote.”
“No need; we all agree to it.”
“Ay; all of us.”
“Well, shipmates,” says Harry Blew, seeing himself obliged to give way, and conceding the point with apparent reluctance; “if ye’re all in favour o’ steerin’ up coast, I an’t goin’ to stand out against it. It be the same to me one way or t’other. Only I thought, an’ still think, we’d do better by runnin’ up toward Panyma.”
“No, no; Santiago’s the place for us. We’ve decided to go there.”
“Then to Santiago let’s go. An’ if the barque’s to be put about, I tell ye there’s no time to be lost. Otherways, we’ll go into them whitecaps, sure; the which would send this craft to Davy Jones sooner than we intend. If we’re smart about it, I dar say we can manage to scrape clear o’ them; the more likely, as the wind’s shifted, an’ is now off-shore. It’ll be a close shave, for all that.”
“Plenty of sea-room,” says the second mate. “But let’s about with her at once!”
“You see to it, Padilla!” directs Gomez, who, from his success in having his plan adopted in opposition to that of the Englishman, feels his influence increased so much, he may now take command.
The second mate starts aft, and going up to the helmsman, whispers a word in his ear.
Instantly the helm is put hard up, and the barque paying off, wears round from east to west-nor’-west. The sailors at the same time brace about her yards, and trim her sails for the changed course; executing the manoeuvre, not, as is usual, with a chorused chant, but silently, as if the ship were a spectre, and her crew but spectral shadows.
Chapter Fifty Seven.
A Cheerful Cuddy
The Condor’s cabin is a snug little saloon, such as are often found on trading-vessels, not necessarily for passengers, but where the skipper has an eye to his own comforts, with tastes that require gratification.
Those of Captain Lantanas are refined, beyond the common run of men who follow his profession – usually rough sea dogs – caring little for aught else save their grub and grog.
That the Chilian skipper is not of this class is proved by the appearance of his “cuddy,” which is neatly, if not luxuriously, furnished, and prettily decorated. In addition to the instruments that appertain to his calling – telescope, aneroid barometer, sextant, and compass, all placed conspicuously in racks – there is a bookcase of ornamental wood, filled with well-bound volumes; and several squares of looking-glass inlaid between the doors that lead to the four little staterooms – two on each side. There are two settees, with hair-cloth cushions, and lockers underneath the same, in which Don Gregorio’s gold-dust is stowed.
Centrally stands a table, eight by six, mahogany, with massive carved legs, and feet firmly fixed to the floor. It is set lengthwise, fore and aft, a stout hair-cloth chair at top, another at bottom, and one at each side – all, like the table, stanchioned to the timbers of the half-deck.
Above a rack, with its array of decanters and glasses; and in the centre, overhead, a swing-lamp, lacquered brass – so constructed as to throw a brilliant glare on the surface of the table, while giving light more subdued to all other parts of the little cabin.
To-night its rays are reflected with more than ordinary sparkle. For the table beneath is spread with the best plate and glassware Captain Lantanas can set forth. And in the dishes now on it are the most savoury viands the Condor’s cook can produce. While in bottles and decanters are wines of best bouquet and choicest vintage.
Around are seated the four guests; the Captain, as host, at the head; Don Gregorio, his vis-à-vis, at the foot; the ladies at opposite sides – right and left.
As the barque is going before a gentle breeze, without the slightest roll, or pitch, there is no need for guards upon the table. It shows only the spread of snow-white damask, the shining silver plate, the steel of Sheffield, the ware of Sèvres or Worcester, with the usual array of cut-glasses and decanters. In the centre an épergne, containing fruits, and some flowers, which, despite exposure to the saline breeze, Captain Lantanas has nursed into blooming. But the fruits seem flowers of themselves, having come from California, famed for the products of Pomona. There are peaches, the native growth of San Franciscan gardens, with plums and nectarines; melons and grapes from Los Angelos, further south; with the oranges, plantains, and pine-apples of San Diego. And, alongside these productions of the tropical and sub-tropical clime, are Newtown pippins, that have been imported into California from the far Eastern States, mellowed by a sea voyage of several thousand miles, around the stormy headland of Cape Horn.
The savoury meats tasted, eaten, and removed, the dessert, with its adjuncts, has been brought upon the table – this including wines of varied sorts. Although not greatly given to drink, the Chilian skipper enjoys his glass; and on this occasion takes half-a-dozen – it may be more. He is desirous of doing honour to his distinguished guests, and making the entertainment a merry one.
And his amiable effort has success.
In addition to having seen much of the world, he is by birth and education a gentleman. Although nothing more than the skipper of a merchant-ship – a South Sea trader at that – as already known, he is not one of the rude swaggering sort; but a gentle, kind-hearted creature, as well, if not better, befitted for the boudoir of a lady, than to stir about among tarred ropes, or face conflicting storm.
So kind and good has he shown himself, that his two fair passengers, in the short companionship of less than a month, have grown to regard him with affection; while Don Gregorio looks upon him in the light of a faithful friend. All three feel sorry they are so soon to part company with him. It is the only regret that casts a shadow over their spirits, as they sit conversing around the table so richly furnished for their gratification.
Eating fragrant fruits, and sipping sweet wines, for the moment they forget all about the hour of parting; the easier, as they listen to the tales which he tells to entertain them. He relates strange adventures he has had, on and around the shores of the great South Sea.
He has had encounters with the fierce Figian; the savage New Caledonian; both addicted to the horrid habit of anthropophagy. He has been a spectator to the voluptuous dances of Samoa, and looked upon the daughters of Otaheite, Owyhee, whose whole life is love.
With stories of the two extremes – symbols of man’s supreme happiness, and his most abject misery – grim cannibals and gay odalisques – he amuses his guests, long detaining them at the table.
Enthralled by his narration – naïve, truthful, in correspondence with the character of the man – all three listen attentively. The señoritas are charmed, and, strange to say, more with his accounts of Figi and New Caledonia, than those relating to Otaheite and Hawaii. For to the last-named group of islands have gone Edward Crozier and Willie Cadwallader. There these may meet some of the brown-skinned bayaderes Captain Lantanas so enthusiastically describes – meet, dance with, and admire them!
But the jealous fancies thus conjured up are fleeting in the shadows of summer clouds; and, soon passing, give place to pleasanter thoughts. Now that land is near, and a seaport soon to be reached, the young ladies are this night unusually elated; and, listening to the vivid description of South Sea scenes, they reflect less sadly and less bitterly on the supposed slight received at the hands of their lovers.
In return, Don Gregorio imparts to the Chilian skipper some confidences hitherto withheld. He is even so far admitted into the family intimacy as to be told how both the señoritas are soon to become brides. To which is added an invitation, that should he ever carry the Condor to Cadiz, he will not only visit them, but make their house his home.
Several hours are passed in this pleasant way; interspersed with song and music – for both Carmen and Iñez can sing well, and accompany their singing with the guitar.
At length the ladies retire to their state-room, not to stay, but to robe themselves, with the design of taking a turn in the open air. The smooth motion of the ship, with the soft moonlight streaming through the cabin windows, tempts them to spend half-an-hour on deck, before going to rest for the night; and on deck go they.
Lantanas and the ex-haciendado remain seated at the table. Warmed by the wine – of which both have partaken pretty freely – the Chilian continues to pour his experiences into the ears of his passenger; while the latter listens with unflagging interest.
Supping choice canario, his favourite tipple, the former takes no note of aught passing around, nor thinks of what may be doing on the Condor’s deck. All through the evening he has either forgotten or neglected the duties appertaining to him as her commanding officer. So much, that he fails to notice a rotatory motion of the cabin, with the table on which the decanters stand; or, if observing, attributes it to the wine having disturbed the equilibrium of his brain.
But the cabin does revolve, the table with it, to the extent of a three-quarter circle. Gradually is the movement being made – gently, from the sea being calm – silently – with no voice raised in command – no piping of boatswain’s whistle – no song of sailors as they brace round the yards, or board tacks and sheets! – not a sign to tell Captain Lantanas has been set upon a course, astray, and likely to lead to her destruction.
Chapter Fifty Eight.
Kill or Drown?
Having set the Condor’s course, with Slush still in charge at the helm, the second mate returns to the fore-deck, where by the manger-board the others are again in deliberation; Gomez counselling, or rather dictating what they are next to do.
The programme he places before them is in part what has been arranged already – to run along coast till they discover a gap in the line of coral reef; for it is this which causes the breakers. Further, they are told that, when such gap be found, they will lower a boat; and having first scuttled the barque, abandon her; then row themselves ashore.
The night is so far favourable to the execution of the scheme. It is a clear moonlight; and running parallel to the trend of the shore, as they are now doing, they can see the breakers distinctly, their white crests in contrast with the dark façade of cliff, which extends continuously along the horizon’s edge; here and there rising into hills, one of which looming up on the starboard bow has the dimensions of a mountain.
The barque is now about a league’s distance from land; and half-way between are the breakers, their roar sounding ominously through the calm quiet of the night. As they were making but little way – scarce three knots an hour – one proposes that the boat be lowered at once, and such traps as they intend taking put into her. In such a tranquil sea it will tow alongside in safety.
As this will be some trouble taken off their hands in advance, the plan is approved of, and the pinnace being selected, as the most suitable boat for beaching.
Clustering around it, they commence operations. Two leap lightly inside; insert the plug, ship the rudder, secure the oars and boat-hooks, clear the life-lines, and cast off the lanyards of the gripes; the others holding the fall-tackle in hand, to see that they were clear for running. Then taking a proper turn they lower away.
And, soon as the boat’s bottom touches water, with the two men in it, the painter, whose loose end has been left aboard, is hauled fast, bringing the boat abeam, where it is made fast under a set of man-ropes, already dropped over the side.
Other movements succeed; the pirates passing to and from the forecastle, carrying canvas bags, and bundles of clothing, with such other of their belongings as they deem necessary for a debarkation like that intended. A barrel of pork, another of biscuit, and a beaker of water are turned out, and handed down into the boat; not forgetting a keg containing rum, and several bottles of wine they have purloined, or rather taken at will, from Captain Lantanas’ locker bins.
The miscellaneous supply is not meant for a voyage, only a stock to serve for that night, which they must needs spend upon the beach – as also to provision them for the land journey, to be commenced in the morning.
In silence, but with no great show of caution or stealth, are these movements made. They who make them have but little fear of being detected, some scarce caring if they be. Indeed, there is no one to observe them, save those taking part. For the negro cook, after dressing the dinner, and serving it, has gone out of the galley for good; and, now acting as table waiter, keeps below in the cabin.
Soon everything is stowed in the pinnace, except that which is to form its most precious freight; and again the piratical crew bring their heads together, to deliberate about the final step; the time for taking which is fast drawing nigh.
A thing so serious calls for calm consideration, or, at all events, there must be a thorough understanding among them. For it is the disposal of those they have destined as victims. How this is to be done, nothing definite has yet been said. Even the most hardened among them shrinks from putting it in words. Still it is tacitly understood. The ladies are to be taken along, the others to be dealt with in a different way. But how? that is the question, yet unasked by any, but as well understood by all, as if it had been spoken in loudest voice.
For a time they stand silent, waiting for some one who can command the courage to speak.
And one does this – a ruffian of unmitigated type, whose breast is not stirred by the slightest throb of humanity. It is the second mate, Padilla. Breaking silence, he says:
“Let us cut their throats, and have done with it!”
The horrible proposition, more so from its very laconism, despite the auditory to whom it is addressed, does not find favourable response. Several speak in opposition to it; Harry Blew first and loudest. Though broken his word, and forfeited his faith, the British sailor is not so abandoned as to contemplate murder in such cool, deliberate manner. Some of those around him have no doubt committed it; but he does not feel up to it. Opposing Padilla’s counsel, he says:
“What need for our killin’ them? For my part, I don’t see any.”
“And for your part, what would you do?” sneeringly retorts the second mate.
“Give the poor devils a chance for their lives.”
“How?” promptly asks Padilla.
“Why; if we set the barque’s head out to sea, as the wind’s off-shore, she’d soon carry them beyond sight o’ land, and we’d niver hear another word o’ ’em.”
“No, no! that won’t do,” protest several in the same breath. “They might get picked up, and then we’d be sure of hearing of them – may be something more than words.”
“Carrai!” exclaims Padilla scornfully; “that would be a wise way. Just the one to get our throats in the garrota. You forget that Don Gregorio Montijo is a man of the big grandee kind. And should he ever set foot ashore, after what we’d done to him, he’d have influence enough to make most places – ay, the whole of the habitable globe – a trifle too hot for us. There’s an old saw, about dead men telling no tales. No doubt most of you have heard it, and some have reason to know it true. Take my advice, camarados, and let us act up to it. What’s your opinion, Señor Gomez?”
“Since you ask for it,” responds Gomez, speaking for the first time on this special matter, “my opinion is, that there’s no need for any difference among us. Mr Blew’s against the spilling of blood, and so would I, if it could be avoided. But it can’t, with safety to ourselves; at least not in the way he has suggested. To act as he advises would be madness on our part – nay more, it might be suicide. Still, there don’t seem any necessity for a cold cutting of throats, which has an ugly sound about it. The same with knocking on the head; they’re both too brutal. I think I know a way that will save us from resorting to either, and, at the same time, ensure our own safety.”
“What way?” demanded several voices. “Tell us!”
“One simple enough; so simple, I wonder you haven’t all thought of it, same as myself. Of course, we intend sending this craft to the bottom of the sea. But she’s not likely to go down all of a sudden; nor till we’re a good way off out of sight. We can leave the gentlemen aboard, and let them slip quietly down along with her!”
“Why, that’s just what Blew proposes,” say several.
“True,” returns Gomez; “but not exactly as I mean it. He’d leave them free to go about the ship – perhaps get out of her before she sinks, on a sofa, or hencoop, or something.”
“How would you do with them?” asks one, impatiently.
“Tie, before taking leave of them.”
“Bah!” exclaims Padilla, a monster to whom spilling blood seems congenial. “What’s the use of being at all that bother? It’s sure to bring some. The skipper will resist, and so’ll the old Don. What then? We’ll be compelled to knock them on the head all the same, or toss them overboard. For my part, I don’t see the object of making such a worry about it; and still say, let’s stop their wind at once!”
“Dash it, man!” cries Striker, hitherto only a listener, but a backer of Harry Blew; “you ’pear to ’a been practisin’ a queery plan in jobs o’ this sort. Mr Gomez hev got a better way o’t, same as I’ve myself seed in the Australian bush, wheres they an’t so bloodthirsty. When they stick up a chap theer, so long’s he don’t cut up nasty, they settle things by splicin’ him to a tree, an’ leavin’ him to his meditashuns. Why can’t we do the same wi’ the skipper, an’ the Don, an’ the darkey – supposin’ any o’ ’em to show reefractry?”
“That’s it!” exclaims Davis, strengthening the proposal thus endorsed by his chum, Striker. “My old pal’s got the correct idea of sich things.”
“Besides,” continues the older of the ex-convicts, “this job seems to me simple enuf. We want the swag, an’ some may want the weemen. Well, we can git both ’ithout the needcessity o’ doin’ murder!”
Striker’s remonstrance sounds strange – under the circumstances, serio-comical.
“What might you call murder?” mockingly asks Padilla. “Is there any difference between their getting their breath stopped by drowning, or the cutting of their throats? Not much to them, I take it; and no more to us. If there’s a distinction, it’s so nice I can’t see it. Carramba! no!”
“Whether you see it or not,” interposes Harry Blew, “there be much; and for myself, as I’ve said, I object to spillin’ blood, where the thing an’t absolute needcessary. True, by leavin them aboard an’ tied, as Mr Gomez suggests, they’ll get drowned, for sartin; but it’ll at least keep our hands clear o’ blood murder!”
“That’s true!” cried several in assent. “Let’s take the Australian way of it, and tie them up!”
The assenting voices are nearly unanimous; and the eccentric compromise is carried.
So far everything is fixed, and it but remains to arrange about the action, and apportion to every one his part.
For this very few words suffice, the apportionment being, that the first officer, assisted by Davis, who has some knowledge of ship-carpentry, is to see to the scuttling of the vessel; Gomez and Hernandez to take charge of the girls, and get them into the boat; Slush to look after the steering; Padilla to head the party entrusted with the seizure of the gold; while Striker, assisted by Tarry and the Frenchman, is to secure the unfortunate men by fast binding, or, as he calls it, “sticking them up.”
The atrocious plan is complete, in all its revolting details – the hour of execution at hand.
