Майн Рид
The Flag of Distress: A Story of the South Sea
Chapter Fifty Nine.
The Tintoreras
With all sail set, the barque glides silently on to her doom.
Gomez now “cons” Slush the steering, he alone having any knowledge of the coast. They are but a half-league from land, shaving close along the outer edge of the breakers. The breeze blowing off-shore makes it easy to keep clear of them.
There is high land on the starboard bow, gradually drawing to the beam. Gomez remembers it; for in the clear moonlight is disclosed the outline of a hill, which, once seen, could not easily be forgotten; a cerro with two summits, and a col or saddle-like depression between.
Still, though a conspicuous landmark, it does not indicate any anchorage; only that they are entering a great gulf which indents the Veraguan coast.
As the barque glides on, he observes a reach of clear water opening inland; to all appearance a bay, its mouth miles in width.
He would run her into it, but is forbidden by the breakers, whose froth-crested belt extends across the entrance from cape to cape.
Running past, he again closes in upon the land, and soon has the two-headed hill abeam, its singular silhouette conspicuous against the moonlit sky. All the more from the moon being directly beyond it, and low down, showing between the twin summits like a great globe-shaped lamp there suspended.
When nearly opposite, Gomez notes an open space in the line of breakers, easily told by its dark tranquil surface, which contrasts with the white horse-tails lashing up on each side of it.
Soon as sighting it, the improvised pilot leaves the helm, after giving Slush some final instructions about the steering. Then forsaking the poop, he proceeds towards the ship’s waist, where he finds all the others ready for action. Striker and La Crosse with pieces of rope for making fast the ill-fated men; Padilla and his party armed with axes and crowbars – the keys with which they intend to open the locker-doors.
Near the mainmast stands the first mate, a lighted lantern in his hand; Davis beside him, with auger, mallet, and chisel. They are by the hatchway, which they have opened, intending descent into the hold. With the lantern concealed under the skirt of his ample dreadnought, Harry Blew stands within the shadow of the mast, as if reflecting on his faithlessness – ashamed to let his face be seen. He even appears reluctant to proceed in the black business, while affecting the opposite.
As the others are now occupied in various ways, with their eyes turned from him, he steps out to the ship’s side, and looks over the rail. The moon is now full upon his face, which, under her soft innocent beams, shows an expression difficult as ever to interpret. The most skilled physiognomist could not read it. More than one emotion seem struggling within his breast, mingling together, or succeeding each other, quick as the changing hues of the chameleon. Now, as if cupidity, now remorse, anon the dark shadow of despair!
This last growing darker, he draws nearer to the side, and looks earnestly over, as if about to plunge into the briny deep, and so rid himself of a life, ever after to be a burden!
While standing thus, apparently hesitating as to whether he shall drown himself and have done with it, soft voices fall upon his ear, their tones blending with the breeze, as it sweeps in melancholy cadence through the rigging of the ship. Simultaneously there is a rustling of dresses, and he sees two female forms robed in white, with short cloaks thrown loosely over their shoulders, and kerchiefs covering their heads.
Stepping out on the quarterdeck, they stand for a short while, the moon shining on their faces, both bright and innocent as her beams. Then they stroll aft, little dreaming of the doom that awaits them.
That sight should soften his traitorous heart. Instead, it seems but to steel it the more – as if their presence recalled and quickened within him some vow of revenge. He hesitates no longer; but gliding back to the hatch, climbs over its coaming, and, lantern in hand, drops down into the hold – there to do a deed which neither light of moon nor sun should shine upon.
Though within the tropic zone, and but a few degrees from the equinoctial line, there is chillness in the air of the night, now nearing its mid-hours.
Drawing their cloaks closer around them, the young ladies mount up to the poop-deck, and stand resting their hands on the taffrail.
For a time they are silent; their eyes directed over the stern, watching the foam in the ship’s wake, lit up with luminous phosphorescence.
They observe other scintillation besides that caused by the Condor’s keel. There are broad splatches of it all over the surface of the sea, with here and there elongated sillons, seemingly made by some creatures in motion, swimming parallel to the ship’s course, and keeping pace with her.
They have not voyaged through thirty degrees of the Pacific Ocean to be now ignorant of what these are. They know them to be sharks, as also that some of larger size and brighter luminosity are the tracks of the tintorera– that species so much-dreaded by the pearl-divers of Panama Bay and the Californian Gulf.
This night both tiburones and tintoreras are more numerous than they have ever observed them – closer also to the vessel’s side; for the sharks, observantly have seen a boat lowered down, which gives anticipation of prey within nearer reach of their ravenous jaws.
“Santissima!” exclaims Carmen, as one makes a dash at some waif drifting astern. “What a fearful thing it would be to fall overboard there – in the midst of those horrid creatures! One wouldn’t have the slightest chance of being saved. Only to think how little space there is between us and certain death! See that monster just below, with its great, glaring eyes! It looks as if it wanted to leap up, and lay hold of us. Ugh! I mustn’t keep my eyes on it any longer. It makes me tremble in a strange way. I do believe, if I continued gazing at it, I should grow giddy, and drop into its jaws.”
She draws back a pace or two, and for some moments remains silent – pensive. Perhaps she is thinking of a sailor saved from sharks after falling among them, and more still of the man who saved him. Whether or no, she soon again speaks, saying:
“Sobrina! are you not glad we’re so near the end of our voyage?”
“I’m not sorry, tia– I fancy no one ever is. I should be more pleased, however, if it were the end of our voyage, which unfortunately it isn’t. Before we see Spain, we’ve another equally as long.”
“True – as long in duration, and distance. But otherwise, it may be very different, and I hope more endurable. Across the Atlantic we’ll have passage in a big steamship, with a grand dining saloon, and state sleeping-rooms, each in itself as large as the main-cabin of the Condor. Besides, we’ll have plenty of company – passengers like ourselves. Let us hope they may turn out nice people. If so, our Atlantic voyage will be more enjoyable than this on the Pacific.”
“But we’ve been very comfortable in the Condor; and I’m sure Captain Lantanas has done all he could to make things agreeable for us.”
“He has indeed, the dear good creature; and I shall ever feel grateful to him. Still you must admit that, however well meant, we’ve been at times a little bored by his learned dissertations. O Iñez, it’s been awfully lonely, and frightfully monotonous – at least, to me.”
“Ah! I understand. What you want is a bevy of bachelors as fellow-passengers, young ones at that. Well; I suppose there will be some in the big steamer. Like enough, a half-score of our moustached militarios, returning from Cuba and other colonies. Wouldn’t that make our Atlantic voyage enjoyable?”
“Not mine – nothing of the sort, as you ought to know. To speak truth, it was neither the loneliness nor monotony of our Pacific voyage that has made it so miserable. Something else.”
“I think I can guess the something else.”
“If so, you’ll be clever. It’s more than I can.”
“Might it have anything to do with that informal leave-taking? Come, Carmen – you promised me you’d think no more about it till we see them in Cadiz, and have it all cleared up.”
“You’re wrong again, Iñez. It is not anything of that.”
“What then? It can’t be the mare amiento? Of it I might complain. I’m even suffering from it now – although the water is so smooth. But you! why, you stand the sea as well as one of those rough sailors themselves! You’re just the woman to be a naval officer’s wife; and when your novio gets command of a ship, I suppose you’ll be for circumnavigating the world with him.”
“You’re merry, mora.”
“Well, who wouldn’t be, with the prospect of soon setting foot on land. For my part, I detest the sea; and when I marry my little guardia-marina, I’ll make him forsake it, and take to some pleasanter profession. And if he prefer doing nothing, by good luck the rent of my lands will keep us both comfortably, with something to spare for a town house in Cadiz. But say, Carmen! What’s troubling you? Surely you must know?”
“Surely I don’t, Iñez.”
“That’s strange – a mystery. Might it be regret at leaving behind your preux chevaliers of California – that grand, gallant De Lara, whom, at our last interview, we saw sprawling in the road dust? You ought to feel relieved at getting rid of him, as I of my importunate suitor, the Señor Calderon. By the way, I wonder whatever became of them! Only to think of their never coming near us to say good-bye! And that nothing was seen or heard of them afterwards! Something must have happened. What could it have been! I’ve tried to think, but without succeeding.”
“So I the same. It is indeed very strange; though I fancy father heard something about them, which he does not wish to make known to us. You remember what happened after we’d left the house – those men coming to it in the night. Father has an idea they intended taking his gold, believing it still there. What’s more, I think he half suspects that of the four men – for there appears to have been four of them – two were no other than our old suitors, Francisco de Lara and Faustino Calderon.”
She had almost said sweethearts, but the word has a suggestion of pain.
“Maria de Merced!” exclaims Iñez. “It’s frightful to think of such a thing. We ought to be thankful to that good saint for saving us from such villains, and glad to get away from a country where their like are allowed to live.”
“Sobrina, you’ve touched the point. The very thought that’s been distressing me is the remembrance of those men. Even since leaving San Francisco, as before we left, I’ve had a strange heaviness on my heart – a sort of boding fear – that we haven’t yet seen the last of them. It haunts me like a spectre. I can’t tell why, unless it be from what I know of De Lara. He’s not the man to submit to that ignominious defeat of which we were witnesses. Be assured he will seek to avenge it. We expected a duel, and feared it. Likely there would have been one, but for the sailing of the English ship. Still that won’t hinder such a desperate man as De Lara from going after Edward, and trying to kill him any way he can. I have a fear he’ll follow him – is after him now.”
“What if he be? Your fiancé can take care of himself. And so can mine, if Calderon should get into his silly head to go after him. Let them go, so long as they don’t come after us; which they’re not likely – all the way to Spain.”
“I’m not so sure of that. Such as they may make their way anywhere. Professional gamblers – as we know them to be – travel to all parts of the world. All cities give them the same opportunity to pursue their calling – why not Cadiz? But, Iñez, there’s something I haven’t told you, thinking you might make mock of it. I’ve had a fright more than once – several times, since we came aboard.”
“A fright! what sort of a fright?”
“If you promise not to laugh at me, I’ll tell you.”
“I promise. I won’t.”
“’Twould be no laughing matter were it true. But, of course, it could only be fancy.”
“Fancy about what? Go on, tia: I’m all impatience.”
“About the sailors on board. All have bad faces; some of them seem very demonios. But there’s one has particularly impressed me. Would you believe it, Iñez, he has eyes exactly like De Lara’s! His features too resemble those of Don Francisco; only that the sailor has a beard and whiskers, while he had none. Of course the resemblance can be but accidental. Still, it caused me a start, when I first observed it, and has several times since. Never more than this very morning, when I was up here, and saw that man. He was at the wheel, all by himself, steering. Several times, on turning suddenly round, I caught him looking straight at me, staring in the most insolent manner. I had half a mind to complain to Captain Lantanas; but reflecting that we were so near the end of our voyage – ”
She is not permitted to say more. For at the moment, a man appearing on the poop-deck, as if he had risen out of it, stands before her – the sailor who resembles De Lara!
Making a low bow, he says:
“Not near the end of your voyage, señorita; but at it,” adding with an ironical smile: “Now, ladies! you’re going ashore. The boat is down; and, combining business with pleasure, it’s my duty to hand you into it.”
While he is speaking, another of the sailors approaches Iñez; Hernandez, who offers his services in a similar style and strain.
For a moment, the girls are speechless, through sheer stark astonishment. Horror succeeds, as the truth flashes upon them. And then, instead of coherent speech, they make answer by a simultaneous shriek; at the same time making an attempt to retreat towards the cabin-stair.
Not a step is permitted them. They are seized in strong arms; and half-dragged, half-lifted off their feet, hurried away from the taffrail.
Their cries are stifled by huge woollen caps drawn over their heads, and down to their chins, almost choking them. But though no longer seeing, and only indistinctly hearing, they can tell where they are being taken. They feel themselves lifted over the vessel’s side, and lowered down man-ropes into a boat; along the bottom of which they are finally laid, and held fast – as if they had fallen into the jaws of those terrible tintoreras, they so lately looked at keeping company with the ship!
Chapter Sixty.
The Scuttlers
Harry Blew is in the hold, Bill Davis beside him.
They are standing on the bottom-timbers on a spot they have selected for their wicked work, and which they have had some difficulty in finding. They have reached it, by clambering over sandal-wood logs, cases of Manilla cigars, and piles of tortoise-shell. Clearing some of these articles out of the way, they get sight of the vessel’s ribs, and at a point they know to be under the water-line. They know also that a hole bored between their feet, though ever so small, will in due time fill the barque’s hold with water, and send her to the bottom of the sea.
Davis, auger in hand, stands in readiness to bore the hole; waiting for the first officer to give the word.
But something stays the latter from giving it, as the former from commencing the work.
It is a thought that seems to occur simultaneously to both, bringing their eyes up to one another’s faces, in a fiancé mutually interrogative. Blew is the first to put it in speech.
“Dang me, if I like to do it!”
“Ye’ve spoke my mind exact, Mr Blew!” rejoins Davis. “No more do I.”
“’Tan’t nothing short of murder,” pursues the chief mate. “An’ that’s just why I an’t up to it; the more, as there an’t any downright needcessity. As I sayed to them above, I can see no good reason for sinking the ship. She’d sail right out, an’ we’d never hear word o’ her again. An’ if them to be left ’board o’ her shud get picked up, what matters that to us? We’ll be out o’ the way, long afore they could go anywhere to gi’e evidence against us. Neer a fear o’ their ever findin’ us – neyther you nor me, anyhow. I dare say, Davis, you mean to steer for some port, where we’re not likely to meet any more Spaniards. I do, when I’ve stowed my share o’ the plunder.”
“Yes; I’m for Australia, soon’s I can get there. That’s the place for men like me.”
“There you’ll be safe enough. So I, where I intend goin’. And we’ll both feel better, not havin’ a ugly thing to reflect back on. Which we would, if we send these three poor creeturs to Davy’s locker. Now, I propose to you what you heerd me say to the rest: let’s gi’e them a chance for their lives.”
“And not do this?”
As he puts the question, Davis points his auger to the bottom of the ship.
“There an’t no need – not a morsel o’ good can come from sinkin’ her. And not a bit harm in lettin’ her slip.”
“What will the others say?”
“They won’t know anything about it – they can’t unless we tell ’em. And we won’t be the fools to do that. As I argied to them, with the wind off-shore, as ’tis now, she’ll scud out o’ sight o’ land long afore daylight. Bill Davis! whatsomever the others may do, or think they’re doin’, let’s me an’ you keep our consciences clear o’ this foul deed. Believe me, mate, we’ll both feel better for’t some day.”
“If you think they won’t know, I’m agreed.”
“How can they? There an’t none o’ them to see what we do down here. ’Taint likely there’s any listener. Gie a knock or two wi’ the mallet!”
The ship’s carpenter obeying, strikes several blows against an empty water-cask, the noise ascending through the open hatch. He suspends his strokes at hearing exclamations above; then screams in the shrill treble of female voices.
“You see they’re not thinking o’ us,” says the mate. “Them Spaniards are too busy about their own share o’ the job. They’re gettin’ the girls into the boat.”
“Yes; that’s what they’re doing.”
“Sweet girls both be. An’t they, Davis?”
“Ay, that they are; a pair of reg’lar beauties.”
“Look here, shipmate! Since we’ve settled this other thing, I want to say a word about them too, and I may’s well say it now. Gomez and that land-lubber, Hernandez, are layin’ claim to them, as if they had a right. Now they haven’t, no more than any o’ the rest o’ us. Some others may have fancies, too. I confess to havin’ a weakness for the one wi’ the copper-coloured hair, which is she as Gil Gomez wants to ’propriate. I made no objection to his takin’ her into the boat. But soon’s we get ashore, I intend to stan’ out for my rights to that little bit o’ property, which are just as good as his. Do you feel like backin’ me?”
“Hang me, if I don’t! I’m myself a bit sweet upon the dark ’un, and have been, ever since settin’ eyes on her. And though I’ve said nothing, like yourself, I wasn’t going to give that point up, before having a talk about it. You say the word – I’ll stan’ by you. And if it comes to fightin’, I’ll make short work with that bandy-legged chap Hernandez, the one as wants her. We can count on Jack Striker on our side; and most like the Dane and Dutchman; La Crosse for certain. Frenchy don’t cotton to them Spaniards, ever since his quarrel with Padilla. But, as you say, let’s go in for the girls, whether or not. You can claim the light-haired. I’m for the dark one, an’ damned if I an’t ready to fight for her – to the death!”
“As I for the other!” exclaims the ex-man-o’-war, in eager serious earnest.
“But what’s to be done after we go ashore?” asks Davis. “That’s what’s been bothering me. We’re about to land in a strange country, but where these Spanish chaps will be at home, speakin’ the lingo, an’ll so have the advantage of us. There’s a difficulty. Can you see a way out of it?”
“Clearly.”
“How?”
“Because the girls don’t care for eyther o’ the two as are layin’ claim to them. Contrarywise, they hate ’em both. I’ve knowd that all along. So, if we get ’em out o’ their clutches – at the same time givin’ the girls a whisper about protectin’ them – they’ll go willin’ly ’long wi’ us. Afterwards, we can act accordin’ to the chances that turn up. Only swear you’ll stan’ by me, Bill, an’ wi’ Striker to back us, we’ll bring things right.”
“I’m bound to stan’ by you; so’ll Jack, I’m sure. Hark! that’s him, now! He’s calling to us. By God, I believe they’re in the boat!”
“They are! Let’s hurry up! Just possible them Spaniards may take it into their heads – . Quick, shipmate! Heave after me!”
With this, Blew holds out the lantern to light them up the hatch, both making as much haste to reach the deck as if their lives depended upon speed.
