Майн Рид
The Flag of Distress: A Story of the South Sea
Chapter Sixty One.
The Barque Abandoned
While the scuttlers are shirking their work in the Condor’s hold, and simultaneous with the abduction on deck, a scene is transpiring in her cabin, which might be likened to a saturnalia of demons.
The skipper and Don Gregorio, sitting over their walnuts and wine, are startled by the sound of footsteps descending the stair. As they are heavy and hurried, bearing no resemblance to the gentle tread of woman – it cannot be the ladies coming down again. Nor yet the negro cook, since his voice is heard above in angry expostulation. Two of the sailors have just seized him in his galley, throttled him back on the bench, and are there lashing him with a piece of log-line.
They at the cabin-table know nothing of this. They hear his shouts, and now also the shrieks of the young girls; but have no time to take any steps, as at that instant the cuddy-door is dashed open, and several men come rushing in; the second mate at their head. Lantanas, sitting with his face to the door, sees them first, Don Gregorio, turning in his seat, the instant after.
Neither thinks of demanding a reason for the rude intrusion. The determined air of the intruders, with the fierce expression on their faces, tells it would be idle.
In a time shorter than it takes to tell it, the two doomed men are made fast to the stanchioned chairs; where they sit bolt upright, firm as bollard heads. But not in silence. Both utter threats, oaths, angry fulminations.
Not for long are they allowed this freedom of speech. One of the sailors, seizing a pair of nutcrackers, thrusts them between the skipper’s teeth, gagging him. Another with a corkscrew, does the like for Don Gregorio.
Then the work of pillage proceeds. The locker lids are forced, and the boxes of gold-dust dragged out.
Several goings and comings are required for its transport to the pinnace; but at length it is stowed in the boat, the plunderers taking their seats beside it.
One lingers in the cabin behind the rest; that fiend in human shape who has all along counselled killing the unfortunate men.
Left alone with them, helpless, and at his mercy, he looks as if still determined to do this. It is not from any motive of compassion that he goes from one to the other, and strikes the gags from between their teeth. For at the same time he apostrophises them in horrid mockery:
“Carramba! I can’t think of leaving two gentlemen seated at such a well-furnished table, and no end of wine, without being able to hob-nob, and drink one another’s health!”
Then specially addressing himself to Lantanas, he continues:
“You see, captain, I’m not spiteful; else I shouldn’t think of showing you this bit of civility, after the insults you’ve offered me, since I’ve been second officer of your ship.”
After which, turning angrily upon Don Gregorio, and going close up, he shrieks into his ears:
“Perhaps you don’t know me, Montijo? Can your worship recall a circumstance that occurred some six years ago, when you where alcalde-mayor of Yerba Buena? You may remember having a poor fellow pilloried, and whipped, for doing a bit of contraband. I was that unfortunate individual. And this is my satisfaction for the indignity you put upon me. Keep your seats, gentlemen! Drink your wine and eat your walnuts. Before you’ve cleared the table, this fine barque, with your noble selves, will be at the bottom of the sea.”
The ruffian concludes with a peal of scornful laughter, continued as he ascends the cabin-stair, after striding out and banging the door behind him!
On deck, he sees himself alone; and hurrying to the ship’s waist, scrambles over the side, down into the boat; where he finds everything stowed, the oarsmen seated on the thwarts, their oars in the rowlocks, ready to shove off.
They are not all there yet. Two – the first mate and Davis are still aboard the barque – down in her hold.
There are those who would gladly cast loose, and leave the laggards behind. Indeed, soon as stepping into the boat, Padilla proposes it, the other Spaniards abetting him.
But their traitorous desire is opposed by Striker. However otherwise debased, the ex-convict is true to the men who speak his own tongue.
He protests in strong determined language, and is backed by the Dutchman, Dane, and La Crosse, as also Tarry and Slush.
“Bah!” exclaims Padilla, seeing himself in the minority; “I was only jesting. Of course, I had no intention to abandon them. Ha, ha, ha!” he adds with a forced laugh, “we’d be the blackest of traitors to behave that way.”
Striker pays no heed to the hypocritical speech, but calls to his old chum and Harry Blew – alternately pronouncing their names.
He gets response, and soon after sees Davis above, clambering over the rail.
Blew is not far behind, but still does not appear. He is by the foot of the mainmast with a haulyard in his hands as though hoisting something aloft. The moon has become clouded, and it is too dark for any one to see what it is. Besides, there is no one observing him – no one could, the bulwarks being between.
“Hillo, there, Blew!” again hails Striker; “what be a-keepin’ ye? Hurry down! These Spanish chaps are threetnin’ to go off without ye.”
“Hang it!” exclaims the chief mate, now showing the side; “I hope that an’t true!”
“Certainly not!” exclaims Padilla; “nothing of the kind. We were only afraid you might delay too long, and be in danger of going down with the vessel.”
“Not much fear of that,” returns Blew, dropping into the boat, “It’ll be some time afore she sinks. Ye fixed the rudder for her to run out, didn’t ye?”
“Ay, ay!” responds he who was the last at the wheel.
“All right; shove off, then! That wind’ll take the old Condor straight seawart; and long afore sunrise she’ll be out sight o’ land. Give way there – way!”
The oars dip and plash. The boat separates from the side, with prow turned shoreward.
The barque, with her sails still spread, is left to herself, and the breeze, which wafts her gently away towards the wide wilderness of ocean.
Proceeding cautiously, guarding against the rattle of an oar in its rowlock, the pirates run their boat through the breakers, and approach the shore. Right ahead are the two summits, with the moon just going down behind; and between is a cove of horseshoe shape, the cliffs extending around it.
With a few more strokes the boat is brought into it and glides on to its innermost end.
As the keel grates upon the shingly strand, their ears are saluted by a chorus of cries – the alarm signal of seabirds, startled by the intrusion; among them the scream of the harpy eagle, resembling the laugh of a maniac.
These sounds, despite their discordance, are sweet to those now hearing them. They tell of a shore uninhabited – literally, that the “coast is clear” – just as they wish it.
Beaching the boat, they bound on shore, and lift their captives out; then the spoils – one unresisting as the other.
Some go in search of a place where they may pass the night; for it is too late to think of proceeding inland.
Between the strand and the cliff’s base, these discover a beach, several feet above sea-level, having an area of over an acre, covered with coarse grass, just the spot for a camping-place.
As the sky has become clouded, and threatens a downpour of rain, they carry thither the boat’s sail, intending to rig it up as an awning.
But a discovery is made which spares them the trouble. Along its base the cliff is honeycombed with caves, one of ample dimensions, sufficient to shelter the whole crew. A ship’s lamp, which they have brought with them, when lighted throws its glare upon stalactites, that sparkle like the pendants of chandeliers.
Disposing themselves in various attitudes, some reclined on their spread pilot-coats, some seated on stones or canvas bags, they enter upon a debauch with the wines abstracted from the stores of the abandoned barque – drinking, talking, singing, shouting, and swearing, till the cavern rings with their hellish revelry. It is well their captives are not compelled to take part in, or listen to, it. To them has been appropriated one of the smaller grottoes, the boat-sail fixed in front securing them privacy. Harry Blew has done this. In the breast of the British man-o’-war’s man there is still a spark of delicacy. Though his gratitude has given way to the greed of gold, he has not yet sunk to the level of that ruffianism around him.
While the carousal is thus carried on within the cave, without, the overcast sky begins to discharge itself. Lightning forks and flashes athwart the firmament; thunder rolls reverberating along the cliffs; a strong wind sweeps them; the rain pouring down in torrents.
It is a tropic storm – short-lived, lasting scarce half-an-hour.
But, while on, it lashes the sea into fury, driving the breakers upon the beach, where the beat has been left loosely moored.
In the reflux of the ebbing tide, this is set afloat and carried away seaward. Driven then upon the coral reef, it bilges, is broken to pieces, when the fragments, as waifs, dance about, and drift far away over the foam-crested billows.
Chapter Sixty Two.
Two Tarquins
It is after midnight. A calm has succeeded the storm; and silence reigns around the cove where the pirates have put in. The seabirds have returned to their perches on the cliff, and now sit noiselessly – save an occasional angry scream from the osprey, as a whip-poor-will, or some other plumed plunderer of the night, flits past his place of repose, near enough to wake the tyrant of the sea-shore, and excite his jealous rage.
Other sounds are the dull boom of the outside breakers, and the lighter ripple of the tidal wave washing over a strand rich in shells.
Now and then, a manatee, raising its bristled snout above the surf, gives out a low prolonged wail, like the moan of some creature in mortal agony.
But there is no human voice now. The ruffians have ended their carousal. Their profane songs, ribald jests, and drunken cachinations, inharmoniously mingling with the soft monotone of the sea, have ceased to be heard. They lie astretch along the cavern floor, its hollow aisles echoing back their snores and stertorous breathing.
Still they are not all asleep, nor all within the cavern. Two are outside, sauntering along the shadow of the cliff. As the moon has also gone down, it is too dark to distinguish their faces. Still, there is light enough reflected from the luminous surface of the sea to show that neither is in sailor garb, but the habiliments of landsmen – this the national costume of Spanish California. On their heads are sombreros of ample brim; wide trousers —cahoneras– flap loose around their ankles; while over their shoulders they carry cloaks, which, by the peculiar drape, are recognisable as Mexican mangas. In the obscurity the colour of these cannot be determined, though one is scarlet, the other sky-blue.
Apparelled as the two men are now, it would be difficult to identify them as Gil Gomez and José Hernandez. For all it is they.
They are strolling about without fear, or thought of any one observing them. Yet one is; a man, who has come out of the larger cavern just after them, and who follows them along the cliff’s base. Not openly or boldly, as designing to join in their deliberation; but crouchingly and by stealth, as if playing spy on them.
He is in sailor togs, wearing a loose dreadnought coat, which he buttons on coming out of the cavern. But before closing it over his breast, the butt of a pistol, and the handle of a knife, could be seen gleaming there, both stuck behind a leathern waist belt.
On first stepping forth, he stands for a time with eyes fixed upon the other two. He can see them but indistinctly, while they cannot see him at all, his figure making no silhouette against the dark disc of the cave’s mouth. And afterwards, as he moves along the cliff, keeping close in, its shadow effectually conceals him from their view. But still safer is he from being observed by them, after having ensconced himself in a cleft of rock; which he does while their backs are turned upon him.
In the obscure niche he now occupies no light falls upon his face – not a ray. If there did, it would disclose the countenance of Harry Blew; and as oft before, with an expression upon it not easily understood. But no one sees, much less makes attempt to interpret it.
Meanwhile the two saunterers come to a stop and stand conversing. It is Gomez who is first heard saying:
“I’ve been thinking, compañero, now we’ve got everything straight so far, that our best plan will be to stay where we are till the other matter’s fixed.”
“What other are you speaking of?”
“The marrying, of course.”
“Oh! that. Well?”
“We can send on for the padre, and bring him here; or failing him, the cura. To tell truth, I haven’t the slightest idea of where we’ve come ashore. We may be a goodish distance from Santiago; and to go there, embargoed as we are, there’s a possibility of our being robbed of our pretty baggage on the route. You understand me?”
“I do!”
“Against risk of that kind, it is necessary we should take precautions. And the first – as also the best I can think of – is to stay here till we’re spliced. One of our two Californian friends can act as a messenger. Either, with six words I shall entrust to him, will be certain to bring back an ecclesiastic, having full powers to perform the flea-bite of a ceremony. Then we can march inland without fear – ay, with flying colours; both Benedicts, our blushing brides on our arms, and in Santiago spend a pleasant honeymoon.”
“Delightful anticipation!”
“Just so. And for that very reason, we mustn’t risk marring it; which we might, by travelling as simple bachelors. So I say, let us get married before going a step farther.”
“But the others? Are they to assist at our nuptials?”
“Certainly not.”
“In what way can it be avoided?”
“The simplest in the world. It’s understood that we divide our plunder the first thing in the morning. When that’s done, and each has packed up his share, I intend proposing that we separate – every one to go his own gait.”
“Will they agree to that, think you?”
“Of course they will. Why shouldn’t they? It’s the safest way for all, and they’ll see that. Twelve of us trooping together through the country – to say nothing of having the women along – the story we’re to tell about shipwreck might get discredited. When that’s made clear, to our old shipmates, they’ll be considerate for their own safety. Trust me for making it clear. Of course we’ll keep our Californian friends to act as groomsmen; so that the only things wanted will be a brace of bridesmaids.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughs Hernandez.
“And now to see about our brides. We’ve not yet proposed to them. We went once to do that, and were disappointed. Not much danger of that now.”
“For all that, we may count upon a flat refusal.”
“Flat or sharp, little care I. And it won’t signify, one way or the other. In three days or less I intend calling Carmen Montijo my wife. But come on; I long to lay my hand and heart at her feet.”
Saying which Gomez strides on towards the grotto, the other by his side, like two Tarquins about to invade the sleep of virginal innocence.
Chapter Sixty Three.
Within the Grotto
Though the grotto is in darkness, its occupants are not asleep. To them repose is impossible; for they are that moment in the midst of anguish, keen as human heart could feel. They have passed through its first throes, and are for the while a little calmer. But it is the tranquillity of deep, deadening grief, almost despair. They mourn him dearest to them as dead.
Nor have they any doubt of it. How could they? While in the boat, they heard their captors speak about the scuttling of the ship, well knowing what they meant. Long since has she gone to the bottom of the sea, with the living left aboard, or perhaps only their lifeless bodies; for they may have been murdered before! No matter now in what way death came to them. Enough of sadness and horror to think it has come – enough for the bereaved ones to know they are bereft.
Nor do they need telling why it has all been done. Though hindered from seeing while in the boat, they have heard. Cupidity the cause; the crime a scheme to plunder the ship. Alas! it has succeeded.
But all is not yet over. Would that it were! There is something still to come; something they fear to reflect upon, or speak of to one another. What is to be their own fate?
Neither can tell, or guess. Their thoughts are too distracted for reasoning. But in the midst of vague visions, one assumes a shape too well-defined. It is the same of which Carmen was speaking when seized.
She again returns to it, saying:
“Iñez, I’m now almost sure we are not in the hands of strangers. From what has happened, and some voices we heard, I fear my suspicions have been too true!”
“Heaven help us, if it be so!”
“Yes; Heaven help us! Even from pirates we might have expected some mercy; but none from them. Ay de mi! what will become of us?”
The interrogatory is only answered by a sigh. The spirit of the Andalusian girl, habitually cheerful, is now crushed under a weight of very wretchedness. Soon again they exchange speech, seeking counsel of one another. Is there no hope, no hand to help, no one to whom they may turn in this hour of dread ordeal? No – not one! Even the English sailor, in whom they had trusted, has proved untrue; to all appearance, chief of the conspiring crew! Every human being seems to have abandoned them. Has God?
“Let us pray to Him!” says Carmen.
“Yes,” answers Iñez; “He only can help us now.”
They kneel side by side on the hard, cold floor of the cave, and send up their voices in earnest prayer. They first entreat the Holy Virgin that the life of him dear to them may yet be spared; then invoke her protection for themselves, against a danger both dread as death itself. They pray in trembling accents, but with a fervour eloquent through fear.
Solemnly pronouncing “Amen!” they make the sign of the cross; in darkness, God alone seeing it.
As their hands drop down from the gesture, and while they are still in a kneeling attitude, a noise outside succeeds their appeal to Heaven, suddenly recalling them to earthly thoughts and fears.
They hear voices of men in conversation; at the same time the sailcloth is pushed aside, and two men press past it into the cave. Soon as entering one says:
“Señoritas! we must ask pardon for making our somewhat untimely call; which present circumstances render imperative. It’s to be hoped, however, you won’t stand upon such stiff ceremony with us, as when we had the honour of last paying our respects to you.”
After this singular peroration, the speaker pauses to see what may be the effect of his words. As this cannot be gathered from any reply – since none is vouchsafed – he continues; “Dona Carmen Montijo, you and I are old acquaintances; though, it may be, you do not remember my voice. With the sound of the sea so long echoing in your ears, that’s not strange. Perhaps the sense of sight will prove more effectual in recalling an old friend. Let me give you something to assist it!”
Saying this, he holds out a lantern, hitherto concealed beneath his cloak. As it lights up the grotto, four figures are seen erect; for the girls have sprung to their feel in apprehension of immediate danger. Upon all, the light shines clear; and, fronting her, Carmen Montijo sees – too surely recognising it – the face of Francisco de Lara; while in her vis-à-vis, Iñez Alvarez beholds Faustino Calderon!
Yes, before them are their scorned suitors; no longer disguised in sailor garb, but resplendent in their Californian costume – the same worn by them on that day of their degradation, when De Lara rolled in the dust of the Dolores road.
Now that he has them in his power, his triumph is complete; and in strains of exultation he continues:
“So, ladies! you see we’ve come together again! No doubt you’re a little surprised at our presence, but I hope not annoyed.”
There is no reply to this taunting speech.
“Well, if you won’t answer, I shall take it for granted you are annoyed; besides looking a little alarmed too. You’ve no need to be that.”
“No, indeed,” endorses Calderon. “We mean you no harm – none whatever.”
“On the contrary,” goes on De Lara, “only good. We’ve nothing but favours to offer you.”
“Don Francisco de Lara!” exclaims Carmen, at length breaking silence, and speaking in a tone of piteous expostulation; “and you, Don Faustino Calderon, why have you committed this crime? What injury have we ever done you?”
“Come! not so fast, fair Carmen! Crime’s a harsh word, and we’ve not committed any as yet – nothing to speak of.”
“No crime! Santissima! My father – my poor father!”
“Don’t be uneasy about him. He’s safe enough.”
“Safe! Dead! Drowned! Dios de mi alma!”
“No, no. That’s all nonsense,” protests the fiend, adding falsehood to his sin of deeper dye. “Don Gregorio is not where you say. Instead of being at the sea’s bottom, he is sailing upon its surface; and is likely to be, for Heaven knows how long. But let’s drop that subject of the past, which seems unpleasant to you, and talk of the present – of ourselves. You ask what injury you’ve ever done us? Faustino Calderon may answer for himself to the fair Iñez. To you, Doña Carmen, I shall make reply – But we may as well confer privately.”
At this he lays hold of her wrist, and leads her aside; Calderon conducting Iñez in the opposite direction.
When the whole length of the cavern is between the two pairs, De Lara resumes speech:
“Yes, Doña Carmen; you have done me an injury – a double wrong I may call it.”
“How, sir?” she asks, withdrawing her hand from his, with a disdainful gesture. “How?” he retorts. “Why, in making me love you – by leading me to believe my love returned.”
“You speak falsely; I never did so.”
“You did, Doña Carmen; you did. It is you who speak false, denying it. That is the first wrong I have to reproach you with. The second is in casting me off, as soon as you supposed you’d done with me. Not so, as you see now. We’re together again – never more to part till I’ve had satisfaction for all. I once hinted – I now tell you plainly, you’ve made a mistake in trifling with Francisco de Lara.”
“I never trifled with you, señor. Dios mio! What means this? Man – if you be a man – have mercy! Oh! what would you – what would you?”
“Nothing to call for such distracted behaviour on your part. On the contrary, I’ve brought you here – for I’ll not deny that it’s I who have done it – to grant you favours, instead of asking them. Ay, or even satisfying resentments. What I intend towards you, I hope you will appreciate. To shorten explanations – for which we’ve neither opportunity nor time – I want you for my wife —want you, and will have you.”
“Your wife!”
“Yes; my wife. You needn’t look surprised, nor counterfeit feeling it. And equally idle for you to make opposition. I’ve determined upon it. So, you must many me.”
“Marry the murderer of my father! Sooner than do that, you shall also be mine. Wretch! I am in your power. You can kill me now.”
“I know all that, without your telling me. But I don’t intend killing you. On the contrary, I shall take care to keep you alive, until I’ve tried what sort of a wife you’ll make. Should you prove a good one, and fairly affectionate, we two may lead a happy life together, notwithstanding the little unpleasantness that’s been between us. If not, and our wedded bondage prove uncongenial, why, then, I may release you in the way you wish, or any other that seems suitable. After the honeymoon, you shall have your choice. Now Doña Carmen! those are my conditions. I hope you find them fair enough!”
She makes no reply. The proud girl is dumb, partly with indignation, partly from the knowledge that all speech would be idle. But while angry to the utmost, she is also afraid – trembling at the alternative presented – death or dishonour; the last if she marry the murderer of her father; the first if she refuse him!
The ruffian repeats his proposal, in the same cynical strain, concluding it with a threat.
She is at length stung to reply; which she does in but two words, twice repeated in wild despairing accent. They are:
“Kill me – kill me!”
Almost at the same time, and in similar strain does Iñez answer her cowardly suitor, who in a corner of the grotto has alike brought her to bay.
After the dual response, there is a short interval of silence. Then De Lara, speaking for both, says:
“Señoritas! we shall leave you now; and you can go to sleep without fear of further solicitation. No doubt, after a night’s rest, you’ll awake to a more sensible view of matters in general, and the case as it stands. Of one thing be assured; that there’s no chance of your escaping from your present captivity, unless by consenting to change your names. And if you don’t consent, they’ll be changed all the same. Yes, Carmen Montijo! before another week passes over your head, you shall be addressed as Doña Carmen de Lara.
“And you, Iñez Alvarez, will be called Doña Iñez Calderon. No need for you to feel dishonoured by a name among the first in California. Noble as your own; ay, or any in old Spain.”
“Hasta mañana, muchacas!” salutes De Lara, preparing to take leave. “Pasan Vs buena noche!”
Calderon repeating the same formulary, the two step towards the entrance, lift up the piece of suspended sailcloth, and pass out into night. They have taken the lantern along with them, again leaving the grotto in darkness.
The girls grope their way, till their arms come in contact. Then, closing in mutual embrace, they sink together upon the cold flinty floor!
