Майн Рид
The Flag of Distress: A Story of the South Sea
Chapter Sixty Seven.
A Duel Adjourned
The combat, now declared inevitable, its preliminaries are speedily arranged. Under the circumstances, and between such adversaries, the punctilios of ceremony are slight. For theirs is the rough code of honour common to robbers of all countries and climes.
No seconds are chosen, nor spoken of. All on the ground are to act as such; and at once proceed to business.
Some measure off the distance, stepping it between two stones. Others examine the pistols, to see that both are loaded with ball-cartridge, and carefully capped. The fight is to be with Colt’s six-shooters, navy size. Each combatant chances to have one of this particular pattern. They are to commence firing at twelve paces, and if that be ineffectual, then close up, as either chooses. If neither fall to the shots, then to finish with the steel.
The captives inside the cave are ignorant of what is going on. Little dream they of the red tragedy soon to be enacted so near, or how much they themselves may be affected by its result. It is indeed to them the chances of a contrasting destiny.
The duellists take stand by the stones, twelve paces apart. Blew having stripped off his pilot-cloth coat, is in his shirt-sleeves. These rolled up to the elbow, expose ranges of tattooing, fouled anchors, stars, crescents, and a woman – a perfect medley of forecastle souvenirs. They show also muscles, lying along his arms like lanyards round a ship’s stay. Should the shots fail, those arms promise well for wielding the cutlass; and if his fingers should clutch his antagonist’s throat, the struggle will be a short one.
Still, no weak adversary will he meet in Francisco de Lara. He, too, has laid aside his outer garment – thrown off his scarlet cloak, and the heavy hat. He does not need stripping to the shirt-sleeves; his light jaqueta of velveteen in no way encumbers him. Fitting like a glove, it displays arms of muscular strength, with a body in symmetrical correspondence.
A duel between two such gladiators might be painful, but for all, a fearfully interesting spectacle. Those about to witness it seem to think so, as they stand silent, with breath bated, and eyes alternately on one and the other.
As it has been arranged that Striker is to give the signal, the ex-convict, standing centrally outside the line of fire, is about to say a word that will set two men, mad as tigers, at one another – each with full resolve to fire, cut down, and kill.
There is a moment of intense stillness, like the lull which precedes a storm. Nothing heard save the tidal wash against the near strand, the boom of the distant breakers, and at intervals the shrill scream of a sea-bird.
The customary “Ready!” is forming on Striker’s lips, to be followed by the “Fire! – one – two – three!” But not one of these words – not a syllable – is he permitted to speak. Before he can give utterance to the first, a cry comes down from the cliff, which arrests the attention of all; soon as understood, enchaining it.
It is La Crosse who sends it, shouting in accent of alarm —
“Mon Dieu! we’re on an island!”
When the forest is on fire, or the savannah swept by flood, and their wild denizens flee to a spot uninvaded, the timid deer is safe beside the fierce wolf or treacherous cougar. In face of the common danger they will stand trembling together – the beasts of prey for the time gentle as their victims.
So with human kind; a case parallel, and in point, furnished by the crew of the Condor with their captives.
The pirates, on hearing the cry of La Crosse, are at first only startled. But soon their surprise becomes apprehension; keen enough to stay the threatening fight, and indefinitely postpone it. For at the words “We’re on an island!” they are impressed with an instinctive sense of danger; and all, intending combatants as spectators, rush up the ravine, to the summit of the cliff, where La Crosse is still standing.
Arrived there, and casting their eyes inland, they have evidence of the truth of his statement. A strait, leagues in width, separates them from the mainland. Far too wide to be crossed by the strongest swimmer amongst them – too wide for them to be descried from the opposite side, even through a telescope! And the inland is a mere strip of sea-washed rock, running parallel to the coast, cliff-bound, table-topped, sterile, treeless – and, to all appearance, waterless!
As this last thought comes uppermost – along with the recollection that their boat is gone – what was at first only a flurry of excited apprehension, becomes a fixed fear.
Still further intensified, when after scattering over the islet, and exploring it from end to end, they again come together, and each party delivers its report. No wood save some stunted bushes; no water – stream, pond, or spring; only that of the salt sea rippling around; no sign of animal life, except snakes, scorpions, and lizards, with the birds flying above – screaming as if in triumph at the intruders upon their domain being thus entrapped!
For they are so, and clearly comprehend it. Most of them are men who have professionally followed the sea, and understand what it is to be “castaways.” Some have had actual experience of it, and need no reminding of its dangers. To a man, they feel their safety as much compromised, as if the spot of earth under their feet, instead of being but three leagues from land – were three thousand – for that matter in the middle of the Pacific.
What would they not now give to be again on board the barque sent sailing thither to miserably perish? Ah! their cruelty has come back upon them like a curse.
The interrupted duel – what of it? Nothing. It is not likely ever to be fought. Between the ci-devant combatants, mad anger and jealous rivalry may still remain. But neither shows it now; both subdued, in contemplation of the common peril.
Blew, to all appearance, is less affected than his antagonist; but all are cowed – awed by a combination of occurrences, that look as though an avenging angel had been sent to punish them.
From that moment Carmen Montijo and Iñez Alvarez will be safe in their midst, as if promenading the streets of Cadiz, or flirting their fans at a funcion de toros.
Safe, as far as being molested by the ruffians around them. Yet, alas! exposed to the danger overhanging all – death from starvation.
A fearful fate threatens the late crew of the Chilian barque, in horror equalling that to which those left aboard of her have been consigned. Well may they deem it a retribution – that God’s hand is upon them, meting out a punishment apportioned to their crime!
But surely He will not permit the innocent to suffer with the guilty? Let us hope – pray, He will not.
Chapter Sixty Eight.
Long-Suffering
“Virgen Santissima! Mother of God, have mercy!”
The cry is heard in the cabin of the Condor– Don Gregorio Montijo giving utterance to it.
Several days have elapsed since the desertion of her crew, and she is still afloat, drifting in a south-westerly direction, with all sail set, just as when the pirates put away from her.
Why she has not gone to the bottom is known but to two men – they entrusted with the scuttling.
And just as when left, are the three unfortunate beings aboard: the black cook on his galley bench, the captain and his passenger vis-à-vis at the cabin-table, bound to and bolt upright in their chairs.
But though the attitudes of all three are unchanged, there is a marked change in their appearance, especially of those in the cabin. For the white man shown the effects of physical suffering sooner than the Ethiopian.
For over five days Don Gregorio and Lantanas have been enduring agony great as ever tortured Tantalus. It has made fearful inroad on their strength – on their frames. Both are reduced almost to skeletons; cheekbones protruding, eyes sunken in their sockets. Were the cords that confine them suddenly taken off, they would sink helpless on the floor!
Not all this time have they been silent. At intervals they had conversed upon their desperate situation. For the first day, with some lingering hope of being released; but afterwards despairingly, as the hours passed and nothing occurred to change it.
Now and then they have heard cries on deck; knowing they are from the cook; whom they now believe to be, as themselves, bound up somewhere in the forward part of the vessel.
At first they made some attempt to communicate with him, by answering them; but found it an idle effort. He may have heard, but could not help them. And now their feeble strength forbids even such exertion of their voices.
Long since have the two men given up all hope of being able to untie the cords keeping them to their chairs. The knots made by the hands of a sailor would defy the efforts of the most skilled presti-digitateur.
And at length also have they ceased to converse, or only at periods long apart. Lantanas, after his first throes of fierce rage, has sunk into a sort of stupor, and, with head drooping down to his breast, appears as if life had left him.
Don Gregorio, on the contrary, holds his erect – at least during most part of the day. For before him is something to be seen – the sea through the stern windows, still open.
On this he keeps his eyes bent habitually; though not with much hope of their seeing aught to cheer him. On its blue expanse he beholds but a streak of white, the frothing water in the vessel’s wake, now and then a “school” of tumbling porpoises, or the “spout” of a cachalot whale.
Once, however, an object came within his field of vision, which caused him to start, writhe in his ropes, and cry out to the utmost of his strength. For it was a ship in full sail crossing the Condor’s track, and scarce a cable’s length astern!
He heard a hail and called out in response, Lantanas joining him.
And the two kept on shouting for hours after, till their feeble voices failed them; and they again resigned themselves to a despondency, hopeless as ever.
All their shouts have ever brought them were the Bornean apes, that they often hear scampering up and down the cabin-stair, dashing their uncouth bodies against the closed door.
The Chilian has now quite surrendered to despair; while Don Gregorio, who had also lost hope of help from man, still has faith in Heaven. Hence the prayerful appeal; which with unabated fervour he once more sends up: —
“Virgen Santissima! Mother of God, have mercy!”
All at once Lantanas, catching the words, and raising his head, cries out:
“Virgin! Hach! There’s no virgin! – No mother of God, nor God neither!”
“Captain Lantanas!”
“Don’t captain me! I’m not a captain. I’m a poor miserable creature – starving with hunger – dying of thirst. Merciful Virgin, indeed! Where’s her mercy? If she has it, let her show. Let her find me food and drink. Cakes and fruit there! Nothing of the sort. Stones, painted stones! And those other things! Bottles they call them – bottles and decanters. All a deception. They’re imps – some demigods! See how they dance. Let’s join them! Come, old Zanzibar! Bring your fiddle! And my Bornean beauties, come you. We’ll have a grand fandango. We’ll make a dancing room of the Condor’s deck, and kick up our heels high as the cuddy head. That’s the way we’ll do it. Ha – ha – ha! Ha – ha – ha!”
“O God!” groans Don Gregorio, “Lantanas has lost his reason!”
Chapter Sixty Nine.
Help from Heaven
For long, the Chilian skipper continues to rave, rolling his eyes about, now and then glaring fiercely at Don Gregorio, as though he wished to stretch across the table and tear him. Fortunate he is confined now.
At first the ex-haciendado spoke kindly, endeavouring to soothe him; but seeing it idle, he has ceased; and now makes no further attempt.
To converse with him would be only painful, and indeed the sight is sufficiently so, suggesting to Don Gregorio what may be his own fate. At times he almost fancies himself the same, as sweeps through his soul the thought of his accumulated calamities.
He wishes that death would relieve him, and has prayed for it more than once. He prays for it again, silently, with his eyes resting on the sea. He awaits the final hour, longing for it to come, his features set in calm, Christian resignation.
Suddenly their expression changes, a ray of renewed hope shooting athwart his face. Not a ray, but a beam, which spreads over his whole countenance, while his eyes kindle into cheerfulness, and his lips become parted in a smile!
Is he about to echo the mad laugh of Lantanas?
No! In that look there is no sign of unseated reason.
On the contrary, he gazes with intelligent earnestness, as at something outside demanding investigation.
Soon his lips part farther, not now to smile, but speak words that involuntarily issue from them. Only two little words, but of large import and greatest cheer:
“A sail!”
For such he has espied; a white speck away off on the line that separates the two blues, but distinguishable from waif of floating foam or wing of gull. Beyond doubt, a sail – a ship!
Once more, hope is in his heart, which bounding up, beats audibly within his breast.
Higher and louder, as the white speck shows larger, and assumes shape. For the tall narrow disc, rising tower-like against the sky, can only be the spread canvas of a ship.
And gradually growing taller, he at length sees she is standing towards the barque!
Intently he continues to watch the distant sail! Silently, without saying aught of it to his companion, or in any way communicating with him. It would be of no use; the mind of the Chilian is closed against outward impressions, and now is not the time to attempt opening it.
Hopefully, Don Gregorio continues gazing, but not without anxiety. Once before he has had disappointment from a similar sight. It may be so again.
But, no; that ship was standing across the Condor’s track, while this is sailing in the same course – sailing after, apparently, with the intention to come up; and though slowly, surely drawing nearer; as he can tell by her canvas increasing in the bulk, growing broader and rising higher upon the horizon.
A long time elapses – nearly half-a-day – during which he has many hopes and fears, alternating as the hours pass.
But the hopes are at length in the ascendant, and all anxiety passes as the pursuing ship shows her dark hull above the water-line, and he can distinguish her separate sails. They are all set. What joy in his heart as his eyes rest on them! They seem the wings of merciful angels, coming to relieve him from his misery!
And the flag floating above – the flag of England! Were it the banner of his own Spain, he could not regard it with greater gladness, or gratitude. For surely he will be saved now?
Alas! while thus congratulating himself, he sees what causes his heart again to go down within him, bringing back keenest apprehensions. The strange vessel is still a far distance off, and the breeze impelling her, light all along, has suddenly died down – not a ripple showing on the sea’s surface – while her sails now hang loose and limp. Beyond doubt is she becalmed.
But the Condor! Will she, too, cease sailing?
Yes; she must, from the same cause. Already she moves slowly, scarce making way. And now – now she is motionless! He can tell it, by the glass rack and lamps overhead, that hang without the slightest oscillation. Anon, the barque gradually swings round, and he loses sight of the ship. Through the windows he still beholds the sea, calm and blue, but vacant; no outline of hull – no expanded sail – no flouting flag to keep up his heart, which is once more almost despondent.
But only for a short time; again rising as the barque, sheering round, brings once more her stern towards the ship, and he sees the latter, and something besides – a boat!
It is down in the water, and coming on toward the Condor, the oar-blades flashing in the sun and flinging spray-drops that seem like silver stars!
The barque swinging round, he has the boat in view but a short while. What matters it now? He is certain of being saved!
And he looks no longer – only listens.
Soon to hear words spoken in a strong manly voice, to him sweeter than music. It is the hail:
“Barque ahoy!”
In feeble accents he makes answer, and continues to call out, till other voices, echoing along the Condor’s decks, become commingled with his own.
Then there are footsteps on the quarterdeck, soon after heard descending the cabin-stair.
The handle is turned, the door pushed open, and a swish of fresh air sweeps in, men along with it; as they enter, giving utterance to wild exclamations.
Wrenching his neck around, he sees there are two of them, both in the uniform of naval officers, and both known to him!
Their presence causes him strange emotions, and many – too many for his strength so long and sorely tried.
Overpowered by the sight, he becomes unconscious, as though instead of gladdening, it had suddenly deprived him of life!
Chapter Seventy.
Conjectures too True
No need to say that the two officers who have entered the Condor’s cabin are Crozier and Cadwallader. For she is the polacca-barque chased by a frigate, and that frigate the Crusader.
The cry simultaneously raised by them is one of strange intonation, telling less of surprise, than conjecture too fatally confirmed.
While in chase of the barque, and her national colours were first made out, they had no thought of connecting her with the vessel which Don Gregorio Montijo had chartered to take him to Panama. True, they had heard that this was a Chilian vessel, and her skipper of that nation. But they had also been told she was a ship, not a barque. And as among the many craft in San Francisco Bay, neither had noticed her, how would they think of identifying her with the chased polacca.
Gradually, however, as the frigate drew upon her, certain suspicions of a painful nature began to shape themselves in Crozier’s mind; still so vague he did not deem it worth while communicating them to Cadwallader. He remembered having seen a polacca-masted vessel in the harbour of San Francisco; besides, that she was a ship. And so far as his recollection served, she was of the same size as that running before the frigate. Besides, he could distinctly recall the fact of her flying Chilian colours. The peculiar style of her masting had drawn his attention to her.
And while they were still pursuing the barque, and commenting on the coincident statement of the brig and whaler about men having been aboard of her covered with red hair, Crozier also recalled a statement strangely significant, which Harry Blew had made to one of the men who had rowed Cadwallader ashore, on the day the Crusader sailed. Blew had been aboard the Chilian vessel, and being asked by his old shipmate what sort of crew she had, laughingly replied: “Only a black man, and two red ones.” Pressed for an explanation about the red ones, he said they were a couple of orang-outangs.
Putting these odd data together, and comparing them, the Crusader’s third lieutenant began to have an uneasy feeling, as they followed the retreating vessel. That she was a barque, and not a ship, meant nothing. As a seaman, he knew how easy the conversion – how often made.
When at length both vessels lay becalmed, and an order for boarding was given, he had solicited the command – by a private word to the frigate’s captain, as had Cadwallader the leave to accompany him; the latter actuated by impulses not very dissimilar.
When both at length climbed the barque’s sides, saw the red monkeys on deck, and the black man in the galley, their apprehension became sharpened to the keenest foreboding – far more than a presentiment of misfortune.
Alas! as they entered the Condor’s cabin, beholding its fulfilment.
The cry that escaped their lips came on the recognition of Don Gregorio Montijo; followed by other exclamations, as they looked at the two unoccupied chairs, a fan upon the one, a scarf over the back of the other. It was then that Crozier rushing upon deck, sent the cutter off for the surgeon, himself instantly returning to the cabin.
Still wilder – almost a wail – is the shout simultaneously raised by the young officers, when, after dashing open the state-room doors, they look in and see all empty!
They turn to those at the table, asking information – entreating it: one answers with a strange Bedlamite laugh; the other not at all. It is Don Gregorio who is silent. They see that his head is hanging over. He appears insensible.
“Great God! is he dead?”
They glide towards him, grasp table-knives, and cut the cords that have been confining him. Senseless, he sinks into their arms.
But he is not dead; only in a faint. Though feebly, his pulse still beats!
With wine they wet his lips – the wine so long standing untasted! They open his mouth, and pour some of it down his throat, then stand over him to await the effect.
Soon his pulse grows stronger, and his eyes sparkle with the light of reviving life.
Laid gently along the sofa, he is at length restored to consciousness; with sufficient strength to answer the questions eagerly put to him. There are two, simultaneously asked, almost echoes of one another.
“Where is Carmen? Where is Iñez?”
“Gone!” he gasps out. “Carried away by the – ”
He does not finish the speech. His breath fails him, and he seems relapsing into the syncope from which he has been aroused. Fearing this, they question him no farther, but continue to administer restoratives. They give him more wine, making him also eat of the fruits found upon the table.
They have also set the skipper free; but soon see cause to regret it. He strides to and fro, flings his arms about in frenzied gesture, clutches at decanters, glasses, bottles, and breaks them against one another, or dashes them down upon the floor. He needs restraining, and they do that, by shutting him up in a state-room.
Returning to Don Gregorio, they continue to nurse him; all the while wishing the surgeon to come.
While impatiently waiting they hear a hail from the top of the cabin-stairs. It is their coxswain, who shouts: —
“Below there!”
He is about to announce the cutter’s return from the frigate.
Ah no! It is not that; but something different; which instead of gratifying, gives them a fresh spasm of pain. Listening, they hear him say: —
“Come on deck, Mr Crozier! There’s a bank o’ black fog rollin’ up. It’s already close on the barque’s starboard bow. It look like there’s mischief in’t; and I believe there be. For God’s sake, hurry up, sir!”
