Майн Рид
The Flag of Distress: A Story of the South Sea
Chapter Seventy One.
A Struggle with the Storm
The summons of the coxswain is too serious to be disregarded; and soon as hearing it, the two officers hasten upon deck, leaving Don Gregorio reclining along the settee.
Glancing over the barque’s starboard bow, they behold a sky black as Erebus. It is a fog-bank, covering several points of the compass. But while they stand regarding it, it lengthens along the horizon, at the same time rising higher against the heavens. They can see that it is approaching, spreading over the ocean like a pall. And, where it shadows the water, white flakes show themselves, which they know to be froth churned up by the sharp stroke of a wind-squall.
They do not stand idly gazing. All three recognise the threatening danger. They only cast a glance towards the frigate, and, perceiving they can hope for no help from her, at once commence taking measures for themselves. “To the sheets!” shouts Crozier. “Let fly all!”
At the command, the midshipman and coxswain bound off to execute it, the lieutenant himself assisting; since there are but the three to do the work. For the negro, released by Grummet, despite half a pint of rum poured down his throat, is scarcely able to keep his feet. No help, therefore, to be had from him, nor any one else.
But the three strong men, with confidence in their strength, and with knowledge to comprehend the approaching peril, take the proper steps to avert it – these being, as Crozier has commanded, to let go everything.
Working as if for life, they cast off sheets and halyards, and let the canvas flap free. No time for clewing up, or making snug: no thought of either. The sails must take their chance, though they get split into shreds, which they are pretty sure to do.
This actually occurs, and soon. Scarce has her canvas been released from its sheets and tacks, when the barque becomes enveloped in a dense cloud, and the wind strikes like a cannon shot against her sails. Luckily, they were loosed in time. If still stiff set, the masts would have gone by the board, or the Condor on her beam-ends. And luckily, too, before struck, Grummet had hold of her helm, and, by Crozier’s command, brought her before the wind. To attempt “lying to,” with her sails in such condition, would be to court destruction. To “scud” is their only chance for safety.
And away go they before the wind, which, first blowing in fitful gusts, soon becomes a steady gale, with now and then a violent burst catching still another sail, and rending it to ribbons.
Soon there is not a sound one, and scarce aught save strips of torn canvas hanging from the yards, or streaming out like the flags on a signal-staff.
Fortunately the barque well obeys her helm, and the young officers contrive to set storm-stay and trysail, thus helping to hold her steady.
During all this time they have not thought of the frigate. Absorbed in the endeavour to save the craft that carries them, they reflect not on what may be their fate should they get separated from their own ship.
At length, this reflection arises in a form to appal them. The frigate is out of sight – has been ever since the commencement of the gale, the fog having drifted between. They do not now know the direction in which she is; nor can they tell whether she has lain-to, or, like themselves, “run.” If the latter, there is a hope she will follow the same course; and, the fog lifting, be again sighted.
Alas! it is more likely she will do the former. Full-manned, she will have taken in sail in good time, and made all snug, so as to ride out the storm; and, aware of the danger in which they on the barque will be placed, she will not forsake the spot, but assuredly lie to.
Just as they have arrived at this conclusion, they hear a gun booming above the blast. They know it is from the frigate, firing to let them know her whereabouts. But, although the sound reaches them with sufficient distinctness, they cannot tell the direction. Who could at sea, in a fog?
Listening, they hear it a second time, and soon after a third.
Then again and again; still distinct, but with the same uncertainty as to its direction. For the life of them they cannot determine the point of the compass whence it comes. Even if they knew, it is a question whether they dare set the barque’s head towards it, for the storm has increased to a tempest, and it is touch and go for them to keep the Chilian vessel afloat. Out of trim, she is tossed from wave to wave, shipping seas that threaten to engulf her, or wash everybody overboard.
In this struggle – as it were, for life and death – they lose all hope of being able to keep company with the warship – all thought of it. It will be well if they can but save that they are on from going to the bottom of the sea.
Again they hear the firing, several times repeated – that signal that they are unable to answer, or unable to avail themselves of its friendly warning. Situated as they are, it seems sounding a farewell salute – or it may be their death knell.
Fainter and fainter falls the boom upon their ears; duller and duller at each successive detonation, which tells that the distance between them and the frigate, instead of diminishing, increases. However sad and disheartening, they cannot help it. They dare not put the barque about, or in any way alter her course. They must keep scudding on, though they may never see the Crusader again.
At length, no longer do they hear the signal-guns. Whether from greater distance, or louder vociferation of the tempest, they can no more be distinguished amidst its voices.
Throughout all the night the barque scuds, storm-buffeted, shipping huge seas, yet casting them off, and still keeping afloat. Notwithstanding her distressed condition, she rides the gale through to its termination.
As the morning sun gleams over the ocean, along with the subsiding wind, the fog also lifts, leaving both sea and sky clear. And still the Condor is afloat, rolling from beam to beam; her tall smooth masts as yet in her, her rigging aright, and her bulwarks unbroken. Only the sails have suffered, and they are all gone.
Grummet is at the wheel, guiding her wayward course; while the two officers stand upon her quarterdeck, with eyes bent abroad, scanning the crests of the big billows that go rumbling along.
But there is no Crusader in sight – no frigate – no ship of any kind – nothing but the wide, fathomless ocean!
They are alone upon it, hundreds of leagues from land, aboard a craft they may not be able to manage; and all the more difficult with her sails in shreds. But even were these sound, they have not the strength to set them. They are helpless; but little better off than if they were in an open boat!
In very truth, are they in peril!
But they do not dwell upon it now. A thought still more afflicting is before their minds; and, casting another glance over the ocean – unrewarded as ever – they descend into the cabin, to obtain some particulars of that which has saddened, almost maddened them.
Chapter Seventy Two.
A Card Recovered
It is the fourth day since the English officers boarded the Chilian barque. They are still on board of her, and she still afloat – the one a sequence of the other; or, she would now be at the bottom of the sea. A tough struggle they have had of it; only the three to manage so large a craft in a tempest which, though short-lived, was fierce as ever swept over the Pacific. And with no aid from any of the other three. Captain Lantanas is still delirious, locked up in his state-room, lest, in his violence, he may do some harm; while Don Gregorio, weak as a child, reclines on the cabin settee, unable to go upon deck. The negro alone, having partially recovered strength, lends some assistance.
The barque’s sails still hang tattered from the spars, for they have since encountered other winds, and had neither the time nor strength to clear them. But they have contrived to patch up the foresail, and bend on a new jib from some spare canvas found in the stores. With these she is making way at the rate of some five or six knots to the hour, her head East and by South. It is twelve o’clock mid-day, and Grummet is at the wheel; the officers on the quarter; Crozier, sextant in hand, “shooting the sun.” They have long since given up hope of finding the frigate, or being found by her at sea.
Aware of this, they are steering the crippled vessel towards Panama in hope of their coming across her. In any case, that is the port where they will be most likely to get tidings of her.
A prey to saddened thoughts are the two young officers, as they stand on the quarterdeck of the Chilian vessel taking the altitude of the sun, with instruments her own skipper is no longer able to use. Fortunately, these had not been carried off, else there would be but little likelihood of their making Panama.
At best, they will reach it with broken hearts; for they have now heard the whole story in all its dark details, so far as Don Gregorio could give them.
Having already determined their longitude by the barque’s chronometer, they have kept it by log-reckoning, and their present observation is but to confirm them in the latitude.
“Starboard your helm!” shouts Crozier to Grummet. “Give her another point to port. Keep her east-by-south. Steady!”
Then turning to Cadwallader, he says:
“If all goes well, we shall make Panama in less than two days. We might do it in one, if we could but set sail enough. Anyhow, I think old Bracebridge will stay for us at least a week. Ah! I wish that were all we had to trouble us. To think they’re gone – lost to us – for ever!”
“Don’t say that, Ned. There’s still a hope we may find them.”
“And found, what then! You needn’t answer. Will; I don’t wish you to speak of it. I daren’t trust myself to think of it. Carmen Montijo – my betrothed – captive to a crew of pirate cut-throats – oh!”
Cadwallader is silent. He suffers the same agony thinking of Iñez.
For a time the picture remains before their minds, dark as their gloomiest fancies can make it. Then across it shoot some rays of hope, saddened, but sweet, for they are thoughts of vengeance. Cadwallader first gives expression to it.
“Whatever has happened to the girls, we shall go after them anyhow. And the robbers, we must find them.”
“Find, and punish them,” adds Crozier. “That we surely shall. If it costs all my money, all the days of my life, I’ll revenge the wrongs of Carmen Montijo.”
“And I those of Iñez Alvarez.”
For a while they stand silently brooding upon that which has brought such black shadow over their hearts. Then Cadwallader says:
“The scoundrels must have plotted it all before leaving San Francisco; and shipped aboard the Chilian vessel for the express purpose of getting this gold. That’s Don Gregorio’s idea of it, borne out by what he heard from that one of them he knew there – Rocas the name, he says.”
“It seems probable – indeed certain,” rejoins Crozier. “Though it don’t much matter how, or when, they planned the damnable deed. Enough that they’ve done it. But to think of Harry Blew turning traitor, and taking part with them! That is to me the strangest thing of all, frightfully, painfully, strange.”
“But do you believe he has acted in such a manner?”
“How can one help believing it? What Don Gregorio heard leaves no alternative. He went off in the boat along with the rest; besides saying words which prove he went willingly. Only to think of such black ingratitude! Cadwallader, I’d as soon have thought of suspecting yourself!”
“His conduct, certainly, seems incredible. I believed Blew to be a thoroughly honest fellow. No doubt the gold corrupted him; as it has many a better man. But let’s think no more about it; only hope we may some day lay hands on him.”
“Ah! if I ever do that. With my arms around him, I once saved his worthless life. Let me but get him in my embrace again, and he’ll have a hug that’ll squeeze the last breath out of his body!”
“The chance may come yet, and with the whole scoundrelly crew. What brutes they must have been! According to Don Gregorio’s account, they were of all nations, and the worst sort of each. The negro says the same. Among them four that spoke Spanish, and appeared to be Spaniards, or Spanish-Americans. Suppose we pay a visit to the forecastle, and see if we can find any record of their names. It might be of use hereafter.”
“By all means!” asserts the lieutenant; “let us.” They proceed towards the fore-deck in silence, their countenances showing a nervous apprehension. For there is a thought in their hearts, which neither has yet made known to the other – blacker, and more bitter, than even the thought of Harry Blew’s treason.
Unspoken, they carry it into the forecastle; but they are not many minutes there, before seeing what brings it out, without either saying a word.
A bunk – the most conspicuous of the two tiers – is explored first. They turn out of it papers of various sorts: some letters, several numbers of an old newspaper, and a pack of Spanish playing-cards – all pictured. But among them is one of a different sort – a white one, with a name printed upon it.
A visiting card – but whose?
As Crozier picks it up, and reads the name, his blood curdles, the hair crisping on his head:
“Mr Edward Crozier; H.B.M. Frigate Crusader.”
His own!
He does not need to be told how the card came there. Too well remembers he when, where, and to whom he gave it – to Don Francisco De Lara on the day of their encounter.
Thrusting it into his pocket, he clutches at the letters, and looks at their superscription – “Don Francisco de Lara!”
Opening, he rapidly reads them one after another. His hands holding them shake as with a palsy; while in his eyes there is a look of keenest apprehension. For he fears that, subscribed to some, he will find another name – that of Carmen Montijo! If so, farewell to all faith in human kind. Harry Blew’s ingratitude has destroyed his belief in man. A letter from the daughter of Don Gregorio Montijo to the gambler Frank Lara, will alike wither his confidence in woman.
With eager eyes, and lips compressed, he continues the perusal of the letters. They are from many correspondents, and relate to various matters, most about money and monté, signed “Faustino Calderon.”
As the last of them slips through his fingers, he breathes freely, but with a sigh of self-reproach for having doubted the woman who was to have been his wife.
Turning to Cadwallader – as himself aware of all – he says, in solemn emphasis:
“Now we know!”
Chapter Seventy Three.
The Last Leaf in the Log
No common pirates then, no mere crew of mutinous sailors, have carried off Carmen Montijo and Iñez Alvarez. It has been done by Francisco de Lara and Faustino Calderon, if or although there is no evidence of the latter having been aboard the barque, it is deducible, and not even doubtful. For a scheme such as that, the confederates were not likely to have parted.
The young officers have returned to the quarterdeck, and there stand gazing in one another’s faces; on both an expression of anguish, which the new discovery has intensified. It was painful enough to think of their betrothed sweethearts being the sport of rough robbers; but to picture them in the power of De Lara and Calderon – knowing what they do of these men – is agony itself.
“Yes; it’s all clear,” says Crozier. “No idea of getting gold has brought the thing about. That may have influenced the others who assisted them; but with them the motive was different – I see it now.”
“Do you know, Ned, I half suspected it from the first. You remember what I said as we were leaving San Francisco. After what happened between us and the gamblers, I had my fears about our girls being left in the same place with them. Still, who’d have thought of their following them aboard ship? Above all, with Blew there, and after his promise to protect them! You remember him saying, he would lay down his life for theirs?”
“He swore it – to me he swore it. Oh! if ever I set eyes on him again, I’ll make him suffer for that broken oath!”
“What do you propose doing, after we reach Panama? If we find the frigate there, we’ll be obliged to join her.”
“Obliged! there’s no obligation to bind a man situated as I – reckless as this misery makes me. Unless Captain Bracebridge consents to assist us in the search, I’ll go alone.”
“Not alone. There’s one will be with you.”
“I know it, Will. Of course, I count upon you. What I mean is, if Bracebridge won’t help us with the frigate. I’ll throw up my commission, charter a vessel myself, engage a crew, and search every inch of the American coast, till I find where they’ve put in.”
“What a pity we can’t tell the place! They must have been near land to have taken to an open boat.”
“In sight of – close to it, I’ve been questioning Don Gregorio. He knows that much and but little beside. The poor gentleman is almost as crazed as the skipper. I wonder he’s not more. He says they had sighted land that very morning, the first they saw since leaving California. The captain told them they would be in Panama in about two days after. As the boat was being rowed away, Don Gregorio saw a coast-line through the cabin windows, and not far-off. He saw their boat too, and they appeared making straight for it. Of course they – . That’s all I can get out of the poor old gentleman, at present.”
“The negro? Can he tell no better story?”
“I’ve questioned him too. He is equally sure of their having been close in. What point, he has no idea, any more than the orangs. However, he states a particular fact, which is more satisfactory. A short while before they seized hold of him, he was looking over the side, and saw a strangely shaped hill – a mountain. He describes it as having two tops. The moon was between them, the reason for his taking notice of it. That double-headed hill may yet stand us in stead.”
“How unfortunate the skipper losing his senses! If he’d have kept them, he could have told us where he was at the time the barque was abandoned. It’s enough to make one think the very Fates are against us. By the way, we’ve never thought of looking at the log-book. That ought to throw some light on the locality.”
“It ought; and doubtless would, if we only had it. You’re mistaken in saying we never thought of it. I have; and been searching for it everywhere. But it’s gone; and what’s become of it, I know not. They may have thrown it overboard before forsaking the ship – possibly to blot out all traces. Still, it’s odd too, De Lara leaving these letters behind!”
“And the barque under all sail.”
“Well, I take it, they were hurried, and of course expected she’d soon go to the bottom. Strange she didn’t. No doubt she’s met only smooth weather till we came aboard her.”
“I wonder where her log-book can be?”
“Not more than I. The old darkey says it used to lie on a little shelf at the turning of the cabin-stair. I’ve looked there, but no log-book. As you say, it’s enough to make one believe the Fates were against us. If so, we may never reach Panama, much less live to – ”
“See,” cries Cadwallader, interrupting the despairing speech. “Those brutes! what’s that they’re knocking about? By Jove! I believe it’s the very thing we’re speaking of!”
The brutes are the Myas monkeys, that, away in the ship’s waist, are tossing something between them; apparently a large book bound in rough red leather. They have mutilated the binding, and, with teeth and claws, are tearing out the leaves, as they strive to take it from one another.
“It is – it must be the log-book!” cries Crozier, as both rush off to rescue it from the clutch of the orangs.
They succeed; but not without difficulty, and a free handling of handspikes – almost braining the apes before they consent to relinquish it.
It is at length recovered, though in a ruinous condition; fortunately, however, with the written leaves untorn. Upon the last of these is an entry, evidently the latest made:
“Latitude 7 degrees 20 minutes North; Longitude 82 degrees 12 minutes West. Light breeze.”
“Good!” exclaims Crozier, rushing back to the quarterdeck, and bending over the chart. “With this, and the double-headed hill, we may get upon the track of the despoilers. Just when we were despairing! Will, old boy; there’s something in this. I have a presentiment that things are taking a turn, and the Fates will yet be or us.”
“God grant they may!”
“Ah?” sighs Crozier: “if we had but ten men aboard this barque – or even six – I’d never think of going on to Panama, but steer straight for the island of Coiba.”
“Why the island of Coiba?” wonderingly asks Cadwallader.
“Because it must have been in sight when this entry was made – either it or Hicaron, which lies on its sou’west side. Look at this chart; there they are!”
The midshipman bends over the map, and scans it.
“You’re right, Ned. They must have seen one or other of those islands, when the Chilian skipper made his last observation.”
“Just so. And with a light breeze she couldn’t have made much way after. Both the cook and Don Gregorio say it was that. Oh! for ten good hands. A thousand pounds apiece for ten stout, trusty fellows! What a pity in that squall the cutter’s crew weren’t left along with us.”
“Never fear, Ned. We’ll get them again, or as good. Old Bracebridge won’t fail us, I’m sure. He’s a dear old soul, and when he hears the tale we’ve to tell, it’ll be all right. If he can’t himself come with the frigate, he’ll allow us men to man this barque; enough to make short work with her late crew, if we can once stand face to face with them. I only wish we were in Panama.”
“I’d rather we were off Coiba; or on shore wherever the ruffians have landed.”
“Not as we now are – three against twelve!”
“I don’t care for that. I’d give ten thousand pounds to be in their midst – even alone.”
“Ned, you’ll never be there alone; wherever you go, I go with you. We have a common cause, and shall stand or fall together.”
“That we shall. God bless you, Will Cadwallader! I feel you’re worthy of the friendship – the trust I’ve placed in you. And now, let’s talk no more about it; but bend on all the sail we can, and get to Panama. After that, we’ll steer for the island of Coiba. We’re so far fortunate, in having this westerly wind,” he continues, in a more cheerful tone. “If it keep in the same quarter, we’ll soon come in sight of land. And if this Chilian chart may be depended on, that should be a promontory on the west side of Panama Bay. I hope the chart’s a true one; for Punta Malo, an its name imports, isn’t a nice place to make mistakes about. By running too close to it with the wind in this quarter – ”
“Steamer to norrard!” cries a rough voice, interrupting. It is Grummet’s.
The young officers, turning with a start, see the same.
Crozier, laying hold of a telescope, raises it to his eye, while he holds it there, saying:
“You’re right, cox: it is a steamer. And standing this way! She’ll run right across our bows. Up helm, and set the barque’s head on for her!”
The coxswain obeys; and with a few turns of the wheel brings the Condor’s head round, till she is right to meet the steamer. The officers, with the negro assisting, loose tacks and sheets, trimming her sails for the changed course.
Soon the two vessels, going in almost opposite directions, lessen the distance between. And as they mutually make approach, each speculates on the character of the other. They on board the barque have little difficulty in determining that of the steamer. At a glance they see she is not a warship; but a passenger packet. And as there are no others in that part of the Pacific, she can be only one of the “liners” late established between San Francisco and Panama; coming down from the former port, her destination the latter.
Not so easy for those aboard the steamship to make out the manner of the odd-looking craft that has turned up in their track, and is sailing straight towards them. They see a barque, polacca-masted, with some sails set, and others hanging in shreds from her yards.
This of itself would be enough to excite curiosity. But there is something besides; a flag reversed flying at her mainmast-head – the flag of Chili! For the distress signal has not been taken down. And why it was ever run up, or by whom, none of those now in the barque could tell. At present it serves their purpose well, for, responding to it, the commander of the steam packet orders her engines to slow, and then cease action; till the huge leviathan, late running at the rate of twelve knots an hour, gradually lessens speed, and at length lies motionless upon the water.
Simultaneously the barque is “hove to,” and she lies at less than a cable’s length from the steamer.
From the latter the hail is heard first:
“Barque ahoy! What barque is that?”
“The Condor– Valparaiso. In distress.”
“Send a boat aboard!”
“Not strength to man it.”
“Wait, then! We’ll board you.”
In less than five minutes’ time one of the quarter boats of the liner is lowered down, and a crew leaps into it.
Pushing off from her side, it soon touches that of the vessel in distress.
But not for its crew to board her. Crozier has already traced out his course of action. Slipping down into the steamer’s boat, he makes request to be rowed to the ship; which is done without questioning. The uniform he wears entitles him to respect.
Stepping aboard the steamship, he sees that she is what he has taken her for: a line-packet from San Francisco, bound for Panama. She is crowded with passengers; at least a thousand seen upon her decks. They are of all qualities and kinds; all colours and nationalities; most of them Californian gold-diggers returning to their homes; some successful and cheerful; others downcast and disappointed.
He is not long in telling his tale; first to the commander of the steamer and his officers; then to the passengers.
For to these last he particularly addresses himself, in an appeal – a call for volunteers – not alone to assist in navigating the barque, but to proceed with him in pursuit of the scoundrels who cast her away.
He makes known his position, with his power to compensate them for the service sought; both endorsed by the commander of the steamship, who by good luck is acquainted with, and can answer for, his credentials.
Nothing of this is needed; nor yet the promise of a money reward. Among these stalwart men are many who are heroes – true Paladins, despite their somewhat threadbare habiliments. And amidst their soiled rags shine pistols and knives, ready to be drawn for the right.
After hearing the young officer’s tale, without listening farther, twenty of them spring forward responsive to his call. Not for the reward offered, but in the cause of humanity and right. He would enlist twice or thrice the number, but deeming twenty enough, with these he returns to the Condor.
Then the two vessels part company, the steamer continuing on for Panama; while the barque, now better manned, and with more sail set, is steered for the point where the line of Latitude 7 degrees 20 minutes North intersects that of Longitude 82 degrees 12 minutes West.
