Майн Рид
The Flag of Distress: A Story of the South Sea
Chapter Seventy Four.
A Lottery of Life and Death
While these scenes are passing upon the ocean, others of equally exciting character occur upon that desert isle, where, by ill-starred chance for themselves, the pirate crew of the Condor made landing.
They are still there, all their efforts to get off having proved idle. But how different now from that hour when they brought their boat upon its beach laden with the spoils of the plundered vessel! Changed not only in their feelings but looks – scarce recognisable as the same men. Then in the full plenitude of swaggering strength, mental as bodily, with tongues given to loud talk; now subdued and silent, stalking about like spectres, with weak, tottering steps; some sitting listlessly upon stones, or lying astretch along the earth; not resting, but from sheer inability to stand erect!
Famine has set its seal upon their faces; hunger can be read in their hollow eyes, and pale sunken cheeks; while thirst shows upon their parched and shrivelled lips.
Not strange all this. For nine days they have tasted no food, save shell-fish and the rank flesh of sea-fowl – both in scant supply. And no drink, excepting some rain-water caught in the boat-sail during an occasional slight shower.
All the while have they kept watch with an earnestness such as their desperate circumstances evoked. A tarpauling they have rigged up by oar and boat-hook, set upon the more elevated summit of the two – the highest point on the isle – has failed to attract the eye of any one on the mainland; or if seen, the signal has been disregarded; while to seaward, no ship or other vessel has been observed – nought but the blank blue of ocean, recalling their crime – in its calm tranquillity mocking their remorse!
Repentant are they now; and if they could, willingly would they undo their wicked deed – joyfully restore the stolen gold – gladly surrender up their captives – be but too glad to bring back to life those they have deprived of it.
It cannot be. Their victims left aboard the barque must have long ago gone to the bottom of the sea. In its bed they are now sleeping their last sleep, released from all earthly cares; and they who have so ruthlessly consigned them to their eternal rest, now almost envy it.
In their hour of agony, as hunger gnaws at their entrails, and thirst scorches them like a consuming fire, they reck little of life – some even desiring death!
All are humbled now. Even the haughty Gomez no longer affects to be their leader, and the savage Padilla is tamed to silent inaction, if not tenderness. By a sort of tacit consent, Harry Blew has become the controlling spirit – perhaps from having evinced more humanity than the rest. Now that adversity is on them, their better natures are brought out, and the less hardened of them have resumed the gentleness of childhood’s days.
The change has been of singular consequence to their captives. These are no longer restrained, but free to go and come as it pleases them. No more need they fear insult or injury; no rudeness is offered them either by speech or gesture. On the contrary they are treated with studied respect, almost with deference. The choicest articles of food – bad at best – are apportioned to them, as also the largest share of the water; fortunately, sufficient of both to keep up their strength. And they in turn have been administering angels – tender nurses to the men who have made all their misery!
Thus have they lived up till the night of the ninth day since their landing on the isle; then a heavy rainfall, filling the concavity of the boat’s sail, enables them to replenish the beaker, with other vessels they had brought ashore.
On the morning of the tenth, a striking change takes place in their behaviour. No longer athirst, the kindred appetite becomes keener, imparting a wolf-like expression to their features. There is a ghoulish glance in their eyes, as they regard one another, fearful to contemplate – even to think of. For it is the gaze of cannibalism!
Yes, it has come to this, though no one has yet spoken of it; the thing is only in their thoughts.
But as time passes, it assumes substantial shape, and threatens soon to be the subject not only of speech, but action.
One or two show it more than the rest – Padilla most of all. In his fierce eyes the unnatural craving is clearly recognisable – especially when his glances are given to the fair forms moving in their midst. There can be no mistaking that look of hungry concupiscence – the cold calculating stare of one who would eat human flesh.
It is the mid-hour of the day, and there has been a long interregnum of silence; none having said much on any subject, though there is a tacit intelligence, that the thoughts of all are on the same.
Padilla, deeming the hour has arrived, breaks the ominous silence:
“Amigos!” he says – an old appellation, considering the proposal he is about to make – “since there’s no food obtainable, it’s clear we’ve got to die of starvation. Though, if we could only hold out a little longer, something might turn up to save us. For myself, I don’t yet despair but that some coasting craft may come along; or they may see our signal from the shore. It’s only a question of time, and our being able to keep alive. Now, how are we to do that?”
“Ay, how?” asks Velarde, as if secretly prompted to the question.
“Well,” answers Padilla, “there’s a way, and only one, that I can think of. There’s no need for all of us to die – at least, not yet. Some one should, so that the others may have a chance of being saved. Are you all agreed to it!”
The interrogatory does not require to be more explicitly put. It is quite comprehensible; and several signify assent, either by a nod, or in muttered exclamations. A few make no sign, one way or the other; being too feeble, and far gone, to care what may become of them.
“How do you propose, Padilla?”
It is again Velarde who questions.
Turning his eyes towards the grotto, in which the two ladies have taken refuge from the hot rays of the sun, the ruffian replies:
“Well, camarados! I don’t see why men should suffer themselves to be starved to death, while women – ”
Harry Blew does not permit him to finish his speech. Catching its significance, he cries:
“Avast there! Not another word o’ that. If any o’ as has got to be eaten, it must be a man. As for the women, they go last – not first. I, for one, will die afore they do; an’ so’ll somebody else.”
Striker and Davis endorse this determination; Hernandez too, feebly; but Gomez in speech almost firm as that of Blew himself. In De Lara’s breast there is a sentiment, which revolts at the horrid proposal of his confederate.
It is the first time he and Harry Blew have been in accord; and being so, there is no uncertainty about the result. It is silently understood, and but waits for one to declare it in words; which Striker does, saying:
“Though I hev been a convick, an’ don’t deny it, I an’t a coward, nor no way afeerd to kick up my heels whensoever I see my time’s come. If that he’s now, an’ Jack Striker’s got to die, dash it! he’s ready. But it must be a fair an’ square thing. Theerfor, let it be settled by our castin’ lots all round.”
“I agree to that,” growls Padilla; “if you mean it to include the women as well.”
“We don’t mean anythin’ o’ the sort,” says Blew, springing to his feet. “Ye unmanly scoundrel!” he continues, approaching Padilla, – “Repeat your dastardly proposal, an’ there’ll be no need for drawin’ lots. In a minnit more, eyther you or me’ll make food, for anybody as likes to eat us. Now!”
The Californian, who has still preserved much of his tenacious strength, and all of his ruffian ferocity, nevertheless shrinks and cowers before the stalwart sailor.
“Carajo!” he exclaims, doggedly and reluctantly submitting. “Be it as you like. I don’t care any more than the rest of you. When it comes to facing Fate, Rafael Rocas isn’t the man to show the white-feather. I only proposed what I believed to be fair. In a matter of life and death, I don’t see why women are any better than men. But if you all think different, then be it as you say. We can cast lots, leaving them out.”
Padilla’s submissive speech puts an end to the strange debate. The side-issue is decided against him, and the main question once more comes up.
After a time, it too is determined. Hunger demands a victim. To appease it one must die.
The horrid resolve reached, it remains but to settle the mode of selection. No great difficulty in this, and it is got over by Striker saying:
“Chums! theer’s just twelve o’ us, the even dozen. Let’s take twelve o’ them little shells ye see scattered about, an’ put ’em into the boat’s pannikin. One o’ them we can mark. Him as draws out the marked shell, must – I needn’t say what.”
“Die” would have been the word, as all understand without hearing it spoken.
The plan is acceptable, and accepted. There seems no fairer for obtaining the fiat of Fate on this dread question.
The shells —unios– lie thickly strewn over the ground. There are thousands, all of the same shape and size. By the “feel” it would be impossible to tell one from another. Nor yet by their colour, since all are snow-white.
Twelve of them are taken up, and put into the tin pannikin – a quart measure – one being marked with a spot of red – by blood drawn from Striker’s own arm, which he has purposely punctured. Soon absorbed by the porous substance of the shell, it cannot be detected by the touch.
The preliminaries completed, all gather around, ready to draw. They but wait for him who is on watch beside the spread tarpauling, and who must take his chances with the rest in this lottery of life and death. It is the Dutchman who is above. They have already hailed, and commanded him to come down, proclaiming their purpose.
But he neither obeys them, nor gives back response. He does not even look in their direction. They can see him by the signal-staff, standing erect, with face turned towards the sea, and one hand over his eyes shading them from the sun. He appears to be regarding some object in the offing.
Presently he lowers the spread palm, and raises a telescope with which he is provided.
They stand watching him, speechless, and with bated breath, their solemn purpose for the time forgotten. In the gleam of that glass they have a fancy there may be life, as there is light.
The silence continues till ’tis seen going down. Then they hear words, which send the blood in quick current through their veins, bringing hope back into their hearts. They are:
“Sail in sight!”
Chapter Seventy Five.
By the Signal-Staff
“Sail in sight!”
Three little words, but full of big meaning, of carrying the question of life or death.
To the ears of that starving crew sweet as music, despite the harsh Teutonic pronunciation of him who gave them utterance.
Down drops the pannikin, spilling out the shells; which they have hopes may be no more needed.
At the shout from above, all have faced towards the sea, and stand scanning its surface. But with gaze unrewarded. The white flecks seen afar are only the wings of gulls.
“Where away?” shouts one, interrogating him on the hill.
“Sou’-westart.”
South-westward they cannot see. In this direction their view is bounded; a projection of the cliff interposing between them and the outside shore. All who are able start off towards its summit. The stronger ones rush up the gorge as if their lives depended on speed. The weaker go toiling after. One or two, weaker still, stay below to wait the report that will soon reach them.
The first up, on clearing the scarp, have their eyes upon the Dutchman. His behaviour might cause them surprise, if they could not account for it. As said, the beacon is upon the higher of the two peaks, some two hundred yards beyond the clift’s brow. He is beside it, and apparently beside himself. Dancing over the ground, he makes grotesque gesticulations, tossing his arms about, and waving his hat overhead – all the while shouting as if to some vessel close at hand – calling in rapid repetition:
“Ship, Ahoy! Ahoy!”
Looking they can see no ship, nor craft of any kind. For a moment they think him mad, and fear, after all, it may be a mistake. Certainly there is no vessel near enough to be hailed.
But sending their eyes farther out, their fear gives place to joy almost delirious. There is a sail, and though leagues off, seeming but a speck, their practised eyes tell them she is steering that way – running coastwise. Keeping this course, she must come past the isle – within sight of their signal, so long spread to no purpose.
Without staying to reflect farther, they strain on towards the summit, where the staff is erected.
Harry Blew is the first to reach it; and clutching the telescope, jerks it from the hands of the half-crazed Dutchman. Raising it to his eye, he directs it on the distant sail – there keeping it more than a minute. The others have meanwhile come up, and, clustering around, impatiently question him.
“What is she? How’s she standing?”
“A bit o’ a barque,” responds Blew. “And from what I can make out, close huggin’ the shore. I’ll be better able to tell when she draws out from that clump of cloud.”
Gomez, standing by, appears eager to get hold of the glass; but Blew seems unwilling to give it up. Still holding it at his eye, he says:
“See to that signal, mates! Spread the tarpaulin’ to its full streetch. Face it square, so’s to give ’em every chance of sightin’ it.”
Striker and Davis spring to the piece of tarred canvas; and grasping it, one at each corner, draw out the creases, and hold as directed.
All the while Blew stands with the telescope levelled, loath to relinquish it. But Gomez, grown importunate, insists on having his turn, and it is at length surrendered to him.
Blew, stepping aside, seems excited with some emotion he would conceal. Strong it must be, judging from its effects on the ex-man-o’-war’s man. On his face there is an expression difficult to describe – surprise amounting to amazement – joy subdued by anxiety. Soon, as having given up the glass, he pulls off his dreadnought, then divesting himself of his shirt – a scarlet flannel – he suspends it from the outer end of the cross-piece which supports the tarpauling; as he does so, saying to Striker and Davis:
“That’s a signal no ship ought to disregard, and won’t if manned by Christian men. She won’t, if she sees it. You two stay here, and keep the things well spread I’m goin’ below to say a word to them poor creeturs in the cave. Stand by the staff, and don’t let any o’ them haul it down.”
“Ay, ay!” answers Striker, without comprehending, and somewhat wondering at Blew’s words – under the circumstances strange. “All right, mate. Ye may depend on me an’ Bill.”
“I know it – I do,” rejoins the ex-man-o’-war’s man, again slipping the pilot-coat over his shirtless skin.
“Both o’ you be true to me, and ’fore long I may be able to show as Harry Blew an’t ungrateful.”
Saying this, he separates from them, and hurries back down the gorge.
The Sydney Ducks, left standing by the staff, more than ever wonder at what he has said, and interrogate one another as to his meaning.
In the midst of their mutual questioning, they are attracted by a cry strangely intoned. It is from Gomez, who has brought down the telescope, and holds it in hands that shake as with a palsy.
“What is it?” asks Padilla, stepping up to him.
“Take the glass, Rafael Rocas. See for yourself!”
The contrabandista does as directed.
He is silent for some seconds, while getting the telescope on the strange vessel. Soon as he has her within the field of view, he commences making remarks, overheard by Striker and Davis, giving both surprise – though the latter least.
“Barque she is – polacca-masts. Carramba! that’s queer. About the same bulk, too! If it wasn’t that we’re sure of the Condor being below, I’d swear it was she. Of course, it can be only a coincidence. Santissima! a strange one!”
Velarde, in turn, takes the telescope; he, too, after a sight through it, expressing himself in a similar manner.
Hernandez next – for the four Spaniards have all ascended to the hill.
But Striker does not wait to hear what Hernandez may have to say. Dropping the tarpauling, he strides up to him, and, sans cérémonie, jerks the instrument out of his fingers. Then bringing it to his eye, sights for himself.
Less than twenty seconds suffice for him to determine the character of the vessel. Within that time, his glance taking in her hull, traversing along the line of her bulwarks, and then ascending to the tops of her tall smooth masts, he recognises all, as things with which he is well acquainted.
He, too, almost lets drop the telescope, as, turning to the others, he says in a scared, but confident voice:
“By God, its the Condor!”
Chapter Seventy Six.
A Very Nemesis
Striker’s announcement, profanely as emphatically made, thrills the hearts of those hearing it with fear. Not fear of the common kind, but a weird undefinable apprehension.
“Caspitta!” exclaims Padilla. “The Condor! that cannot be. How could it?”
“It’s her for all that,” returns Striker. “How so, I don’t understan’ any more than yourselves. But that yonder craft be the Chili barque, or her ghost, I’ll take my affydavy on the biggest stack o’ Bibles.”
His words summon up strange thoughts which take possession of the minds of those listening. For how can it be the Condor, scuttled, sent to the bottom of the sea? Impossible!
In their weak state, with nerves unnaturally excited, they almost believe it an illusion – a spectre! One and all are the prey to wild fancies, that strike terror to their guilty souls. Something more than mortal is pursuing – to punish them. Is it the hand of God? For days they have been in dread of God’s hand; and now they seem to see it stretched out, and coming towards them! Surely a Fate – an avenging Nemesis!
“It’s the barque, beyond doubt!” continues Striker, with the glass again at his eye. “Everythin’ the same, ’ceptin’ her sails, the which show patched-like. That be nothin’. It’s the Chili craft, and no other. Yonner’s the ensign wi’ the one star trailin’ over her taffrail. Her, sure’s we stan’ heer!”
“Chingara!” cries Gomez. “Where are they who took charge of the scuttling? Did they do it?”
Remembering the men, all turn round, looking for them. They are not among the group gathered around the staff. Blew has long ago gone down the gorge, and Davis is just disappearing into it.
They shout to him to come back. He hears; but heeds not. Continuing on, he is soon out of sight.
It matters little questioning him, and they give up thought of it. The thing out at sea engrosses all their attention.
Now nearer, the telescope is no longer needed to tell that it is a barque, polacca-masted; in size, shape of hull, sit in the water – everything the same as with the Condor. And the bit of bunting, red, white, blue – the Chilian ensign – the flag carried by the barque they abandoned. They remember a blurred point in the central star: ’tis there!
Spectre or not, with all canvas spread, she is standing towards them – straight towards them – coming on at a rate of speed that soon brings her abreast the islet. She has seen their signal – no doubt of that. If there were – it is before long set at rest. For, while they are watching her, she draws opposite the opening in the reef; then lets sheets loose; and, squaring her after-yards, is instantly hove to.
A boat is dropped from the davits; as it strikes the water, men are seen swarming over the side into it. Then the plash of oars, their wet blades glinting in the sun; as the boat is rowed through the reef-passage.
Impelled by strong arms, it soon crosses the stretch of calm water, and shoots up into the cove.
Beaching it, the crew spring out on the pebbly strand – some not waiting till it is drawn up, but dashing breast-deep into the surf. There are nearly twenty, all stalwart fellows, with big beards – some in sailor garb, but most red-shirted, belted, bristling with bowie-knives, and pistols!
Two are different from the rest – in the uniform of naval officers, with caps gold-banded. One of these seems to command, being the first to leap out of the boat; soon as on shore, drawing his sword, and advancing at the head of the others.
All this observed by the four Spaniards, who are still around the signal-staff, like it, standing fixed; though not motionless, for they are shaking with fear. Their apprehensions, hitherto, of the supernatural, are now real. Even Frank Lara, despite his great courage – his only good quality – feels fear now. For in the officer, leading with drawn sword, he recognises the man who made smash of his Monté bank!
For some moments, he stands in silence, with eyes dilated. He has watched the beaching of the boat, and the debarking of her crew, without saying word. But, soon as recognising Crozier, he clutches Calderon by the arm; more vividly than ever now his crime recalled to him, for now its punishment, as that of them all, seems near. There is no chance to escape it. To resist, will only be to hasten their doom – death.
They do not think of resistance, nor yet flight; but remain upon the hill-top, sullen and speechless.
Calderon is the first to break the silence, frantically exclaiming:
“Santos Dios! the officers of the English frigate! Mystery of Mysteries! What can it mean?”
“No mystery,” rejoins De Lara, addressing himself to the other three; “none whatever. I see it all now, clear as the sun at noonday. Blew has been traitor to us, as I suspected all along. He and Davis have not scuttled the barque, but left her to go drifting about; and the frigate to which these officers belong has come across, picked her up – and lo! they are there!”
“That’s it, no doubt,” says Velarde, otherwise Don Manuel Diaz. “But those rough fellows along with them don’t appear to be men-of-war’s men, nor sailors of any kind. More like gold-diggers, I should say; such as crowd the streets of San Francisco. They must have come thence.”
“It matters not what they are, or where from. Enough that they’re here, and we in their power.”
At this Diaz and Padilla, now known as Rafael Rocas, step towards the cliff’s edge to have a look below, leaving the other two by the staff.
“What do you suppose they’ll do to us?” asks Calderon of De Lara. “Do you think they’ll – ”
“Shoot, or hang us?” interrupts De Lara; “that’s what you’d say. I don’t think anything about it. I’m sure of it. One or other they’ll do, to a certainty.”
“Santissima!” piteously exclaims the ex-ganadero. “Is there no chance of escaping?”
“None whatever. No use our trying to get away from them. There’s nowhere we could conceal ourselves; not a spot to give us shelter for a single hour. For my part, I don’t intend to stir from this spot. I may as well be taken here as anywhere else. Carramba, no!” he exclaims, as if something has occurred to make him change his mind. “I shall go below, and meet my death like a man. No; like a tiger. Before dying, I shall kill. Are you good to do the same? Are you game for it?”
“I don’t comprehend you,” answers Calderon. “Kill what, or whom?”
“Whomsoever I can. Two for certain.”
“Which two?”
“Edward Crozier and Carmen Montijo. You may do as you please. I’ve marked out my pair, and mean to have their lives before yielding up my own – hers, if I can’t his. She sha’n’t live to triumph over me. No; by the Almighty God!”
While speaking, the desperado has taking out his revolver, and holding it at half-cock, spins the cylinder round, to see that all the six chambers are loaded, with the caps on the nipples. Assured of this, he returns it to its holster; and then glances at his macheté, hanging on his left hip. All this with a cool carefulness, which shows him determined upon his hellish purpose.
Calderon, trembling at the very thought of it, endeavours to dissuade him; urging that, after all, they may be only made prisoners, and leniently dealt with.
He is cut short by De Lara crying out:
“You may go to prison and rot there, if it so please you. After what’s happened, that’s not the destiny for me. I prefer death, and vengeance.”
“Better life, and vengeance,” cries Rocas, coming up, Diaz along with him, both in breathless haste. “Quick, comrades!” he continues; “follow me! I’ll find a way to save the first, and maybe get the last, sooner than you expected.”
“It’s no use, Rafael,” argues De Lara, misunderstanding the speech of the seal-hunter. “If we attempt flight, they’ll only shoot us down the sooner. Where could we flee too?”
“Come on; I’ll show you where. Carajo! Don’t stand hesitating; every second counts now. If we can but get ther in time – ”
“Get where?”
“Al boté!”
On hearing the words, De Lara utters an exclamation of joy. They apprise him of a plan which may not only get him out of danger, but give revenge, sweet as ever fell to the lot of mortal man.
He hesitates no longer, but hastens after the seal-hunter; who, with the other two, has already started towards the brow of the cliff.
But not to stay there; for in a few seconds after the four are descending it; not through the gorge by which they came up, but another – also debouching into the bay.
Little dream the English officers, or the brave men who have landed with them, of the peril impending. If the scheme of the seal-hunter succeed, theirs will be a pitiful fate: the tables will be turned upon them!
