Майн Рид
The Flag of Distress: A Story of the South Sea
Chapter Nineteen.
A “Paseo de Caballo.”
The promontory called Punta Pedro is not in San Francisco Bay, but on the outside coast of the Pacific. To reach it from the former, it is necessary to traverse the dividing ridge between the two waters – this a spur of the “Coast Range,” which, running higher as it trends southward, is known to Spanish Californians as the San Bruno Mountains.
Punta Pedro abuts from their base into the ocean; the coast in this quarter being bold and picturesque, but almost uninhabited. Here and there only the solitary hut of a seal-hunter, or fisherman, with a small collection of the same near the point itself, bearing its name, and a somewhat indifferent reputation. The Anglo-Saxon gold-seekers do not go there; it is only frequented by the natives.
From San Francisco to Punta Pedro the road runs past Dolores – an ancient mission of the Franciscan monks, whose port was, as already stated, Yerba Buena, previous to becoming re-christened San Francisco.
This route De Lara and Calderon have taken, getting into it by a cross-cut; and along it they continue to ride, still at a gallop, with faces set for Dolores.
They are not the only equestrians moving along that road. The dust kicked up by their horses hoofs has just settled down when a second party appears, going in the same direction, though at a gentler gait; for it is a cavalcade composed partly of ladies.
It is a quartette, two of each sex; and as the horses are the same already seen standing saddled in the courtyard of Don Gregorio’s house, it is not necessary to give the names of the riders. These can be guessed.
Doña Carmen is carrying out the instructions left by her father, who, Californian fashion, supposed he could give his sailor-guests no greater treat than a paseo de caballo, including an excursion to the old Dolores Mission, without a visit to which no exploration of the country around San Francisco can be considered complete. It is not the least of California’s “lions.”
Like most Spanish-American ladies, Don Gregorio’s daughter takes delight in the saddle, and spends some part of each day in it. An accomplished equestrienne, she could take a five-barred gate, or a bullfinch, with any of the hunting Dianas of England; and, if she has not ridden to hounds, she has chased wild horses, mounted on one but little less wild. That on which she now sits seems but half-tamed. Fresh from the stable, he rears and pitches, at times standing erect on his hind legs. For all, his rider has no fear of being unhorsed. She only smiles, pricks him with the spur, and regardlessly cuts him with her cuarto.
Much after the same fashion acts Iñez, for she, too, has learned the Californian style of equitation.
The two present a picture that, to the eye unaccustomed to Mexican habits, might seem somewhat bizarre. Their mode of mount – as already said, à la Duchesse de Berri– their half-male attire, hats of vicuña wool, calzoncillas lace-fringed over their feet, buff boots, and large rowelled spurs – all these give them an air of bizarrerie, at the same time a pleasing picturesqueness; and, if appearing bold, still beautiful, as the South Sea wind flouts back the limp brims of their sombreros, and tosses their hair into dishevelment, while the excitement of the ride brings the colour to their cheeks – with flashes, as of fire, from their eyes.
The young English officers regard them with glances of ardent admiration. If they have been but smitten before, they are getting fast fixed now; and both will soon be seriously in love. The paseo de caballo promises to terminate in a proposal for a longer journey in companionship – through life, in pairs.
They are thus grouped: Crozier alongside Carmen – Cadwallader with Iñez. The officers are in their uniforms – a costume for equestrian exercise not quite shipshape as they would phrase it. On horseback in a naval uniform! It would not do riding thus on an English road; there the veriest country lout would criticise it. But different in California, where all ride, gentle or simple, in dresses of every conceivable cut and fashion, with no fear of being ridiculed therefor. None need attach to the dress worn by Edward Crozier. His rank has furnished him with a frock-coat, which, well-fitting, gives a handsome contour to his person. Besides, he is a splendid horseman – has followed hounds before he ever set foot aboard a ship. Carmen Montijo perceives this; can tell it with half a glance; and it pleases her to reflect that her escorting cavalier is equal to the occasion. She believes him equal to anything.
With the other pair the circumstances are slightly different. Will Cadwallader is no horseman, having had but scant practice – a fact patent to all – Iñez as the others. Besides, the mid is dressed in a pea-jacket; which, although becoming enough aboard ship, looks a little outré in the saddle, especially upon a prancing Californian steed. Does it make the young Welshman feel ashamed of himself? Not a bit. He is not the stuff to be humiliated on the score of an inappropriate costume. Nor yet by his inferiority in horsemanship, of which he is himself well aware. He but laughs as his steed prances about – the louder when it comes near pitching him.
How does he appear in the eyes of Iñez Alvarez? Does she think him ridiculous? No. On the contrary, she seems charmed, and laughs along with him – delighted by his naïveté, and the courage he displays in not caring for consequences. She knows he is out of his own element – the sea. She believes that on it he would be brave, heroic; among ropes the most skilled of reefers; and if he cannot gracefully sit a home, he could ride big billows, breasting them like an albatross.
Thus mutually taking each other’s measure, the four equestrians canter on, and soon arrive at the mission.
But they do not design to stay there. The ride has been too short, the sweet moments have flown quickly; and the summit of a high hill, seen far beyond, induces them to continue the excursion.
They only stop to give a glance at the old monastery, where Spanish monks once lorded it over their copper-skinned neophytes; at the church, where erst ascended incense, and prayers were pattered in the ears of the aborigines – by them ill understood.
A moment spent in the cemetery, where Carmen points out the tomb enclosing the remains of her mother, dropping a tear upon it – perhaps forced from her by the reflection that soon she will be far from that sacred spot – it may be, never to revisit it!
Away from it now; and on to that hill from which they can descry the Pacific!
In another hour they have reined up on its summit, and behold the great South Sea, stretching to far horizon’s verge, to the limit of their vision. Before them all is bright and beautiful. Only some specks in the dim distance – the lone isles of the Farrallones. More northerly, and nearer, the “Seal” rocks and that called Campana– from its arcade hollowed out by the wash of waves, giving it a resemblance to the belfry of a church. Nearer still, below a belt of pebbly beach, a long line of breakers, foam-crested, and backed by a broad reach of sand-dunes – there termed medanos.
Seated in the saddle, the excursionists contemplate this superb panorama. The four are now together, but soon again separate into pairs, as they have been riding along the road. Somehow or other, their horses have thus disposed themselves: that ridden by Crozier having drawn off with the one carrying Carmen; while the steed so ill-managed by Cadwallader has elected to range itself alongside that of Iñez.
Perhaps the pairing has not been altogether accidental. Whether or no, it is done; and the conversation, hitherto general, is reduced to the simplicity of dialogue.
To report it correctly, it is necessary to take the pairs apart, giving priority to those who by their years have the right to it.
Crozier, looking abroad over the ocean, says —
“I shall ere long be upon it.” He accompanies the speech with a sigh.
“And I, too,” rejoins Carmen, in a tone, and with accompaniment, singularly similar.
“How soon do you think of leaving California?” queries the young officer.
“Oh, very soon! My father is already making arrangements, and hopes being able to set sail in a week, if not less. Indeed, he has this day been to see about taking passages to Panama. That’s why he was not at home to receive you; leaving me to do the honours of the house, and apologise for his seeming rudeness.”
For that not much apology was needed, thinks Crozier, who is for a time silent, not knowing what next to say. Love, reputed eloquent, is oft the reverse; and though opening the lips of a landsman, will shut those of men who follow the sea. There is a remarkable modesty about the latter more than the former – in the presence of women. Why, I cannot tell; only knowing that as a rule it is so; and certainly in the case of Edward Crozier.
In time he gets over his embarrassment, so far as to venture upon an interrogatory, not very pertinent —
“I suppose, Doña Carmen, you are very happy at the prospect of returning to Spain?”
“No, indeed,” answers Don Gregorio’s daughter. “On the contrary, it makes me rather melancholy. I love dear California, and could live in it all my life. Couldn’t you?”
“Under certain circumstances, I could.”
“But you like the country, don’t you?”
“I do, now. In ten days from this time, I shall no longer care for it – not three straws.”
“Why do you say that, Don Eduardo? There’s an enigma in your words. Please explain them?”
While asking the question, her grey-blue eyes gaze into his, with an expression of searching eagerness – almost anxiety.
“Shall I tell you why, señorita!”
“I have asked you, señor.”
“Well, then, I like California now, because it contains the fairest object on earth – to me the dearest – the woman I love. In ten days or less, by her own showing, she will be away from it; why should I care for it then? Now, Doña Carmen, I’ve given you the key to what you’ve called an enigma.”
“Not quite. Perhaps you will pardon a woman’s curiosity, if I ask the name of the lady who thus controls your likes and dislikes.”
Crozier hesitates, a red spot flushing out upon his cheek. He is about to pronounce a name – perhaps make a speech, the most important he has ever made in his life – because laden with his life’s happiness, or leading to the reverse. What if it should be coldly received?
But no; he cannot be mistaken. Her question, so quaintly, yet so impressively put – surely courts the answer he intends giving? And he gives it without further reflection – her own name, not an added word.
“Carmen Montijo.”
“Eduardo,” she asks, after a pause, dropping the Don, “are you in earnest? Can I take this as true? Do not deceive me – in honour do not! To you – and I truly tell you – I have surrendered all my heart. Say that I have yours!”
“I have said it, Carmen,” he too adopting the familiar language of love. “Have I not?”
“Sincerely?”
“Look in my eyes for the answer.”
She obeys; and drawing closer, tiny gaze into one another’s eyes; the flashes from the blue crossing and commingling with those from the brown. Neither could mistake the meaning of the glance, for it is the true light of love, pure as passionate.
Not another word passes between them. The confession, with its dreaded crisis, is passed; and, with hearts quivering in sweet content, they turn their thoughts to the future, full of pleasant promise.
Near by are two other hearts, quite as happy as theirs; though after a scene less sentimental, and a dialogue that, to a stranger overhearing it, might appear to be in jest. For all, in real earnest, and so ending – as may be inferred from the young Welshman’s final speech, with the reply of his Andalusian sweetheart:
“Iñez, you’re the dearest girl I’ve met in all my cruisings. Now, don’t let us beat about any longer, but take in sail, and bring the ship to an anchor. Will you be mine, and marry me?”
“I will.”
No need to stay longer there – no object in continuing to gaze over the ocean.
The horses seem instinctively to understand this; and, turning together, set their heads for home.
Chapter Twenty.
Pot Valiant
The bright Californian sun is declining towards the crest of the Coast Range, when two horsemen, coming from the Pacific side, commence ascending the ridge.
As the sultry hours have passed, and a chill breeze blows from the outside ocean, they have thrust their heads through the central slits of their cloaks – these being mangas– leaving the circular skirts to droop down below their knees – while draping back, cavalry fashion, over the hips of their horses. The colours of these garments – one scarlet, the other sky-blue – enable us to identify the wearers as Don Francisco de Lara and Don Faustino Calderon; for in truth it is they, returning from the pelea de gallos at Punta Pedro.
They have seen Diaz, and arranged everything about the duel. Faustino has finally determined upon fight. Instigated by his more courageous confederate, and with further pressing on the part of Diaz – a sort of Californian bravo – his courage has been at length screwed up to the necessary pitch; and kept there by the potent spirit of Catalonian brandy, found freely circulating around the cock-pit.
A flask of the Catalan he has brought away with him, and at intervals takes a pull from it, as he rides along the road. Under its influence he becomes pot valiant; and swears, if he can but again set eyes upon the English guardia-marina, he will affront him in such fashion as to leave him no loophole of escape from being the challenger. Carrai! he will do as De Lara has recommended: cuff the young officer, kick him, spit in his face, anything to provoke the gringo to a fight – that yellow-haired cub without bigots or beard. And if the cur won’t fight, then he shall apologise – get down upon his knees, acknowledge him, Faustino Calderon, the better man, and for ever after surrender all claim to the smiles, as to the hand, of Iñez Alvarez!
With such swaggering talk he entertains his companion, as the two are returning to town.
De Lara, less noisy, is nevertheless also excited. The fiery alcohol has affected him too. Not to strengthen his courage; for of this he has already enough; but to remove the weight from off his soul, which, after the scene at Don Gregorio’s, had been pressing heavily upon it. Six hours have since elapsed, and for the first three he had been brooding over his humiliation, his spirit prostrate in the dust. But the Catalan has again raised it to a pitch of exultation; especially when he reflects upon the prospect of the sure and speedy vengeance he is determined to take.
It does not occur to him to doubt of success. With thorough reliance on his skill as a swordsman, he feels sure of it. Though also a good shot, he prefers the steel for his weapon; like most men of the southern Latinic race, who believe Northerners to be very bunglers at sword-play, though admitting their superiority in the handling of the pistol. As things stand, unlike his comrade Calderon, he will have the choice of weapons. His intended antagonist was the first to demand the card, and must needs be challenger.
As the two ride on, they talk alternately, both giving vent to their spleen – the man of courage, as the coward. If not so loud, or boastingly, as his companion, De Lara expresses himself with a more spiteful and earnest determination; repeating much of what he has already said at an earlier hour, but with added emphasis. Once he sees the English officer at his rapier’s point, he will show him no mercy, but run him through, without the slightest compunction. In vain may his adversary cry “Quarter.” There can be none conceded, after what has that day passed between them.
“Maldita! it shall be a duel to the death!” he exclaims, after having given way to a series of threats, the words pronounced with an empressement that tells him to be truly, terribly in earnest.
They have been carrying on this excited dialogue, as their horses climbed the slope from the Pacific side, its steepness hindering them from going at their usual gait – a gallop. On rising the ridge’s crest, and catching sight of San Francisco, with its newly painted white walls, and shining tin roofs, reflected red in the rays of the setting sun, De Lara, suddenly remembering the pressure upon him as to time, strikes the spur sharp against his horse’s ribs, and puts the animal to speed. The other imitating his example, they dash on towards Dolores.
They have no intention to make stop at the mission; but, on reaching it, they draw up; obedient to the hail of a man seen standing in the door of a little tavern, or tinacal, frequented by the lower class of native Californians.
A rough, swarthy-skinned fellow, in a garb that proclaims his calling to have connection with the sea, though not that of a sailor. He may be a shore-boatman – perhaps a piscador– though, judging by his general appearance, and the uncanny cast of his countenance, he might well pass for a pirate.
Stepping a few paces out from the tinacal, he salutes the two horsemen, who have halted in the middle of the road to await his approach. Despite his coarse, brutal aspect, and common habiliments, he is evidently on terms of familiarity with both – the style of his salutation showing it. It is with De Lara, however, his business lies, as signified by his saying:
“I want a word with you, Don Francisco.”
“What is it, Rocas?” asks the Creole. “Anything about seal-skins?” laying a significant emphasis on the last word.
“Carramba! No. Something of more importance than that.”
“Money, then?”
“Money.”
“Do you wish our speech to be private?”
“Just now, yes. Perhaps, in time, Don Faustino – ”
“Oh!” interrupts the ganadero, “don’t let me stand in the way. I’ll ride slowly on; you can overtake me, Don Francisco.”
“Do,” says De Lara, at the same time stooping down in his saddle, and continuing the conversation with Rocas, in tone so low as to prevent their speech being overheard by other queer-looking customers who have just stepped out of the tinacal, and stand loitering at its door.
Whatever Rocas may have said, it appears to make a vivid impression on the gambler. His eyes kindle up with a strange light, in which surprise is succeeded by an expression of cupidity; while his manner proclaims that the revelation made to him is not only important, as he has been forewarned, but also pleasing.
Their muttered dialogue is of brief duration; ending with a remark which shows it to be only preliminary to a further and more prolonged conference.
“I shall be with you to-morrow, by mid-day.” It is De Lara who has said this; after which adding: “Adios, Don Rafael! Hasta mañana!” he gives his horse the spur, and gallops to overtake his travelling companion; Rocas sauntering back towards the tinacal.
Chapter Twenty One.
A “Golpe de Caballo.”
On coming up with the ganadero, De Lara rides on silently by his side, without exhibiting any desire to satisfy the other’s curiosity. He but piques it by saying, that Rocas has a made communication of an intensely interesting kind; which he will impart to him, Faustino, in due time; but now there are other matters of more importance to be attended to. The fighting is before them; and that cannot be set aside.
Calderon wishes it could: for the flask has been for a time forgotten, and the spirit has been getting cold within him.
“Take another pull!” counsels his companion; “you may need it. We’ll soon be in the town, and, perhaps, the first man we meet there will be your yellow-haired rival.”
Scarcely have the words passed De Lara’s lips when something in front fixes his attention, as also that of his companion. At some distance along the road a cloud of dust is ascending; in its midst a darker nucleus, distinguishable as the forms of horses with riders on their backs. There appear to be four of them, filed two and two.
Plying their spurs, and galloping closer, the gamblers perceive that this equestrian party is proceeding in the same direction as themselves – towards the town.
But they are soon near enough to know that such is not their destination. For, despite the enshrouding dust, they have no difficulty in identifying the individuals before them. The horses are the same seen that morning, saddled and bridled, in front of Don Gregorio’s house. Two of the riders are Carmen Montijo and Iñez Alvarez; the other two —
At this point conjecture terminates. De Lara, certain, and no longer able to control himself, cries out:
“Carajo! it’s they returning from their excursion – paired off, as I supposed they would be! So, Calderon, you have your chance sooner than you expected. And without seeking it – a lucky omen! There’s your rival, riding by the side of your sweetheart, and pouring soft speech into her ear! Now’s your time to set things straight – insult him to your heart’s content. I feel like giving a fresh affront to mine.”
He draws rein, bringing his horse to a halt. The ganadero does the same. Scanning the equestrians ahead, they see them two and two, each pair some ten or twelve paces apart from the other. Crozier and Carmen are in the advance, Cadwallader and Iñez behind.
De Lara looks not at the latter couple; his eyes are all upon the former, staring with fixed intensity, full of jealous fire, in a glare such as only a tiger might give, on seeing Carmen Montijo turn towards her escorting cavalier, and bend over – he to her – till their heads are close together, and their lips seemingly in contact!
“Carrai! they’re kissing!” he exclaims, in a tone of bitter exasperation.
He can bear it no longer. With a shout, half angry, half anguished, he digs the spur deep, and dashes forward.
The clattering of hoofs behind first warns Cadwallader, who is nearest to the noise. For, up to this time, the lovers, absorbed in sweet converse, dreamed not of danger.
The young Welshman, glancing back, sees what it is, at the same time hears De Lara’s wild cry. Intuitively he understands that some outrage is intended – a repetition of the morning’s work, with doubtless something more.
Quickly he draws his dirk: not now to be used in sport, for the mere pricking of a horse, but in serious earnest, to be buried in the body of a man – if need be. This resolve can be read in his attitude, in his eyes, in his features. These no longer bent in the laugh of a reckless boy, but the rigid, resolute determination of a man. Badly as he sits his horse, it will not do now to dash against him. The collision may cost life – in all likelihood, that of the aggressor.
De Lara sweeps past the midshipman without saying a word; without even taking notice of him. His affair is with one further on.
But now Calderon is coming up, clearly with the intent to assault, as shown in his eyes.
Suddenly, however, their expression changes at sight of the bared blade. Again that diabolical dirk! Despite a pull he has just taken from the flask, his courage fails him; and crestfallen, as a knight compelled to lower his plume, he too passes Cadwallader, without a word – riding on after De Lara.
He overtakes the latter in time to be spectator of a scene; in its commencement somewhat similar to that enacted by himself, but with a very different termination.
Crozier, whose ear has also caught the sounds from behind, draws bridle, and looks back. He sees De Lara making towards him; and, at a glance, divines the intent. It is a golpe de caballo, or collision of horses – a common mode of assault among Spanish Californians.
Instead of turning aside to avoid it, he of Shropshire determines on a different course. He knows he is upon a strong horse, and feels confident he can stay there.
With this confidence he faces towards the advancing enemy, and after taking true bearing, spurs straight at him.
Breast to breast the horses meet, shoulder to shoulder the men. Not a word between these themselves, both too maddened to speak. Only a cry from Carmen Montijo, a shriek from Iñez Alvarez, heard simultaneously with the shock.
When it is over, Don Francisco de Lara is seen rolling upon the road – his horse kicking and sprawling in the dust beside him.
Regaining his feet, the gambler rushes to get hold of a pistol, whose butt protrudes from his saddle-holster.
He is too late: Cadwallader has come up; and, dropping down out of his saddle, as if from a ship’s shrouds, makes himself master of the weapon.
Disarmed, his glittering attire dust-bedaubed, De Lara stands in the middle of the road, irresolute, discomfited, conquered. He can do nothing now, save storm and threaten – interlarding his threats with curses – “Carajos!” spitefully pronounced.
The ladies, at Crozier’s request, have ridden on ahead, so that their ears are not offended.
After listening to the ebullition of his impotent spleen – Cadwallader all the while loudly laughing – Crozier, in serious tone, says:
“Don Francisco De Lara – for your card tells me that is your name – take a sailor’s advice: go quietly to your quarters; stow yourself out of sight; and stay there till your temper cools down. We don’t want you to walk. You shall have your horse, though not your shooting-iron. That I shall take care of myself, and may return it to you when next we meet. The same advice to you, sir,” he adds, addressing Calderon, who stands near equally cowed and crestfallen.
After dictating these humiliating conditions – which, nolens volens, the defeated bravos are obliged to accept – the young officers leap back into their saddles, and trot off to rejoin the ladies.
Having overtaken these, they continue their homeward ride, with no fear of its being again interrupted by a “golpe de caballo.”
