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The Flag of Distress: A Story of the South Sea
Chapter Twenty Two.
“Hasta Cadiz!”
On leaving Captain Lantanas, the ex-ganadero returns to his house – though not direct. He has business to transact in the town, which stays him. He has to see Don Tomas Silvestre, the shipping-agent, and give directions about inserting the advertisement for sailors. That is an affair that will occupy only a few minutes. But he has another with the agent of a more important kind. He is personally acquainted with Silvestre, who is, like himself, a Peninsular Spaniard and Biscayan. Don Gregorio knows he can trust him, and does – telling him all he has told Lantanas, making further known the arrangement he has entered into for passages to Panama, and instructing him to assist the Chilian skipper in procuring a crew.
The more confidential matter relates to the shipment of his gold-dust. He trembles to think of the risk he runs of losing it. San Francisco is filled with queer characters – men who would stick at nothing.
Don Tomas knows this without being told. And the thought haunts the Biscayan like a spectre, that he will have his treasure taken from him by theft, burglary, or bold open robbery.
He has good reason for so apprehending. Among the latest accessions to the population of San Francisco all three classes of criminals are represented, and in no stinted numbers. There are ticket-of-leave men from Australia, jail-birds from the penitentiaries of the States, ’scape-the-gallows customers from every quarter of the globe; to say nothing of the native bandits, of which California has its share. If known to these that yellow metal, to the value of three hundred thousand dollars, was lying unguarded in the house of Don Gregorio Montijo, it would not be there many days or nights. Its owner has done what he could to keep this a secret; but the sale and transfer of his land have leaked out, as also the handsome price obtained, and paid over to him; hence a natural inference that the cash must be deposited somewhere.
And everyone well knows it will be in gold-dust; since banks have not yet been established, and there are not obtainable notes enough in San Francisco to cover a tenth part of the amount. He had tried to convert it thus – as more convenient for carriage and safety – but failed.
In fine, after confiding his fears to Silvestre, and taking counsel from him, he decides upon the plan, already in part communicated to Captain Lantanas – of having the endangered gold-dust secretly conveyed to the Condor that very night. Don Tomas will provide the boat, with a trusty sailor-servant he has attached to his establishment, to assist in the removal and rowing. They can take it aboard without passing through the town, or at all touching at the port. The boat can be brought to the beach below Don Gregorio’s house, and the gold quietly carried down to it. Thence they can transport it direct to the ship. Once there, Lantanas will know how to dispose of it; and surely it will be safe in his custody – at all events, safer there than anywhere else in San Francisco. So thinks Don Gregorio, the ship-agent agreeing with him.
Soon everything is settled; for they spend not many minutes in discussing the matter. The ex-ganadero knows that by this time his house will be empty, excepting the servants: for the ride on which his girls have gone was arranged by himself, to gratify his expected visitors. He thinks apprehensively of the unprotected treasure, and longs to be beside it. So, remounting the stout cob that brought him to town, he rides hastily home.
On arrival there, he retires to his sleeping apartment; where he spends the remainder of the day, having given strict orders not to be called, till the party of equestrians comes back.
But although confining himself to the chamber, he does not go to bed, nor otherwise take repose. On the contrary, he is busy throughout the whole afternoon, getting ready his treasure for surreptitious transport, for it is there in the room – has been ever since it came into his possession. Almost fearing to trust it out of his sight, he sleeps beside it.
Some of it is in bags, some in boxes; and he now rearranges it in the most convenient form for carriage to the Chilian ship, and safe stowage in her cabin-lockers.
He has not yet completed his task, when he hears the trampling of hoofs on the gravelled sweep outside. The riding-party has returned.
The saguan bell rings; the heavy door grates back on its hinges; and, soon after, the horses, with the riders still on their backs, stand panting in the patio.
The master of the house sallies forth to receive his guests. He sees them hastening to assist the ladies in dismounting. But before either cavalier can come near them, both leap lightly out of their saddles; then, gliding into the corridor, fling their arms around Don Gregorio’s neck – daughter and grand-daughter alike calling him “papa.”
They are effusively affectionate – more than usually so – for this night both have a favour to ask of him. And he knows, or can guess, what it is. He has not been blind to what has been passing between them, and the young English officers. He suspects that vows have been exchanged – a double proposal made – and anticipates a demand upon himself to sanction it.
In both cases he is prepared to do this. For he is not unacquainted with either the character, or social standing, of those seeking an alliance with him. He has been aboard the British frigate, and from Captain Bracebridge obtained information on these points. Satisfactory in every sense. Both the young officers bear an excellent reputation. Though differing in other respects, they are alike skilled in their profession – each “every inch a seaman,” as their commander worded it. Besides, both are of good family – Cadwallader moderately rich – Crozier in prospect of being immensely so – either of them fit mate for the proudest señora in Spain. Don Gregorio’s reason for supposing that on this day engagements have been entered into, is, that the young officers are about to take departure from the port. The Crusader is under Admiralty orders to sail for the Sandwich Islands, soon as a corvette coming thence reaches San Francisco. Captain Bracebridge has been commissioned by the British Government to transact some diplomatic business with King Kamehameha. That done, he is to look in at the ports of Panama and Callao; then home – afterwards to join the Mediterranean squadron. As the Crusader, on her way to the Mediterranean, will surely call at Cadiz, the vows this day exchanged on the shore of the Pacific, can be thus conveniently renewed on the other side of the Atlantic.
At dinner – which is served soon after and in sumptuous style – Don Gregorio makes his guests aware of the fact, that he has secured passages for Panama, and may leave San Francisco soon as they. He confides to them the secret of his having chartered the Chilian ship – in short, telling them all he has told her captain – echoing the lament made by the latter about his difficulty in obtaining a crew.
“Perhaps,” rejoins Crozier, after hearing this, “I can help your skipper to at least one good sailor. Do you think, Will,” he continues, addressing himself to the young Welshman, “that Harry Blew is still in San Francisco, or has he gone off to the diggings?”
“I fancy he’s still here,” responds Cadwallader. “He was aboard the frigate only the day before yesterday – having a shake hands with his old comrades of the forecastle.”
“Who is the Señor Bloo?” inquires their host.
“A true British tar – if you know what that means, Don Gregorio – lately belonging to our ship, and one of the best sailors on our books. He’s off them now, as his time was out; and like many another, though not better man, has made up his mind to go gold-seeking on the Sacramento. Still, if he be not gone, I think we might persuade him to take a trip on the craft you speak of. It was once Harry’s sinister luck to slip overboard in the harbour of Guaymas – dropping almost into the jaws of a tintorero shark – and my good fortune to be able to rescue him out of his perilous plight. He is not the man to be ungrateful; and, if still in San Francisco, I think you may count upon him for taking service on board this Chilian vessel. True, he’s only one, but worth two – ay, ten. He not only knows how to work a ship’s sails, but on a pinch could take a lunar, and make good any port in the Pacific.”
“A most valuable man!” exclaims Don Gregorio; “would be worth his weight in gold to Captain Lantanas. I’m sure the Chilian skipper would at once make him his mate. Do you suppose you can find him?”
“If in San Francisco, yes. We shall search for him this very night; and, if found, send him either to the Chilian skipper or to the shipping-agent you’ve spoken of – Silvestre. By the way, what’s his address?”
“Here,” answers Don Gregorio, drawing forth a card, and handing it across the table to Crozier. “That’s the place where Don Tomas transacts business. It’s but a poor little shed down by the beach, near the new pier, lately constructed. Indeed, I believe he sleeps there – house-rent in San Francisco being at present something fabulous.”
“This will do,” says Crozier, putting the card into his pocket. “If Henry Blew can be found, he won’t be far from Silvestre’s office – if not this night, by early daybreak to-morrow morning.”
It is not the custom of either Spaniards, or Spanish-Americans, to tarry long over the dinner-table. The cloth once removed, and the ladies gone, a glass or two of Port, Xeres, or Pedro Ximenes, and the gentlemen also retire; not for business, but recreation out of doors, so pleasant in southern climes.
Dona Carmen and her niece have ascended to the azotea, to enjoy the sweet twilight of a Californian summer; whither they are soon followed by Crozier and Cadwallader.
The master of the house has for a time parted with them – under the excuse of having affairs to attend to. It is to complete the packing of his gold-dust. But before leaving the sala de comer, and while emptying their last glass together, he has been approached by his sailor-guests on that subject uppermost in their thoughts, and dearest to their hearts. Asked if he be agreeable to become the father-in-law of one, and the – Cadwallader had difficulty in finding a word for it —grandfather-in-law of the other, to both interrogatories he has given the same answer – “Yes.”
No wonder that, with bright faces and bounding step, the young officers rush out, and up to the azotea, there to rejoin the señoritas.
Their tale told to the latter – who have been awaiting them in anxious expectation – will save both a world of confusion and blushes. No need now for them to talk to “papa.” His consent has been obtained – they are aware he will keep his word.
Again the four, now formally betrothed, separate into twos, taking opposite sides of the aerial garden.
They converse about the far future – that awaiting them at Cadiz. But the ladies cannot overlook, or forget, some perils more proximate. The retrospect of the day throws a shadow over the morrow. That encounter with De Lara and Calderon cannot end without further action. Not likely; and both aunt and niece recall it, questioning their now affianced lovers – adjuring them to refrain from fighting.
These reply, making light of the matter, declaring confidence in their own strength and skill, whatever be the upshot – at length, so assuring their sweethearts, that both believe them invincible, invulnerable. What woman who does not believe the same of him who holds her heart?
Time passes; the last moments speed silently, sweetly, in the old, old ecstasy of all-absorbing, time-killing love.
Then the inevitable “Adios!” though sounding less harshly by favour of the appended phrase – “Hasta Cadiz!”
Chapter Twenty Three.
On Pleasure Bent
The clocks of San Francisco are striking the hour of ten. The moon has risen over Monte Diablo, and sends her soft mellow beams across the waters of the bay, imparting to their placid surface a sheen as of silver. The forms of the ships at anchor are reflected as from a mirror; their hulls, with every spar, stay, and brace, even to the most delicate rope of their rigging, having a duplicated representative in the fictitious counterfeit beneath. On none is there any canvas spread; and the unfurled flags do not display their fields, but hang motionless along masts, or droop dead down over taffrails.
Stillness, almost complete, reigns throughout; scarce a sound proceeding either from the ships inshore, or those out in the offing; not even the rattle of a chain dropping or weighing anchor, the chant of a night-watch at the windlass, or the song of jovial tar entertaining his messmates as they sit squatted around the forecastle stair.
Unusual this silence at such an early hour, though easily accounted for. That there are so few noises from the ships in San Francisco Bay, is explained by the fact of their being but few men to make them – in many cases not a single soul aboard. All have deserted; either for good, and are gone to the “diggings,” or only for the night, to take part in the pleasures and dissipations of the town. Now and then a boat may be seen, putting off from, or returning to, the side of some vessel better manned – by its laborious movement, and the unmeasured stroke of oars, telling that even it lacks a full complement of crew.
Inside the town, everything is different. There, noises enough, with plenty of people; crowded streets, flashing lights, and a Babel-like confusion of voices. It is now the hour when iniquity has commenced its nightly career, or, rather, reached its full flush; since in San Francisco certain kinds of it are carried on throughout all hours of the day. Business houses are closed; but these are in small proportion to the places of pleasure, which keep their doors and windows wide open, and where dissipation reigns paramount, as permanent. Into the gambling-saloons go men laden with gold-dust, often coming out with their wallets lighter than when they went in, but their hearts a deal heavier. After toiling for months up to their middle, in the chill waters of streams that course down from the eternal snows of the Sierra Nevada, working, washing – while so occupied, half-starving – they return to San Francisco to scatter in a single night – oft in one hour – the hoarded gatherings of a half-year!
Into this pleasure-seeking city are about to enter two personages of very different appearance from those usually seen loitering in its saloons or hastening through its streets; for they are young officers belonging to a British frigate – Edward Crozier and William Cadwallader. They are returning to their ship; not directly, as they were rowed ashore, but through the town; Crozier having ordered the boat to be brought to one of the rough wooden wharfs recently erected.
They are advancing along the shore-road, afoot; having declined their host’s offer of horses – both saying they would prefer to walk; Cadwallader adding, in his favourite sailor phrase, that he wished to “kick the knots out of his legs” – a remark but obscurely comprehensible to Don Gregorio.
For some time after leaving the Spaniard’s house, not a word passes between them. Each is occupied with his own thoughts, the sacredness of which keeps him silent; absorbed in reflections, about that tender, but painful parting, speculating on what may be before them in the far uncertain future.
For a time, nought intrudes upon their reverie, to disturb its natural course. The sough of the tidal surf breaking upon the beach, the occasional cry of a soaring sea-bird, or the more continuous and melancholy note of the chuck-will’s-widow, do not attract their attention. They are sounds in consonance with their thoughts, still a little sad.
As they draw nearer to the city, see its flashing lights, and hear its hum of voices, other and less doleful ideas come uppermost, leading to conversation. Crozier commences it:
“Well, Will, old fellow, we’ve made a day of it!”
“That we have – a rousing, jolly day. I don’t think I ever enjoyed one more in my life.”
“Only for its drawbacks.”
“You mean our affair with those fellows? Why, that was the best part of it – so far as fun. To see the one in the sky-blue wrap, after I’d dirked his horse, go off like a ship in a gale, with nobody at the helm! By Jove! it was equal to old Billy Button in the circus. And then the other, you bundled over in the road, as he got up looking like a dog just out of a dust-bin! Oh! ’twas delicious! The best shore adventure I’ve had since leaving home – something to talk about when we get aboard the ship.”
“Ay, and something to do besides talking. We’ve got a little writing to do; at least I have – a bit of a letter to this swaggerer, Mr Francisco de Lara.”
“But, surely, you don’t intend challenging him – after what’s happened?”
“Surely I do. Though, to say the truth, I’ve no great stomach for it, seeing the sort he is. It’s infra dig having to fight one’s inferior, though it be with sword or pistol. It feels like getting into a row with roughs in some slum of a seaport.”
“You’re right there; and as to calling the fellow out, I’d do nothing of the kind, Ned. He’s a bad lot; so is the other. Blackguards both, as their behaviour has shown them. They don’t deserve to be treated as gentlemen.”
“But we’re in California, Will; where the code of the duello takes in such as they. Here even thieves and cut-throats talk about protecting their honour, as they term it; ay, and often act up to their talk. I’ve been told of a duel that took place not long since between two professional gamblers, in which one of them was shot dead in his tracks. And only the other day a judge was called out by a man he had tried, and convicted, of some misdemeanour! Well, the judge not only went, but actually killed the cad who’d stood before him as a criminal! All that seems very absurd, but so it is. And if this scarlet-cloaked cavalier don’t show the white-feather, and back out, I’ll either have to kill, or cripple him; though like as not he may do one or the other for me.”
“But don’t you think, Ned, you’ve had enough out of him?”
“In what way?”
“Why, in the way of revanche. For my part, I should decidedly say you had by far the best of it. After your first encounter in the morning, I thought differently; and would have so counselled you. Then the insult offered you remained unpunished. The other has put a different face on the affair; and now that he’s got more than he gave, I think you should rest satisfied, and let things stand as they are – if he do. Certainly, after that knock and tumble, it’s his place to sing out.”
“There’s something in what you say, Will. And now, on reflection, I’m not so sure that I’ll take further trouble about the fellow, unless he insist on it; which he may not, seeing he’s unquestionably base coin – as you say, a blackguard. He appears a sort of Californian bravo; and if we hadn’t secured his pistol, I suppose he’d have done some shooting with it. Well, we’ll see whether he comes to reclaim it. If he don’t, I shall have to send it to him. Otherwise, he may have us up before one of these duelling justices on a charge of robbing him!”
“Ha, ha, ha! That would be a rare joke; an appropriate ending to our day’s fun.”
“Quite the contrary. It might be serious, if it should reach the ears of Bracebridge. The old disciplinarian would never believe but that we’d been in the wrong – taken the fellow’s pistol from him for a lark, or something of that sort. True, we could have the thing explained, both to the San Francisco magistrate, and the frigate’s captain; but not without an exposure of names and circumstances. That, though it might be proper enough, would be anything but a pleasant finale to our day’s fun, as you call it.”
“Well, I know what will,” rejoins Cadwallader, after listening patiently to his comrade’s explanatory speech, “and that’s a glass of something good to drink. Those sweet Spanish wines of Don Gregorio have made me thirsty as a fish. Besides, parting with dear Iñez has got my heart down, and I need something to stir it up again.”
“All right, my hearty!” exclaims Crozier; for the jest’s sake, talking sailor-slang – “I’m with you in that way. For this day at least we’ve had enough of war, and, shall I say, women?”
“No – no!” protests Cadwallader; “that would be an ungallant speech, after what’s passed. We could never have enough of them – at least, not I.”
“Why, Will, we’ve grown wonderfully sentimental, and in such a short time! Well, let’s drop the subject of woman, and end our day with the third of three w’s – wine.”
“Agreed!” responds the young Welshman. “But, for my part, I’d prefer ending it with a different tipple, which has also a w for its initial letter – that’s whisky. If we could only get a glass of good Scotch or Irish malt in this mushroom city, it would make a new man of me – which just now I need making. As I tell you, Ned, my heart’s down – dead down to the heels of my boots. I can’t say why, but there it is; and there I suppose, it’ll stay, unless Dutch courage come to the rescue.”
“Well, you’ll soon have an opportunity of getting that. As you see, we are in the suburbs of this grand city, partly constructed of canvas; where, though food may be scarce, and raiment scanty, there’s liquor in abundance. In the Parker House, which is, I believe, its best hotel, we’ll be sure of finding almost every beverage brewed upon the earth – among them your favourite whisky, and mine – ‘Bass’s Bitter.’”
“Again the Spanish saw, ‘Cada uno a su gusto,’ as just now my sweetheart said, after I had kissed the dear girl six times in succession. But let us step out.”
“Don’t be in such hot haste. You forget we’ve something to do; which must be done first – before everything else.”
“What?”
“Look up Harry Blew; find him, if we can; and coax him to take service in this Chilian ship.”
“He won’t require much coaxing, once you say the word. The old salt is anything but ungrateful. Indeed, his regard for you, ever since you saved him from that shark, is more like real gratitude than anything I ever saw. He fairly worships you, Ned. He told me the day before he left the Crusader, that parting with you was the only thing which greatly grieved him. I saw the tears trickling down his cheeks, as you shook hands with him over the rail. Even then, if you’d said stay, I believe he’d have turned back into his old berth.”
“I didn’t, because I wished him to do better. You know he’d have a splendid chance here in California – to get rich by gold-digging, which no doubt he might, like a great many other humble sailors as himself. But now, this other chance has turned up in his favour, which I should say is surer. Don Gregorio has told us he can get from the Chilian captain almost any pay he may please to ask; besides, a fair likelihood of being made his first mate. That would suit Harry to a hair; in my opinion, answering his purpose far better than any gold-washing speculation. Though a man of first rating aboard ship, he’s a mere child when ashore; and would be no more able to protect himself against the land-sharks of San Francisco, than he was to get out of the way of that sea-skimmer at Guaymas. Even if he should succeed in growing rich up the Sacramento River, I’d lay large odds, he’d be back here in port, and poor as ever, within a week. We must save him from that if we can. His natural element is the ocean. He has spent the greater part of his life on it, and here’s a fine opportunity for him to return to, and stay upon it. That for life, if he likes, with better prospects than he could ever have had on board a man-o’-war. The question is, how we shall be able to find him in this rookery of a place. Did he say anything, when you saw him, about where he was sojourning!”
“By Jove! he just did. Now, I recall our conversation, I remember him telling me that he was staying at a sort of a boarding-house, or restaurant, called the ‘Sailor’s Home,’ though he made no mention of the street. But, if I mistake not, I know the place, and can steer pretty straight for it.”
“Straight or crooked, let’s set head for it at once. We’ve plenty of time, if that were all. I told the coxswain not to come for us till well after eleven. I want to see something of this queer Californian life, of which I haven’t had much experience yet.”
“The same with myself.”
“Well, we may never again get such a chance. Indeed, it’s not likely we’ll be allowed another night ashore, before the Crusader sails. Therefore, let us make hay while the sun shines, or, to speak less figuratively, a little merriment by the light of the moon. We’ve been either savage, or sentimental, all the day, and need changing our tune.”
“You’re right about that; but the music is not likely to be made by moonlight – not much of it. See those great clouds rolling up yonder! They’ll be all over the sky in ten minutes’ time, making it black as a pot of pitch.”
“No matter; for what we want, gas-light will serve as well; and there’s plenty of that in San Francisco. Now for Harry Blew. After him, whisky punches at the Parker.”
“And after that?”
“A Hell, if you feel that way inclined.”
“Surely, Ned, you don’t want to go gambling!”
“I want to see life in San Francisco, as I’ve said; and, as you know, gambling’s an important part of it. Yes; I wish to inspect the elephant, and I don’t mind making an attempt to draw the teeth of the tiger. Allons! or, as I should say, in the softer language of Andalusia, Nos vamos!”
Thus jocosely terminating the conversation, the young officers continue on at increased speed, and are soon threading the streets of San Francisco in search of the “Sailor’s Home.”
