Chapter Fifty Seven.
A Cheerful Cuddy.
The Condor’s cabin is a snug little saloon, such as are often found on trading-vessels, not necessarily for passengers, but where the skipper has an eye to his own comforts, with tastes that require gratification.
Those of Captain Lantanas are refined, beyond the common run of men who follow his profession—usually rough sea dogs—caring little for aught else save their grub and grog.
That the Chilian skipper is not of this class is proved by the appearance of his “cuddy,” which is neatly, if not luxuriously, furnished, and prettily decorated. In addition to the instruments that appertain to his calling—telescope, aneroid barometer, sextant, and compass, all placed conspicuously in racks—there is a bookcase of ornamental wood, filled with well-bound volumes; and several squares of looking-glass inlaid between the doors that lead to the four little staterooms—two on each side. There are two settees, with hair-cloth cushions, and lockers underneath the same, in which Don Gregorio’s gold-dust is stowed.
Centrally stands a table, eight by six, mahogany, with massive carved legs, and feet firmly fixed to the floor. It is set lengthwise, fore and aft, a stout hair-cloth chair at top, another at bottom, and one at each side—all, like the table, stanchioned to the timbers of the half-deck.
Above a rack, with its array of decanters and glasses; and in the centre, overhead, a swing-lamp, lacquered brass—so constructed as to throw a brilliant glare on the surface of the table, while giving light more subdued to all other parts of the little cabin.
To-night its rays are reflected with more than ordinary sparkle. For the table beneath is spread with the best plate and glassware Captain Lantanas can set forth. And in the dishes now on it are the most savoury viands the Condor’s cook can produce. While in bottles and decanters are wines of best bouquet and choicest vintage.
Around are seated the four guests; the Captain, as host, at the head; Don Gregorio, his vis-à-vis, at the foot; the ladies at opposite sides—right and left.
As the barque is going before a gentle breeze, without the slightest roll, or pitch, there is no need for guards upon the table. It shows only the spread of snow-white damask, the shining silver plate, the steel of Sheffield, the ware of Sèvres or Worcester, with the usual array of cut-glasses and decanters. In the centre an épergne, containing fruits, and some flowers, which, despite exposure to the saline breeze, Captain Lantanas has nursed into blooming. But the fruits seem flowers of themselves, having come from California, famed for the products of Pomona. There are peaches, the native growth of San Franciscan gardens, with plums and nectarines; melons and grapes from Los Angelos, further south; with the oranges, plantains, and pine-apples of San Diego. And, alongside these productions of the tropical and sub-tropical clime, are Newtown pippins, that have been imported into California from the far Eastern States, mellowed by a sea voyage of several thousand miles, around the stormy headland of Cape Horn.
The savoury meats tasted, eaten, and removed, the dessert, with its adjuncts, has been brought upon the table—this including wines of varied sorts. Although not greatly given to drink, the Chilian skipper enjoys his glass; and on this occasion takes half-a-dozen—it may be more. He is desirous of doing honour to his distinguished guests, and making the entertainment a merry one.
And his amiable effort has success.
In addition to having seen much of the world, he is by birth and education a gentleman. Although nothing more than the skipper of a merchant-ship—a South Sea trader at that—as already known, he is not one of the rude swaggering sort; but a gentle, kind-hearted creature, as well, if not better, befitted for the boudoir of a lady, than to stir about among tarred ropes, or face conflicting storm.
So kind and good has he shown himself, that his two fair passengers, in the short companionship of less than a month, have grown to regard him with affection; while Don Gregorio looks upon him in the light of a faithful friend. All three feel sorry they are so soon to part company with him. It is the only regret that casts a shadow over their spirits, as they sit conversing around the table so richly furnished for their gratification.
Eating fragrant fruits, and sipping sweet wines, for the moment they forget all about the hour of parting; the easier, as they listen to the tales which he tells to entertain them. He relates strange adventures he has had, on and around the shores of the great South Sea.
He has had encounters with the fierce Figian; the savage New Caledonian; both addicted to the horrid habit of anthropophagy. He has been a spectator to the voluptuous dances of Samoa, and looked upon the daughters of Otaheite, Owyhee, whose whole life is love.
With stories of the two extremes—symbols of man’s supreme happiness, and his most abject misery—grim cannibals and gay odalisques—he amuses his guests, long detaining them at the table.
Enthralled by his narration—naïve, truthful, in correspondence with the character of the man—all three listen attentively. The señoritas are charmed, and, strange to say, more with his accounts of Figi and New Caledonia, than those relating to Otaheite and Hawaii. For to the last-named group of islands have gone Edward Crozier and Willie Cadwallader. There these may meet some of the brown-skinned bayaderes Captain Lantanas so enthusiastically describes—meet, dance with, and admire them!
But the jealous fancies thus conjured up are fleeting in the shadows of summer clouds; and, soon passing, give place to pleasanter thoughts. Now that land is near, and a seaport soon to be reached, the young ladies are this night unusually elated; and, listening to the vivid description of South Sea scenes, they reflect less sadly and less bitterly on the supposed slight received at the hands of their lovers.
In return, Don Gregorio imparts to the Chilian skipper some confidences hitherto withheld. He is even so far admitted into the family intimacy as to be told how both the señoritas are soon to become brides. To which is added an invitation, that should he ever carry the Condor to Cadiz, he will not only visit them, but make their house his home.
Several hours are passed in this pleasant way; interspersed with song and music—for both Carmen and Iñez can sing well, and accompany their singing with the guitar.
At length the ladies retire to their state-room, not to stay, but to robe themselves, with the design of taking a turn in the open air. The smooth motion of the ship, with the soft moonlight streaming through the cabin windows, tempts them to spend half-an-hour on deck, before going to rest for the night; and on deck go they.
Lantanas and the ex-haciendado remain seated at the table. Warmed by the wine—of which both have partaken pretty freely—the Chilian continues to pour his experiences into the ears of his passenger; while the latter listens with unflagging interest.
Supping choice canario, his favourite tipple, the former takes no note of aught passing around, nor thinks of what may be doing on the Condor’s deck. All through the evening he has either forgotten or neglected the duties appertaining to him as her commanding officer. So much, that he fails to notice a rotatory motion of the cabin, with the table on which the decanters stand; or, if observing, attributes it to the wine having disturbed the equilibrium of his brain.
But the cabin does revolve, the table with it, to the extent of a three-quarter circle. Gradually is the movement being made—gently, from the sea being calm—silently—with no voice raised in command—no piping of boatswain’s whistle—no song of sailors as they brace round the yards, or board tacks and sheets!—not a sign to tell Captain Lantanas has been set upon a course, astray, and likely to lead to her destruction.
Chapter Fifty Eight.
Kill or Drown?
Having set the Condor’s course, with Slush still in charge at the helm, the second mate returns to the fore-deck, where by the manger-board the others are again in deliberation; Gomez counselling, or rather dictating what they are next to do.
The programme he places before them is in part what has been arranged already—to run along coast till they discover a gap in the line of coral reef; for it is this which causes the breakers. Further, they are told that, when such gap be found, they will lower a boat; and having first scuttled the barque, abandon her; then row themselves ashore.
The night is so far favourable to the execution of the scheme. It is a clear moonlight; and running parallel to the trend of the shore, as they are now doing, they can see the breakers distinctly, their white crests in contrast with the dark façade of cliff, which extends continuously along the horizon’s edge; here and there rising into hills, one of which looming up on the starboard bow has the dimensions of a mountain.
The barque is now about a league’s distance from land; and half-way between are the breakers, their roar sounding ominously through the calm quiet of the night. As they were making but little way—scarce three knots an hour—one proposes that the boat be lowered at once, and such traps as they intend taking put into her. In such a tranquil sea it will tow alongside in safety.
As this will be some trouble taken off their hands in advance, the plan is approved of, and the pinnace being selected, as the most suitable boat for beaching.
Clustering around it, they commence operations. Two leap lightly inside; insert the plug, ship the rudder, secure the oars and boat-hooks, clear the life-lines, and cast off the lanyards of the gripes; the others holding the fall-tackle in hand, to see that they were clear for running. Then taking a proper turn they lower away.
And, soon as the boat’s bottom touches water, with the two men in it, the painter, whose loose end has been left aboard, is hauled fast, bringing the boat abeam, where it is made fast under a set of man-ropes, already dropped over the side.
Other movements succeed; the pirates passing to and from the forecastle, carrying canvas bags, and bundles of clothing, with such other of their belongings as they deem necessary for a debarkation like that intended. A barrel of pork, another of biscuit, and a beaker of water are turned out, and handed down into the boat; not forgetting a keg containing rum, and several bottles of wine they have purloined, or rather taken at will, from Captain Lantanas’ locker bins.
The miscellaneous supply is not meant for a voyage, only a stock to serve for that night, which they must needs spend upon the beach—as also to provision them for the land journey, to be commenced in the morning.
In silence, but with no great show of caution or stealth, are these movements made. They who make them have but little fear of being detected, some scarce caring if they be. Indeed, there is no one to observe them, save those taking part. For the negro cook, after dressing the dinner, and serving it, has gone out of the galley for good; and, now acting as table waiter, keeps below in the cabin.
Soon everything is stowed in the pinnace, except that which is to form its most precious freight; and again the piratical crew bring their heads together, to deliberate about the final step; the time for taking which is fast drawing nigh.
A thing so serious calls for calm consideration, or, at all events, there must be a thorough understanding among them. For it is the disposal of those they have destined as victims. How this is to be done, nothing definite has yet been said. Even the most hardened among them shrinks from putting it in words. Still it is tacitly understood. The ladies are to be taken along, the others to be dealt with in a different way. But how? that is the question, yet unasked by any, but as well understood by all, as if it had been spoken in loudest voice.
For a time they stand silent, waiting for some one who can command the courage to speak.
And one does this—a ruffian of unmitigated type, whose breast is not stirred by the slightest throb of humanity. It is the second mate, Padilla. Breaking silence, he says:
“Let us cut their throats, and have done with it!”
The horrible proposition, more so from its very laconism, despite the auditory to whom it is addressed, does not find favourable response. Several speak in opposition to it; Harry Blew first and loudest. Though broken his word, and forfeited his faith, the British sailor is not so abandoned as to contemplate murder in such cool, deliberate manner. Some of those around him have no doubt committed it; but he does not feel up to it. Opposing Padilla’s counsel, he says:
“What need for our killin’ them? For my part, I don’t see any.”
“And for your part, what would you do?” sneeringly retorts the second mate.
“Give the poor devils a chance for their lives.”
“How?” promptly asks Padilla.
“Why; if we set the barque’s head out to sea, as the wind’s off-shore, she’d soon carry them beyond sight o’ land, and we’d niver hear another word o’ ’em.”
“No, no! that won’t do,” protest several in the same breath. “They might get picked up, and then we’d be sure of hearing of them—may be something more than words.”
“Carrai!” exclaims Padilla scornfully; “that would be a wise way. Just the one to get our throats in the garrota. You forget that Don Gregorio Montijo is a man of the big grandee kind. And should he ever set foot ashore, after what we’d done to him, he’d have influence enough to make most places—ay, the whole of the habitable globe—a trifle too hot for us. There’s an old saw, about dead men telling no tales. No doubt most of you have heard it, and some have reason to know it true. Take my advice, camarados, and let us act up to it. What’s your opinion, Señor Gomez?”
“Since you ask for it,” responds Gomez, speaking for the first time on this special matter, “my opinion is, that there’s no need for any difference among us. Mr Blew’s against the spilling of blood, and so would I, if it could be avoided. But it can’t, with safety to ourselves; at least not in the way he has suggested. To act as he advises would be madness on our part—nay more, it might be suicide. Still, there don’t seem any necessity for a cold cutting of throats, which has an ugly sound about it. The same with knocking on the head; they’re both too brutal. I think I know a way that will save us from resorting to either, and, at the same time, ensure our own safety.”
“What way?” demanded several voices. “Tell us!”
“One simple enough; so simple, I wonder you haven’t all thought of it, same as myself. Of course, we intend sending this craft to the bottom of the sea. But she’s not likely to go down all of a sudden; nor till we’re a good way off out of sight. We can leave the gentlemen aboard, and let them slip quietly down along with her!”
“Why, that’s just what Blew proposes,” say several.
“True,” returns Gomez; “but not exactly as I mean it. He’d leave them free to go about the ship—perhaps get out of her before she sinks, on a sofa, or hencoop, or something.”
“How would you do with them?” asks one, impatiently.
“Tie, before taking leave of them.”
“Bah!” exclaims Padilla, a monster to whom spilling blood seems congenial. “What’s the use of being at all that bother? It’s sure to bring some. The skipper will resist, and so’ll the old Don. What then? We’ll be compelled to knock them on the head all the same, or toss them overboard. For my part, I don’t see the object of making such a worry about it; and still say, let’s stop their wind at once!”
“Dash it, man!” cries Striker, hitherto only a listener, but a backer of Harry Blew; “you ’pear to ’a been practisin’ a queery plan in jobs o’ this sort. Mr Gomez hev got a better way o’t, same as I’ve myself seed in the Australian bush, wheres they an’t so bloodthirsty. When they stick up a chap theer, so long’s he don’t cut up nasty, they settle things by splicin’ him to a tree, an’ leavin’ him to his meditashuns. Why can’t we do the same wi’ the skipper, an’ the Don, an’ the darkey—supposin’ any o’ ’em to show reefractry?”
“That’s it!” exclaims Davis, strengthening the proposal thus endorsed by his chum, Striker. “My old pal’s got the correct idea of sich things.”
“Besides,” continues the older of the ex-convicts, “this job seems to me simple enuf. We want the swag, an’ some may want the weemen. Well, we can git both ’ithout the needcessity o’ doin’ murder!”
Striker’s remonstrance sounds strange—under the circumstances, serio-comical.
“What might you call murder?” mockingly asks Padilla. “Is there any difference between their getting their breath stopped by drowning, or the cutting of their throats? Not much to them, I take it; and no more to us. If there’s a distinction, it’s so nice I can’t see it. Carramba! no!”
“Whether you see it or not,” interposes Harry Blew, “there be much; and for myself, as I’ve said, I object to spillin’ blood, where the thing an’t absolute needcessary. True, by leavin them aboard an’ tied, as Mr Gomez suggests, they’ll get drowned, for sartin; but it’ll at least keep our hands clear o’ blood murder!”
“That’s true!” cried several in assent. “Let’s take the Australian way of it, and tie them up!”
The assenting voices are nearly unanimous; and the eccentric compromise is carried.
So far everything is fixed, and it but remains to arrange about the action, and apportion to every one his part.
For this very few words suffice, the apportionment being, that the first officer, assisted by Davis, who has some knowledge of ship-carpentry, is to see to the scuttling of the vessel; Gomez and Hernandez to take charge of the girls, and get them into the boat; Slush to look after the steering; Padilla to head the party entrusted with the seizure of the gold; while Striker, assisted by Tarry and the Frenchman, is to secure the unfortunate men by fast binding, or, as he calls it, “sticking them up.”
The atrocious plan is complete, in all its revolting details—the hour of execution at hand.
Chapter Fifty Nine.
The Tintoreras.
With all sail set, the barque glides silently on to her doom.
Gomez now “cons” Slush the steering, he alone having any knowledge of the coast. They are but a half-league from land, shaving close along the outer edge of the breakers. The breeze blowing off-shore makes it easy to keep clear of them.
There is high land on the starboard bow, gradually drawing to the beam. Gomez remembers it; for in the clear moonlight is disclosed the outline of a hill, which, once seen, could not easily be forgotten; a cerro with two summits, and a col or saddle-like depression between.
Still, though a conspicuous landmark, it does not indicate any anchorage; only that they are entering a great gulf which indents the Veraguan coast.
As the barque glides on, he observes a reach of clear water opening inland; to all appearance a bay, its mouth miles in width.
He would run her into it, but is forbidden by the breakers, whose froth-crested belt extends across the entrance from cape to cape.
Running past, he again closes in upon the land, and soon has the two-headed hill abeam, its singular silhouette conspicuous against the moonlit sky. All the more from the moon being directly beyond it, and low down, showing between the twin summits like a great globe-shaped lamp there suspended.
When nearly opposite, Gomez notes an open space in the line of breakers, easily told by its dark tranquil surface, which contrasts with the white horse-tails lashing up on each side of it.
Soon as sighting it, the improvised pilot leaves the helm, after giving Slush some final instructions about the steering. Then forsaking the poop, he proceeds towards the ship’s waist, where he finds all the others ready for action. Striker and La Crosse with pieces of rope for making fast the ill-fated men; Padilla and his party armed with axes and crowbars—the keys with which they intend to open the locker-doors.
Near the mainmast stands the first mate, a lighted lantern in his hand; Davis beside him, with auger, mallet, and chisel. They are by the hatchway, which they have opened, intending descent into the hold. With the lantern concealed under the skirt of his ample dreadnought, Harry Blew stands within the shadow of the mast, as if reflecting on his faithlessness—ashamed to let his face be seen. He even appears reluctant to proceed in the black business, while affecting the opposite.
As the others are now occupied in various ways, with their eyes turned from him, he steps out to the ship’s side, and looks over the rail. The moon is now full upon his face, which, under her soft innocent beams, shows an expression difficult as ever to interpret. The most skilled physiognomist could not read it. More than one emotion seem struggling within his breast, mingling together, or succeeding each other, quick as the changing hues of the chameleon. Now, as if cupidity, now remorse, anon the dark shadow of despair!
This last growing darker, he draws nearer to the side, and looks earnestly over, as if about to plunge into the briny deep, and so rid himself of a life, ever after to be a burden!
While standing thus, apparently hesitating as to whether he shall drown himself and have done with it, soft voices fall upon his ear, their tones blending with the breeze, as it sweeps in melancholy cadence through the rigging of the ship. Simultaneously there is a rustling of dresses, and he sees two female forms robed in white, with short cloaks thrown loosely over their shoulders, and kerchiefs covering their heads.
Stepping out on the quarterdeck, they stand for a short while, the moon shining on their faces, both bright and innocent as her beams. Then they stroll aft, little dreaming of the doom that awaits them.
That sight should soften his traitorous heart. Instead, it seems but to steel it the more—as if their presence recalled and quickened within him some vow of revenge. He hesitates no longer; but gliding back to the hatch, climbs over its coaming, and, lantern in hand, drops down into the hold—there to do a deed which neither light of moon nor sun should shine upon.
Though within the tropic zone, and but a few degrees from the equinoctial line, there is chillness in the air of the night, now nearing its mid-hours.
Drawing their cloaks closer around them, the young ladies mount up to the poop-deck, and stand resting their hands on the taffrail.
For a time they are silent; their eyes directed over the stern, watching the foam in the ship’s wake, lit up with luminous phosphorescence.
They observe other scintillation besides that caused by the Condor’s keel. There are broad splatches of it all over the surface of the sea, with here and there elongated sillons, seemingly made by some creatures in motion, swimming parallel to the ship’s course, and keeping pace with her.
They have not voyaged through thirty degrees of the Pacific Ocean to be now ignorant of what these are. They know them to be sharks, as also that some of larger size and brighter luminosity are the tracks of the tintorera—that species so much-dreaded by the pearl-divers of Panama Bay and the Californian Gulf.
This night both tiburones and tintoreras are more numerous than they have ever observed them—closer also to the vessel’s side; for the sharks, observantly have seen a boat lowered down, which gives anticipation of prey within nearer reach of their ravenous jaws.
“Santissima!” exclaims Carmen, as one makes a dash at some waif drifting astern. “What a fearful thing it would be to fall overboard there—in the midst of those horrid creatures! One wouldn’t have the slightest chance of being saved. Only to think how little space there is between us and certain death! See that monster just below, with its great, glaring eyes! It looks as if it wanted to leap up, and lay hold of us. Ugh! I mustn’t keep my eyes on it any longer. It makes me tremble in a strange way. I do believe, if I continued gazing at it, I should grow giddy, and drop into its jaws.”
She draws back a pace or two, and for some moments remains silent—pensive. Perhaps she is thinking of a sailor saved from sharks after falling among them, and more still of the man who saved him. Whether or no, she soon again speaks, saying:
“Sobrina! are you not glad we’re so near the end of our voyage?”
“I’m not sorry, tia—I fancy no one ever is. I should be more pleased, however, if it were the end of our voyage, which unfortunately it isn’t. Before we see Spain, we’ve another equally as long.”
“True—as long in duration, and distance. But otherwise, it may be very different, and I hope more endurable. Across the Atlantic we’ll have passage in a big steamship, with a grand dining saloon, and state sleeping-rooms, each in itself as large as the main-cabin of the Condor. Besides, we’ll have plenty of company—passengers like ourselves. Let us hope they may turn out nice people. If so, our Atlantic voyage will be more enjoyable than this on the Pacific.”
“But we’ve been very comfortable in the Condor; and I’m sure Captain Lantanas has done all he could to make things agreeable for us.”
“He has indeed, the dear good creature; and I shall ever feel grateful to him. Still you must admit that, however well meant, we’ve been at times a little bored by his learned dissertations. O Iñez, it’s been awfully lonely, and frightfully monotonous—at least, to me.”
“Ah! I understand. What you want is a bevy of bachelors as fellow-passengers, young ones at that. Well; I suppose there will be some in the big steamer. Like enough, a half-score of our moustached militarios, returning from Cuba and other colonies. Wouldn’t that make our Atlantic voyage enjoyable?”
“Not mine—nothing of the sort, as you ought to know. To speak truth, it was neither the loneliness nor monotony of our Pacific voyage that has made it so miserable. Something else.”
“I think I can guess the something else.”
“If so, you’ll be clever. It’s more than I can.”
“Might it have anything to do with that informal leave-taking? Come, Carmen—you promised me you’d think no more about it till we see them in Cadiz, and have it all cleared up.”
“You’re wrong again, Iñez. It is not anything of that.”
“What then? It can’t be the mare amiento? Of it I might complain. I’m even suffering from it now—although the water is so smooth. But you! why, you stand the sea as well as one of those rough sailors themselves! You’re just the woman to be a naval officer’s wife; and when your novio gets command of a ship, I suppose you’ll be for circumnavigating the world with him.”
“You’re merry, mora.”
“Well, who wouldn’t be, with the prospect of soon setting foot on land. For my part, I detest the sea; and when I marry my little guardia-marina, I’ll make him forsake it, and take to some pleasanter profession. And if he prefer doing nothing, by good luck the rent of my lands will keep us both comfortably, with something to spare for a town house in Cadiz. But say, Carmen! What’s troubling you? Surely you must know?”
“Surely I don’t, Iñez.”
“That’s strange—a mystery. Might it be regret at leaving behind your preux chevaliers of California—that grand, gallant De Lara, whom, at our last interview, we saw sprawling in the road dust? You ought to feel relieved at getting rid of him, as I of my importunate suitor, the Señor Calderon. By the way, I wonder whatever became of them! Only to think of their never coming near us to say good-bye! And that nothing was seen or heard of them afterwards! Something must have happened. What could it have been! I’ve tried to think, but without succeeding.”
“So I the same. It is indeed very strange; though I fancy father heard something about them, which he does not wish to make known to us. You remember what happened after we’d left the house—those men coming to it in the night. Father has an idea they intended taking his gold, believing it still there. What’s more, I think he half suspects that of the four men—for there appears to have been four of them—two were no other than our old suitors, Francisco de Lara and Faustino Calderon.”
She had almost said sweethearts, but the word has a suggestion of pain.
“Maria de Merced!” exclaims Iñez. “It’s frightful to think of such a thing. We ought to be thankful to that good saint for saving us from such villains, and glad to get away from a country where their like are allowed to live.”
“Sobrina, you’ve touched the point. The very thought that’s been distressing me is the remembrance of those men. Even since leaving San Francisco, as before we left, I’ve had a strange heaviness on my heart—a sort of boding fear—that we haven’t yet seen the last of them. It haunts me like a spectre. I can’t tell why, unless it be from what I know of De Lara. He’s not the man to submit to that ignominious defeat of which we were witnesses. Be assured he will seek to avenge it. We expected a duel, and feared it. Likely there would have been one, but for the sailing of the English ship. Still that won’t hinder such a desperate man as De Lara from going after Edward, and trying to kill him any way he can. I have a fear he’ll follow him—is after him now.”
“What if he be? Your fiancé can take care of himself. And so can mine, if Calderon should get into his silly head to go after him. Let them go, so long as they don’t come after us; which they’re not likely—all the way to Spain.”
“I’m not so sure of that. Such as they may make their way anywhere. Professional gamblers—as we know them to be—travel to all parts of the world. All cities give them the same opportunity to pursue their calling—why not Cadiz? But, Iñez, there’s something I haven’t told you, thinking you might make mock of it. I’ve had a fright more than once—several times, since we came aboard.”
“A fright! what sort of a fright?”
“If you promise not to laugh at me, I’ll tell you.”
“I promise. I won’t.”
“’Twould be no laughing matter were it true. But, of course, it could only be fancy.”
“Fancy about what? Go on, tia: I’m all impatience.”
“About the sailors on board. All have bad faces; some of them seem very demonios. But there’s one has particularly impressed me. Would you believe it, Iñez, he has eyes exactly like De Lara’s! His features too resemble those of Don Francisco; only that the sailor has a beard and whiskers, while he had none. Of course the resemblance can be but accidental. Still, it caused me a start, when I first observed it, and has several times since. Never more than this very morning, when I was up here, and saw that man. He was at the wheel, all by himself, steering. Several times, on turning suddenly round, I caught him looking straight at me, staring in the most insolent manner. I had half a mind to complain to Captain Lantanas; but reflecting that we were so near the end of our voyage—”
She is not permitted to say more. For at the moment, a man appearing on the poop-deck, as if he had risen out of it, stands before her—the sailor who resembles De Lara!
Making a low bow, he says:
“Not near the end of your voyage, señorita; but at it,” adding with an ironical smile: “Now, ladies! you’re going ashore. The boat is down; and, combining business with pleasure, it’s my duty to hand you into it.”
While he is speaking, another of the sailors approaches Iñez; Hernandez, who offers his services in a similar style and strain.
For a moment, the girls are speechless, through sheer stark astonishment. Horror succeeds, as the truth flashes upon them. And then, instead of coherent speech, they make answer by a simultaneous shriek; at the same time making an attempt to retreat towards the cabin-stair.
Not a step is permitted them. They are seized in strong arms; and half-dragged, half-lifted off their feet, hurried away from the taffrail.
Their cries are stifled by huge woollen caps drawn over their heads, and down to their chins, almost choking them. But though no longer seeing, and only indistinctly hearing, they can tell where they are being taken. They feel themselves lifted over the vessel’s side, and lowered down man-ropes into a boat; along the bottom of which they are finally laid, and held fast—as if they had fallen into the jaws of those terrible tintoreras, they so lately looked at keeping company with the ship!
Chapter Sixty.
The Scuttlers.
Harry Blew is in the hold, Bill Davis beside him.
They are standing on the bottom-timbers on a spot they have selected for their wicked work, and which they have had some difficulty in finding. They have reached it, by clambering over sandal-wood logs, cases of Manilla cigars, and piles of tortoise-shell. Clearing some of these articles out of the way, they get sight of the vessel’s ribs, and at a point they know to be under the water-line. They know also that a hole bored between their feet, though ever so small, will in due time fill the barque’s hold with water, and send her to the bottom of the sea.
Davis, auger in hand, stands in readiness to bore the hole; waiting for the first officer to give the word.
But something stays the latter from giving it, as the former from commencing the work.
It is a thought that seems to occur simultaneously to both, bringing their eyes up to one another’s faces, in a fiancé mutually interrogative. Blew is the first to put it in speech.
“Dang me, if I like to do it!”
“Ye’ve spoke my mind exact, Mr Blew!” rejoins Davis. “No more do I.”
“’Tan’t nothing short of murder,” pursues the chief mate. “An’ that’s just why I an’t up to it; the more, as there an’t any downright needcessity. As I sayed to them above, I can see no good reason for sinking the ship. She’d sail right out, an’ we’d never hear word o’ her again. An’ if them to be left ’board o’ her shud get picked up, what matters that to us? We’ll be out o’ the way, long afore they could go anywhere to gi’e evidence against us. Neer a fear o’ their ever findin’ us—neyther you nor me, anyhow. I dare say, Davis, you mean to steer for some port, where we’re not likely to meet any more Spaniards. I do, when I’ve stowed my share o’ the plunder.”
“Yes; I’m for Australia, soon’s I can get there. That’s the place for men like me.”
“There you’ll be safe enough. So I, where I intend goin’. And we’ll both feel better, not havin’ a ugly thing to reflect back on. Which we would, if we send these three poor creeturs to Davy’s locker. Now, I propose to you what you heerd me say to the rest: let’s gi’e them a chance for their lives.”
“And not do this?”
As he puts the question, Davis points his auger to the bottom of the ship.
“There an’t no need—not a morsel o’ good can come from sinkin’ her. And not a bit harm in lettin’ her slip.”
“What will the others say?”
“They won’t know anything about it—they can’t unless we tell ’em. And we won’t be the fools to do that. As I argied to them, with the wind off-shore, as ’tis now, she’ll scud out o’ sight o’ land long afore daylight. Bill Davis! whatsomever the others may do, or think they’re doin’, let’s me an’ you keep our consciences clear o’ this foul deed. Believe me, mate, we’ll both feel better for’t some day.”
“If you think they won’t know, I’m agreed.”
“How can they? There an’t none o’ them to see what we do down here. ’Taint likely there’s any listener. Gie a knock or two wi’ the mallet!”
The ship’s carpenter obeying, strikes several blows against an empty water-cask, the noise ascending through the open hatch. He suspends his strokes at hearing exclamations above; then screams in the shrill treble of female voices.
“You see they’re not thinking o’ us,” says the mate. “Them Spaniards are too busy about their own share o’ the job. They’re gettin’ the girls into the boat.”
“Yes; that’s what they’re doing.”
“Sweet girls both be. An’t they, Davis?”
“Ay, that they are; a pair of reg’lar beauties.”
“Look here, shipmate! Since we’ve settled this other thing, I want to say a word about them too, and I may’s well say it now. Gomez and that land-lubber, Hernandez, are layin’ claim to them, as if they had a right. Now they haven’t, no more than any o’ the rest o’ us. Some others may have fancies, too. I confess to havin’ a weakness for the one wi’ the copper-coloured hair, which is she as Gil Gomez wants to ’propriate. I made no objection to his takin’ her into the boat. But soon’s we get ashore, I intend to stan’ out for my rights to that little bit o’ property, which are just as good as his. Do you feel like backin’ me?”
“Hang me, if I don’t! I’m myself a bit sweet upon the dark ’un, and have been, ever since settin’ eyes on her. And though I’ve said nothing, like yourself, I wasn’t going to give that point up, before having a talk about it. You say the word—I’ll stan’ by you. And if it comes to fightin’, I’ll make short work with that bandy-legged chap Hernandez, the one as wants her. We can count on Jack Striker on our side; and most like the Dane and Dutchman; La Crosse for certain. Frenchy don’t cotton to them Spaniards, ever since his quarrel with Padilla. But, as you say, let’s go in for the girls, whether or not. You can claim the light-haired. I’m for the dark one, an’ damned if I an’t ready to fight for her—to the death!”
“As I for the other!” exclaims the ex-man-o’-war, in eager serious earnest.
“But what’s to be done after we go ashore?” asks Davis. “That’s what’s been bothering me. We’re about to land in a strange country, but where these Spanish chaps will be at home, speakin’ the lingo, an’ll so have the advantage of us. There’s a difficulty. Can you see a way out of it?”
“Clearly.”
“How?”
“Because the girls don’t care for eyther o’ the two as are layin’ claim to them. Contrarywise, they hate ’em both. I’ve knowd that all along. So, if we get ’em out o’ their clutches—at the same time givin’ the girls a whisper about protectin’ them—they’ll go willin’ly ’long wi’ us. Afterwards, we can act accordin’ to the chances that turn up. Only swear you’ll stan’ by me, Bill, an’ wi’ Striker to back us, we’ll bring things right.”
“I’m bound to stan’ by you; so’ll Jack, I’m sure. Hark! that’s him, now! He’s calling to us. By God, I believe they’re in the boat!”
“They are! Let’s hurry up! Just possible them Spaniards may take it into their heads—. Quick, shipmate! Heave after me!”
With this, Blew holds out the lantern to light them up the hatch, both making as much haste to reach the deck as if their lives depended upon speed.
Chapter Sixty One.
The Barque Abandoned.
While the scuttlers are shirking their work in the Condor’s hold, and simultaneous with the abduction on deck, a scene is transpiring in her cabin, which might be likened to a saturnalia of demons.
The skipper and Don Gregorio, sitting over their walnuts and wine, are startled by the sound of footsteps descending the stair. As they are heavy and hurried, bearing no resemblance to the gentle tread of woman—it cannot be the ladies coming down again. Nor yet the negro cook, since his voice is heard above in angry expostulation. Two of the sailors have just seized him in his galley, throttled him back on the bench, and are there lashing him with a piece of log-line.
They at the cabin-table know nothing of this. They hear his shouts, and now also the shrieks of the young girls; but have no time to take any steps, as at that instant the cuddy-door is dashed open, and several men come rushing in; the second mate at their head. Lantanas, sitting with his face to the door, sees them first, Don Gregorio, turning in his seat, the instant after.
Neither thinks of demanding a reason for the rude intrusion. The determined air of the intruders, with the fierce expression on their faces, tells it would be idle.
In a time shorter than it takes to tell it, the two doomed men are made fast to the stanchioned chairs; where they sit bolt upright, firm as bollard heads. But not in silence. Both utter threats, oaths, angry fulminations.
Not for long are they allowed this freedom of speech. One of the sailors, seizing a pair of nutcrackers, thrusts them between the skipper’s teeth, gagging him. Another with a corkscrew, does the like for Don Gregorio.
Then the work of pillage proceeds. The locker lids are forced, and the boxes of gold-dust dragged out.
Several goings and comings are required for its transport to the pinnace; but at length it is stowed in the boat, the plunderers taking their seats beside it.
One lingers in the cabin behind the rest; that fiend in human shape who has all along counselled killing the unfortunate men.
Left alone with them, helpless, and at his mercy, he looks as if still determined to do this. It is not from any motive of compassion that he goes from one to the other, and strikes the gags from between their teeth. For at the same time he apostrophises them in horrid mockery:
“Carramba! I can’t think of leaving two gentlemen seated at such a well-furnished table, and no end of wine, without being able to hob-nob, and drink one another’s health!”
Then specially addressing himself to Lantanas, he continues:
“You see, captain, I’m not spiteful; else I shouldn’t think of showing you this bit of civility, after the insults you’ve offered me, since I’ve been second officer of your ship.”
After which, turning angrily upon Don Gregorio, and going close up, he shrieks into his ears:
“Perhaps you don’t know me, Montijo? Can your worship recall a circumstance that occurred some six years ago, when you where alcalde-mayor of Yerba Buena? You may remember having a poor fellow pilloried, and whipped, for doing a bit of contraband. I was that unfortunate individual. And this is my satisfaction for the indignity you put upon me. Keep your seats, gentlemen! Drink your wine and eat your walnuts. Before you’ve cleared the table, this fine barque, with your noble selves, will be at the bottom of the sea.”
The ruffian concludes with a peal of scornful laughter, continued as he ascends the cabin-stair, after striding out and banging the door behind him!
On deck, he sees himself alone; and hurrying to the ship’s waist, scrambles over the side, down into the boat; where he finds everything stowed, the oarsmen seated on the thwarts, their oars in the rowlocks, ready to shove off.
They are not all there yet. Two—the first mate and Davis are still aboard the barque—down in her hold.
There are those who would gladly cast loose, and leave the laggards behind. Indeed, soon as stepping into the boat, Padilla proposes it, the other Spaniards abetting him.
But their traitorous desire is opposed by Striker. However otherwise debased, the ex-convict is true to the men who speak his own tongue.
He protests in strong determined language, and is backed by the Dutchman, Dane, and La Crosse, as also Tarry and Slush.
“Bah!” exclaims Padilla, seeing himself in the minority; “I was only jesting. Of course, I had no intention to abandon them. Ha, ha, ha!” he adds with a forced laugh, “we’d be the blackest of traitors to behave that way.”
Striker pays no heed to the hypocritical speech, but calls to his old chum and Harry Blew—alternately pronouncing their names.
He gets response, and soon after sees Davis above, clambering over the rail.
Blew is not far behind, but still does not appear. He is by the foot of the mainmast with a haulyard in his hands as though hoisting something aloft. The moon has become clouded, and it is too dark for any one to see what it is. Besides, there is no one observing him—no one could, the bulwarks being between.
“Hillo, there, Blew!” again hails Striker; “what be a-keepin’ ye? Hurry down! These Spanish chaps are threetnin’ to go off without ye.”
“Hang it!” exclaims the chief mate, now showing the side; “I hope that an’t true!”
“Certainly not!” exclaims Padilla; “nothing of the kind. We were only afraid you might delay too long, and be in danger of going down with the vessel.”
“Not much fear of that,” returns Blew, dropping into the boat, “It’ll be some time afore she sinks. Ye fixed the rudder for her to run out, didn’t ye?”
“Ay, ay!” responds he who was the last at the wheel.
“All right; shove off, then! That wind’ll take the old Condor straight seawart; and long afore sunrise she’ll be out sight o’ land. Give way there—way!”
The oars dip and plash. The boat separates from the side, with prow turned shoreward.
The barque, with her sails still spread, is left to herself, and the breeze, which wafts her gently away towards the wide wilderness of ocean.
Proceeding cautiously, guarding against the rattle of an oar in its rowlock, the pirates run their boat through the breakers, and approach the shore. Right ahead are the two summits, with the moon just going down behind; and between is a cove of horseshoe shape, the cliffs extending around it.
With a few more strokes the boat is brought into it and glides on to its innermost end.
As the keel grates upon the shingly strand, their ears are saluted by a chorus of cries—the alarm signal of seabirds, startled by the intrusion; among them the scream of the harpy eagle, resembling the laugh of a maniac.
These sounds, despite their discordance, are sweet to those now hearing them. They tell of a shore uninhabited—literally, that the “coast is clear”—just as they wish it.
Beaching the boat, they bound on shore, and lift their captives out; then the spoils—one unresisting as the other.
Some go in search of a place where they may pass the night; for it is too late to think of proceeding inland.
Between the strand and the cliff’s base, these discover a beach, several feet above sea-level, having an area of over an acre, covered with coarse grass, just the spot for a camping-place.
As the sky has become clouded, and threatens a downpour of rain, they carry thither the boat’s sail, intending to rig it up as an awning.
But a discovery is made which spares them the trouble. Along its base the cliff is honeycombed with caves, one of ample dimensions, sufficient to shelter the whole crew. A ship’s lamp, which they have brought with them, when lighted throws its glare upon stalactites, that sparkle like the pendants of chandeliers.
Disposing themselves in various attitudes, some reclined on their spread pilot-coats, some seated on stones or canvas bags, they enter upon a debauch with the wines abstracted from the stores of the abandoned barque—drinking, talking, singing, shouting, and swearing, till the cavern rings with their hellish revelry. It is well their captives are not compelled to take part in, or listen to, it. To them has been appropriated one of the smaller grottoes, the boat-sail fixed in front securing them privacy. Harry Blew has done this. In the breast of the British man-o’-war’s man there is still a spark of delicacy. Though his gratitude has given way to the greed of gold, he has not yet sunk to the level of that ruffianism around him.
While the carousal is thus carried on within the cave, without, the overcast sky begins to discharge itself. Lightning forks and flashes athwart the firmament; thunder rolls reverberating along the cliffs; a strong wind sweeps them; the rain pouring down in torrents.
It is a tropic storm—short-lived, lasting scarce half-an-hour.
But, while on, it lashes the sea into fury, driving the breakers upon the beach, where the beat has been left loosely moored.
In the reflux of the ebbing tide, this is set afloat and carried away seaward. Driven then upon the coral reef, it bilges, is broken to pieces, when the fragments, as waifs, dance about, and drift far away over the foam-crested billows.