Chapter Sixty Two.
Two Tarquins.
It is after midnight. A calm has succeeded the storm; and silence reigns around the cove where the pirates have put in. The seabirds have returned to their perches on the cliff, and now sit noiselessly—save an occasional angry scream from the osprey, as a whip-poor-will, or some other plumed plunderer of the night, flits past his place of repose, near enough to wake the tyrant of the sea-shore, and excite his jealous rage.
Other sounds are the dull boom of the outside breakers, and the lighter ripple of the tidal wave washing over a strand rich in shells.
Now and then, a manatee, raising its bristled snout above the surf, gives out a low prolonged wail, like the moan of some creature in mortal agony.
But there is no human voice now. The ruffians have ended their carousal. Their profane songs, ribald jests, and drunken cachinations, inharmoniously mingling with the soft monotone of the sea, have ceased to be heard. They lie astretch along the cavern floor, its hollow aisles echoing back their snores and stertorous breathing.
Still they are not all asleep, nor all within the cavern. Two are outside, sauntering along the shadow of the cliff. As the moon has also gone down, it is too dark to distinguish their faces. Still, there is light enough reflected from the luminous surface of the sea to show that neither is in sailor garb, but the habiliments of landsmen—this the national costume of Spanish California. On their heads are sombreros of ample brim; wide trousers—cahoneras—flap loose around their ankles; while over their shoulders they carry cloaks, which, by the peculiar drape, are recognisable as Mexican mangas. In the obscurity the colour of these cannot be determined, though one is scarlet, the other sky-blue.
Apparelled as the two men are now, it would be difficult to identify them as Gil Gomez and José Hernandez. For all it is they.
They are strolling about without fear, or thought of any one observing them. Yet one is; a man, who has come out of the larger cavern just after them, and who follows them along the cliff’s base. Not openly or boldly, as designing to join in their deliberation; but crouchingly and by stealth, as if playing spy on them.
He is in sailor togs, wearing a loose dreadnought coat, which he buttons on coming out of the cavern. But before closing it over his breast, the butt of a pistol, and the handle of a knife, could be seen gleaming there, both stuck behind a leathern waist belt.
On first stepping forth, he stands for a time with eyes fixed upon the other two. He can see them but indistinctly, while they cannot see him at all, his figure making no silhouette against the dark disc of the cave’s mouth. And afterwards, as he moves along the cliff, keeping close in, its shadow effectually conceals him from their view. But still safer is he from being observed by them, after having ensconced himself in a cleft of rock; which he does while their backs are turned upon him.
In the obscure niche he now occupies no light falls upon his face—not a ray. If there did, it would disclose the countenance of Harry Blew; and as oft before, with an expression upon it not easily understood. But no one sees, much less makes attempt to interpret it.
Meanwhile the two saunterers come to a stop and stand conversing. It is Gomez who is first heard saying:
“I’ve been thinking, compañero, now we’ve got everything straight so far, that our best plan will be to stay where we are till the other matter’s fixed.”
“What other are you speaking of?”
“The marrying, of course.”
“Oh! that. Well?”
“We can send on for the padre, and bring him here; or failing him, the cura. To tell truth, I haven’t the slightest idea of where we’ve come ashore. We may be a goodish distance from Santiago; and to go there, embargoed as we are, there’s a possibility of our being robbed of our pretty baggage on the route. You understand me?”
“I do!”
“Against risk of that kind, it is necessary we should take precautions. And the first—as also the best I can think of—is to stay here till we’re spliced. One of our two Californian friends can act as a messenger. Either, with six words I shall entrust to him, will be certain to bring back an ecclesiastic, having full powers to perform the flea-bite of a ceremony. Then we can march inland without fear—ay, with flying colours; both Benedicts, our blushing brides on our arms, and in Santiago spend a pleasant honeymoon.”
“Delightful anticipation!”
“Just so. And for that very reason, we mustn’t risk marring it; which we might, by travelling as simple bachelors. So I say, let us get married before going a step farther.”
“But the others? Are they to assist at our nuptials?”
“Certainly not.”
“In what way can it be avoided?”
“The simplest in the world. It’s understood that we divide our plunder the first thing in the morning. When that’s done, and each has packed up his share, I intend proposing that we separate—every one to go his own gait.”
“Will they agree to that, think you?”
“Of course they will. Why shouldn’t they? It’s the safest way for all, and they’ll see that. Twelve of us trooping together through the country—to say nothing of having the women along—the story we’re to tell about shipwreck might get discredited. When that’s made clear, to our old shipmates, they’ll be considerate for their own safety. Trust me for making it clear. Of course we’ll keep our Californian friends to act as groomsmen; so that the only things wanted will be a brace of bridesmaids.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughs Hernandez.
“And now to see about our brides. We’ve not yet proposed to them. We went once to do that, and were disappointed. Not much danger of that now.”
“For all that, we may count upon a flat refusal.”
“Flat or sharp, little care I. And it won’t signify, one way or the other. In three days or less I intend calling Carmen Montijo my wife. But come on; I long to lay my hand and heart at her feet.”
Saying which Gomez strides on towards the grotto, the other by his side, like two Tarquins about to invade the sleep of virginal innocence.
Chapter Sixty Three.
Within the Grotto.
Though the grotto is in darkness, its occupants are not asleep. To them repose is impossible; for they are that moment in the midst of anguish, keen as human heart could feel. They have passed through its first throes, and are for the while a little calmer. But it is the tranquillity of deep, deadening grief, almost despair. They mourn him dearest to them as dead.
Nor have they any doubt of it. How could they? While in the boat, they heard their captors speak about the scuttling of the ship, well knowing what they meant. Long since has she gone to the bottom of the sea, with the living left aboard, or perhaps only their lifeless bodies; for they may have been murdered before! No matter now in what way death came to them. Enough of sadness and horror to think it has come—enough for the bereaved ones to know they are bereft.
Nor do they need telling why it has all been done. Though hindered from seeing while in the boat, they have heard. Cupidity the cause; the crime a scheme to plunder the ship. Alas! it has succeeded.
But all is not yet over. Would that it were! There is something still to come; something they fear to reflect upon, or speak of to one another. What is to be their own fate?
Neither can tell, or guess. Their thoughts are too distracted for reasoning. But in the midst of vague visions, one assumes a shape too well-defined. It is the same of which Carmen was speaking when seized.
She again returns to it, saying:
“Iñez, I’m now almost sure we are not in the hands of strangers. From what has happened, and some voices we heard, I fear my suspicions have been too true!”
“Heaven help us, if it be so!”
“Yes; Heaven help us! Even from pirates we might have expected some mercy; but none from them. Ay de mi! what will become of us?”
The interrogatory is only answered by a sigh. The spirit of the Andalusian girl, habitually cheerful, is now crushed under a weight of very wretchedness. Soon again they exchange speech, seeking counsel of one another. Is there no hope, no hand to help, no one to whom they may turn in this hour of dread ordeal? No—not one! Even the English sailor, in whom they had trusted, has proved untrue; to all appearance, chief of the conspiring crew! Every human being seems to have abandoned them. Has God?
“Let us pray to Him!” says Carmen.
“Yes,” answers Iñez; “He only can help us now.”
They kneel side by side on the hard, cold floor of the cave, and send up their voices in earnest prayer. They first entreat the Holy Virgin that the life of him dear to them may yet be spared; then invoke her protection for themselves, against a danger both dread as death itself. They pray in trembling accents, but with a fervour eloquent through fear.
Solemnly pronouncing “Amen!” they make the sign of the cross; in darkness, God alone seeing it.
As their hands drop down from the gesture, and while they are still in a kneeling attitude, a noise outside succeeds their appeal to Heaven, suddenly recalling them to earthly thoughts and fears.
They hear voices of men in conversation; at the same time the sailcloth is pushed aside, and two men press past it into the cave. Soon as entering one says:
“Señoritas! we must ask pardon for making our somewhat untimely call; which present circumstances render imperative. It’s to be hoped, however, you won’t stand upon such stiff ceremony with us, as when we had the honour of last paying our respects to you.”
After this singular peroration, the speaker pauses to see what may be the effect of his words. As this cannot be gathered from any reply—since none is vouchsafed—he continues; “Dona Carmen Montijo, you and I are old acquaintances; though, it may be, you do not remember my voice. With the sound of the sea so long echoing in your ears, that’s not strange. Perhaps the sense of sight will prove more effectual in recalling an old friend. Let me give you something to assist it!”
Saying this, he holds out a lantern, hitherto concealed beneath his cloak. As it lights up the grotto, four figures are seen erect; for the girls have sprung to their feel in apprehension of immediate danger. Upon all, the light shines clear; and, fronting her, Carmen Montijo sees—too surely recognising it—the face of Francisco de Lara; while in her vis-à-vis, Iñez Alvarez beholds Faustino Calderon!
Yes, before them are their scorned suitors; no longer disguised in sailor garb, but resplendent in their Californian costume—the same worn by them on that day of their degradation, when De Lara rolled in the dust of the Dolores road.
Now that he has them in his power, his triumph is complete; and in strains of exultation he continues:
“So, ladies! you see we’ve come together again! No doubt you’re a little surprised at our presence, but I hope not annoyed.”
There is no reply to this taunting speech.
“Well, if you won’t answer, I shall take it for granted you are annoyed; besides looking a little alarmed too. You’ve no need to be that.”
“No, indeed,” endorses Calderon. “We mean you no harm—none whatever.”
“On the contrary,” goes on De Lara, “only good. We’ve nothing but favours to offer you.”
“Don Francisco de Lara!” exclaims Carmen, at length breaking silence, and speaking in a tone of piteous expostulation; “and you, Don Faustino Calderon, why have you committed this crime? What injury have we ever done you?”
“Come! not so fast, fair Carmen! Crime’s a harsh word, and we’ve not committed any as yet—nothing to speak of.”
“No crime! Santissima! My father—my poor father!”
“Don’t be uneasy about him. He’s safe enough.”
“Safe! Dead! Drowned! Dios de mi alma!”
“No, no. That’s all nonsense,” protests the fiend, adding falsehood to his sin of deeper dye. “Don Gregorio is not where you say. Instead of being at the sea’s bottom, he is sailing upon its surface; and is likely to be, for Heaven knows how long. But let’s drop that subject of the past, which seems unpleasant to you, and talk of the present—of ourselves. You ask what injury you’ve ever done us? Faustino Calderon may answer for himself to the fair Iñez. To you, Doña Carmen, I shall make reply—But we may as well confer privately.”
At this he lays hold of her wrist, and leads her aside; Calderon conducting Iñez in the opposite direction.
When the whole length of the cavern is between the two pairs, De Lara resumes speech:
“Yes, Doña Carmen; you have done me an injury—a double wrong I may call it.”
“How, sir?” she asks, withdrawing her hand from his, with a disdainful gesture. “How?” he retorts. “Why, in making me love you—by leading me to believe my love returned.”
“You speak falsely; I never did so.”
“You did, Doña Carmen; you did. It is you who speak false, denying it. That is the first wrong I have to reproach you with. The second is in casting me off, as soon as you supposed you’d done with me. Not so, as you see now. We’re together again—never more to part till I’ve had satisfaction for all. I once hinted—I now tell you plainly, you’ve made a mistake in trifling with Francisco de Lara.”
“I never trifled with you, señor. Dios mio! What means this? Man—if you be a man—have mercy! Oh! what would you—what would you?”
“Nothing to call for such distracted behaviour on your part. On the contrary, I’ve brought you here—for I’ll not deny that it’s I who have done it—to grant you favours, instead of asking them. Ay, or even satisfying resentments. What I intend towards you, I hope you will appreciate. To shorten explanations—for which we’ve neither opportunity nor time—I want you for my wife—want you, and will have you.”
“Your wife!”
“Yes; my wife. You needn’t look surprised, nor counterfeit feeling it. And equally idle for you to make opposition. I’ve determined upon it. So, you must many me.”
“Marry the murderer of my father! Sooner than do that, you shall also be mine. Wretch! I am in your power. You can kill me now.”
“I know all that, without your telling me. But I don’t intend killing you. On the contrary, I shall take care to keep you alive, until I’ve tried what sort of a wife you’ll make. Should you prove a good one, and fairly affectionate, we two may lead a happy life together, notwithstanding the little unpleasantness that’s been between us. If not, and our wedded bondage prove uncongenial, why, then, I may release you in the way you wish, or any other that seems suitable. After the honeymoon, you shall have your choice. Now Doña Carmen! those are my conditions. I hope you find them fair enough!”
She makes no reply. The proud girl is dumb, partly with indignation, partly from the knowledge that all speech would be idle. But while angry to the utmost, she is also afraid—trembling at the alternative presented—death or dishonour; the last if she marry the murderer of her father; the first if she refuse him!
The ruffian repeats his proposal, in the same cynical strain, concluding it with a threat.
She is at length stung to reply; which she does in but two words, twice repeated in wild despairing accent. They are:
“Kill me—kill me!”
Almost at the same time, and in similar strain does Iñez answer her cowardly suitor, who in a corner of the grotto has alike brought her to bay.
After the dual response, there is a short interval of silence. Then De Lara, speaking for both, says:
“Señoritas! we shall leave you now; and you can go to sleep without fear of further solicitation. No doubt, after a night’s rest, you’ll awake to a more sensible view of matters in general, and the case as it stands. Of one thing be assured; that there’s no chance of your escaping from your present captivity, unless by consenting to change your names. And if you don’t consent, they’ll be changed all the same. Yes, Carmen Montijo! before another week passes over your head, you shall be addressed as Doña Carmen de Lara.
“And you, Iñez Alvarez, will be called Doña Iñez Calderon. No need for you to feel dishonoured by a name among the first in California. Noble as your own; ay, or any in old Spain.”
“Hasta mañana, muchacas!” salutes De Lara, preparing to take leave. “Pasan Vs buena noche!”
Calderon repeating the same formulary, the two step towards the entrance, lift up the piece of suspended sailcloth, and pass out into night. They have taken the lantern along with them, again leaving the grotto in darkness.
The girls grope their way, till their arms come in contact. Then, closing in mutual embrace, they sink together upon the cold flinty floor!
Chapter Sixty Four.
Oceanwards.
Another day dawns over the great South Sea. As the golden orb shows above the crest of the central American Cordillera, its beams scatter wide over the Pacific, as a lamp raised aloft, flashing its light afar. Many degrees of longitude receive instant illumination, at once turning night into day.
An observer looking west over that vast watery expanse would see on its shining surface objects that gladdened not the eyes of Balboa. In his day, only the rude Indian balsa, or frail periagua, afraid to venture out, stole timidly along the shore; but now huge ships, with broad white sails, and at rare intervals the long black hull of a steamer, thick smoke vomited forth from her funnel, may be descried in a offing that extends to the horizon itself.
But not always may ships be seen upon it; for the commerce of the Pacific is slight compared with that of the Atlantic, and large vessels passing along the coast of Veragua are few and far between.
On this morning, however, one is observed, and but one; she not sailing coastwise, but standing out towards mid-ocean, as though she had just left the land.
As the ascending sun dispels the night darkness around her, she can be descried as a white fleck on the blue water, her spread sails seeming no bigger than the wings of a sea-gull. Still, through a telescope—supposing it in the hands of a seaman—she may be told to be a craft with polacca-masts; moreover, that the sails on her mizzen are not square-set, but fore-and-aft, proclaiming her a barque. For she is one; and could the observer through his glass make out the lettering upon her stern, he would read there her name, El Condor.
Were he transported aboard of her, unaware of what has happened, it would surprise him to find her decks deserted; not even a man at the wheel, though she is sailing with full canvas spread, even to studding-sails; no living thing seen anywhere, save two monstrous creatures covered with rust-coloured hair—mocking counterfeits of humanity.
Equally astonished would he be at finding her forecastle abandoned; sailors’ chests with the lids thrown open, and togs lying loose around them! Nor would it lessen his astonishment to glance into the galley, and there behold a black man sitting upon its bench, who does not so much as rise to receive him. Nor yet, descending her cabin-stair, to see a table profusely spread, at either end guest, alike uncourteous in keeping their seats, on the laces of both an expression of agonised despair! And all this might be seen on board the Chilian barque, on the morning after she was abandoned by her traitorous and piratical crew, A sad night has it been for the three unfortunates left aboard, more especially the two constrained to sit at the cabin-table. Both have bitterest thoughts, enough to fill the cup of their misery to the brim. A night of anguish for the ex-haciendado. Not because of having seen his treasure, the bulk of his fortune, borne off before his eyes; but from the double shriek which, at that same instant, reached him from the deck, announcing the seizure of things more dear. His daughter and grand-daughter were then made captive; and, from their cries suddenly leasing, he dreaded something worse—fearing them stifled by death. Reminded of an event in Yerba Buena, as also recognising the ruffian who taunted him, made it the more probable that such had been their fate. He almost wished it; he would rather that, than a doom too horrible to think of.
The first mate? He must have been killed too; butchered while endeavouring to defend them? The unsuspicious captain could not think of his chief officer having gone against him; and how could Don Gregorio believe the man so recommended turning traitor?
While they were thus charitably judging him, they received a crushing response; hearing his voice among the mutineers—not in expostulation, or opposed, but as if taking part with them! One, Striker, called out his name, to which he answered; and, soon after, other speeches from his lips sounded clear through the cabin windows, open on that mild moonlight night.
Still listening, as they gazed in one another’s face with mute astonishment, they heard a dull thud against the ship’s side—the stroke of a boat-hook as the pinnace was shoved off—then a rattle, as the oars commence working in the tholes, succeeded by the plash of the oar-blades in the water. After that, the regular “dip-dip,” at length dying away, as the boat receded, leaving the abandoned vessel silent as a graveyard in the mid-hour of night.
Seated with face towards the cuddy windows, Don Gregorio could see through them, and as the barque’s bow rose on the swell, depressing her stern, he commanded a view of the sea outside.
There, upon its calm clear surface, he made out a dark object moving away. It was a boat filled with forms, the oar-blades rising and tailing in measured stroke, flashing the phosphorescence on both sides. No wonder at his earnest look—his gaze of concentrated anguish! That boat held all that was dear to him—bearing that all away, he knows not whither, to a fate he dare not reflect upon. He could trace the outlines of land beyond, and perceive that the boat was being rowed for it, the barque at the same time sailing seaward, each instant widening the distance between them. But for a long while he could distinguish the black speck with luminous jets on either side, as the oar-blades intermittently rose and fell, till at length, entering within the shadow of the land, he lost sight of it.
“Gone! all gone!” groaned the bereaved father, his beard drooping down to his breast, his countenance showing he has surrendered up his soul to despair! So, too, Lantanas.
Then both ceased struggling and shouting, alike convinced of the idleness of such demonstrations. The chief officer a mutineer, so must all the others; and all had forsaken the ship. No; not all! There is one remains true, and who is still on her—the black cook. They heard his voice, though not with any hope. It came from a distant part of the ship in cries betokening distress. They could expect no help from him. He was either disabled, or, as themselves, fast bound.
Throughout the night they heard it; the intervals between becoming longer, the voice fainter, till he also, yielding to despair, was silent.
As the morning sun shines in through the stern windows, Don Gregorio can see they are out of sight of land. Only sea and sky are visible to him; but neither to Lantanas, whose face is the other way; so fastened he cannot even turn his head.
The barque is scudding before a breeze, which bears her still farther into the great South Sea; on whose broad bosom she might beat for weeks, months—ay, till her timbers rot—without sighting ship, or being herself descried by human eye. Fearful thought—appalling prospect to those constrained to sit at her cabin-table!
With that before their minds, the morning light brings no joy. Instead, it but intensifies their misery. For they are now sure they have no chance of being rescued.
They sit haggard in their chairs—for no sleep has visited the eyes of either—like men who have been all night long engaged in a drunken debauch.
Alas! how different! The glasses of wine before them are no longer touched, nor the fruits tasted. Neither the bouquet of the one, nor the perfume of the other, has any charm for them now. Either is as much beyond their reach, as if a thousand miles off, instead of on a table between them!
Gazing in one another’s faces, they at once fancy it a dream. They can scarcely bring themselves to realise such a situation! Who could! The rude intrusion of the ruffian crew—the rough handling they have had—the breaking open of the lockers—and the boxes of gold borne off—all seem but the phantasmagoria of some horrible vision!
Chapter Sixty Five.
Partitioning the Spoil.
The same sun that shines upon the abandoned barque lights up the men who abandoned her, still on that spot where they came ashore. As the first rays fall over the cliff’s crest, they show a cove of semicircular shape, backed by a beetling precipice. A ledge or dyke, sea-washed, and weed-covered, trends across its entrance, with a gate-like opening in the centre, through which, at high tide, the sea sweeps in, though never quite up to the base of the cliff. Between this and the strand lies the elevated platform already spoken of, accessible from above by a sloping ravine, the bed of a stream running only when it rains. As said, it is only an acre or so in extent, and occupying the inner concavity of the semicircle. The beach is not visible from it, this concealed by the dry reef which runs across it as the chord of an arc. Only a small portion of it can be seen through the portal which admits the tidal flow. Beyond, stretches the open sea outside the surf, with the breakers more than a mile off.
Such is the topography of the place where the mutineers have made landing and passed the night. When the day dawns, but little is there seen to betray their presence. Only a man seated upon a stone, nodding as if asleep, at intervals awakening with a start, and grasping at a gun between his legs; soon letting it go, and again giving way to slumber, the effects of that drunken debauch kept up to a late hour. He would be a poor sentinel were there need for vigilance.
Seemingly, there is none. No enemy is near—no human being in sight; the only animate objects some seabirds, that, winging their way along the face of the cliff, salute him with an occasional scream, as if incensed by his presence in a spot they deem sacred to themselves.
The sun fairly up, he rises to his feet, and walks towards the entrance of the larger cavern; then stopping in front of it, cries out:
“Inside there, shipmates! Sun’s up—time to be stirring!”
Seeing him in motion, and hearing his hail, the gulls gather, and swoop around his head in continuous screaming. In larger numbers, and with cries more stridulent, as his comrades come forth out of the cave, one after another—yawning, and stretching their arms.
The first, looking seaward, proposes to refresh himself by a plunge in the surf; and for this purpose starts toward the beach. The others, taken with the idea, follow in twos and threes, till in a string all are en route for the strand.
To reach this, it is necessary for them to pass through the gap in the transverse ledge; which the tide, now at ebb, enables them to do.
He who leads, having gone through it, on getting a view of the shore outside, suddenly stops; as he does so, sending back a shout. It is a cry of surprise, followed by the startling announcement:
“The boat’s gone!”
This should cause them apprehension; and would, if they but knew the consequences. Ignorant of these, they make light of it, one saying:
“Let her go, and be damned! We want no boats now.”
“A horse would be more to our purpose,” suggests a second; “or, for that matter, a dozen.”
“A dozen donkeys would do,” adds a third, accompanying his remark with a horse-laugh. “It’ll take about that many to pack our possibles.”
“What’s become of the old pinnace, anyhow?” asks one in sober strain; as, having passed through the rock-portal, they stand scanning the strand. All remember the place where they left the boat; and see it is not there.
“Has any one made away with it?”
The question is asked, and instantly answered, several saying, no. Striker, the man who first missed it, vouchsafes the explanation:
“The return tide’s taken it out; an’ I dar say, it’s broke to bits on them theer breakers.”
They now remember it was not properly moored, but left with painter loose; and do not wonder it went adrift. They care little, indeed nothing, and think of it no longer; but, stripping, plunge into the surf.
After bathing to their hearts’ content, they return to the cavern, and array themselves in garments befitted to the life they intend leading. Their tarry togs are cast off, to be altogether abandoned; for each has a suit of shore clothes, brought away from the barque.
Every one rigged out in his own peculiar style, and breakfast despatched, they draw together to deliberate on a plan of future action. But first the matter of greatest moment—the partition of the spoils.
It is made in little time, and with no great trouble. The boxes are broken open, and the gold-dust measured out in a pannikin; a like number of measures apportioned to each.
In money value no one can tell the exact amount of his share. Enough satisfaction to know it is nigh as much as he can carry.
After each has appropriated his own, they commence packing up, and preparing for the inland journey. And next arises the question, what way are they to go?
They have already resolved to strike for the city of Santiago; but in what order should they travel? Separate into several parties, or go all together?
The former plan, proposed by Gomez, is supported by Padilla, Hernandez, and Velarde. Gomez gives his reasons. Such a large number of pedestrians along roads where none save horsemen are ever seen, could not fail to excite surprise. It might cause inconvenient questions to be asked them—perhaps lead to their being arrested, and taken before some village alcalde. And what story could they tell?
On the other hand, there will be the chance of coming across Indians; and as those on the Veraguan coast are ranked among the “bravos”—having preserved their independence, and along with it their instinctive hostility to the whites—an encounter with them might be even more dangerous than with any alcalde. Struggling along in squads of two or three, they would run a risk of getting captured, or killed, or scalped—perhaps all three.
This is the suggestion of Harry Blew, Striker and Davis alone favouring his view. All the others go against it, Gomez ridiculing the idea of danger from red men; at the same time enlarging on that to be apprehended from white ones.
As the majority have more reason to fear civilised man than the so-called savage, it ends in their deciding for separation. They can come together again in Santiago if they choose it; or not, should chance for good or ill so determine. They are all now amply provided for, playing an independent part in the drama of life; and with this pleasant prospect, they may part company without a sigh of regret.
Chapter Sixty Six.
A Tender Subject.
The pirates having definitively settled the mode of making their inland journey, there is a short interregnum; during which most of those ready for the road stand idling, one or two still occupied in equipping themselves.
La Crosse has been sent up the ravine, to report how things look landward.
The four Spaniards have signified their intention to remain a little longer on the ground; while the three Englishmen have not said when they will leave. These are together conferring in low voice; but with an earnestness in their eyes—especially Blew’s—which makes it easy to guess the subject. Only thoughts of woman could kindle these fiery glances.
Soon all appear ready to depart. Still no one stirs from the spot. For there is something yet: still another question to be determined; to most of them a matter of little, though to some of all consequence.
In the latter light, two at least regard it; since with them it has been the source, the primary motive, the real spur to all their iniquitous action. In a word, it is the women.
The captives: how are they to be disposed of?
They are still within the grotto, unseen, as the sailcloth curtains it. Breakfast has been taken to them, which they have scarce touched.
And, now, the time has come for deciding what has to be done with them; no one openly asks, or says word upon the subject; though it is uppermost in the thoughts of all. It is a delicate question, and they are shy of broaching it. For there is a sort of tacit impression there will be difficulty about the appropriation of this portion of the spoils—an electricity in the air, that foretells dispute and danger. All along it had been understood that two men laid claim to them; their claim, whether just or not, hitherto unquestioned, or, at all events, uncontested. These, Gomez and Hernandez. As they had been the original designers of the supposed deed, now done, their confederates, men little given to love-making, had either not thought about the women, or deemed their possession of secondary importance. But now, at the eleventh hour, it has become known that two others intend asserting a claim to them—one being Blew, the other Davis.
And these two certainly seem so determined, their eyes constantly turning towards the grotto where the girls are, unconscious of the interest they are exciting.
At length the dreaded interrogatory is put—and point blank. For it is Jack Striker who puts it. The “Sydney Duck” is not given to sentiment or circumlocution.
Speaking that all may hear him, he blurts out:
“Well, chums? what are we to do wi’ the weemen?”
“Oh! they?” answers Gomez in a drawling tone, and with an affectation of indifference. “You’ve nothing to do with them, and needn’t take any trouble. They’ll go with us—with Señor Hernandez and myself.”
“Will they, indeed?” sharply questions the chief officer.
“Of course,” answers Gomez.
“I don’t see any of course about it,” rejoins Blew. “And more’n that, I tell ye they don’t go with ye—leastwise, not so cheap as you think for.”
“What do you mean, Mr Blew?” demands the Spaniard, his eyes betraying anger, with some uneasiness.
“No use your losin’ temper, Gil Gomez. You ain’t goin’ to scare me. So you may as well keep cool. By doin’ that, and listenin’, you’ll larn what I mean. The which is, that you and Hernandez have no more right to them creeturs in the cave than any o’ the rest of us. Just as the gold, so ought it to be wi’ the girls. In coorse, we can’t divide them all round; but that’s no reason why any two should take ’em, so long’s any other two wants ’em as well. Now, I wants one o’ them.”
“And I another!” puts in Davis.
“Yes,” continues Blew; “and though I be a bit older than you, Mr Gomez, and not quite so pretentious a gentleman, I can like a pretty wench as well’s yerself. I’ve took a fancy to the one wi’ the tortoise-shell hair, an’ an’t goin’ to gi’e her up in the slack way you seem to be wishin’.”
“Glad to hear it’s the red one, Blew,” says Davis. “As I’m for the black one, there’ll be no rivalry between us. Her I mean to have—unless some better man hinders me.”
“Well,” interpolates Striker, “as ’twas me first put the questyun, I ’spose I’ll be allowed to gi’e an opeenyun?”
No one saying nay, the ex-convict proceeds:
“As to any one hevin’ a speecial claim to them weemen, nobody has, an’ nobody shed have. ’Bout that, Blew’s right, an’ so’s Bill. An’ since the thing’s disputed, it oughter be settled in a fair an’ square—”
“You needn’t waste your breath,” interrupts Gomez, in a tone of determination. “I admit no dispute in the matter. If these gentlemen insist, there’s but one way of settling. First, however, I’ll say a word to explain. One of these ladies is my sweetheart—was, before I ever saw any of you. Señor Hernandez here can say the same of the other. Nay, I may tell you more; they are pledged to us.”
“It’s a lie!” cries Blew, confronting the slanderer, and looking him straight in the face. “A lie, Gil Gomez, from the bottom o’ your black heart!”
“Enough!” exclaims Gomez, now purple with rage. “No man can give Frank Lara the lie, and live after.”
“Frank Lara; or whatever you may call yerself, I’ll live long enough to see you under ground—or what’s more like, hangin’ high above it wi’ your throat in a halter. Don’t make any mistake about me. I can shoot straight as you.”
“Avast theer!” shouts Striker to Gomez, now calling himself De Lara, seeing him about to draw a pistol. “Keep yer hand off that wepun! If theer must be a fight, let it be a fair one. But, before it begin, Jack Striker has a word to say.”
While speaking, he has stepped between the two men, staying their encounter.
“Yes; let the fight be a fair one!” demand several voices, as the pirates come clustering around.
“Look here, shipmates!” continues Striker, still standing between the two angry men, and alternately eyeing them. “What’s the use o’ spillin’ blood about it—maybe killin’ one the other? All for the sake o’ a pair o’ petticoats, or a couple o’ pairs, as it be. Take my advice, an’ settle the thing in a pacifical way. Maybe ye will, after ye’ve heerd what I intend proposin’; which I daresay ’ll be satisfactory to all.”
“What is it, Jack?” asks one of the outsiders.
“First, then, I’m goin’ to make the observashun, that fightin’ an’t the way to get them weemen, whoever’s fools enough to fight for ’em. Theer’s somethin’ to be done besides.”
“Explain yourself, old Sydney! What’s to be done besides?”
“If the gals are goin’ to be fought for, they’ve first got to be paid for.”
“How that?”
“How? What humbuggin’ stuff askin’ such a questyin! Han’t we all equil shares in ’em? Coorse we hev. Tharfore, them as wants ’em, must pay for ’em. An’ they as wants ’em so bad as to do shootin’ for ’em, surely won’t objek to that. Theer appear to be four candydates in the field, an’, kewrous enuf, they’re set in pairs, two for each one o’ the gals. Now, ’ithout refarin’ to any fightin’ that’s to be done—an’, if they’re fools enuf to fight, let ’em—I say that eyther who eventyally gets a gal, shed pay a considerashin o’ gold-dust all roun’ to the rest o’ us—at least a pannikin apiece. That’s what Jack Striker proposes first.”
“It’s fair,” says Slush.
“Nothing more than our rights,” observes Tarry; the Dane and the Dutchman also endorsing the proposal.
“I agree to it,” says Harry Blew.
“I also,” adds Davis.
De Lara—late Gomez—signifies his assent by a disdainful nod, but without saying a word; Hernandez imitating the action. In fear of losing adherents, neither dares disapprove of it.
“What more have you to say, Jack?” asks Slush, recalling Striker’s last words, which seemed to promise something else.
“Not much. Only thet I think it a pity, after our livin’ so long in harmony thegither, we can’t part same way. Weemen’s allers been a bother ever since I’ve know’d ’em. An’, I ’spose, it’ll continue so to the eend o’ the chapter, an’ the eend o’ some lives heer. I repeet, thet it be a pity we shed hev to wind up wi’ a quarrel wheer blood’s bound to be spilt. Now, why, can’t it be settled ’ithout thet? I think I know o’ a way.”
“What way?”
“Leave it to the ladies theirselves. Gi’e them the chance o’ who they’d like for theer purtectors; same time lettin’ ’em know they’ve got to choose ’tween one or t’other. Let ’em take theer pick, everybody unnerstanin’ afterwards theer’s to be no quarrellin’, or fightin’. That’s our law in the Australyin bush, when we’ve cases o’ the kind; an’ every bushranger hez to ’bide by it. Why shedn’t it be the same heer?”
“Why shouldn’t it?” asks Slush. “It’s a good law—just and fair for all.”
“I consent to it,” says Blew, with apparent reluctance, as if doubtful of the result, yet satisfied to submit to the will of the majority. “I mayn’t be neyther so young nor so good-lookin’ as Mr Gomez,” he adds; “I know I an’t eyther. Still I’ll take my chance. If she I lay claim to pronounces against me, I promise to stand aside, and say ne’er another word—much less think o’ fightin’ for her. She can go ’long wi’ him, an’ my blessin’ wi’ both.”
“Bravo, Blew! You talk like a good ’un. Don’t be afraid; we’ll stand by you!”
This, from several of the outsiders.
“Comrades!” says Davis, “I place myself in your hands. If my girl’s against me, I’m willin’ to give her up, same as Blew.”
What about the other two? What answer will they make to the proposed peaceful compromise? All eyes are turned on them, awaiting it.
De Lara speaks first, his eyes flashing fire. Hitherto he has been holding his anger in check, but now it breaks out, poured forth like lava from a burning mountain.
“Carajo!” he cries. “I’ve been listening a long time to talk—taking it too coolly. Idle talk, all of it; yours, Mr Striker, especially. What care we about your ways in the Australian bush. They won’t hold good here, or with me. My style of settling disputes is this, or this.” He touches his pistol-butt, and then the hilt of macheté, hanging by his side, adding, “Mr Blew can have his choice.”
“All right!” retorts the ex-man-o’-war’s man. “I’m good for a bout with eyther, and don’t care a toss which. Pistols at six paces, or my cutlass against that straight blade o’ yours. Both if you like.”
“Both be it. That’s best, and will make the end sure. Get ready, and quick. For, sure as I stand here, I intend killing you!”
“Say, you intend tryin’. I’m ready to give you the chance. You can begin, soon’s you feel disposed.”
“And I’m ready for you, sir,” says Davis, confronting Hernandez. “Knives, pistols, tomahawks—anything you like.”
Hernandez hangs back, as though he would rather decline this combat à outrance.
“No, Bill!” interposes Striker; “one fight at a time. When Blew an’ Gomez hev got through wi’ theirs, then you can gi’e t’other his change—if so be he care to hev it.”
“T’other” appears gratified with Striker’s speech, disregarding the innuendo. He had no thought it would come to this, and now looks as if he would surrender up his sweetheart without striking a blow. He makes no rejoinder; but shrinks back, cowed-like and craven.
“Yes; one fight at a time!” cry others, endorsing the dictum of Striker.
It is the demand of the majority, and the minority concedes it. All know it is to be a duel to the death. A glance at the antagonists—at their angry eyes and determined attitudes—makes this sure. On that lonely shore one of the two, if not both, will sleep his last sleep!
Chapter Sixty Seven.
A Duel Adjourned.
The combat, now declared inevitable, its preliminaries are speedily arranged. Under the circumstances, and between such adversaries, the punctilios of ceremony are slight. For theirs is the rough code of honour common to robbers of all countries and climes.
No seconds are chosen, nor spoken of. All on the ground are to act as such; and at once proceed to business.
Some measure off the distance, stepping it between two stones. Others examine the pistols, to see that both are loaded with ball-cartridge, and carefully capped. The fight is to be with Colt’s six-shooters, navy size. Each combatant chances to have one of this particular pattern. They are to commence firing at twelve paces, and if that be ineffectual, then close up, as either chooses. If neither fall to the shots, then to finish with the steel.
The captives inside the cave are ignorant of what is going on. Little dream they of the red tragedy soon to be enacted so near, or how much they themselves may be affected by its result. It is indeed to them the chances of a contrasting destiny.
The duellists take stand by the stones, twelve paces apart. Blew having stripped off his pilot-cloth coat, is in his shirt-sleeves. These rolled up to the elbow, expose ranges of tattooing, fouled anchors, stars, crescents, and a woman—a perfect medley of forecastle souvenirs. They show also muscles, lying along his arms like lanyards round a ship’s stay. Should the shots fail, those arms promise well for wielding the cutlass; and if his fingers should clutch his antagonist’s throat, the struggle will be a short one.
Still, no weak adversary will he meet in Francisco de Lara. He, too, has laid aside his outer garment—thrown off his scarlet cloak, and the heavy hat. He does not need stripping to the shirt-sleeves; his light jaqueta of velveteen in no way encumbers him. Fitting like a glove, it displays arms of muscular strength, with a body in symmetrical correspondence.
A duel between two such gladiators might be painful, but for all, a fearfully interesting spectacle. Those about to witness it seem to think so, as they stand silent, with breath bated, and eyes alternately on one and the other.
As it has been arranged that Striker is to give the signal, the ex-convict, standing centrally outside the line of fire, is about to say a word that will set two men, mad as tigers, at one another—each with full resolve to fire, cut down, and kill.
There is a moment of intense stillness, like the lull which precedes a storm. Nothing heard save the tidal wash against the near strand, the boom of the distant breakers, and at intervals the shrill scream of a sea-bird.
The customary “Ready!” is forming on Striker’s lips, to be followed by the “Fire!—one—two—three!” But not one of these words—not a syllable—is he permitted to speak. Before he can give utterance to the first, a cry comes down from the cliff, which arrests the attention of all; soon as understood, enchaining it.
It is La Crosse who sends it, shouting in accent of alarm—
“Mon Dieu! we’re on an island!”
When the forest is on fire, or the savannah swept by flood, and their wild denizens flee to a spot uninvaded, the timid deer is safe beside the fierce wolf or treacherous cougar. In face of the common danger they will stand trembling together—the beasts of prey for the time gentle as their victims.
So with human kind; a case parallel, and in point, furnished by the crew of the Condor with their captives.
The pirates, on hearing the cry of La Crosse, are at first only startled. But soon their surprise becomes apprehension; keen enough to stay the threatening fight, and indefinitely postpone it. For at the words “We’re on an island!” they are impressed with an instinctive sense of danger; and all, intending combatants as spectators, rush up the ravine, to the summit of the cliff, where La Crosse is still standing.
Arrived there, and casting their eyes inland, they have evidence of the truth of his statement. A strait, leagues in width, separates them from the mainland. Far too wide to be crossed by the strongest swimmer amongst them—too wide for them to be descried from the opposite side, even through a telescope! And the inland is a mere strip of sea-washed rock, running parallel to the coast, cliff-bound, table-topped, sterile, treeless—and, to all appearance, waterless!
As this last thought comes uppermost—along with the recollection that their boat is gone—what was at first only a flurry of excited apprehension, becomes a fixed fear.
Still further intensified, when after scattering over the islet, and exploring it from end to end, they again come together, and each party delivers its report. No wood save some stunted bushes; no water—stream, pond, or spring; only that of the salt sea rippling around; no sign of animal life, except snakes, scorpions, and lizards, with the birds flying above—screaming as if in triumph at the intruders upon their domain being thus entrapped!
For they are so, and clearly comprehend it. Most of them are men who have professionally followed the sea, and understand what it is to be “castaways.” Some have had actual experience of it, and need no reminding of its dangers. To a man, they feel their safety as much compromised, as if the spot of earth under their feet, instead of being but three leagues from land—were three thousand—for that matter in the middle of the Pacific.
What would they not now give to be again on board the barque sent sailing thither to miserably perish? Ah! their cruelty has come back upon them like a curse.
The interrupted duel—what of it? Nothing. It is not likely ever to be fought. Between the ci-devant combatants, mad anger and jealous rivalry may still remain. But neither shows it now; both subdued, in contemplation of the common peril.
Blew, to all appearance, is less affected than his antagonist; but all are cowed—awed by a combination of occurrences, that look as though an avenging angel had been sent to punish them.
From that moment Carmen Montijo and Iñez Alvarez will be safe in their midst, as if promenading the streets of Cadiz, or flirting their fans at a funcion de toros.
Safe, as far as being molested by the ruffians around them. Yet, alas! exposed to the danger overhanging all—death from starvation.
A fearful fate threatens the late crew of the Chilian barque, in horror equalling that to which those left aboard of her have been consigned. Well may they deem it a retribution—that God’s hand is upon them, meting out a punishment apportioned to their crime!
But surely He will not permit the innocent to suffer with the guilty? Let us hope—pray, He will not.