Chapter Sixty Eight.
Long-Suffering.
“Virgen Santissima! Mother of God, have mercy!”
The cry is heard in the cabin of the Condor—Don Gregorio Montijo giving utterance to it.
Several days have elapsed since the desertion of her crew, and she is still afloat, drifting in a south-westerly direction, with all sail set, just as when the pirates put away from her.
Why she has not gone to the bottom is known but to two men—they entrusted with the scuttling.
And just as when left, are the three unfortunate beings aboard: the black cook on his galley bench, the captain and his passenger vis-à-vis at the cabin-table, bound to and bolt upright in their chairs.
But though the attitudes of all three are unchanged, there is a marked change in their appearance, especially of those in the cabin. For the white man shown the effects of physical suffering sooner than the Ethiopian.
For over five days Don Gregorio and Lantanas have been enduring agony great as ever tortured Tantalus. It has made fearful inroad on their strength—on their frames. Both are reduced almost to skeletons; cheekbones protruding, eyes sunken in their sockets. Were the cords that confine them suddenly taken off, they would sink helpless on the floor!
Not all this time have they been silent. At intervals they had conversed upon their desperate situation. For the first day, with some lingering hope of being released; but afterwards despairingly, as the hours passed and nothing occurred to change it.
Now and then they have heard cries on deck; knowing they are from the cook; whom they now believe to be, as themselves, bound up somewhere in the forward part of the vessel.
At first they made some attempt to communicate with him, by answering them; but found it an idle effort. He may have heard, but could not help them. And now their feeble strength forbids even such exertion of their voices.
Long since have the two men given up all hope of being able to untie the cords keeping them to their chairs. The knots made by the hands of a sailor would defy the efforts of the most skilled presti-digitateur.
And at length also have they ceased to converse, or only at periods long apart. Lantanas, after his first throes of fierce rage, has sunk into a sort of stupor, and, with head drooping down to his breast, appears as if life had left him.
Don Gregorio, on the contrary, holds his erect—at least during most part of the day. For before him is something to be seen—the sea through the stern windows, still open.
On this he keeps his eyes bent habitually; though not with much hope of their seeing aught to cheer him. On its blue expanse he beholds but a streak of white, the frothing water in the vessel’s wake, now and then a “school” of tumbling porpoises, or the “spout” of a cachalot whale.
Once, however, an object came within his field of vision, which caused him to start, writhe in his ropes, and cry out to the utmost of his strength. For it was a ship in full sail crossing the Condor’s track, and scarce a cable’s length astern!
He heard a hail and called out in response, Lantanas joining him.
And the two kept on shouting for hours after, till their feeble voices failed them; and they again resigned themselves to a despondency, hopeless as ever.
All their shouts have ever brought them were the Bornean apes, that they often hear scampering up and down the cabin-stair, dashing their uncouth bodies against the closed door.
The Chilian has now quite surrendered to despair; while Don Gregorio, who had also lost hope of help from man, still has faith in Heaven. Hence the prayerful appeal; which with unabated fervour he once more sends up:—
“Virgen Santissima! Mother of God, have mercy!”
All at once Lantanas, catching the words, and raising his head, cries out:
“Virgin! Hach! There’s no virgin!—No mother of God, nor God neither!”
“Captain Lantanas!”
“Don’t captain me! I’m not a captain. I’m a poor miserable creature—starving with hunger—dying of thirst. Merciful Virgin, indeed! Where’s her mercy? If she has it, let her show. Let her find me food and drink. Cakes and fruit there! Nothing of the sort. Stones, painted stones! And those other things! Bottles they call them—bottles and decanters. All a deception. They’re imps—some demigods! See how they dance. Let’s join them! Come, old Zanzibar! Bring your fiddle! And my Bornean beauties, come you. We’ll have a grand fandango. We’ll make a dancing room of the Condor’s deck, and kick up our heels high as the cuddy head. That’s the way we’ll do it. Ha—ha—ha! Ha—ha—ha!”
“O God!” groans Don Gregorio, “Lantanas has lost his reason!”
Chapter Sixty Nine.
Help from Heaven.
For long, the Chilian skipper continues to rave, rolling his eyes about, now and then glaring fiercely at Don Gregorio, as though he wished to stretch across the table and tear him. Fortunate he is confined now.
At first the ex-haciendado spoke kindly, endeavouring to soothe him; but seeing it idle, he has ceased; and now makes no further attempt.
To converse with him would be only painful, and indeed the sight is sufficiently so, suggesting to Don Gregorio what may be his own fate. At times he almost fancies himself the same, as sweeps through his soul the thought of his accumulated calamities.
He wishes that death would relieve him, and has prayed for it more than once. He prays for it again, silently, with his eyes resting on the sea. He awaits the final hour, longing for it to come, his features set in calm, Christian resignation.
Suddenly their expression changes, a ray of renewed hope shooting athwart his face. Not a ray, but a beam, which spreads over his whole countenance, while his eyes kindle into cheerfulness, and his lips become parted in a smile!
Is he about to echo the mad laugh of Lantanas?
No! In that look there is no sign of unseated reason.
On the contrary, he gazes with intelligent earnestness, as at something outside demanding investigation.
Soon his lips part farther, not now to smile, but speak words that involuntarily issue from them. Only two little words, but of large import and greatest cheer:
“A sail!”
For such he has espied; a white speck away off on the line that separates the two blues, but distinguishable from waif of floating foam or wing of gull. Beyond doubt, a sail—a ship!
Once more, hope is in his heart, which bounding up, beats audibly within his breast.
Higher and louder, as the white speck shows larger, and assumes shape. For the tall narrow disc, rising tower-like against the sky, can only be the spread canvas of a ship.
And gradually growing taller, he at length sees she is standing towards the barque!
Intently he continues to watch the distant sail! Silently, without saying aught of it to his companion, or in any way communicating with him. It would be of no use; the mind of the Chilian is closed against outward impressions, and now is not the time to attempt opening it.
Hopefully, Don Gregorio continues gazing, but not without anxiety. Once before he has had disappointment from a similar sight. It may be so again.
But, no; that ship was standing across the Condor’s track, while this is sailing in the same course—sailing after, apparently, with the intention to come up; and though slowly, surely drawing nearer; as he can tell by her canvas increasing in the bulk, growing broader and rising higher upon the horizon.
A long time elapses—nearly half-a-day—during which he has many hopes and fears, alternating as the hours pass.
But the hopes are at length in the ascendant, and all anxiety passes as the pursuing ship shows her dark hull above the water-line, and he can distinguish her separate sails. They are all set. What joy in his heart as his eyes rest on them! They seem the wings of merciful angels, coming to relieve him from his misery!
And the flag floating above—the flag of England! Were it the banner of his own Spain, he could not regard it with greater gladness, or gratitude. For surely he will be saved now?
Alas! while thus congratulating himself, he sees what causes his heart again to go down within him, bringing back keenest apprehensions. The strange vessel is still a far distance off, and the breeze impelling her, light all along, has suddenly died down—not a ripple showing on the sea’s surface—while her sails now hang loose and limp. Beyond doubt is she becalmed.
But the Condor! Will she, too, cease sailing?
Yes; she must, from the same cause. Already she moves slowly, scarce making way. And now—now she is motionless! He can tell it, by the glass rack and lamps overhead, that hang without the slightest oscillation. Anon, the barque gradually swings round, and he loses sight of the ship. Through the windows he still beholds the sea, calm and blue, but vacant; no outline of hull—no expanded sail—no flouting flag to keep up his heart, which is once more almost despondent.
But only for a short time; again rising as the barque, sheering round, brings once more her stern towards the ship, and he sees the latter, and something besides—a boat!
It is down in the water, and coming on toward the Condor, the oar-blades flashing in the sun and flinging spray-drops that seem like silver stars!
The barque swinging round, he has the boat in view but a short while. What matters it now? He is certain of being saved!
And he looks no longer—only listens.
Soon to hear words spoken in a strong manly voice, to him sweeter than music. It is the hail:
“Barque ahoy!”
In feeble accents he makes answer, and continues to call out, till other voices, echoing along the Condor’s decks, become commingled with his own.
Then there are footsteps on the quarterdeck, soon after heard descending the cabin-stair.
The handle is turned, the door pushed open, and a swish of fresh air sweeps in, men along with it; as they enter, giving utterance to wild exclamations.
Wrenching his neck around, he sees there are two of them, both in the uniform of naval officers, and both known to him!
Their presence causes him strange emotions, and many—too many for his strength so long and sorely tried.
Overpowered by the sight, he becomes unconscious, as though instead of gladdening, it had suddenly deprived him of life!
Chapter Seventy.
Conjectures too True.
No need to say that the two officers who have entered the Condor’s cabin are Crozier and Cadwallader. For she is the polacca-barque chased by a frigate, and that frigate the Crusader.
The cry simultaneously raised by them is one of strange intonation, telling less of surprise, than conjecture too fatally confirmed.
While in chase of the barque, and her national colours were first made out, they had no thought of connecting her with the vessel which Don Gregorio Montijo had chartered to take him to Panama. True, they had heard that this was a Chilian vessel, and her skipper of that nation. But they had also been told she was a ship, not a barque. And as among the many craft in San Francisco Bay, neither had noticed her, how would they think of identifying her with the chased polacca.
Gradually, however, as the frigate drew upon her, certain suspicions of a painful nature began to shape themselves in Crozier’s mind; still so vague he did not deem it worth while communicating them to Cadwallader. He remembered having seen a polacca-masted vessel in the harbour of San Francisco; besides, that she was a ship. And so far as his recollection served, she was of the same size as that running before the frigate. Besides, he could distinctly recall the fact of her flying Chilian colours. The peculiar style of her masting had drawn his attention to her.
And while they were still pursuing the barque, and commenting on the coincident statement of the brig and whaler about men having been aboard of her covered with red hair, Crozier also recalled a statement strangely significant, which Harry Blew had made to one of the men who had rowed Cadwallader ashore, on the day the Crusader sailed. Blew had been aboard the Chilian vessel, and being asked by his old shipmate what sort of crew she had, laughingly replied: “Only a black man, and two red ones.” Pressed for an explanation about the red ones, he said they were a couple of orang-outangs.
Putting these odd data together, and comparing them, the Crusader’s third lieutenant began to have an uneasy feeling, as they followed the retreating vessel. That she was a barque, and not a ship, meant nothing. As a seaman, he knew how easy the conversion—how often made.
When at length both vessels lay becalmed, and an order for boarding was given, he had solicited the command—by a private word to the frigate’s captain, as had Cadwallader the leave to accompany him; the latter actuated by impulses not very dissimilar.
When both at length climbed the barque’s sides, saw the red monkeys on deck, and the black man in the galley, their apprehension became sharpened to the keenest foreboding—far more than a presentiment of misfortune.
Alas! as they entered the Condor’s cabin, beholding its fulfilment.
The cry that escaped their lips came on the recognition of Don Gregorio Montijo; followed by other exclamations, as they looked at the two unoccupied chairs, a fan upon the one, a scarf over the back of the other. It was then that Crozier rushing upon deck, sent the cutter off for the surgeon, himself instantly returning to the cabin.
Still wilder—almost a wail—is the shout simultaneously raised by the young officers, when, after dashing open the state-room doors, they look in and see all empty!
They turn to those at the table, asking information—entreating it: one answers with a strange Bedlamite laugh; the other not at all. It is Don Gregorio who is silent. They see that his head is hanging over. He appears insensible.
“Great God! is he dead?”
They glide towards him, grasp table-knives, and cut the cords that have been confining him. Senseless, he sinks into their arms.
But he is not dead; only in a faint. Though feebly, his pulse still beats!
With wine they wet his lips—the wine so long standing untasted! They open his mouth, and pour some of it down his throat, then stand over him to await the effect.
Soon his pulse grows stronger, and his eyes sparkle with the light of reviving life.
Laid gently along the sofa, he is at length restored to consciousness; with sufficient strength to answer the questions eagerly put to him. There are two, simultaneously asked, almost echoes of one another.
“Where is Carmen? Where is Iñez?”
“Gone!” he gasps out. “Carried away by the—”
He does not finish the speech. His breath fails him, and he seems relapsing into the syncope from which he has been aroused. Fearing this, they question him no farther, but continue to administer restoratives. They give him more wine, making him also eat of the fruits found upon the table.
They have also set the skipper free; but soon see cause to regret it. He strides to and fro, flings his arms about in frenzied gesture, clutches at decanters, glasses, bottles, and breaks them against one another, or dashes them down upon the floor. He needs restraining, and they do that, by shutting him up in a state-room.
Returning to Don Gregorio, they continue to nurse him; all the while wishing the surgeon to come.
While impatiently waiting they hear a hail from the top of the cabin-stairs. It is their coxswain, who shouts:—
“Below there!”
He is about to announce the cutter’s return from the frigate.
Ah no! It is not that; but something different; which instead of gratifying, gives them a fresh spasm of pain. Listening, they hear him say:—
“Come on deck, Mr Crozier! There’s a bank o’ black fog rollin’ up. It’s already close on the barque’s starboard bow. It look like there’s mischief in’t; and I believe there be. For God’s sake, hurry up, sir!”
Chapter Seventy One.
A Struggle with the Storm.
The summons of the coxswain is too serious to be disregarded; and soon as hearing it, the two officers hasten upon deck, leaving Don Gregorio reclining along the settee.
Glancing over the barque’s starboard bow, they behold a sky black as Erebus. It is a fog-bank, covering several points of the compass. But while they stand regarding it, it lengthens along the horizon, at the same time rising higher against the heavens. They can see that it is approaching, spreading over the ocean like a pall. And, where it shadows the water, white flakes show themselves, which they know to be froth churned up by the sharp stroke of a wind-squall.
They do not stand idly gazing. All three recognise the threatening danger. They only cast a glance towards the frigate, and, perceiving they can hope for no help from her, at once commence taking measures for themselves. “To the sheets!” shouts Crozier. “Let fly all!”
At the command, the midshipman and coxswain bound off to execute it, the lieutenant himself assisting; since there are but the three to do the work. For the negro, released by Grummet, despite half a pint of rum poured down his throat, is scarcely able to keep his feet. No help, therefore, to be had from him, nor any one else.
But the three strong men, with confidence in their strength, and with knowledge to comprehend the approaching peril, take the proper steps to avert it—these being, as Crozier has commanded, to let go everything.
Working as if for life, they cast off sheets and halyards, and let the canvas flap free. No time for clewing up, or making snug: no thought of either. The sails must take their chance, though they get split into shreds, which they are pretty sure to do.
This actually occurs, and soon. Scarce has her canvas been released from its sheets and tacks, when the barque becomes enveloped in a dense cloud, and the wind strikes like a cannon shot against her sails. Luckily, they were loosed in time. If still stiff set, the masts would have gone by the board, or the Condor on her beam-ends. And luckily, too, before struck, Grummet had hold of her helm, and, by Crozier’s command, brought her before the wind. To attempt “lying to,” with her sails in such condition, would be to court destruction. To “scud” is their only chance for safety.
And away go they before the wind, which, first blowing in fitful gusts, soon becomes a steady gale, with now and then a violent burst catching still another sail, and rending it to ribbons.
Soon there is not a sound one, and scarce aught save strips of torn canvas hanging from the yards, or streaming out like the flags on a signal-staff.
Fortunately the barque well obeys her helm, and the young officers contrive to set storm-stay and trysail, thus helping to hold her steady.
During all this time they have not thought of the frigate. Absorbed in the endeavour to save the craft that carries them, they reflect not on what may be their fate should they get separated from their own ship.
At length, this reflection arises in a form to appal them. The frigate is out of sight—has been ever since the commencement of the gale, the fog having drifted between. They do not now know the direction in which she is; nor can they tell whether she has lain-to, or, like themselves, “run.” If the latter, there is a hope she will follow the same course; and, the fog lifting, be again sighted.
Alas! it is more likely she will do the former. Full-manned, she will have taken in sail in good time, and made all snug, so as to ride out the storm; and, aware of the danger in which they on the barque will be placed, she will not forsake the spot, but assuredly lie to.
Just as they have arrived at this conclusion, they hear a gun booming above the blast. They know it is from the frigate, firing to let them know her whereabouts. But, although the sound reaches them with sufficient distinctness, they cannot tell the direction. Who could at sea, in a fog?
Listening, they hear it a second time, and soon after a third.
Then again and again; still distinct, but with the same uncertainty as to its direction. For the life of them they cannot determine the point of the compass whence it comes. Even if they knew, it is a question whether they dare set the barque’s head towards it, for the storm has increased to a tempest, and it is touch and go for them to keep the Chilian vessel afloat. Out of trim, she is tossed from wave to wave, shipping seas that threaten to engulf her, or wash everybody overboard.
In this struggle—as it were, for life and death—they lose all hope of being able to keep company with the warship—all thought of it. It will be well if they can but save that they are on from going to the bottom of the sea.
Again they hear the firing, several times repeated—that signal that they are unable to answer, or unable to avail themselves of its friendly warning. Situated as they are, it seems sounding a farewell salute—or it may be their death knell.
Fainter and fainter falls the boom upon their ears; duller and duller at each successive detonation, which tells that the distance between them and the frigate, instead of diminishing, increases. However sad and disheartening, they cannot help it. They dare not put the barque about, or in any way alter her course. They must keep scudding on, though they may never see the Crusader again.
At length, no longer do they hear the signal-guns. Whether from greater distance, or louder vociferation of the tempest, they can no more be distinguished amidst its voices.
Throughout all the night the barque scuds, storm-buffeted, shipping huge seas, yet casting them off, and still keeping afloat. Notwithstanding her distressed condition, she rides the gale through to its termination.
As the morning sun gleams over the ocean, along with the subsiding wind, the fog also lifts, leaving both sea and sky clear. And still the Condor is afloat, rolling from beam to beam; her tall smooth masts as yet in her, her rigging aright, and her bulwarks unbroken. Only the sails have suffered, and they are all gone.
Grummet is at the wheel, guiding her wayward course; while the two officers stand upon her quarterdeck, with eyes bent abroad, scanning the crests of the big billows that go rumbling along.
But there is no Crusader in sight—no frigate—no ship of any kind—nothing but the wide, fathomless ocean!
They are alone upon it, hundreds of leagues from land, aboard a craft they may not be able to manage; and all the more difficult with her sails in shreds. But even were these sound, they have not the strength to set them. They are helpless; but little better off than if they were in an open boat!
In very truth, are they in peril!
But they do not dwell upon it now. A thought still more afflicting is before their minds; and, casting another glance over the ocean—unrewarded as ever—they descend into the cabin, to obtain some particulars of that which has saddened, almost maddened them.
Chapter Seventy Two.
A Card Recovered.
It is the fourth day since the English officers boarded the Chilian barque. They are still on board of her, and she still afloat—the one a sequence of the other; or, she would now be at the bottom of the sea. A tough struggle they have had of it; only the three to manage so large a craft in a tempest which, though short-lived, was fierce as ever swept over the Pacific. And with no aid from any of the other three. Captain Lantanas is still delirious, locked up in his state-room, lest, in his violence, he may do some harm; while Don Gregorio, weak as a child, reclines on the cabin settee, unable to go upon deck. The negro alone, having partially recovered strength, lends some assistance.
The barque’s sails still hang tattered from the spars, for they have since encountered other winds, and had neither the time nor strength to clear them. But they have contrived to patch up the foresail, and bend on a new jib from some spare canvas found in the stores. With these she is making way at the rate of some five or six knots to the hour, her head East and by South. It is twelve o’clock mid-day, and Grummet is at the wheel; the officers on the quarter; Crozier, sextant in hand, “shooting the sun.” They have long since given up hope of finding the frigate, or being found by her at sea.
Aware of this, they are steering the crippled vessel towards Panama in hope of their coming across her. In any case, that is the port where they will be most likely to get tidings of her.
A prey to saddened thoughts are the two young officers, as they stand on the quarterdeck of the Chilian vessel taking the altitude of the sun, with instruments her own skipper is no longer able to use. Fortunately, these had not been carried off, else there would be but little likelihood of their making Panama.
At best, they will reach it with broken hearts; for they have now heard the whole story in all its dark details, so far as Don Gregorio could give them.
Having already determined their longitude by the barque’s chronometer, they have kept it by log-reckoning, and their present observation is but to confirm them in the latitude.
“Starboard your helm!” shouts Crozier to Grummet. “Give her another point to port. Keep her east-by-south. Steady!”
Then turning to Cadwallader, he says:
“If all goes well, we shall make Panama in less than two days. We might do it in one, if we could but set sail enough. Anyhow, I think old Bracebridge will stay for us at least a week. Ah! I wish that were all we had to trouble us. To think they’re gone—lost to us—for ever!”
“Don’t say that, Ned. There’s still a hope we may find them.”
“And found, what then! You needn’t answer. Will; I don’t wish you to speak of it. I daren’t trust myself to think of it. Carmen Montijo—my betrothed—captive to a crew of pirate cut-throats—oh!”
Cadwallader is silent. He suffers the same agony thinking of Iñez.
For a time the picture remains before their minds, dark as their gloomiest fancies can make it. Then across it shoot some rays of hope, saddened, but sweet, for they are thoughts of vengeance. Cadwallader first gives expression to it.
“Whatever has happened to the girls, we shall go after them anyhow. And the robbers, we must find them.”
“Find, and punish them,” adds Crozier. “That we surely shall. If it costs all my money, all the days of my life, I’ll revenge the wrongs of Carmen Montijo.”
“And I those of Iñez Alvarez.”
For a while they stand silently brooding upon that which has brought such black shadow over their hearts. Then Cadwallader says:
“The scoundrels must have plotted it all before leaving San Francisco; and shipped aboard the Chilian vessel for the express purpose of getting this gold. That’s Don Gregorio’s idea of it, borne out by what he heard from that one of them he knew there—Rocas the name, he says.”
“It seems probable—indeed certain,” rejoins Crozier. “Though it don’t much matter how, or when, they planned the damnable deed. Enough that they’ve done it. But to think of Harry Blew turning traitor, and taking part with them! That is to me the strangest thing of all, frightfully, painfully, strange.”
“But do you believe he has acted in such a manner?”
“How can one help believing it? What Don Gregorio heard leaves no alternative. He went off in the boat along with the rest; besides saying words which prove he went willingly. Only to think of such black ingratitude! Cadwallader, I’d as soon have thought of suspecting yourself!”
“His conduct, certainly, seems incredible. I believed Blew to be a thoroughly honest fellow. No doubt the gold corrupted him; as it has many a better man. But let’s think no more about it; only hope we may some day lay hands on him.”
“Ah! if I ever do that. With my arms around him, I once saved his worthless life. Let me but get him in my embrace again, and he’ll have a hug that’ll squeeze the last breath out of his body!”
“The chance may come yet, and with the whole scoundrelly crew. What brutes they must have been! According to Don Gregorio’s account, they were of all nations, and the worst sort of each. The negro says the same. Among them four that spoke Spanish, and appeared to be Spaniards, or Spanish-Americans. Suppose we pay a visit to the forecastle, and see if we can find any record of their names. It might be of use hereafter.”
“By all means!” asserts the lieutenant; “let us.” They proceed towards the fore-deck in silence, their countenances showing a nervous apprehension. For there is a thought in their hearts, which neither has yet made known to the other—blacker, and more bitter, than even the thought of Harry Blew’s treason.
Unspoken, they carry it into the forecastle; but they are not many minutes there, before seeing what brings it out, without either saying a word.
A bunk—the most conspicuous of the two tiers—is explored first. They turn out of it papers of various sorts: some letters, several numbers of an old newspaper, and a pack of Spanish playing-cards—all pictured. But among them is one of a different sort—a white one, with a name printed upon it.
A visiting card—but whose?
As Crozier picks it up, and reads the name, his blood curdles, the hair crisping on his head:
“Mr Edward Crozier; H.B.M. Frigate Crusader.”
His own!
He does not need to be told how the card came there. Too well remembers he when, where, and to whom he gave it—to Don Francisco De Lara on the day of their encounter.
Thrusting it into his pocket, he clutches at the letters, and looks at their superscription—“Don Francisco de Lara!”
Opening, he rapidly reads them one after another. His hands holding them shake as with a palsy; while in his eyes there is a look of keenest apprehension. For he fears that, subscribed to some, he will find another name—that of Carmen Montijo! If so, farewell to all faith in human kind. Harry Blew’s ingratitude has destroyed his belief in man. A letter from the daughter of Don Gregorio Montijo to the gambler Frank Lara, will alike wither his confidence in woman.
With eager eyes, and lips compressed, he continues the perusal of the letters. They are from many correspondents, and relate to various matters, most about money and monté, signed “Faustino Calderon.”
As the last of them slips through his fingers, he breathes freely, but with a sigh of self-reproach for having doubted the woman who was to have been his wife.
Turning to Cadwallader—as himself aware of all—he says, in solemn emphasis:
“Now we know!”
Chapter Seventy Three.
The Last Leaf in the Log.
No common pirates then, no mere crew of mutinous sailors, have carried off Carmen Montijo and Iñez Alvarez. It has been done by Francisco de Lara and Faustino Calderon, if or although there is no evidence of the latter having been aboard the barque, it is deducible, and not even doubtful. For a scheme such as that, the confederates were not likely to have parted.
The young officers have returned to the quarterdeck, and there stand gazing in one another’s faces; on both an expression of anguish, which the new discovery has intensified. It was painful enough to think of their betrothed sweethearts being the sport of rough robbers; but to picture them in the power of De Lara and Calderon—knowing what they do of these men—is agony itself.
“Yes; it’s all clear,” says Crozier. “No idea of getting gold has brought the thing about. That may have influenced the others who assisted them; but with them the motive was different—I see it now.”
“Do you know, Ned, I half suspected it from the first. You remember what I said as we were leaving San Francisco. After what happened between us and the gamblers, I had my fears about our girls being left in the same place with them. Still, who’d have thought of their following them aboard ship? Above all, with Blew there, and after his promise to protect them! You remember him saying, he would lay down his life for theirs?”
“He swore it—to me he swore it. Oh! if ever I set eyes on him again, I’ll make him suffer for that broken oath!”
“What do you propose doing, after we reach Panama? If we find the frigate there, we’ll be obliged to join her.”
“Obliged! there’s no obligation to bind a man situated as I—reckless as this misery makes me. Unless Captain Bracebridge consents to assist us in the search, I’ll go alone.”
“Not alone. There’s one will be with you.”
“I know it, Will. Of course, I count upon you. What I mean is, if Bracebridge won’t help us with the frigate. I’ll throw up my commission, charter a vessel myself, engage a crew, and search every inch of the American coast, till I find where they’ve put in.”
“What a pity we can’t tell the place! They must have been near land to have taken to an open boat.”
“In sight of—close to it, I’ve been questioning Don Gregorio. He knows that much and but little beside. The poor gentleman is almost as crazed as the skipper. I wonder he’s not more. He says they had sighted land that very morning, the first they saw since leaving California. The captain told them they would be in Panama in about two days after. As the boat was being rowed away, Don Gregorio saw a coast-line through the cabin windows, and not far-off. He saw their boat too, and they appeared making straight for it. Of course they—. That’s all I can get out of the poor old gentleman, at present.”
“The negro? Can he tell no better story?”
“I’ve questioned him too. He is equally sure of their having been close in. What point, he has no idea, any more than the orangs. However, he states a particular fact, which is more satisfactory. A short while before they seized hold of him, he was looking over the side, and saw a strangely shaped hill—a mountain. He describes it as having two tops. The moon was between them, the reason for his taking notice of it. That double-headed hill may yet stand us in stead.”
“How unfortunate the skipper losing his senses! If he’d have kept them, he could have told us where he was at the time the barque was abandoned. It’s enough to make one think the very Fates are against us. By the way, we’ve never thought of looking at the log-book. That ought to throw some light on the locality.”
“It ought; and doubtless would, if we only had it. You’re mistaken in saying we never thought of it. I have; and been searching for it everywhere. But it’s gone; and what’s become of it, I know not. They may have thrown it overboard before forsaking the ship—possibly to blot out all traces. Still, it’s odd too, De Lara leaving these letters behind!”
“And the barque under all sail.”
“Well, I take it, they were hurried, and of course expected she’d soon go to the bottom. Strange she didn’t. No doubt she’s met only smooth weather till we came aboard her.”
“I wonder where her log-book can be?”
“Not more than I. The old darkey says it used to lie on a little shelf at the turning of the cabin-stair. I’ve looked there, but no log-book. As you say, it’s enough to make one believe the Fates were against us. If so, we may never reach Panama, much less live to—”
“See,” cries Cadwallader, interrupting the despairing speech. “Those brutes! what’s that they’re knocking about? By Jove! I believe it’s the very thing we’re speaking of!”
The brutes are the Myas monkeys, that, away in the ship’s waist, are tossing something between them; apparently a large book bound in rough red leather. They have mutilated the binding, and, with teeth and claws, are tearing out the leaves, as they strive to take it from one another.
“It is—it must be the log-book!” cries Crozier, as both rush off to rescue it from the clutch of the orangs.
They succeed; but not without difficulty, and a free handling of handspikes—almost braining the apes before they consent to relinquish it.
It is at length recovered, though in a ruinous condition; fortunately, however, with the written leaves untorn. Upon the last of these is an entry, evidently the latest made:
“Latitude 7 degrees 20 minutes North; Longitude 82 degrees 12 minutes West. Light breeze.”
“Good!” exclaims Crozier, rushing back to the quarterdeck, and bending over the chart. “With this, and the double-headed hill, we may get upon the track of the despoilers. Just when we were despairing! Will, old boy; there’s something in this. I have a presentiment that things are taking a turn, and the Fates will yet be or us.”
“God grant they may!”
“Ah?” sighs Crozier: “if we had but ten men aboard this barque—or even six—I’d never think of going on to Panama, but steer straight for the island of Coiba.”
“Why the island of Coiba?” wonderingly asks Cadwallader.
“Because it must have been in sight when this entry was made—either it or Hicaron, which lies on its sou’west side. Look at this chart; there they are!”
The midshipman bends over the map, and scans it.
“You’re right, Ned. They must have seen one or other of those islands, when the Chilian skipper made his last observation.”
“Just so. And with a light breeze she couldn’t have made much way after. Both the cook and Don Gregorio say it was that. Oh! for ten good hands. A thousand pounds apiece for ten stout, trusty fellows! What a pity in that squall the cutter’s crew weren’t left along with us.”
“Never fear, Ned. We’ll get them again, or as good. Old Bracebridge won’t fail us, I’m sure. He’s a dear old soul, and when he hears the tale we’ve to tell, it’ll be all right. If he can’t himself come with the frigate, he’ll allow us men to man this barque; enough to make short work with her late crew, if we can once stand face to face with them. I only wish we were in Panama.”
“I’d rather we were off Coiba; or on shore wherever the ruffians have landed.”
“Not as we now are—three against twelve!”
“I don’t care for that. I’d give ten thousand pounds to be in their midst—even alone.”
“Ned, you’ll never be there alone; wherever you go, I go with you. We have a common cause, and shall stand or fall together.”
“That we shall. God bless you, Will Cadwallader! I feel you’re worthy of the friendship—the trust I’ve placed in you. And now, let’s talk no more about it; but bend on all the sail we can, and get to Panama. After that, we’ll steer for the island of Coiba. We’re so far fortunate, in having this westerly wind,” he continues, in a more cheerful tone. “If it keep in the same quarter, we’ll soon come in sight of land. And if this Chilian chart may be depended on, that should be a promontory on the west side of Panama Bay. I hope the chart’s a true one; for Punta Malo, an its name imports, isn’t a nice place to make mistakes about. By running too close to it with the wind in this quarter—”
“Steamer to norrard!” cries a rough voice, interrupting. It is Grummet’s.
The young officers, turning with a start, see the same.
Crozier, laying hold of a telescope, raises it to his eye, while he holds it there, saying:
“You’re right, cox: it is a steamer. And standing this way! She’ll run right across our bows. Up helm, and set the barque’s head on for her!”
The coxswain obeys; and with a few turns of the wheel brings the Condor’s head round, till she is right to meet the steamer. The officers, with the negro assisting, loose tacks and sheets, trimming her sails for the changed course.
Soon the two vessels, going in almost opposite directions, lessen the distance between. And as they mutually make approach, each speculates on the character of the other. They on board the barque have little difficulty in determining that of the steamer. At a glance they see she is not a warship; but a passenger packet. And as there are no others in that part of the Pacific, she can be only one of the “liners” late established between San Francisco and Panama; coming down from the former port, her destination the latter.
Not so easy for those aboard the steamship to make out the manner of the odd-looking craft that has turned up in their track, and is sailing straight towards them. They see a barque, polacca-masted, with some sails set, and others hanging in shreds from her yards.
This of itself would be enough to excite curiosity. But there is something besides; a flag reversed flying at her mainmast-head—the flag of Chili! For the distress signal has not been taken down. And why it was ever run up, or by whom, none of those now in the barque could tell. At present it serves their purpose well, for, responding to it, the commander of the steam packet orders her engines to slow, and then cease action; till the huge leviathan, late running at the rate of twelve knots an hour, gradually lessens speed, and at length lies motionless upon the water.
Simultaneously the barque is “hove to,” and she lies at less than a cable’s length from the steamer.
From the latter the hail is heard first:
“Barque ahoy! What barque is that?”
“The Condor—Valparaiso. In distress.”
“Send a boat aboard!”
“Not strength to man it.”
“Wait, then! We’ll board you.”
In less than five minutes’ time one of the quarter boats of the liner is lowered down, and a crew leaps into it.
Pushing off from her side, it soon touches that of the vessel in distress.
But not for its crew to board her. Crozier has already traced out his course of action. Slipping down into the steamer’s boat, he makes request to be rowed to the ship; which is done without questioning. The uniform he wears entitles him to respect.
Stepping aboard the steamship, he sees that she is what he has taken her for: a line-packet from San Francisco, bound for Panama. She is crowded with passengers; at least a thousand seen upon her decks. They are of all qualities and kinds; all colours and nationalities; most of them Californian gold-diggers returning to their homes; some successful and cheerful; others downcast and disappointed.
He is not long in telling his tale; first to the commander of the steamer and his officers; then to the passengers.
For to these last he particularly addresses himself, in an appeal—a call for volunteers—not alone to assist in navigating the barque, but to proceed with him in pursuit of the scoundrels who cast her away.
He makes known his position, with his power to compensate them for the service sought; both endorsed by the commander of the steamship, who by good luck is acquainted with, and can answer for, his credentials.
Nothing of this is needed; nor yet the promise of a money reward. Among these stalwart men are many who are heroes—true Paladins, despite their somewhat threadbare habiliments. And amidst their soiled rags shine pistols and knives, ready to be drawn for the right.
After hearing the young officer’s tale, without listening farther, twenty of them spring forward responsive to his call. Not for the reward offered, but in the cause of humanity and right. He would enlist twice or thrice the number, but deeming twenty enough, with these he returns to the Condor.
Then the two vessels part company, the steamer continuing on for Panama; while the barque, now better manned, and with more sail set, is steered for the point where the line of Latitude 7 degrees 20 minutes North intersects that of Longitude 82 degrees 12 minutes West.
Chapter Seventy Four.
A Lottery of Life and Death.
While these scenes are passing upon the ocean, others of equally exciting character occur upon that desert isle, where, by ill-starred chance for themselves, the pirate crew of the Condor made landing.
They are still there, all their efforts to get off having proved idle. But how different now from that hour when they brought their boat upon its beach laden with the spoils of the plundered vessel! Changed not only in their feelings but looks—scarce recognisable as the same men. Then in the full plenitude of swaggering strength, mental as bodily, with tongues given to loud talk; now subdued and silent, stalking about like spectres, with weak, tottering steps; some sitting listlessly upon stones, or lying astretch along the earth; not resting, but from sheer inability to stand erect!
Famine has set its seal upon their faces; hunger can be read in their hollow eyes, and pale sunken cheeks; while thirst shows upon their parched and shrivelled lips.
Not strange all this. For nine days they have tasted no food, save shell-fish and the rank flesh of sea-fowl—both in scant supply. And no drink, excepting some rain-water caught in the boat-sail during an occasional slight shower.
All the while have they kept watch with an earnestness such as their desperate circumstances evoked. A tarpauling they have rigged up by oar and boat-hook, set upon the more elevated summit of the two—the highest point on the isle—has failed to attract the eye of any one on the mainland; or if seen, the signal has been disregarded; while to seaward, no ship or other vessel has been observed—nought but the blank blue of ocean, recalling their crime—in its calm tranquillity mocking their remorse!
Repentant are they now; and if they could, willingly would they undo their wicked deed—joyfully restore the stolen gold—gladly surrender up their captives—be but too glad to bring back to life those they have deprived of it.
It cannot be. Their victims left aboard the barque must have long ago gone to the bottom of the sea. In its bed they are now sleeping their last sleep, released from all earthly cares; and they who have so ruthlessly consigned them to their eternal rest, now almost envy it.
In their hour of agony, as hunger gnaws at their entrails, and thirst scorches them like a consuming fire, they reck little of life—some even desiring death!
All are humbled now. Even the haughty Gomez no longer affects to be their leader, and the savage Padilla is tamed to silent inaction, if not tenderness. By a sort of tacit consent, Harry Blew has become the controlling spirit—perhaps from having evinced more humanity than the rest. Now that adversity is on them, their better natures are brought out, and the less hardened of them have resumed the gentleness of childhood’s days.
The change has been of singular consequence to their captives. These are no longer restrained, but free to go and come as it pleases them. No more need they fear insult or injury; no rudeness is offered them either by speech or gesture. On the contrary they are treated with studied respect, almost with deference. The choicest articles of food—bad at best—are apportioned to them, as also the largest share of the water; fortunately, sufficient of both to keep up their strength. And they in turn have been administering angels—tender nurses to the men who have made all their misery!
Thus have they lived up till the night of the ninth day since their landing on the isle; then a heavy rainfall, filling the concavity of the boat’s sail, enables them to replenish the beaker, with other vessels they had brought ashore.
On the morning of the tenth, a striking change takes place in their behaviour. No longer athirst, the kindred appetite becomes keener, imparting a wolf-like expression to their features. There is a ghoulish glance in their eyes, as they regard one another, fearful to contemplate—even to think of. For it is the gaze of cannibalism!
Yes, it has come to this, though no one has yet spoken of it; the thing is only in their thoughts.
But as time passes, it assumes substantial shape, and threatens soon to be the subject not only of speech, but action.
One or two show it more than the rest—Padilla most of all. In his fierce eyes the unnatural craving is clearly recognisable—especially when his glances are given to the fair forms moving in their midst. There can be no mistaking that look of hungry concupiscence—the cold calculating stare of one who would eat human flesh.
It is the mid-hour of the day, and there has been a long interregnum of silence; none having said much on any subject, though there is a tacit intelligence, that the thoughts of all are on the same.
Padilla, deeming the hour has arrived, breaks the ominous silence:
“Amigos!” he says—an old appellation, considering the proposal he is about to make—“since there’s no food obtainable, it’s clear we’ve got to die of starvation. Though, if we could only hold out a little longer, something might turn up to save us. For myself, I don’t yet despair but that some coasting craft may come along; or they may see our signal from the shore. It’s only a question of time, and our being able to keep alive. Now, how are we to do that?”
“Ay, how?” asks Velarde, as if secretly prompted to the question.
“Well,” answers Padilla, “there’s a way, and only one, that I can think of. There’s no need for all of us to die—at least, not yet. Some one should, so that the others may have a chance of being saved. Are you all agreed to it!”
The interrogatory does not require to be more explicitly put. It is quite comprehensible; and several signify assent, either by a nod, or in muttered exclamations. A few make no sign, one way or the other; being too feeble, and far gone, to care what may become of them.
“How do you propose, Padilla?”
It is again Velarde who questions.
Turning his eyes towards the grotto, in which the two ladies have taken refuge from the hot rays of the sun, the ruffian replies:
“Well, camarados! I don’t see why men should suffer themselves to be starved to death, while women—”
Harry Blew does not permit him to finish his speech. Catching its significance, he cries:
“Avast there! Not another word o’ that. If any o’ as has got to be eaten, it must be a man. As for the women, they go last—not first. I, for one, will die afore they do; an’ so’ll somebody else.”
Striker and Davis endorse this determination; Hernandez too, feebly; but Gomez in speech almost firm as that of Blew himself. In De Lara’s breast there is a sentiment, which revolts at the horrid proposal of his confederate.
It is the first time he and Harry Blew have been in accord; and being so, there is no uncertainty about the result. It is silently understood, and but waits for one to declare it in words; which Striker does, saying:
“Though I hev been a convick, an’ don’t deny it, I an’t a coward, nor no way afeerd to kick up my heels whensoever I see my time’s come. If that he’s now, an’ Jack Striker’s got to die, dash it! he’s ready. But it must be a fair an’ square thing. Theerfor, let it be settled by our castin’ lots all round.”
“I agree to that,” growls Padilla; “if you mean it to include the women as well.”
“We don’t mean anythin’ o’ the sort,” says Blew, springing to his feet. “Ye unmanly scoundrel!” he continues, approaching Padilla,—“Repeat your dastardly proposal, an’ there’ll be no need for drawin’ lots. In a minnit more, eyther you or me’ll make food, for anybody as likes to eat us. Now!”
The Californian, who has still preserved much of his tenacious strength, and all of his ruffian ferocity, nevertheless shrinks and cowers before the stalwart sailor.
“Carajo!” he exclaims, doggedly and reluctantly submitting. “Be it as you like. I don’t care any more than the rest of you. When it comes to facing Fate, Rafael Rocas isn’t the man to show the white-feather. I only proposed what I believed to be fair. In a matter of life and death, I don’t see why women are any better than men. But if you all think different, then be it as you say. We can cast lots, leaving them out.”
Padilla’s submissive speech puts an end to the strange debate. The side-issue is decided against him, and the main question once more comes up.
After a time, it too is determined. Hunger demands a victim. To appease it one must die.
The horrid resolve reached, it remains but to settle the mode of selection. No great difficulty in this, and it is got over by Striker saying:
“Chums! theer’s just twelve o’ us, the even dozen. Let’s take twelve o’ them little shells ye see scattered about, an’ put ’em into the boat’s pannikin. One o’ them we can mark. Him as draws out the marked shell, must—I needn’t say what.”
“Die” would have been the word, as all understand without hearing it spoken.
The plan is acceptable, and accepted. There seems no fairer for obtaining the fiat of Fate on this dread question.
The shells—unios—lie thickly strewn over the ground. There are thousands, all of the same shape and size. By the “feel” it would be impossible to tell one from another. Nor yet by their colour, since all are snow-white.
Twelve of them are taken up, and put into the tin pannikin—a quart measure—one being marked with a spot of red—by blood drawn from Striker’s own arm, which he has purposely punctured. Soon absorbed by the porous substance of the shell, it cannot be detected by the touch.
The preliminaries completed, all gather around, ready to draw. They but wait for him who is on watch beside the spread tarpauling, and who must take his chances with the rest in this lottery of life and death. It is the Dutchman who is above. They have already hailed, and commanded him to come down, proclaiming their purpose.
But he neither obeys them, nor gives back response. He does not even look in their direction. They can see him by the signal-staff, standing erect, with face turned towards the sea, and one hand over his eyes shading them from the sun. He appears to be regarding some object in the offing.
Presently he lowers the spread palm, and raises a telescope with which he is provided.
They stand watching him, speechless, and with bated breath, their solemn purpose for the time forgotten. In the gleam of that glass they have a fancy there may be life, as there is light.
The silence continues till ’tis seen going down. Then they hear words, which send the blood in quick current through their veins, bringing hope back into their hearts. They are:
“Sail in sight!”