Chapter Seventy Five.
By the Signal-Staff.
“Sail in sight!”
Three little words, but full of big meaning, of carrying the question of life or death.
To the ears of that starving crew sweet as music, despite the harsh Teutonic pronunciation of him who gave them utterance.
Down drops the pannikin, spilling out the shells; which they have hopes may be no more needed.
At the shout from above, all have faced towards the sea, and stand scanning its surface. But with gaze unrewarded. The white flecks seen afar are only the wings of gulls.
“Where away?” shouts one, interrogating him on the hill.
“Sou’-westart.”
South-westward they cannot see. In this direction their view is bounded; a projection of the cliff interposing between them and the outside shore. All who are able start off towards its summit. The stronger ones rush up the gorge as if their lives depended on speed. The weaker go toiling after. One or two, weaker still, stay below to wait the report that will soon reach them.
The first up, on clearing the scarp, have their eyes upon the Dutchman. His behaviour might cause them surprise, if they could not account for it. As said, the beacon is upon the higher of the two peaks, some two hundred yards beyond the clift’s brow. He is beside it, and apparently beside himself. Dancing over the ground, he makes grotesque gesticulations, tossing his arms about, and waving his hat overhead—all the while shouting as if to some vessel close at hand—calling in rapid repetition:
“Ship, Ahoy! Ahoy!”
Looking they can see no ship, nor craft of any kind. For a moment they think him mad, and fear, after all, it may be a mistake. Certainly there is no vessel near enough to be hailed.
But sending their eyes farther out, their fear gives place to joy almost delirious. There is a sail, and though leagues off, seeming but a speck, their practised eyes tell them she is steering that way—running coastwise. Keeping this course, she must come past the isle—within sight of their signal, so long spread to no purpose.
Without staying to reflect farther, they strain on towards the summit, where the staff is erected.
Harry Blew is the first to reach it; and clutching the telescope, jerks it from the hands of the half-crazed Dutchman. Raising it to his eye, he directs it on the distant sail—there keeping it more than a minute. The others have meanwhile come up, and, clustering around, impatiently question him.
“What is she? How’s she standing?”
“A bit o’ a barque,” responds Blew. “And from what I can make out, close huggin’ the shore. I’ll be better able to tell when she draws out from that clump of cloud.”
Gomez, standing by, appears eager to get hold of the glass; but Blew seems unwilling to give it up. Still holding it at his eye, he says:
“See to that signal, mates! Spread the tarpaulin’ to its full streetch. Face it square, so’s to give ’em every chance of sightin’ it.”
Striker and Davis spring to the piece of tarred canvas; and grasping it, one at each corner, draw out the creases, and hold as directed.
All the while Blew stands with the telescope levelled, loath to relinquish it. But Gomez, grown importunate, insists on having his turn, and it is at length surrendered to him.
Blew, stepping aside, seems excited with some emotion he would conceal. Strong it must be, judging from its effects on the ex-man-o’-war’s man. On his face there is an expression difficult to describe—surprise amounting to amazement—joy subdued by anxiety. Soon, as having given up the glass, he pulls off his dreadnought, then divesting himself of his shirt—a scarlet flannel—he suspends it from the outer end of the cross-piece which supports the tarpauling; as he does so, saying to Striker and Davis:
“That’s a signal no ship ought to disregard, and won’t if manned by Christian men. She won’t, if she sees it. You two stay here, and keep the things well spread I’m goin’ below to say a word to them poor creeturs in the cave. Stand by the staff, and don’t let any o’ them haul it down.”
“Ay, ay!” answers Striker, without comprehending, and somewhat wondering at Blew’s words—under the circumstances strange. “All right, mate. Ye may depend on me an’ Bill.”
“I know it—I do,” rejoins the ex-man-o’-war’s man, again slipping the pilot-coat over his shirtless skin.
“Both o’ you be true to me, and ’fore long I may be able to show as Harry Blew an’t ungrateful.”
Saying this, he separates from them, and hurries back down the gorge.
The Sydney Ducks, left standing by the staff, more than ever wonder at what he has said, and interrogate one another as to his meaning.
In the midst of their mutual questioning, they are attracted by a cry strangely intoned. It is from Gomez, who has brought down the telescope, and holds it in hands that shake as with a palsy.
“What is it?” asks Padilla, stepping up to him.
“Take the glass, Rafael Rocas. See for yourself!”
The contrabandista does as directed.
He is silent for some seconds, while getting the telescope on the strange vessel. Soon as he has her within the field of view, he commences making remarks, overheard by Striker and Davis, giving both surprise—though the latter least.
“Barque she is—polacca-masts. Carramba! that’s queer. About the same bulk, too! If it wasn’t that we’re sure of the Condor being below, I’d swear it was she. Of course, it can be only a coincidence. Santissima! a strange one!”
Velarde, in turn, takes the telescope; he, too, after a sight through it, expressing himself in a similar manner.
Hernandez next—for the four Spaniards have all ascended to the hill.
But Striker does not wait to hear what Hernandez may have to say. Dropping the tarpauling, he strides up to him, and, sans cérémonie, jerks the instrument out of his fingers. Then bringing it to his eye, sights for himself.
Less than twenty seconds suffice for him to determine the character of the vessel. Within that time, his glance taking in her hull, traversing along the line of her bulwarks, and then ascending to the tops of her tall smooth masts, he recognises all, as things with which he is well acquainted.
He, too, almost lets drop the telescope, as, turning to the others, he says in a scared, but confident voice:
“By God, its the Condor!”
Chapter Seventy Six.
A Very Nemesis.
Striker’s announcement, profanely as emphatically made, thrills the hearts of those hearing it with fear. Not fear of the common kind, but a weird undefinable apprehension.
“Caspitta!” exclaims Padilla. “The Condor! that cannot be. How could it?”
“It’s her for all that,” returns Striker. “How so, I don’t understan’ any more than yourselves. But that yonder craft be the Chili barque, or her ghost, I’ll take my affydavy on the biggest stack o’ Bibles.”
His words summon up strange thoughts which take possession of the minds of those listening. For how can it be the Condor, scuttled, sent to the bottom of the sea? Impossible!
In their weak state, with nerves unnaturally excited, they almost believe it an illusion—a spectre! One and all are the prey to wild fancies, that strike terror to their guilty souls. Something more than mortal is pursuing—to punish them. Is it the hand of God? For days they have been in dread of God’s hand; and now they seem to see it stretched out, and coming towards them! Surely a Fate—an avenging Nemesis!
“It’s the barque, beyond doubt!” continues Striker, with the glass again at his eye. “Everythin’ the same, ’ceptin’ her sails, the which show patched-like. That be nothin’. It’s the Chili craft, and no other. Yonner’s the ensign wi’ the one star trailin’ over her taffrail. Her, sure’s we stan’ heer!”
“Chingara!” cries Gomez. “Where are they who took charge of the scuttling? Did they do it?”
Remembering the men, all turn round, looking for them. They are not among the group gathered around the staff. Blew has long ago gone down the gorge, and Davis is just disappearing into it.
They shout to him to come back. He hears; but heeds not. Continuing on, he is soon out of sight.
It matters little questioning him, and they give up thought of it. The thing out at sea engrosses all their attention.
Now nearer, the telescope is no longer needed to tell that it is a barque, polacca-masted; in size, shape of hull, sit in the water—everything the same as with the Condor. And the bit of bunting, red, white, blue—the Chilian ensign—the flag carried by the barque they abandoned. They remember a blurred point in the central star: ’tis there!
Spectre or not, with all canvas spread, she is standing towards them—straight towards them—coming on at a rate of speed that soon brings her abreast the islet. She has seen their signal—no doubt of that. If there were—it is before long set at rest. For, while they are watching her, she draws opposite the opening in the reef; then lets sheets loose; and, squaring her after-yards, is instantly hove to.
A boat is dropped from the davits; as it strikes the water, men are seen swarming over the side into it. Then the plash of oars, their wet blades glinting in the sun; as the boat is rowed through the reef-passage.
Impelled by strong arms, it soon crosses the stretch of calm water, and shoots up into the cove.
Beaching it, the crew spring out on the pebbly strand—some not waiting till it is drawn up, but dashing breast-deep into the surf. There are nearly twenty, all stalwart fellows, with big beards—some in sailor garb, but most red-shirted, belted, bristling with bowie-knives, and pistols!
Two are different from the rest—in the uniform of naval officers, with caps gold-banded. One of these seems to command, being the first to leap out of the boat; soon as on shore, drawing his sword, and advancing at the head of the others.
All this observed by the four Spaniards, who are still around the signal-staff, like it, standing fixed; though not motionless, for they are shaking with fear. Their apprehensions, hitherto, of the supernatural, are now real. Even Frank Lara, despite his great courage—his only good quality—feels fear now. For in the officer, leading with drawn sword, he recognises the man who made smash of his Monté bank!
For some moments, he stands in silence, with eyes dilated. He has watched the beaching of the boat, and the debarking of her crew, without saying word. But, soon as recognising Crozier, he clutches Calderon by the arm; more vividly than ever now his crime recalled to him, for now its punishment, as that of them all, seems near. There is no chance to escape it. To resist, will only be to hasten their doom—death.
They do not think of resistance, nor yet flight; but remain upon the hill-top, sullen and speechless.
Calderon is the first to break the silence, frantically exclaiming:
“Santos Dios! the officers of the English frigate! Mystery of Mysteries! What can it mean?”
“No mystery,” rejoins De Lara, addressing himself to the other three; “none whatever. I see it all now, clear as the sun at noonday. Blew has been traitor to us, as I suspected all along. He and Davis have not scuttled the barque, but left her to go drifting about; and the frigate to which these officers belong has come across, picked her up—and lo! they are there!”
“That’s it, no doubt,” says Velarde, otherwise Don Manuel Diaz. “But those rough fellows along with them don’t appear to be men-of-war’s men, nor sailors of any kind. More like gold-diggers, I should say; such as crowd the streets of San Francisco. They must have come thence.”
“It matters not what they are, or where from. Enough that they’re here, and we in their power.”
At this Diaz and Padilla, now known as Rafael Rocas, step towards the cliff’s edge to have a look below, leaving the other two by the staff.
“What do you suppose they’ll do to us?” asks Calderon of De Lara. “Do you think they’ll—”
“Shoot, or hang us?” interrupts De Lara; “that’s what you’d say. I don’t think anything about it. I’m sure of it. One or other they’ll do, to a certainty.”
“Santissima!” piteously exclaims the ex-ganadero. “Is there no chance of escaping?”
“None whatever. No use our trying to get away from them. There’s nowhere we could conceal ourselves; not a spot to give us shelter for a single hour. For my part, I don’t intend to stir from this spot. I may as well be taken here as anywhere else. Carramba, no!” he exclaims, as if something has occurred to make him change his mind. “I shall go below, and meet my death like a man. No; like a tiger. Before dying, I shall kill. Are you good to do the same? Are you game for it?”
“I don’t comprehend you,” answers Calderon. “Kill what, or whom?”
“Whomsoever I can. Two for certain.”
“Which two?”
“Edward Crozier and Carmen Montijo. You may do as you please. I’ve marked out my pair, and mean to have their lives before yielding up my own—hers, if I can’t his. She sha’n’t live to triumph over me. No; by the Almighty God!”
While speaking, the desperado has taking out his revolver, and holding it at half-cock, spins the cylinder round, to see that all the six chambers are loaded, with the caps on the nipples. Assured of this, he returns it to its holster; and then glances at his macheté, hanging on his left hip. All this with a cool carefulness, which shows him determined upon his hellish purpose.
Calderon, trembling at the very thought of it, endeavours to dissuade him; urging that, after all, they may be only made prisoners, and leniently dealt with.
He is cut short by De Lara crying out:
“You may go to prison and rot there, if it so please you. After what’s happened, that’s not the destiny for me. I prefer death, and vengeance.”
“Better life, and vengeance,” cries Rocas, coming up, Diaz along with him, both in breathless haste. “Quick, comrades!” he continues; “follow me! I’ll find a way to save the first, and maybe get the last, sooner than you expected.”
“It’s no use, Rafael,” argues De Lara, misunderstanding the speech of the seal-hunter. “If we attempt flight, they’ll only shoot us down the sooner. Where could we flee too?”
“Come on; I’ll show you where. Carajo! Don’t stand hesitating; every second counts now. If we can but get ther in time—”
“Get where?”
“Al boté!”
On hearing the words, De Lara utters an exclamation of joy. They apprise him of a plan which may not only get him out of danger, but give revenge, sweet as ever fell to the lot of mortal man.
He hesitates no longer, but hastens after the seal-hunter; who, with the other two, has already started towards the brow of the cliff.
But not to stay there; for in a few seconds after the four are descending it; not through the gorge by which they came up, but another—also debouching into the bay.
Little dream the English officers, or the brave men who have landed with them, of the peril impending. If the scheme of the seal-hunter succeed, theirs will be a pitiful fate: the tables will be turned upon them!
Chapter Seventy Seven.
Almost a Murder.
At the cliff’s base, the action, simultaneous, is even more exciting.
Having left their boat behind, with a man to take care of it, the rescuers advance towards the inner end of the cove.
At first with caution: till passing the rock-portal, they see the platform and those on it.
Then the young officers rush forward, with no fear of having to fight. Instead of armed enemies to meet them, they behold the dear ones from whom they have been so long apart. Beside them, half-a-dozen figures, more like skeletons than men—with cowed, craven faces, seeming so feeble as to have a difficulty in keeping their feet!
With swords sheathed, and pistols returned to their holsters, the English officers hasten on, the young ladies rushing out to receive them.
Soon they are together, two and two, breasts touching, and arms enfolded in mutual embrace.
For a while no words—the hearts of all too full for speech. Only ejaculations and kisses, with tears, but not of sorrow.
Then succeeds speech, necessarily brief and half-incoherent, Crozier telling Carmen that her father is still alive, and aboard the barque. He lives—he is safe! that is enough.
Then in answer to his questions, a word or two, on her fide. But without waiting to hear all, he turns abruptly upon Harry Blew, who is seen some paces off. Neither by word, nor gesture, has the sailor yet saluted him. He stands passive, a silent spectator; as Crozier supposes, the greatest criminal on earth. In quick retrospect of what has occurred, and what he has heard from Don Gregorio, how could it be otherwise?
But he will not condemn without hearing him, and stepping up to the ex-man-o’-war’s man, he demands explanation of his conduct, sternly saying:
“Now, sir, I claim an account from you. Tell your story straight, and don’t conceal aught, or prevaricate. If your treason be as black as I believe it, you deserve no mercy from me. And your only chance to obtain it, will be by telling the truth.”
While speaking, he has again drawn his sword, and stands confronting the sailor—as if a word were to be the signal for thrusting him through.
Blew is himself armed with both pistol and knife. But, so far from touching either, or making any sign of an intention to defend himself he remains cowed-like, his head drooping down to his breast.
He gives no response. His lips move not; neither his arms nor limbs. Alone, his broad chest heaves and falls, as if stirred by some terrible emotion.
His silence seems a confession of guilt!
Taking, or mistaking, it for this, Crozier cries out:
“Traitor! Confess, before I run this blade through your miserable body!”
The threat elicits an answer.
“You may kill me, if you wish, Master Edward. By rights, my life belongs to ye. But, if you take it, I’ll have the satisfaction o’ knowin’, I’ve done the best I could to prove my gratefulness for your once savin’ it.”
Long before he has finished his strange speech, the impending stroke is stayed, and the raised blade dropped point downward. For, on the hand which grasps it, a gentler one is laid, a soft voice saying:—
“Hold, Eduardo! Dios de mi alma! What would you do? You know not. This brave man—to him I owe my life—I and Iñez.”
“Yes,” adds Iñez, advancing, “more than life. ’Tis he who protected us.”
Crozier stands trembling, the sword almost shaken from his grasp. And while sheathing it, he is told how near he has been to doing that which would ever after have made him miserable.
He feels like one withheld from murder—almost parricide. For to have killed Harry Blew, would have been like killing his own father.
The exciting episode is almost instantly succeeded by another, even more stirring, and longer sustained. While Carmen is proceeding to explain her interference on behalf of Blew, she is interrupted by cries coming up from the beach. Not meaningless shouts, but words of ominous import.
“Ahoy, there! help! help!”
Coupled with them, Crozier hears his own name, then the “Help, help!” reiterated; recognising the voice of the man left in charge of the boat—Grummet.
Without hesitating an instant, he springs off toward the strand, Cadwallader and the gold-diggers following; two staying to keep guard over those of the robbers who have surrendered.
On clearing the rocky ledge, they see what is causing the coxswain to sing out in such terrified accents. Grummet is in the boat, but upon his feet, with a boat-hook in his hands, which he brandishes in a threatening manner, shouting all the while. Four men are making towards him fast as their legs can carry them. They are coming along the beach from the right side of the cove.
At a glance the English officers recognise two of them—De Lara and Calderon—sooner from their not meeting them there unexpectedly. For aware that they are on the isle, they were about to go in quest of those gentlemen, after settling other affairs.
No need to search for them now. There they are, with their confederates, rushing direct for the boat—already within pistol-shot of it.
Nor can there be any doubt about their intention to seize upon the boat and carry her off!
Chapter Seventy Eight.
The Tables nearly Turned.
The sight thus unexpectedly brought before the eyes of the rescuers sends a shiver through their hearts, and draws exclamations of alarm from their lips. With quick intuition one and all comprehend the threatened danger. All at that moment remember having left only two or three men on the barque; and, should the pirates succeed in boarding, they may carry her off to sea, leaving themselves on the isle.
The prospect is appalling! But they do not dwell upon it; they have neither time, nor need. It is too clear, like a flash passing before their minds, in all its dread details! Without waiting to exchange word with one another, they rush on to arrest the threatened catastrophe, bounding over the rocks, crashing through shells and pebbles. But they are behind time, and the others will reach the boat before them!
Crozier, perceiving this, shouts to the coxswain—
“Shove off, Grummet! Into deep water with you!”
Grummet, understanding what is meant, brings the boat-hook point downward, and with a desperate effort, pushes the keel clear, sending the boat adrift.
But before he can repeat the push, pistols are fired, and, simultaneous with their reports, he is seen to sink down, and lie doubled over the thwarts.
A yell of vengeance peals from the pursuing party; and, maddened, they rush on. They will be too late! Already the pirates have reached the boat, now undefended; and all four together, swarming over the gunwale, drop down upon the thwarts, each as he does so seizing hold of an oar, and shipping it.
In agony, Crozier cries out—
“O God! are they to get away—these guilty, redhanded wretches?”
It would seem so. They have already dipped their oar-blades into the water, and commenced pulling, while they are beyond pistol-range.
Ha! something stays them! God is not for them. Their arms rise and fall, but the boat moves not! Her keel is on a coral bottom; her bilge caught upon its rough projections. Their own weight pressing down, holds her fast, and their oar-strokes are idly spent!
They had not thought of being thus stayed; though it proves the turning-point of their fate.
No use their leaping out now, to lighten the boat; no time for that, nor any chance to escape. But two alternatives stare them in the face—resistance, which means death; surrender, that seems the same.
De Lara would resist and die; so also Rocas. But the other two are against it, instinctively holding on to whatever hope of life be left them.
The craven Calderon cuts short the uncertainty by rising erect, stretching forth his arms, and crying out in a piteous appeal for mercy.
In an instant after they are surrounded, the boat grasped by the gunwale, and dragged back to the shore. Crozier with difficulty restrains the angry gold-diggers from shooting them down on the thwarts. Well for them the coxswain has not been killed, but only wounded, and in no danger of losing his life. Were it otherwise, theirs would be taken on the spot.
Assured of his safety, his rescuers pull the four wretches out of the boat; then disarming, drag them up to the platform, and bestow them in the larger cave: for a time to be their prison, though not long. For, there is a judge present, accustomed to sit upon short trials, and pass quick sentences, soon succeeded by their execution. He is the celebrated Justice Lynch.
Represented by a stalwart digger—all the others acting as Jury—the trial is speedily brought to a termination. For the four of Spanish nationality the verdict is guilty—the sentence, death—on the scaffold.
The others, less criminal, are to be carried on to Panama, and there delivered over to the Chilian consul; their crime being mutiny, with robbery, and abandonment of a Chilian vessel.
An exception is made in the case of Striker and Davis. The “Sydney Ducks” receive conditional pardon, on promise of better behaviour throughout all future time. This they obtain by the intercession of Harry Blew, in accordance with the hint he gave them while they were standing together beside the spread tarpauling.
Of the men sentenced to be hanged, one meets his fate in a different manner. The gold-dust has been recovered, packed, and put into the boat. The señoritas are cloaked, and impatient to be taken back to the barque, yearning to embrace him they have so long believed dead.
The English officers stand beside them; all awaiting the last scene of the tragedy—the execution of the condemned criminals.
The stake has been set for it; this the level plot of ground in front of the cavern’s month. A rope hangs down with a running noose at one end; the other, in default of gallow’s arm and branch of tree, rigged over the point of a projecting rock.
All this arranged, De Lara is led out first, a digger on each side of him. He is not tied, nor confined in any way. They have no fear of his making his escape.
Nor has he any thoughts of attempting it; though he thinks of something else, as desperate and deadly. He will not die like a scared dog, but as a fierce tiger; to the last thirsting for blood, to the end trying to destroy—to kill! The oath sworn by him above on the cliff, he still is determined on keeping.
As they conduct him out of the cave, his eyes glaring with lurid light, go searching everywhere, till they rest upon a group some twenty paces distant. It is composed of four persons: Crozier and Carmen, Cadwallader and Iñez, standing two and two.
At the last pair De Lara looks not, the first enchaining his attention. Only one short glance he gives them; another to a pistol which hangs holstered on the hip of a gold-digger guarding him.
A spring, and he has possession of it; a bound, and he is off from between the two men, and rushing on towards the group standing apart!
Fortunately for Edward Crozier—for Carmen Montijo as well—there are cries of alarm, shouts of warning, that reach him in time.
He turns on hearing them, sees the approaching danger, and takes measures to avert it. Simple enough these—but the drawing of his revolver, and firing at the man who advances.
Two shots are heard, one on each side, almost simultaneous; but enough apart to decide which of the two who fired must fall.
Crozier’s pistol had cracked first; and as the smokes of both swirl up, the gambler is seen astretch upon the sward—the blood spurting from his breast, and spreading over his shirt bosom!
Harry Blew, rushing forward, and bending over him, cries out:
“Dead! Shot through the heart—a brave heart too! What a pity ’twar so black!”
“Come away, mia querida!” says Crozier to Carmen. “Your father will be suffering from anxiety about you. You’ve had enough of the horrible. Let us hope this is the end of it.”
Taking his betrothed by the hand, he leads her down to the boat—Cadwallader and Iñez accompanying them.
All seat themselves in the stern-sheets, and wait for the diggers; who soon after appear, conducting their prisoners, the pirate crew of the Condor; short four left behind—a banquet for the caracaras!
Chapter Seventy Nine.
A Sailor’s True Yarn.
It is the second day after the tragedy upon the isle, and the Chilian barque has sailed away from the Veraguan coast, out of that indentation known upon modern maps as “Montijo Bay.”
She has long since rounded Cabo Mala, and is standing in for the port of Panama. With a full crew—most of them old and able seamen—no fear but she will reach it now.
Crozier in command, has restored Harry Blew to his old rank of first officer; which so far from having forfeited, he is now deemed to doubly deserve. But still weak from his long privation, the ex-man-o’-war’s man is excused from duty, Cadwallader doing it for him.
Harry is strong enough, however, to tell the young officers what they are all ears to hear—the story of that Flag of Distress. Their time hitherto taken up attending upon their fiancées, they have deferred calling for the full account, which only the English sailor can give them.
Now having passed Cabo Mala, as if with that promontory of bad repute all evil were left behind, they are in the mood to listen to the narration in all its details; and for this have summoned the chief officer to their side.
“Your honours!” he begins, “it’s a twisted-up yarn, from the start to the hour ye hove in sight; an’ if ye hadn’t showed yerselves just in the nick o’ time, an’ ta’en the twist out o’ it, hard to say how ’twould ’a ended. No doubt, in all o’ us dyin’ on that desert island, an’ layin’ our bones there. Thank the Lord, for our delivery—’ithout any disparagement to what’s been done by both o’ you, young gentlemen. For that He must ha’ sent you, an has had a guidin’ hand throughout the whole thing, I can’t help thinkin’, ’specially when I look back on the scores o’ chances that seemed goin’ against the right, an’ still sheered round to it after all.”
“True,” assents Crozier, honouring the devout faith of the sailor. “You’re quite right in ascribing it to Divine interference. Certainly, God’s hand seems to have been extended in our favour. But go on!”
“Well, to commence at the beginnin’, which is when you left me at San Francisco. As I told Master Willie, that day he comed ashore in the dingy, I war engaged to go chief mate in the Chili barque. She war then a ship; afterward converted as ye see, through our shortness o’ hands.
“When I went aboard her, an’ for sev’ral days after, I war the only thing in the shape o’ sailor she’d got. Then her captain—that poor crazed creetur below—put advertisements in the papers, offering big pay; the which, as I then supposed, brought eleven chaps, callin’ themselves sailors, an’ shippin’ as such. One o’ ’em, for want o’ a better, war made second mate—his name bein’ entered on the books as Padilla. He war the last o’ the three swung up, an’ if ever man desarved hangin’, he did, bein’ the cruellest scoundrel o’ the lot.
“After we’d waited another day or two, an’ no more makin’ appearance, the skipper made up his mind to sail. Then the old gentleman, along wi’ the two saynoreetas, came aboard; when we cleared an’ stood out to sea.
“Afore leavin’ port, I had a suspishun about the sort o’ crew we’d shipped. But soon’s we are fairly afloat, it got to be somethin’ worse than suspishun; I war sartin then we’d an ugly lot to deal with. Still, I only believed them to be bad men—an’, if that war possible, worse seamen. I expected trouble wi’ them in sailin’ the vessel; an’ a likelihood o’ them bein’ disobedient. But on the second night after leavin’ land, I found out somethin’ o’ a still darker stripe—that they war neither more nor less than a gang o’ piratical conspirators, an’ had a plan already laid out. A lucky chance led to me discoverin’ their infarnal design. The two we’ve agreed to let go off—Jack Striker an’ Bill Davis—both old birds from the convict gangs o’ Australia—war talkin’ it over atween themselves, an’ I chanced to overhear them. What they sayed made everythin’ clear—as it did my hair to stand on eend. Twar a scheme to plunder the ship o’ the gold-dust Don Gregorio hed got in her; an’ carry off your young ladies. Same time they war to scuttle the vessel, an’ sink her; first knockin’ the old gentleman on the head, as well as the skipper; whiles your humble sarvint an’ the darkey are to be disposed o’ same sweet fashion.
“On listenin’ to the dyabolikal plot, I war clear dumfoundered, an’ for a while didn’t know what to do. ’Twar a case o’ life an’ death to some o’ us; an’ for the saynoreetas, somethin’ worse. At first I thort o’ telling Captain Lantanas, an’ also Don Gregorio. But then I seed if I shud, that ’twould only make death surer to all as were doomed. I knowed the skipper to be a man o’ innocent, unsuspishus nature, an’ mightn’t gi’e belief to such ’trocious rascality, as bein’ a thing possible. More like he’d let out right away, an’ bring on the bloody bizness sooner than they intended it. From what Striker and Davis said, I made out that it war to be kept back, till we should sight land near Panyma.
“Well; after a big spell o’ thinkin’, I seed a sort o’ way out of it—the only one appearin’ possible. ’Twar this: to purtend joinin’ in wi’ the conspirators, an’ put myself at thar head. I’d larnt from the talk o’ the two Sydney Ducks there war a split ’mong them, ’bout the dividin’ o’ the gold-dust. I seed this would gi’e me a chance to slip in along wi’ them. So takin’ advantage o’ it, I broached the bizness to Striker that same night, and got into his confidence, an’ theer councils; arterwards obtaining the influence I wanted.
“Mind, gentlemen, it took a smart show o’ trickery and maneuvrin’. ’Mong other things, I had to appear cool to the cabin people throughout all the voyage—specially them two sweet creeturs. Many’s the time my heart ached thinkin’ o’ yourself, Mr Crozier, as also Master Willie—an’ then o’ your sweethearts, an’ what might happen, if I should fail in my plan for protectin’ ’em. When they wanted to be free and friendly, an’ once began talkin’ to me, I hed to answer ’em gruff an’ growlin’, knowin’ that eyes war on me all the while, an’ ears listenin’. As to tellin’ them what was before, or givin’ them the slimmest hint o’ it, that would ’a spoilt my plans, an’ ruined everything. They’d a gone straight to the old gentleman, an’ then it would ’a been all up wi’ us. ’Twar clear to me they all couldn’t be saved, an’ that Don Gregorio himself would hev to be sacrificed, as well as the skipper an’ cook. I thought that dreadful hard; but thar war no help for’t, as I’d have enough on my hands in takin’ care o’ the women, without thinkin’ o’ the men. As the Lord has allowed, an’ thank Him for it, all ha’e been saved!”
The speaker pauses, in the fervour of his gratitude; which his listeners, respecting, in silence wait for him to continue the narration. He does so:
“At last, on sightin’ land, as agreed on, the day had come for the doin’ of the dark deed. It war after night when they set about it, myself actin’ as a sort o’ recognised leader. I’d played my part, so’s to get control o’ the rest. We first lowered a boat, putting our things into her. Then we separated, some to get out the gold-dust, others to seize the saynoreetas. I let Gomez look after them, for fear of bringing on trouble too soon. Me an’ Davis—who chances to be a sort o’ Jack carpenter—were to do the scuttlin’; an’, for that purpose, went down into the hold. There I proposed to him to give the doomed ones a chance for their lives, by lettin’ the barque float a bit longer. Though he be a convict, he warn’t nigh so bad as the rest.
“He consented to my proposal, an’ we returned on deck ’ithout tapping the barque’s bottom-timbers.
“Soon’s I had my head over the hatch coamin’, I seed them all below in the boat, the girls along wi’ them. I didn’t know what they’d done to the Don an’ skipper I had my fears about ’em, thinkin’ they might ha’e been murdered, as Padilla had proposed. But I darn’t go back to the cabin then, lest they might shove off, an’ leave us in the lurch: as some war threatenin’ to do, more than one wantin’ it, I know. If they’d done that—well, it’s no use sayin’ what might ha’ been the upshot. Tharfore, I had to hurry down into the boat. Then, we rowed away; leavin’ the barque just as she’d been the whole o’ that day.
“As we pulled shoreward, we could see her standing off, all sails set—same as tho’ the crew wor abroad o’ her workin’ ’em.”
“But her ensign reversed?” asks Cadwallader. “She was carrying it so, when we came across her. How came that, Harry?”
“Ah! the bit o’ buntin’ upside-down! I did that myself in the dark; thinkin’ it might get them a better chance o’ bein’ picked up. I’d just time to do it afore droppin’ into the boat.”
“And you did the very thing!” exclaims Crozier. “I see God’s hand in that surely! But for the distress signal, the Crusader would have kept on without giving chase; and—. But, proceed! Tell us what happened afterwards.”
“Well; we landed in the island, not knowin’ it to be a island. An’ theer’s another o’ the chances, showin’ we’ve been took care o’ by the little cherub as sits up aloft. If it hed been the mainland—well, I needn’t tell ye, things would now be different. After landin’, we stayed all night on the shore; the men sleeping in the biggest o’ the caves, while the ladies occupied a smaller one. I took care ’bout that separation myself, detarmined they shouldn’t come to no harm.
“That night theer war a thing happened which I dar say they’ve told you; an’ twar from them I afterwards larned that Gomez an’ Hernandez war no other than the two chaps you’d trouble wi’ at San Francisco. They went into the cave, an’ said some insultin’ things to the saynoreetas; I warn’t ’far off, an’ would ’a made short work wi’ them, hed it goed farther than talk.
“Well; up at a early hour next mornin’, we found the boat had drifted off seaward, an’ got bilged on the breakers. But supposin’ we shouldn’t want her any more, nobody thought anythin’ about it. Then comed the dividin’ o’ the gold-dust, an’ after it the great questyun—leastwise, so far as I war consarned—as to who should take away the girls. I’d been waitin’ for this, an’ for the settlin’ o’t I war ready to do or die. Gomez an’ Hernandez war the two who laid claim to ’em—as I knowed, an’ expected they would. Pertendin’ a likin’ for Miss Carmen myself, an’ puttin’ Davis up to what I wanted ’bout the tother, we also put in our claim. It ended in Gomez an’ me goin’ in for a fight; which must ’a tarminated in the death o’ one or other o’ us. I hed no dread o’ dyin’; only from the fear o’ its leavin’ the saynoreetas unprotected. But thar war no help for’t, an’ I agreed to the duel, which war to be fought first wi’ pistols, an’ finished up, if need be, wi’ the steel.
“Everythin’ settled, we war ’bout settin’ to, when one o’ the fellows—who’d gone up the cliff to take a look ahead—just then sung out, that we’d landed on a island. Recallin’ the lost boat, we knew that meant a dreadful danger. In coorse it stopped the fight, an’ we all rushed up to the cliff.
“When we saw how things stood, there war no more talk o’ quarrellin’. The piratical scoundrels war scared nigh out o’ thar senses; an’ would ’a been glad to get back aboard the craft they’d come out o’, the which all, ’ceptin’ Davis an’ myself, supposed to be at the bottom o’ the sea.
“After that, ’twar all safe, as far as concarned the saynoreetas. To them as wanted ’em so bad, they war but a second thought, in the face of starvation; which soon tamed the wolves down, an’ kep ’em so till the last o’ the chapter.
“Now, young gentlemen; ye know how Harry Blew hev behaved, an’ can judge for yourselves, whether he’s kep the word he gi’ed you ’fore leavin’ San Francisco.”
“Behaved nobly, grandly!” cries Crozier. “Kept your word like a man: like a true British sailor! Come to my arms—to my heart, Harry! And forgive the suspicions we had, not being able to help them. Here, Will! take him to yours, and show him how grateful we both are, to the man who has done more for us than saving our lives.”
“Bless you, Blew! God bless you!” exclaims Cadwallader, promptly responding to the appeal; and holding Harry in a hug that threatens to crush in his ribs.
The affecting scene is followed by an interval of profound silence; broken by the voice of Grummet, who, at the wheel, is steering straight into the port of Panama, now in sight.
“Mr Crozier!” calls out the old coxswain, “do ye see that craft—the one riding at anchor out yonder in the roadstead?”
All three turn their eyes in the direction indicated; soon as they have done so, together exclaiming:
“The Crusader!”
The last incident of our tale takes place at Cadiz, in a grand cathedral church; before the altar of which stand two English naval officers, and alongside each a beautiful Spanish damsel, soon to be his wedded wife.
It scarce needs to tell that the bridegrooms are Edward Crozier and Willie Cadwallader—both now lieutenants. Nor need we say who are the brides; since they are to be given away by Don Gregorio Montijo.
As little necessary to speak of the ceremonial splendour of that double wedding—long time the novedad of Cadiz.
Enough to say that present at it are all the wealth and fashion of the old Andalusian city, with foreign consuls, and the commanders of warships in the port: conspicuous amongst these, Captain Bracebridge, and the officers of Her Britannic Majesty’s frigate Crusader.
Also two other men of the sea—of its merchant service; to hear of whose presence there will, no doubt, make the reader happy, as it does both the brides and the bridegrooms to see them. They belong to a ship lying in the harbour, carrying polacca-masts, on her stern lettered “El Condor;” one of the two being her captain, called Lantanas; the other her chief officer, by name Blew.
God has been just and good to the gentle Chilian skipper, having long since lifted from his mind the cloud that temporarily obscured it. He now knows all, and above all, Harry Blew in his true colours; and, though on the Condor’s deck they are still captain and mate, when below by themselves in her cabin, all distinction of rank disappears, and they are affectionate friends—almost as brothers.
In the prosperous trading-craft Condor, re-converted into her original shape of ship—regularly voyaging between Valparaiso and Cadiz, exchanging the gold and silver of Chili for the silks and sweet wines of Spain—but few would recognise a barque once chased over the South Sea, believed to be a spectre; and, it is to be hoped, no one will ever again see her sailing under a Flag of Distress.