. . . . . .
Captain Antonio Garcia kept all hands steadily at work now, and even for Teenie he found something to do.
In a few weeks’ time he was pleased to note that although Johnnie never could be forgotten, the men, and even Teenie, talked about him as not dead, but gone before, and in a far happier place now than any on board the seemingly doomed ship Zingara.
Antonio determined to make one more, one last ascent in the balloon; for things were now getting desperate indeed, and once again it appeared as if scurvy was about to break out among his crew.
So the balloon was repaired, almost rebuilt indeed, and finally it ascended. But this time the wise wee captain had provided himself with a parachute, and he wore also a lifebelt.
Well indeed was it that he had taken these precautions, for a man falling into the Sargasso Sea, were he the strongest swimmer who ever shot arms out, could not save his life, if he once became entangled among the long snaky weeds.
The balloon rose well, and Antonio turned his telescope anxiously seaward.
Joy of joys! he saw a ship, a great ocean steamer, homeward bound. He could see the men and officers on deck clearly enough, for the open water was only about thirty miles away now.
They evidently saw him, for when he waved his coat they responded. They even dipped their ensign.
What they took him for may never be known.
It is but charitable to believe that the captain of the unknown steamer did not even know that the aeronaut was in need of assistance. Be this as it may, she steamed off and away, and made no more sign.
It was very sad, and Antonio’s hopes now sank to zero.
As he was just about to make the signal for descent, the balloon burst with a loud report.
The captain at once precipitated himself into space, holding fast to the parachute.
The boat, under the command of the third mate, Davie Drake, had been pushed through the weeds into the volcanic lake, and the men were lying on their oars listlessly when they heard the explosion.
They paid no attention to the wreck; all eyes were riveted on the now slowly descending Antonio.
“Give way, lads, now,” shouted Davie. “Let us get right beneath, for the sharks are in shoals.”
And so well did they manage it, that the captain alighted right amongst the men.
Had he fallen into the sea to-day, his life would not have been worth a minute’s purchase.
Antonio was smiling.
“Here’s a wind-up to a windy day,” he said.
“Indeed, sir,” said Davie, “you seem to bear a charmed life.”
“Pull right away for the basket and wrecked balloon, boys,” he made answer. “My telescope and other instruments are in it, and I wouldn’t lose them for a good deal.”
“Give way again, boys,” shouted Davie, and very soon they reached the wreckage.
To Antonio’s joy the basket had not capsized, so everything was saved.
“And now on board we go,” cried the captain. “I have joyful news for you and for us all, men.
“If my plan is adopted, I think we will even yet get clear.”
“Hurrah!” shouted the stroke oar. “Up with her, lads. Cheerily does it. Doesn’t it, sir?”
“Ay, boy, and cheerily always did do it. Mind what Shakespeare says, mate?
Antonio said little more until he got on board, nor even then till dinner was finished and they were all gathered cosily together on deck, with the sun sinking low in the west.
“We are all anxious to hear what you have to say, sir,” said Davie Drake.
“Well, it is this—
I’ll explain. I feel, then, that if scurvy attacks us again we will drop off one by one like sickly sheep. If we work, it will help to keep the enemy at bay.”
“True, sir, true,” said Sister Leona. “We are commanded to work and pray.”
“Well, from my observations to-day before the balloon unfortunately burst, I find we are but little more than thirty miles from the sea. I mean to try to reeve the ship through into the blue water. If we drop, we shall die. True, but it is death anyhow, and perhaps Providence will sustain us.”
Teenie was looking at him with wide open eyes and parted lips.
She was too young to fear death, but she was filled with hope.
She went and threw her arms round Antonio’s neck.
“Oh, good, good ’Tonio,” she cried, “you’ll take us home, won’t you?”
“I’ll try, dearie, I’ll try.”
“Can Sister Leona and I help?” she asked.
“Ahem! Oh yes, you can. We will work, and you shall pray.
“A fair division of labour, isn’t it, Archie?”
“Yes, sir.
“But,” he added, “for the life of me, I don’t yet see how it is to be done.”
“Wait then till to-morrow’s sun shines o’er the sea,” answered Antonio, nodding and smiling.
. . . . . .
The news that an attempt was now to be made to gain the open water soon spread among the crew, and even those who had began to ail seemed to regain strength and spirits.
There is indeed no medicine in the world so efficacious as hope.
Every one on board the Zingara slept sounder than usual that night, and more than one dreamt ere morning that the ship was once more far away from this mysterious and echoless sea, ploughing her way through the blue ocean, all sails set, and homeward bound.
Early next morning Antonio commenced putting his plan into execution.
The work would be long and tedious, probably it would be an entire failure. Yet somehow or other he had hope.
He called all hands together and addressed them briefly.
“It seems to me,” he said, “boys, that the sandbank on which we lie extends almost directly south far beyond this Sea of Sargasso, in which we have been Crusoes so long. The soundings that I and my young officer here, Mr. Stuart, have taken, appear to confirm me in that idea. Well, deep water would frustrate my plans, so we must trust we shall keep on the bank.
“Luckily,” he continued, “we have a tremendous length of hawser or hawsers on board. Some of these will need splicing. This must be done at once. So away with you, lads, and do this work, and reeve a small anchor to one end of it, attaching the other to the windlass, and then we shall see what we shall see.”
The men worked with such a will, that before noon all was ready.
Then the anchor end of the hawser was loaded into the weed-plough boat, which being well manned, began at once to forge its way through the weeds directly south.
Meanwhile the main anchor was got up.
The hawser was paid out almost to the end. Then Antonio hailed the boat through his speaking-trumpet.
“Let go the hawser anchor.”
For just a moment hope trembled in the balance.
But, oh joy! as the men on board bent on to the winch and turned it round, it was found that the anchor end held fast, and the ship herself began to move slowly seawards.
Round and round went the winch, and in came the hawser.
Men were stationed over the bows at each side, armed with long poles, to help to thrust aside the weeds. And this aided the ship’s progress considerably.
Unfortunately there was not a breath of wind, else the work would have gone on more quickly.
As it was, there was little to complain of, and as soon as the hawser anchor was got up, it was once more shipped on board the weed-plough and carried off again.
And so the work went on slowly but surely till darkening.
Then the main anchor was once more let go, and the boat hauled up for the night. They had advanced two whole miles that afternoon, so no wonder their spirits rose.
. . . . . .
For the first time since the sad death of poor Johnnie Smart, Antonio brought out his guitar to-night to play and sing.
We cannot blame him. We never can forget the dear dead ones, although soundly do they sleep, their joys and sorrows past.
Then have we not the hope of a glorious resurrection? We can harbour no doubt on this score; for to Him who made and rules the mist of stars, and suns, and planets we see even by the naked eye every starry night around and above us, surely nothing is impossible. But more marvellous still, perhaps. Our Father governs the infinitely small as well as the infinitely great, and that by laws immutable and unchangeable. Not a midge that, though but one of millions who dance gaily as the setting sun glints over moor or marsh He does not know all about; even the microbes revealed to us by microscopic aid are His creatures, and fulfil His will, making life, or destroying the old to rebuild the new. Yes, it is a mysterious world! But what would it be without hope?
Grief, however, is not healthful, and we may indulge in it even to a sinful extent.
But the songs sung to-night by Antonio were, though not exactly sad, plaintive, sweet, and tender, and found their way straight to the hearts of his listeners. And when he had finished, Sister Leona, though she had tears in her eyes, thanked him most fervidly.
After he had laid down his instrument, Teenie crept up close to his knee and demanded a story.
And it had to be a fairy one, too.
Antonio told her one with a mermaid in it, a most beautiful mermaid, who dwelt far away in a coralline cave, deep down in the sea’s dark bottom. She had little baby mermaids too, and though the sea itself was dark, her cave was lighted up with diamonds and rubies, and studded with pearls, quite a fairy-queen’s palace.
“And now, dearie,” he said at last, “off you go to your hammock, say your prayers, and dream about all the pretty things I have tried to describe to you.”
. . . . . .
The men were at work next day soon after sunrise. Indeed, all hands were piped to breakfast at a little past five o’clock.
It was a long and toilsome day’s work, and at the end of it they found they had only done four miles.
But at this rate they would succeed at last, and probably in ten days’ time be afloat on the blue sea once more.
Day after day they toiled and toiled. Never before, perhaps, had such hard and tedious work been performed by men who were far from well.
The labour of cutting a ship clear from the main pack of ice in the Arctic seas is great indeed, but there the weather is cold. Here, on the contrary, the sun’s heat almost broiled the poor fellows, and the water served out to them was all but hot.
No wonder that before five days were over three had succumbed to sunstroke, two of whom were dead.
Their deaths caused fear in the hearts of the survivors, for no one knew whose turn might come next.
Antonio and the officers worked as hard, if not harder, than the crew did.
But now came Sabbath, and rest. They were working for dear life itself, it is true, yet Antonio believed that ill-luck would follow, if they did not refrain from work on Sunday.
But Monday morning saw them hard at it again.
And lo! on the evening of that day, with a delight that was inexpressible, they beheld the blue open water not ten miles away.
In three days more, being still above the sandbank, they found themselves at anchor beyond and clear away from Sargasso, that mysterious and echoless sea.
And now a most difficult task lay before them.
They must unship and repair the rudder. Without this they would but drift like a log once more, and probably be once more engulfed among the terrible weeds.
The rudder, when at last they did manage to unship and hoist it, was found to be more severely damaged than any one had been aware of.
They had to cut timber from the lower deck itself to splice and repair it. But at long, long last they were successful.
But heavy seas, though smooth, were once more rolling in from the south and west, and it was days before they could get the anchor re-shipped.
Was danger all over now?
No, indeed, it was not.
For the backwash of the Atlantic had a tendency to thrust them north again into the Sea of Sargasso, and there was not a breath of wind to aid them in keeping away.
But luckily the sandbank ran far south, and along this they crept by means of hawser and windlass, until they had made good quite a wide offing.
The sandbank ended now, and just at its edge they cast anchor, and determined to wait for the wind, or for assistance from some passing steamer.
No help! no hope! and day after day flew by. They appeared as far from succour as ever.
Hope began once more to fail them, and illness took its place.
Of the whole crew now only nine remained, and of these five were down with scurvy.
O reader, if ever you go to sea, I trust you will never have any experience of that dreariest of all diseases, scurvy. It is but little likely that you will, for never a ship sails now that is not well provided with its prophylactic antidote, lime juice.
I would not harrow any one’s feelings with describing the sufferings of these stricken men, their swollen limbs, their dusky, deathlike countenances, and their sadly sunken eyes.
One of the worst features of these cases was the terrible despondency of the poor fellows.
Sister Leona and Teenie, with Antonio himself, laboured hard among them, but so virulent were the attacks, that one by one all five dropped off.
They were simply sewn in their hammocks and cast overboard.
But dreadful to say, the other four hands of the working crew took ill next, and of these three died.
Then one of the blacks succumbed.
The plague, however, seemed now stayed, but there were hardly officers enough left to work the ship.
The reason, I believe, why none of these had died, is simply to be found in the fact that they kept hard at work all day long. The pores of the skin were therefore well open, and the poison eliminated as fast as it accumulated.
But the wind never came, and for three whole weeks no sail heaved in sight.
Had the anchor been let go, they would have drifted off into deep water, and so have been swirled back towards the echoless sea—never again in life to leave it.
One day Teenie from the foretop—where she spent a great portion of her time with her monkeys and pussy—hailed the quarter-deck.
“’Tonio! O captain, there is a ship in sight.”
It was not long before both Antonio and Barclay were at the masthead.
Yes, indeed, Teenie was right. There she was, just coming over the western horizon. A steamer, too, and that a large and powerful one, though from the fact that her engines were far aft it could be seen that she was a trader, and not a passenger ship.
Nearer and nearer she came, till, even without the aid of a glass, the men could be seen on the deck.
Antonio had hoisted the ensign upside down as a flag of distress, and both he and Barclay waved their jackets from the foretop. Let us be charitable, and say that as there was no wind to float the flag, those on board could not distinguish it as a flag of distress.
But they must have seen that something was wrong, and the skipper of that trader surely had a heart as hard as flint, to pass on as he did and make no sign. Many and many a ship at sea is thus left to perish, I am sorry to say.
An English ship too, undoubtedly.
“I would not have believed,” said Antonio, “that such cruelty could exist in the breast of a British sailor.”
Barclay was dumb.
For once in a way he was ashamed of his country.
. . . . . .
But Providence proved far more merciful than man, and in a few days’ time, to the intense joy of all on board, cats’-paws began to ruffle the heaving billows, and in less than an hour’s time a seven-knot breeze was blowing from the west-north-west.
It might not last long it is true, but every inch of canvas was set at once, and the anchor being up, away went the Zingara, steering eastward and south for the Canary Islands.
Once clear away from the great ocean of weeds, and all danger seemingly left far behind them, there was joy in every heart.
But, alas! the work was hard, for it was now watch and watch, and hardly even thus was there enough hands to work the ship.
But the fact that the main and mizen sails were fore and aft ones lessened the labour considerably.
. . . . . .
The voyage to Teneriffe was a long and a slow one, and on a beam wind most of the way. It was one, however, that few on board the Zingara were ever likely to forget.
There was a chastened kind of sorrow in the hearts of all, that found ascendency sometimes, but for the most part it was joy and hope that came uppermost.
But what a change! Out here on the bright clear waters, soothed by balmy winds, cheered by the warm sunshine, to look back now to that black and dreary weed-pack, the Sea of Sargasso, was like opening a darksome burial vault and gazing into the gloom and night of death.
Long anxiety had told on our heroes, and even on Teenie and Sister Leona, and both the latter were thinner in face than they ought to have been, and had lost something of the bloom that should dwell for ever on the cheeks of childhood or of youth.
But from the very day the Sea of Sargasso was left behind, things took a change for the better. Every one began to regain health and spirits, and each day that dawned took their thoughts farther and farther away from that nightmare dream of two years, spent in the midst of the dreariest sea in the wide, wide world.
Though busily engaged all day, our more intimate heroes, Barclay Stuart and Davie Drake, found time to arrange the hundreds of curios, animal and vegetable, which they had collected while prisoners in the echoless ocean.
It was Barclay’s intention to present those to the British Museum, so he had the fauna labelled, with day and date, and all he knew about them, where and how caught, and their manners and habits of life. With the various kind of weeds he was not less particular, nor with the different kinds of clay and sand that had been dredged up from the bottom.
When all was complete, Barclay was quite proud of his collection.
Although the wind was not all the mariners could have wished, the Zingara made fair progress.
Teenie, at all events, was in no hurry to get to Teneriffe. She loved the sea.
The voyage to her was perfectly idyllic.
And so it was to Barclay Stuart also when Teenie—now in her fifteenth year, be it remembered—was sitting or walking by his side.
Everything that could be done was done in order to make the ship look smart.
Pandoo and the black man—sole survivor of the four brought from the Coral Isles—with the assistance of the one seaman left, scoured the decks fore and aft, and turning the hose on them, washed them down. Indeed they were washed down every morning, and this was the time for Davie and Barclay to have a bath.
As early as five the hose was rigged and pump and sea-pipe manned. And now the boys went on deck, shutting the companion behind them to keep everybody else down. Then they stripped, and had the hose turned upon them. Next to a swim in a tropical sea, I know of nothing more exhilarating than a hose-bath of this description.
By eight o’clock the young fellows were dressed and ready for breakfast.
About two days after leaving the tail of the bank, as it was called, they had fallen in with an outward bound trading steamer. Antonio hoisted the flag of distress, and lay-to.
This time the signal was replied to. The steamer stopped ship, and in a few minutes a boat was seen rapidly approaching the Zingara.
The officer who held the ribbons was a jolly-looking old man, with cheeks like a full moon orient, and the snowiest of snow-white hair.
“What can I do for you?” was his first kindly query, as he shook Antonio’s hand.
“So sorry,” began Antonio, “to take up your time——”
“Man! don’t mention it,” cried the seafarer. “My time is my own. And what is more, the ship yonder—the Loch Katrine—is my own, for I’m skipper and owner. I’m sailing from Glasgow to Rio, and farther down.
“I say, though, you’ve been in awful grief,” he added, looking around him. “Jury main and jury mizen, and evidently the work of amateurs. And aren’t you undermanned?”
“We have no crew at all save one sailor, that black man, and our good and brave steward Pandoo. All are dead.”
“All dead?”
“Yes, sir; we have been imprisoned for two long years in the Sea of Sargasso.”
“Bless my soul and body!” cried Captain M’Lean, “and you live to tell me so!”
The rosy-faced skipper’s eyes grew bigger, and he stared in silence for at least ten seconds at Antonio, as if he were looking at some of Madame Tussaud’s wonderful wax figures.
“Bless my soul and body!” he repeated, “and you actually mean to tell me that you escaped at last, and that you really are alive?”
“We certainly escaped, and as far as I can tell, we are all alive, though not over-strong yet.”
The Glasgow skipper took a seat beneath the awning, lit an enormous cigar, and gave Antonio another.
“Now,” he said, “tell me all about your adventures.”
Teenie came shyly up at this moment and put her arm round Antonio’s neck.
“What a bonnie lassie!” cried the skipper. “Come here, dear, and shake a paw. Why, if I were a hundred years younger I’d make love to you myself.
“Your daughter, Captain Antonio?”
“No, Captain M‘Lean. Shall I tell him what you are, dearie?” This last to Teenie herself.
But she blushed bonnily all the same.
“She is just a little stowaway we found in the storeroom two days after sailing, more than four years ago.”
“Well, well, well, and you love the sea, dear?”
“Oh yes, dearly; I am a fisherman’s daughter, you know, and Barclay and myself—that is Barclay holding on to a backstay—were always—always together in boats among the rocks, and—so——” She hung her head.
“And so you thought you shouldn’t be parted?”
. . . . . .
Captain M‘Lean stopped on board for two whole hours, and all that time Antonio kept talking, and managed to give this kindly skipper an epitome of his marvellous adventures.
But Captain M‘Lean’s kindness was not merely of the verbal species.
He despatched a boat to his ship for fresh stores of almost every sort that would likely be of service, nor would he hear of payment or barter.
“You would do the same by me, I know,” he said, “and God only knows how soon we ourselves may need assistance.”
But before he went he accepted a pearl from Antonio, which he assured him he should have placed in a ring for his wife.
And then he gave Antonio his address, bidding him be sure and call whenever he could find his way down the romantic Clyde as far as Helensburgh.
Soon after this the ships parted, dipping ensigns as each went on his own way across the lonesome sea.
. . . . . .
So now after their salt-water bath and a spell of walking in the morning sunshine, Barclay and Davie had a good breakfast to go down to, cooked and served up in Pandoo’s best style. It is needless to add that they did justice thereto.
Yes, the voyage was indeed idyllic.
When the moon rose up of an evening and silvered the waters, while the gentle breeze blew cooler, and the stars shone bright and clear, our heroes, with Teenie, Sister Leona, and Antonio, sat together on the deck.
They talked of the future—oh, not the nightmare past—till at least five bells in the first watch, and every now and again Antonio’s sad guitar was struck, and he sang songs of romantic Spain that enthralled and enchanted every one who heard them.
. . . . . .
Teneriffe at last, after sighting several other most beautiful islands that hung like green or brown clouds twixt the blue sea and the horizon, which melted together, as it were, till you could not have told where the one ended and the other began.
It was five o’clock when the anchor was dropped, but before that time our boy heroes were on deck, and had had their bath, and were gazing in wonder at the rugged beauty of this mountain isle. High above all the other mountains rose the lofty sugar-cone Peak of Teneriffe, high indeed above the clouds that rested on his giant breast and that caught the first pink rays of the morning sun.
But the sun had not yet risen, but had just begun to tinge the lower mountain peaks with opal and crimson, when Teenie herself came on deck with Sister Leona.
They were both dumb with delight. So grand a scene had never before been witnessed by them, nor such beautiful cloud effects, not only among the mountains themselves, but even far to the west.
Antonio went early on shore that day, taking with him Archie the mate, Teenie, Sister Leona, and Barclay.
“Now, dearies,” he said to the latter three, “you go and enjoy yourselves all you can, while Archie and I go to engage fresh hands.
“Mind this though, the boat will leave for the ship at precisely five. Adios!”
And the weird wee kindly skipper waved his hand.
. . . . . .
Just at this end of my ower true tale I have but little space to tell you of all the young folks did on this delightful day, and on this delightful island.
I shall tell you, however, one thing they did not do, they did not attempt the ascent of the giant peak. The fatigue would have been far too great for Teenie and her companion, albeit horses take you high up into the mountain ranges.
But they went to Orotava, and marvelled at all the beauties of nature they saw on every side. The drive was truly charming, the trees, the flowers, and palms more lovely than anything on earth they had ever seen before.
There was here such a charming mixture of the tropical and temperate, of wildness with civilisation combined.
Barclay enjoyed it. And as to Teenie, wandering hand in hand through the wilds, after leaving the carriage, with the boy who was more than a brother to her, was all one delightful dream.
. . . . . .
At sea again once more.
Less work to do though now, for Antonio has engaged six good seamen and true.
Britons every one they were, and right glad to be able once more to secure a passage to the shores of Merrie England.
. . . . . .
Standing on the little pier at Fisherton one beautiful morning, with spy-glass in hand and a trusty companion by his side, Teenie’s father rubbed his eyes, then rubbed the glass and scanned the horizon.
He could just raise the full-rigged fore-topmast of a stately ship standing in apparently for the shore.
“Shiver my gaff, Bill,” he said, “if there ain’t the old Zingara or her ghost. I can’t be mistaken in the cut of her jib.”
“Let me have a squint.
“Ah! that is her for sure. I can raise her hull now, and why—why ’s I live, if she haint got juries stepped, and fore and aft sails on each.”
“Oh, this is a happy day,” cried Mr. Norton. “Run up and tell t’ould parson, and send a boy to convey the jiful tidins to Mrs. Stuart and Miss Phœbe. If I don’t run ’ome and tell my old woman that the Zingara’s headin’ straight for the bay, I’ll bust up, so off I goes.”
The news spread through the village like wildfire, and in half-an-hour’s time there wasn’t a boat that was not afloat and speeding off to meet the long-lost Zingara.
But Norton’s boat, in which went Phœbe, outstripped them all, for he carried a press of canvas that caused her to skim across the water like a sea-gull.
When near enough to see his own little daughter standing in the bows beside Barclay, he simply lost all control of himself. He waved his red fisherman cap in the air, and shouted aloud for very joy, and the shout was taken up from boat to boat, and re-echoed even from the crowd around the shore itself.
But can I really be expected to describe or dwell over the joysomeness of that home-coming? There are some things that authors cannot do. And were I to tell you how, after hugging Teenie in his arms, and kissing her hair and brow, the old man just managed to say—
“Bless the Lord for all His mercies,” then burst into tears—I should—why, I should make a baby of myself also, and—cry too.
Two years have past and gone since that memorable day when the long-lost Zingara sailed into Fisherton Bay.
As far as Barclay, Davie, and Antonio are concerned, they have been eventful years.
Both our heroes have passed their examinations, and have been to India with Antonio, he himself acting as captain of the Zingara, and Davie and Barclay as mates.
But during the time the ship lay at Calcutta, Antonio was absent for two long months.
Two years, then, are past and gone, and the Zingara is once more on the eve of starting from Fisherton Bay.
But not for a long voyage, for—whisper, reader—this is a bridal tour.
The Zingara will cruise only during the sweet summer months along the shores of Spain, where a stay of some weeks will be made, that Antonio and his brother, so long a prisoner in the dungeon of the murdering priests of G——, may visit their proudest acquaintances of the days of auld lang syne.
Yes, the brother is on board. Tall and spare is he, his hair as white as snow, but his complexion fair and young, while his voice is ever tender and quiet, and his smile a sad and chastened one. Oh, no one but himself can tell of the long years of suffering he has passed through.
Who else are on board?
Well, I must not hesitate to answer this question. Let the passengers muster by open list, as we say in the Navy, and present themselves according to age.
Mrs., or Madame Garcia, Antonio and José’s mother. She is cheerful though old, cheerful and active, and not a day more aged-looking than the long-suffering José her son, whom she idolizes.
Parson Grahame comes next, looking resigned and happy. Maud, his dear little daughter, has been dead for years, but he knows she is in a better land. If you were to unwittingly ask him about Maudie, he would simply reply—
“Oh, didn’t you know? God took dear wee Maud home.”
Dr. Parker might have been here. Alas! he is dead too.
Mrs. Stuart is too delicate, or fears the sea; but Phœbe is here, and very happy and pleased she looks.
Poor old plain-faced Norton the fisherman is sitting aft yonder, smoking his not over-aristocratic pipe. Pandoo has just brought him a light, and Pandoo and he have waxed very friendly. At this moment he is telling the handsome Indian that “there be a many changes in this world o’ sin and sorrer, but it’ll all come right up-bye.”
Now comes Antonio and his bride, Sister Leona, sister now no longer.
And last, but not least, surely the youngest, handsomest, and happiest couple ever seen on board ship—Barclay Stuart and Teenie, now all his own; and Parson Grahame married those two couples only this morning.
But the anchor is up, a delightful land breeze fills the sails, and away flies the Zingara on the wings of the wind. The flag is dipped again and again to the cheers of the good folks of Fisherton that crowd the pier and shore to throw blessings, rice, and old shoes on the water.
The blessings, let us hope, will take effect, the sea-gulls eat the rice, and the old shoes will sink.
. . . . . .
. . . . . .
Pandoo is still steward, but there is a good cook, and both young ladies have maids.
That first day’s dinner was a happy one, and when seated on chairs in the moonlight, on the upper deck, Antonio told more of the wonderful adventures of the Zingara than Parson Grahame yet had heard.
“But now,” said Davie Drake, “don’t forget your promise, sir, to tell us how you managed to free your brother from the power of those bloody-handed thugs and priests.”
. . . . . .
Antonio sat still for a minute or two, as if deep in thought. Then he played a few sad notes on the guitar. This, he used to say, always calmed his mind and toned his nervous system.
“Brother,” he said at last, “let you and I tell the story together.”
José’s hand and Antonio’s met in a brotherly clasp.
“Will you begin?”
“Let me be brief, then,” said José; “my voice is still feeble from long confinement.
“We were younger then, Antonio, young, and perhaps a little wild. But after the city of L—— was recaptured, you and I, who were volunteers, did a little looting, as did the soldiers and their officers also.
“You will remember that dark night when a friendly native offered to conduct us to a blood-stained temple, from which he told us the priests had fled, and that the eyes in the idols were diamonds of the purest water; that, moreover, they were charms, and had the power of keeping off disease, and rendering the owner proof against death by violence?”
“Yes, and I shall never forget that fearful night, José.”
“Well, Antonio, we gained access to the temple, and I had broken one idol, and taken out the glittering diamond that served as an eye in the forehead. I gave it to you till I went in search of another.
“I sent you,” continued José, “outside to watch.”
“And I never saw you more; and when the guide rushed out, he said he had seen you fall stabbed to the heart.”
“I was stabbed, Antonio, but it was only through the arm.
“I was then stripped to the skin, but no diamond being found on me, I was condemned to be lashed, and confined in a loathsome dungeon, with barely rags enough to cover my lacerated and bleeding body.
“Centipeds and gecko lizards I could see about me in scores by the dim light that came from the narrow slit in the wall. There were scorpions too, and other loathsome, slimy things. Antonio, I will not harrow the feelings of these gentle ladies by describing all I suffered. God kept me alive, and now I hope to devote the years that may be left me to His service.”
“Well, ladies and gentlemen,” said Antonio, “when the Zingara returned, after her terrible adventures in the brown weedy Sea of Sargasso, my pearls and other things realised for me quite a large fortune. I sold all, for too well I knew the value money would be in enabling me to discover the hiding-place of my dear brother here, and delivering him from the hands of the priests.
“First I endeavoured to get the assistance of the British Parliament. The few members I interviewed received me kindly, but were afraid they could do nothing to assist me.
“I determined, therefore, to act for myself, so when I got to India I repaired to L——.
“I am a fairly good actor, and no part suits me better than that of a Hindoo priest.
“I became one to all intents and purposes. From an Indian potentate, friendly to the British, and to whom I had done some services in the Mutiny times, I received an introduction to Hindoo priests at L——. Heaven forgive me for my deceit, but I carried it out so well, that I found favour everywhere, and was received even into the inner sanctuaries of the priests.
“At last I became a guest of the very men who had imprisoned my brother. This might have been called my third move, or third act, in the dangerous drama I was engaged in.
“My fourth was a more daring, but it was successful, for I bribed my brother’s very jailer.
“About a week after this came the fifth and last act.
“Rhadda, the jailer, was to have ten thousand rupees and a free passage to Britain if he succeeded in smuggling my dear brother here beyond the gates of the temple, and coming, with me and him, to the British consul’s house.
“He agreed. Such a sum seemed a fortune to him.
“Now the temple was far away in a wood in the suburbs, and to make successful pursuit impossible I had hired three fleet horses, and they would be in waiting at a certain rendezvous, where I with my brother and Rhadda would meet them at a particular hour late at night.
“But I had something else to do before this took place. I was to eat food with the priests that night, and drink so-called ‘holy wine.’ It was arrack pure and simple.
“However, I must devise a means of leaving their company so as not to excite suspicion.
“The ‘holy wine’ was never taken out till all the servants had salaamed and retired for the night.”
Here Antonio smiled grimly.
“I made that ‘holy wine’ still more holy that evening,” he said; “and scarcely had the priests partaken twice of it, ere they sank to sleep on their divans or mats, or even beneath the table.
. . . . . .
“So far everything was satisfactory.
“But the servants constituted the danger. They slept on mats behind the doors or in the long corridors, so I determined to escape by the open window.
“I borrowed—well, perhaps it was theft—I stole, then, a long dark camels’-hair cloak to hide my white dress, and exchanged my turban for a little straw skull-cap.
“Next minute I was in the open air. And, José, were you not astonished when your jailer came in and told you your brother had come, and that you were free?”
“I fainted dead away,” said José. “But Rhadda was strong. He threw me across his shoulder, and soon I was in the open air. Oh, the gush of life and joy I felt now! But Rhadda carried me beyond the temple walls, and there—but you must finish the story, brother.”
“Yes, I was at the rendezvous first.
“‘Great heavens!’ I exclaimed, ‘the horses have not come. All, all will be lost.’
“I saw Rhadda bearing you along.
“But just at that moment the sound of great gongs was heard all over the temple. These gongs were like wild beasts roaring for vengeance. I was missed and my treatment of the priests was discovered.
“In a few minutes it would have been too late!
“Already shouting was heard within the walls.
“We were doomed to the torture and to death. The bush could not hide us long. But we were about to seek its friendly shelter, when to my intense joy the horses hove in sight, five in all, in charge of two natives.
“How the sight gladdened my heart!
“‘On, Rhadda, on,’ I cried, ‘and mount, José. I will follow.’
“Next moment, with sabres flashing in the starlight, two horsemen swept round the corner.
“My revolver broke the silence. Two men rolled to the ground, two riderless horses dashed away into the night and the darkness.
“Next minute we were mounted and off.
“We never drew bridle till we reached the house of the consul, and there we had protection and freedom.
“Rhadda had his ten thousand rupees, and was seen safely on board a passenger steamer. I believe he is in England at this present moment.”
. . . . . .
. . . . . .
There is little more to tell the reader.
After the long delightful cruise down the Mediterranean, the Zingara and her people returned, and a right hearty welcome they all received from the good people of Fisherton.
Antonio Garcia did as he had always said he would. He retired from a sea life and built himself a beautiful house among the woods, and here he dwells with his wife, his old mother, and José.
There are beautiful gardens around it, and these are José’s chief delight.
Antonio goes daily to his study in the old windmill, and the wild sea-birds seem to love him more than ever. Their screaming delights his ears, and brings him back dreams of days long past and gone.
Often he sleeps here all night, his faithful servant Pandoo seeing to his every wish and want. Then the wind howthering around the old windmill makes him think he is at sea once again, so his slumbers are sweet when the wind blows high.
Davie Drake is commander of an Atlantic liner or ocean greyhound.
Barclay Stuart is skipper of the trading ship Zingara, in which he had seen so many wild and strange adventures.
With Teenie by his side, then, like a true seaman he sails the wide world over.
But ever when he returns from a voyage his first visit is to Fisherton, to stay for a time with his mother and Phœbe, and visit Antonio and his wife every evening as certain as sunset.
. . . . . .
One summer’s day, while Antonio and his wife were in the beautiful and romantic upper room of the old windmill, there came soaring round and round among the other gulls one bird that appeared more timid than the others.
It alighted at last, however, and Antonio caught it gently.
He was about to let it fly away again when something attracted his attention.
“O dear Leona,” he cried, “come here quickly. See, see the little quill.”
Leona speedily snipped it off from the bird’s leg with her scissors.
She looked at it, and her colour came and went.
“It is undoubtedly,” she said, “one of the birds we despatched from the Sea of Sargasso.”
“It really seems so,” said Antonio. “It is sealed with red wax, too. Is it not truly marvellous?”
“Yes, indeed, dear.”
“But open it, Leona; open it.”
Leona snipped off one end, and shook out a tiny rolled scrap of paper.
“Dear Antonio,” it read, “excuse a joke. But thinking to astonish you, I captured one of your half tame sea-gulls, and now I send him home. We are two hundred miles from land. Hope he’ll get back all right. All’s well.—Your bad boy,
“Davie Drake.”
THE END
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