Chapter FIFTY NINE: The Tintoreras (2)

There, upon its calm clear surface, he made out a dark object moving away. It was a boat filled with forms, the oar-blades rising and tailing in measured stroke, flashing the phosphorescence on both sides. No wonder at his earnest look--his gaze of concentrated anguish! That boat held all that was dear to him--bearing that all away, he knows not whither, to a fate he dare not reflect upon. He could trace the outlines of land beyond, and perceive that the boat was being rowed for it, the barque at the same time sailing seaward, each instant widening the distance between them. But for a long while he could distinguish the black speck with luminous jets on either side, as the oar-blades intermittently rose and fell, till at length, entering within the shadow of the land, he lost sight of it.

"Gone! all gone!" groaned the bereaved father, his beard drooping down to his breast, his countenance showing he has surrendered up his soul to despair! So, too, Lantanas.

Then both ceased struggling and shouting, alike convinced of the idleness of such demonstrations. The chief officer a mutineer, so must all the others; and all had forsaken the ship. No; not all! There is one remains true, and who is still on her--the black cook. They heard his voice, though not with any hope. It came from a distant part of the ship in cries betokening distress. They could expect no help from him. He was either disabled, or, as themselves, fast bound.

Throughout the night they heard it; the intervals between becoming longer, the voice fainter, till he also, yielding to despair, was silent.

As the morning sun shines in through the stern windows, Don Gregorio can see they are out of sight of land. Only sea and sky are visible to him; but neither to Lantanas, whose face is the other way; so fastened he cannot even turn his head.

The barque is scudding before a breeze, which bears her still farther into the great South Sea; on whose broad bosom she might beat for weeks, months--ay, till her timbers rot--without sighting ship, or being herself descried by human eye. Fearful thought--appalling prospect to those constrained to sit at her cabin-table!

With that before their minds, the morning light brings no joy. Instead, it but intensifies their misery. For they are now sure they have no chance of being rescued.

They sit haggard in their chairs--for no sleep has visited the eyes of either--like men who have been all night long engaged in a drunken debauch.

Alas! how different! The glasses of wine before them are no longer touched, nor the fruits tasted. Neither the bouquet of the one, nor the perfume of the other, has any charm for them now. Either is as much beyond their reach, as if a thousand miles off, instead of on a table between them!

Gazing in one another's faces, they at once fancy it a dream. They can scarcely bring themselves to realise such a situation! Who could! The rude intrusion of the ruffian crew--the rough handling they have had-- the breaking open of the lockers--and the boxes of gold borne off--all seem but the phantasmagoria of some horrible vision!

CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE.

PARTITIONING THE SPOIL.

The same sun that shines upon the abandoned barque lights up the men who abandoned her, still on that spot where they came ashore. As the first rays fall over the cliff's crest, they show a cove of semicircular shape, backed by a beetling precipice. A ledge or dyke, sea-washed, and weed-covered, trends across its entrance, with a gate-like opening in the centre, through which, at high tide, the sea sweeps in, though never quite up to the base of the cliff. Between this and the strand lies the elevated platform already spoken of, accessible from above by a sloping ravine, the bed of a stream running only when it rains. As said, it is only an acre or so in extent, and occupying the inner concavity of the semicircle. The beach is not visible from it, this concealed by the dry reef which runs across it as the chord of an arc. Only a small portion of it can be seen through the portal which admits the tidal flow. Beyond, stretches the open sea outside the surf, with the breakers more than a mile off.

Such is the topography of the place where the mutineers have made landing and passed the night. When the day dawns, but little is there seen to betray their presence. Only a man seated upon a stone, nodding as if asleep, at intervals awakening with a start, and grasping at a gun between his legs; soon letting it go, and again giving way to slumber, the effects of that drunken debauch kept up to a late hour. He would be a poor sentinel were there need for vigilance.

Seemingly, there is none. No enemy is near--no human being in sight; the only animate objects some seabirds, that, winging their way along the face of the cliff, salute him with an occasional scream, as if incensed by his presence in a spot they deem sacred to themselves.

The sun fairly up, he rises to his feet, and walks towards the entrance of the larger cavern; then stopping in front of it, cries out:

"Inside there, shipmates! Sun's up--time to be stirring!"

Seeing him in motion, and hearing his hail, the gulls gather, and swoop around his head in continuous screaming. In larger numbers, and with cries more stridulent, as his comrades come forth out of the cave, one after another--yawning, and stretching their arms.

The first, looking seaward, proposes to refresh himself by a plunge in the surf; and for this purpose starts toward the beach. The others, taken with the idea, follow in twos and threes, till in a string all are _en route_ for the strand.

To reach this, it is necessary for them to pass through the gap in the transverse ledge; which the tide, now at ebb, enables them to do.

He who leads, having gone through it, on getting a view of the shore outside, suddenly stops; as he does so, sending back a shout. It is a cry of surprise, followed by the startling announcement:

"The boat's gone!"

This should cause them apprehension; and would, if they but knew the consequences. Ignorant of these, they make light of it, one saying:

"Let her go, and be damned! We want no boats now."

"A horse would be more to our purpose," suggests a second; "or, for that matter, a dozen."

"A dozen donkeys would do," adds a third, accompanying his remark with a horse-laugh. "It'll take about that many to pack our possibles."

"What's become of the old pinnace, anyhow?" asks one in sober strain; as, having passed through the rock-portal, they stand scanning the strand. All remember the place where they left the boat; and see it is not there.

"Has any one made away with it?"

The question is asked, and instantly answered, several saying, no. Striker, the man who first missed it, vouchsafes the explanation:

"The return tide's taken it out; an' I dar say, it's broke to bits on them theer breakers."

They now remember it was not properly moored, but left with painter loose; and do not wonder it went adrift. They care little, indeed nothing, and think of it no longer; but, stripping, plunge into the surf.

After bathing to their hearts' content, they return to the cavern, and array themselves in garments befitted to the life they intend leading. Their tarry togs are cast off, to be altogether abandoned; for each has a suit of shore clothes, brought away from the barque.

Every one rigged out in his own peculiar style, and breakfast despatched, they draw together to deliberate on a plan of future action. But first the matter of greatest moment--the partition of the spoils.

It is made in little time, and with no great trouble. The boxes are broken open, and the gold-dust measured out in a pannikin; a like number of measures apportioned to each.

In money value no one can tell the exact amount of his share. Enough satisfaction to know it is nigh as much as he can carry.

After each has appropriated his own, they commence packing up, and preparing for the inland journey. And next arises the question, what way are they to go?

They have already resolved to strike for the city of Santiago; but in what order should they travel? Separate into several parties, or go all together?

The former plan, proposed by Gomez, is supported by Padilla, Hernandez, and Velarde. Gomez gives his reasons. Such a large number of pedestrians along roads where none save horsemen are ever seen, could not fail to excite surprise. It might cause inconvenient questions to be asked them--perhaps lead to their being arrested, and taken before some village _alcalde_. And what story could they tell?

On the other hand, there will be the chance of coming across Indians; and as those on the Veraguan coast are ranked among the "bravos"--having preserved their independence, and along with it their instinctive hostility to the whites--an encounter with them might be even more dangerous than with any _alcalde_. Struggling along in squads of two or three, they would run a risk of getting captured, or killed, or scalped--perhaps all three.

This is the suggestion of Harry Blew, Striker and Davis alone favouring his view. All the others go against it, Gomez ridiculing the idea of danger from red men; at the same time enlarging on that to be apprehended from white ones.

As the majority have more reason to fear civilised man than the so-called savage, it ends in their deciding for separation. They can come together again in Santiago if they choose it; or not, should chance for good or ill so determine. They are all now amply provided for, playing an independent part in the drama of life; and with this pleasant prospect, they may part company without a sigh of regret.

CHAPTER SIXTY SIX.

A TENDER SUBJECT.

The pirates having definitively settled the mode of making their inland journey, there is a short interregnum; during which most of those ready for the road stand idling, one or two still occupied in equipping themselves.

La Crosse has been sent up the ravine, to report how things look landward.

The four Spaniards have signified their intention to remain a little longer on the ground; while the three Englishmen have not said when they will leave. These are together conferring in low voice; but with an earnestness in their eyes--especially Blew's--which makes it easy to guess the subject. Only thoughts of woman could kindle these fiery glances.

Soon all appear ready to depart. Still no one stirs from the spot. For there is something yet: still another question to be determined; to most of them a matter of little, though to some of all consequence.

In the latter light, two at least regard it; since with them it has been the source, the primary motive, the real spur to all their iniquitous action. In a word, it is the women.

The captives: how are they to be disposed of?

They are still within the grotto, unseen, as the sailcloth curtains it. Breakfast has been taken to them, which they have scarce touched.

And, now, the time has come for deciding what has to be done with them; no one openly asks, or says word upon the subject; though it is uppermost in the thoughts of all. It is a delicate question, and they are shy of broaching it. For there is a sort of tacit impression there will be difficulty about the appropriation of this portion of the spoils--an electricity in the air, that foretells dispute and danger. All along it had been understood that two men laid claim to them; their claim, whether just or not, hitherto unquestioned, or, at all events, uncontested. These, Gomez and Hernandez. As they had been the original designers of the supposed deed, now done, their confederates, men little given to love-making, had either not thought about the women, or deemed their possession of secondary importance. But now, at the eleventh hour, it has become known that two others intend asserting a claim to them--one being Blew, the other Davis.

And these two certainly seem so determined, their eyes constantly turning towards the grotto where the girls are, unconscious of the interest they are exciting.

At length the dreaded interrogatory is put--and point blank. For it is Jack Striker who puts it. The "Sydney Duck" is not given to sentiment or circumlocution.

Speaking that all may hear him, he blurts out:

"Well, chums? what are we to do wi' the weemen?"

"Oh! they?" answers Gomez in a drawling tone, and with an affectation of indifference. "_You've_ nothing to do with them, and needn't take any trouble. They'll go with us--with Senor Hernandez and myself."

"Will they, indeed?" sharply questions the chief officer.

"Of course," answers Gomez.

"I don't see any of course about it," rejoins Blew. "And more'n that, I tell ye they don't go with ye--leastwise, not so cheap as you think for."

"What do you mean, Mr Blew?" demands the Spaniard, his eyes betraying anger, with some uneasiness.

"No use your losin' temper, Gil Gomez. You ain't goin' to scare me. So you may as well keep cool. By doin' that, and listenin', you'll larn what I mean. The which is, that you and Hernandez have no more right to them creeturs in the cave than any o' the rest of us. Just as the gold, so ought it to be wi' the girls. In coorse, we can't divide them all round; but that's no reason why any two should take 'em, so long's any other two wants 'em as well. Now, _I_ wants one o' them."

"And I another!" puts in Davis.

"Yes," continues Blew; "and though I be a bit older than you, Mr Gomez, and not quite so pretentious a gentleman, I can like a pretty wench as well's yerself. I've took a fancy to the one wi' the tortoise-shell hair, an' an't goin' to gi'e her up in the slack way you seem to be wishin'."

"Glad to hear it's the red one, Blew," says Davis. "As I'm for the black one, there'll be no rivalry between us. Her I mean to have-- unless some better man hinders me."

"Well," interpolates Striker, "as 'twas me first put the questyun, I 'spose I'll be allowed to gi'e an opeenyun?"

No one saying nay, the ex-convict proceeds:

"As to any one hevin' a speecial claim to them weemen, nobody has, an' nobody shed have. 'Bout that, Blew's right, an' so's Bill. An' since the thing's disputed, it oughter be settled in a fair an' square--"

"You needn't waste your breath," interrupts Gomez, in a tone of determination. "I admit no dispute in the matter. If these gentlemen insist, there's but one way of settling. First, however, I'll say a word to explain. One of these ladies is my sweetheart--was, before I ever saw any of you. Senor Hernandez here can say the same of the other. Nay, I may tell you more; they are pledged to us."

"It's a lie!" cries Blew, confronting the slanderer, and looking him straight in the face. "A lie, Gil Gomez, from the bottom o' your black heart!"

"Enough!" exclaims Gomez, now purple with rage. "No man can give Frank Lara the lie, and live after."

"Frank Lara; or whatever you may call yerself, I'll live long enough to see you under ground--or what's more like, hangin' high above it wi' your throat in a halter. Don't make any mistake about me. I can shoot straight as you."

"Avast theer!" shouts Striker to Gomez, now calling himself De Lara, seeing him about to draw a pistol. "Keep yer hand off that wepun! If theer must be a fight, let it be a fair one. But, before it begin, Jack Striker has a word to say."

While speaking, he has stepped between the two men, staying their encounter.

"Yes; let the fight be a fair one!" demand several voices, as the pirates come clustering around.

"Look here, shipmates!" continues Striker, still standing between the two angry men, and alternately eyeing them. "What's the use o' spillin' blood about it--maybe killin' one the other? All for the sake o' a pair o' petticoats, or a couple o' pairs, as it be. Take my advice, an' settle the thing in a pacifical way. Maybe ye will, after ye've heerd what I intend proposin'; which I daresay 'll be satisfactory to all."

"What is it, Jack?" asks one of the outsiders.

"First, then, I'm goin' to make the observashun, that fightin' an't the way to get them weemen, whoever's fools enough to fight for 'em. Theer's somethin' to be done besides."

"Explain yourself, old Sydney! What's to be done besides?"

"If the gals are goin' to be fought for, they've first got to be _paid_ for."

"How that?"

"How? What humbuggin' stuff askin' such a questyin! Han't we all equil shares in 'em? Coorse we hev. Tharfore, them as wants 'em, must pay for 'em. An' they as wants 'em so bad as to do shootin' for 'em, surely won't objek to that. Theer appear to be four candydates in the field, an', kewrous enuf, they're set in pairs, two for each one o' the gals. Now, 'ithout refarin' to any fightin' that's to be done--an', if they're fools enuf to fight, let 'em--I say that eyther who eventyally gets a gal, shed pay a considerashin o' gold-dust all roun' to the rest o' us-- at least a pannikin apiece. That's what Jack Striker proposes first."

"It's fair," says Slush.

"Nothing more than our rights," observes Tarry; the Dane and the Dutchman also endorsing the proposal.

"I agree to it," says Harry Blew.

"I also," adds Davis.

De Lara--late Gomez--signifies his assent by a disdainful nod, but without saying a word; Hernandez imitating the action. In fear of losing adherents, neither dares disapprove of it.

"What more have you to say, Jack?" asks Slush, recalling Striker's last words, which seemed to promise something else.

"Not much. Only thet I think it a pity, after our livin' so long in harmony thegither, we can't part same way. Weemen's allers been a bother ever since I've know'd 'em. An', I 'spose, it'll continue so to the eend o' the chapter, an' the eend o' some lives heer. I repeet, thet it be a pity we shed hev to wind up wi' a quarrel wheer blood's bound to be spilt. Now, why, can't it be settled 'ithout thet? I think I know o' a way."

"What way?"

"Leave it to the ladies theirselves. Gi'e them the chance o' who they'd like for theer purtectors; same time lettin' 'em know they've got to choose 'tween one or t'other. Let 'em take theer pick, everybody unnerstanin' afterwards theer's to be no quarrellin', or fightin'. That's our law in the Australyin bush, when we've cases o' the kind; an' every bushranger hez to 'bide by it. Why shedn't it be the same heer?"

"Why shouldn't it?" asks Slush. "It's a good law--just and fair for all."

"I consent to it," says Blew, with apparent reluctance, as if doubtful of the result, yet satisfied to submit to the will of the majority. "I mayn't be neyther so young nor so good-lookin' as Mr Gomez," he adds; "I know I an't eyther. Still I'll take my chance. If she I lay claim to pronounces against me, I promise to stand aside, and say ne'er another word--much less think o' fightin' for her. She can go 'long wi' him, an' my blessin' wi' both."

"Bravo, Blew! You talk like a good 'un. Don't be afraid; we'll stand by you!"

This, from several of the outsiders.

"Comrades!" says Davis, "I place myself in your hands. If my girl's against me, I'm willin' to give her up, same as Blew."

What about the other two? What answer will they make to the proposed peaceful compromise? All eyes are turned on them, awaiting it.

De Lara speaks first, his eyes flashing fire. Hitherto he has been holding his anger in check, but now it breaks out, poured forth like lava from a burning mountain.

"_Carajo_!" he cries. "I've been listening a long time to talk--taking it too coolly. Idle talk, all of it; yours, Mr Striker, especially. What care we about your ways in the Australian bush. They won't hold good here, or with me. My style of settling disputes is this, or this." He touches his pistol-butt, and then the hilt of _machete_, hanging by his side, adding, "Mr Blew can have his choice."

"All right!" retorts the ex-man-o'-war's man. "I'm good for a bout with eyther, and don't care a toss which. Pistols at six paces, or my cutlass against that straight blade o' yours. Both if you like."

"Both be it. That's best, and will make the end sure. Get ready, and quick. For, sure as I stand here, I intend killing you!"

"Say, you intend tryin'. I'm ready to give you the chance. You can begin, soon's you feel disposed."

"And I'm ready for _you_, sir," says Davis, confronting Hernandez. "Knives, pistols, tomahawks--anything you like."

Hernandez hangs back, as though he would rather decline this combat _a outrance_.

"No, Bill!" interposes Striker; "one fight at a time. When Blew an' Gomez hev got through wi' theirs, then you can gi'e t'other his change-- if so be he care to hev it."

"T'other" appears gratified with Striker's speech, disregarding the innuendo. He had no thought it would come to this, and now looks as if he would surrender up his sweetheart without striking a blow. He makes no rejoinder; but shrinks back, cowed-like and craven.

"Yes; one fight at a time!" cry others, endorsing the dictum of Striker.

It is the demand of the majority, and the minority concedes it. All know it is to be a duel to the death. A glance at the antagonists--at their angry eyes and determined attitudes--makes this sure. On that lonely shore one of the two, if not both, will sleep his last sleep!

CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN.

A DUEL ADJOURNED.

The combat, now declared inevitable, its preliminaries are speedily arranged. Under the circumstances, and between such adversaries, the punctilios of ceremony are slight. For theirs is the rough code of honour common to robbers of all countries and climes.

No seconds are chosen, nor spoken of. All on the ground are to act as such; and at once proceed to business.

Some measure off the distance, stepping it between two stones. Others examine the pistols, to see that both are loaded with ball-cartridge, and carefully capped. The fight is to be with Colt's six-shooters, navy size. Each combatant chances to have one of this particular pattern. They are to commence firing at twelve paces, and if that be ineffectual, then close up, as either chooses. If neither fall to the shots, then to finish with the steel.

The captives inside the cave are ignorant of what is going on. Little dream they of the red tragedy soon to be enacted so near, or how much they themselves may be affected by its result. It is indeed to them the chances of a contrasting destiny.

The duellists take stand by the stones, twelve paces apart. Blew having stripped off his pilot-cloth coat, is in his shirt-sleeves. These rolled up to the elbow, expose ranges of tattooing, fouled anchors, stars, crescents, and a woman--a perfect medley of forecastle souvenirs. They show also muscles, lying along his arms like lanyards round a ship's stay. Should the shots fail, those arms promise well for wielding the cutlass; and if his fingers should clutch his antagonist's throat, the struggle will be a short one.

Still, no weak adversary will he meet in Francisco de Lara. He, too, has laid aside his outer garment--thrown off his scarlet cloak, and the heavy hat. He does not need stripping to the shirt-sleeves; his light _jaqueta_ of velveteen in no way encumbers him. Fitting like a glove, it displays arms of muscular strength, with a body in symmetrical correspondence.

A duel between two such gladiators might be painful, but for all, a fearfully interesting spectacle. Those about to witness it seem to think so, as they stand silent, with breath bated, and eyes alternately on one and the other.

As it has been arranged that Striker is to give the signal, the ex-convict, standing centrally outside the line of fire, is about to say a word that will set two men, mad as tigers, at one another--each with full resolve to fire, cut down, and kill.

There is a moment of intense stillness, like the lull which precedes a storm. Nothing heard save the tidal wash against the near strand, the boom of the distant breakers, and at intervals the shrill scream of a sea-bird.

The customary "Ready!" is forming on Striker's lips, to be followed by the "Fire!--one--two--three!" But not one of these words--not a syllable--is he permitted to speak. Before he can give utterance to the first, a cry comes down from the cliff, which arrests the attention of all; soon as understood, enchaining it.

It is La Crosse who sends it, shouting in accent of alarm--

"_Mon Dieu! we're on an island_!"

When the forest is on fire, or the savannah swept by flood, and their wild denizens flee to a spot uninvaded, the timid deer is safe beside the fierce wolf or treacherous cougar. In face of the common danger they will stand trembling together--the beasts of prey for the time gentle as their victims.

So with human kind; a case parallel, and in point, furnished by the crew of the _Condor_ with their captives.

The pirates, on hearing the cry of La Crosse, are at first only startled. But soon their surprise becomes apprehension; keen enough to stay the threatening fight, and indefinitely postpone it. For at the words "We're on an island!" they are impressed with an instinctive sense of danger; and all, intending combatants as spectators, rush up the ravine, to the summit of the cliff, where La Crosse is still standing.

Arrived there, and casting their eyes inland, they have evidence of the truth of his statement. A strait, leagues in width, separates them from the mainland. Far too wide to be crossed by the strongest swimmer amongst them--too wide for them to be descried from the opposite side, even through a telescope! And the inland is a mere strip of sea-washed rock, running parallel to the coast, cliff-bound, table-topped, sterile, treeless--and, to all appearance, waterless!

As this last thought comes uppermost--along with the recollection that their boat is gone--what was at first only a flurry of excited apprehension, becomes a fixed fear.

Still further intensified, when after scattering over the islet, and exploring it from end to end, they again come together, and each party delivers its report. No wood save some stunted bushes; no water-- stream, pond, or spring; only that of the salt sea rippling around; no sign of animal life, except snakes, scorpions, and lizards, with the birds flying above--screaming as if in triumph at the intruders upon their domain being thus entrapped!

For they are so, and clearly comprehend it. Most of them are men who have professionally followed the sea, and understand what it is to be "castaways." Some have had actual experience of it, and need no reminding of its dangers. To a man, they feel their safety as much compromised, as if the spot of earth under their feet, instead of being but three leagues from land--were three thousand--for that matter in the middle of the Pacific.

What would they not now give to be again on board the barque sent sailing thither to miserably perish? Ah! their cruelty has come back upon them like a curse.

The interrupted duel--what of it? Nothing. It is not likely ever to be fought. Between the _ci-devant_ combatants, mad anger and jealous rivalry may still remain. But neither shows it now; both subdued, in contemplation of the common peril.

Blew, to all appearance, is less affected than his antagonist; but all are cowed--awed by a combination of occurrences, that look as though an avenging angel had been sent to punish them.

From that moment Carmen Montijo and Inez Alvarez will be safe in their midst, as if promenading the streets of Cadiz, or flirting their fans at a _funcion de toros_.

Safe, as far as being molested by the ruffians around them. Yet, alas! exposed to the danger overhanging all--death from starvation.

A fearful fate threatens the late crew of the Chilian barque, in horror equalling that to which those left aboard of her have been consigned. Well may they deem it a retribution--that God's hand is upon them, meting out a punishment apportioned to their crime!

But surely He will not permit the innocent to suffer with the guilty? Let us hope--pray, He will not.

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-a-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 Inez?"

"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.