“Only the wind, patre,” José answered, in a languid, dream-like voice.
“No! Surely not the wind. Hark, again!”
“Thunder, patre? The God of glory thundereth.”
“It may be—yes. Yet, no, no! Too continuous for that. Listen, José.”
“They are putting the ship about. Take care, patre, you will be hurt.
Turn your head the other way.”
With some help from José Fray Fernando changed his position.
“José!” he said again, “that sound we hear is the boom of great guns. We
are attacked by an enemy; God have mercy upon us!”
“Christ have mercy upon us!” José echoed. Then both were silent, in the
solemn hush of inward prayer.
José was the first to break that silence. “Now, indeed, patre,” he said,
“the great Inca sends His messenger Death to bid us drink with Him.”
“Well, we are ready.”
“_Ready?_—Is it not His own cup, from which, first, He drank Himself?”[54]
For days, weeks, months perhaps, they two had lived in continual
expectation of death, “dying daily.” And when now at last they saw death
face to face, they felt no terror—no, not even fear—but a still and
reverent awe, befitting those who stood in the presence of the minister
and messenger of the great King.
Meanwhile the boom of the guns went on, and “the voice of them that shout
for mastery, and the noise of them that cry, being overcome,” reached
the hold where the captives lay. Until at last all manner of fearful,
discordant sounds seemed rolled and mingled together in a continuous
uproar. Now and then a crash, like the fall of a mast, was heard; or the
heavy thud of a cannon-shot perilously near their dungeon.
As they sat hand in hand, listening breathlessly, José whispered, “Would
we even knew who our enemies are!”
“They are pirates, doubtless. They will not try to sink the ship, their
object being, of course, to get possession of the treasure on board.”
“Thank God for that. Perhaps, after all, we may see the sun before we
die.”
“But think of the gallant soldiers and the poor unhappy mariners, José.
Let us ask God to have mercy on them.”
“With all my heart. No doubt, by this time, many a brave man is lying
low.”
They prayed silently for all on board; for the commander, the captain,
the soldiers, the mariners. While they were thus occupied, the noises
grew fainter, or perhaps they heard them less.
At last there came a deafening shout that seemed to burst at once from
a hundred throats. Neither José nor Fray Fernando had heard anything
like it in their lives before. “God help us!” said Fray Fernando. “We are
overcome.” For he knew that was a shout of triumph, and one which did not
come from Spanish lips.
No further firing was heard; only confused noises of various kinds,—and
voices. After a delay, long to their anxious suspense, steps drew near.
“They are going to rifle the hold where the treasure is,” said Fray
Fernando.
Without consulting him, indeed to his surprise and dismay, José, with
considerable effort, stood up, and placing his lips as near the hatchway
as possible, raised a loud shrill cry, as one who called for help.
“O José! beware what you do.”
“Why, patre? Wherein can our condition be worse than it is? Who can be
more our enemies than the Spaniards?”
Once again he cried aloud, throwing all the strength that months of
suffering had left him into that cry.
Not in vain. The hatchway was torn up rudely; and some one called out in
Spanish, though with a foreign accent, “Quien es?”
Then they heard the voice of a Spaniard, evidently giving some kind of
explanation. Then a brief parley ensued. At last a ladder was put down
through the hatchway, and the prisoners were ordered to come up.
An order more easily given than obeyed by men who by this time were
scarcely able to stand. Two or three sunburnt bearded faces looked down
from the hatchway; and their owners, convinced that either the will or
the power to ascend the ladder was wanting to the prisoners, speedily
descended, and with small ceremony helped or dragged them to the light.
One strong fellow put his arm round José, and fairly carried him up the
ladder. Still up—up—up—until at last he met a blinding blaze of sunlight,
and a gust of sea wind, “shrill, chill, with flakes of foam,” swept over
his bewildered, throbbing brow.
Presently some one held to his lips a cup of the commandante’s rare old
wine. Revived by the draught, he looked around him, shading his eyes from
the light with his brown transparent hand. He was lying on the deck of
the _Trionfo_. But his first distinct impression was of the blue sea,
its waves tipped with foam; over them a white-winged sea-bird; in the
distance one black hull—was it the _San Cristofero_? Turning his eyes to
the other side, he noticed a strange-looking ship, apparently fastened
to the _Trionfo_, but much smaller, and in form and fashion quite unlike
anything he had ever seen before. But what was immediately around him
soon drew his attention, blotting out all else from his sight. There—on
the deck—horrors undreamed of met his view. Blood everywhere, and men
lying dead: some as if in quiet sleep; and some, with clenched hands
and agonized faces, whose last struggle seemed scarcely over yet. Rough
uncouth figures moved to and fro amongst them, most of them carrying
burdens. But Fray Fernando was nowhere to be seen.
The man who had given José the wine made some remark in a foreign tongue,
which, from its tone, was evidently designed to encourage him, and
assure him of safety. But before he had collected his scattered senses
sufficiently to attempt a reply in Spanish or Latin, his new friend was
called away to another part of the ship.
So he lay still where he was, in utter bewilderment—trying to think,
trying to comprehend.
At length a suppressed moan close beside him reached his ear, and brought
him to himself at once. The low sound was more effectual to rouse him
than the thunder of all the ship’s guns would have been.
It was a moan evidently wrung by overpowering agony from a brave man’s
reluctant lips. José looked. Not two paces from him lay a wounded
cavalier, his splendid dress all torn and blood-stained, his face
ghastly, his hand upon his breast, as if to stay the streams of blood
that were bearing life away.
A moment more and José, strong enough now in his heart’s tenderness and
pity, was kneeling beside his enemy, Don Francisco Solis. Raising him
gently in his arms, he tore his own tunic to bind his wound, and put the
wine-cup to his lips from which he himself had drunk so lately.
In vain. At every breath the blood welled faster. The hand of Death was
on the proud young cavalier. Yet not all in vain. He tried to speak.
“Call some of my people,” he murmured. “Varco—Rodriguez—Martin—what has
become of them all?”
“I believe the ship is in the hands of pirates,” José said. “The
soldiers, no doubt, have been slain or made prisoners. Anything I can do
for you, I will.”
“Who are you?”
“One who bears you good-will. You are sorely wounded, I fear.”
“I am slain. With this blood my life flows out. Call me a priest.”
“That I know not how to do. Put your trust in the mercy of God—in the
blessed Saviour who died for you.”
Don Francisco feebly raised his hand, seeking something suspended round
his neck. José found it for him, and put it to his lips. It was a small
gold cross, with a costly jewel in the centre, beneath which was inserted
a relic of inestimable price, a fragment of “the true cross.” “Oh, Señor
Don Francisco!” said José earnestly, “look with your heart to Christ.
He can pardon your sins. He can save you, and take you this day home to
Himself. Think of Him.”
But it was a thought of earth that filled the heart of the dying man at
that moment. “Will you show me Christian charity for the love of God?” he
murmured.
“For the love of God—I surely will.”
“Then bring—or send—this cross to my beloved wife, Doña Victoria Solis,
at Cuzco.—But what is this?” he faltered, making an effort to look up.
“Your tongue Spanish, your face brown—who are you, in Heaven’s name?”
“One who will do your errand faithfully, Don Francisco Solis de
Toledo—though he grieves that it is so sad a one. Is there any message
you desire to send with the cross—to Coyllur?”
“Tell her—ah, my breath is failing—tell her I did my duty—like an
honourable and valiant noble of Castile—and that I truly loved
her—thought of her to the last. Although—Tell her—”
No more was to be told. Already the mists of the great darkness were
gathering over the eyes of Don Francisco. Still he tried to murmur
something, which José’s utmost efforts failed to catch. But he held the
cross before him, that his last conscious look might rest upon the symbol
of divine love and forgiveness. And thus, with his head pillowed on the
breast of his enemy, and the hand he had disdained to fight ministering
tenderly to his last earthly needs, the haughty spirit of Don Francisco
Solis passed away.
José, scarce willing to believe that all was over, still held him in his
arms, when a tall, strongly-built man, not without a rough stateliness
and dignity of manner, came up the companion-ladder, stood near the two
figures, the dead and the living, and looked thoughtfully at them. His
hair and beard were black, and his complexion well sunburnt. His dress
was plain,—a buff leather jerkin, evidently the worse for the recent
fight; but a sword with a jewelled hilt was stuck in his belt;—it had no
sheath, and was still bloody.
“My poor fellow,” he said to José, in imperfect Spanish, “your master is
dead.”
“The señor commandante was not my master,” José answered, looking up. “He
was my enemy.”
“Your enemy!” the other repeated in surprise. “In that case you have
proved yourself a Christian, and a good one. You are one of the two
prisoners whom we found in the hold?”
“Yes, señor.”
“You are free now. We Englishmen set the captives free, and deliver the
oppressed, wherever we go.”
“_Englishmen!_ Are you indeed Englishmen? Then I thank God that I have
lived to see this day.”
“I am glad you have such a good opinion of us. And I hope we shall give
you no reason to change it. We are ready to welcome you on board our good
ship yonder, the _Sea Snake_, of London. Your fellow-captive is there
already.”
He turned, apparently to bid one of his men conduct José to the English
ship. But in the moment that he did so, something met his eye that
changed the current of his thoughts. It was the black hull of the galley,
the only ship in sight, which was now no longer lessening to a speck on
the horizon, but very rapidly growing larger.
Brief orders in a foreign tongue were issued to those around; and José
soon saw the strange uncouth figures swarming like bees up the ladders
and from every part of the _Trionfo_, back to their own ship, each
bearing his burden.
He could not in the least comprehend what was going forward; the whole
scene in which he moved was a bewildering mystery to him. One thing alone
he realized: yonder was the galley _San Cristofero_, and Walter Grey, a
captive Englishman, sat chained to one of its oars.
He gently laid down his lifeless burden, and springing forward, threw
himself in the way of the personage who had addressed him, just as he was
about to leave the deck of the _Trionfo_. “Señor and captain,” he said,
“in yonder galley there is an Englishman—a slave.”
The English captain thundered some explanation in his own tongue, and
laying his hand on his sword, looked at the galley as if the fire in
his eyes would alone suffice to destroy it. But he had not an instant to
lose. Pointing to José, he spoke three words to a young man who stood
beside him, and was on his own quarter-deck ere their echo had died away.
The young sailor gave José to understand by signs that he had been told
to conduct him to the English ship. José gazed sadly on the dead face
of his enemy, then closed his eyes, and taking off his own yacollo,
laid it decently and reverently over him. That done, he followed his
guide from the deck of the _Trionfo_ to that of the _Sea Snake_—then
down a companion-ladder, to a small, dimly-lighted cabin. The Englishman
being apparently under an impression, not altogether unfounded, that
the Spaniards starved their prisoners, quickly set before him a huge
platter of boiled beef, a mountain of biscuit, and a great leathern jack
of strong ale. That done, he disappeared in a moment, leaving José very
thankful for what seemed a marvellous providential deliverance, but much
perplexed by the whole affair.
It was a most joyful surprise to hear the voice of Fray Fernando out of
the gloom. “I am glad you have come, José.”
The monk was lying on a mattress which had been laid for him in a corner
of the cabin; but so imperfect was the light admitted by the one small
window of thick horn, that José had not perceived him until then. He
explained: “Between the unaccustomed sunshine and the feebleness of my
long unused limbs I contrived to slip, and hurt my ankle. It will not
signify. They laid me here very kindly, and they have given me everything
I needed.”
“Can you comprehend what has befallen us, patre?”
“I have learned somewhat from the padre of the English, who paid me a
brief visit here—‘Sir Thomas,’ they call him. He seems to be a good,
humane man.”
“I suppose we are in the hands of English pirates—buccaneers?” said José.
“That certainly cannot be doubted. They call their ship a merchant
vessel, and avow that they have come to the Spanish Main to trade for
sandal-wood. Of course their trade is in itself contraband, even if it
were not merely a cloak to cover piracy. The _Trionfo_, laden with gold
and silver, and separated from the Plate fleet by the recent storm, was
only too tempting a prize. They bore down upon us, all sails crowded,
determined to fight.”
“But, patre, the _Trionfo_ is five times the size of this little ship.”
“True; but size is one thing, and strength another. I have heard it
said ere this that our ships are built for carrying treasure, theirs
for winning it by force of arms. You are aware the _Trionfo_ was always
accounted unwieldy, and not over well appointed. Moreover, the damage she
received in the gale was scarce repaired as thoroughly as might be. The
English guns did great execution upon her, her huge bulk exposing her the
more; while the small craft of the pirates, bristling with fortifications
from stem to stern, took little harm from all our firing. The _San
Cristofero_ came near to help us, and indeed gave the enemy volley after
volley, but not, it seems, to much purpose. We had several shots between
wind and water, and at last our main-mast was cut away. It was feared the
ship would sink, with all on board; so the captain and others prayed the
commandante to lower his flag. He treated the proposal as an insult, and
swore to slay the first man who should name surrender in his hearing.
But, shortly afterwards, a mortal wound laid him low. Almost at the same
moment the buccaneers threw out their grappling-irons, and prepared to
board our ship. Then the captain and two or three of the officers hoisted
a flag of truce. The buccaneers only wanted plunder—our great ship, if
they had it, could serve them nothing—so it was not difficult to come to
terms. The English call the capitulation an honourable one for us—but God
help Captain Manuel Sergaz, and the officers who took part with him,
when they get to Spain!—if ever they reach it, which the present state
of the ship renders, I fear, very doubtful. They will probably make once
more for our friendly island, that they may repair damages and refit for
the voyage.”
“Patre,” said José, “Don Francisco Solis died in my arms.” He paused,
overcome by emotion of many kinds; nor could he regain sufficient
composure to pursue the subject. Presently he added, “At all events, we
are free. Let us thank God for that.”
“Amen!”
“Patre, I saw the captain of the English. He spoke to me. He is not like
what I expected: not blue-eyed and fair-haired, like Walter Grey.”
“The English priest tells me he is a brave man, and a good Christian.
Though how the latter can be consistent with his buccaneering exploits, I
confess I scarcely understand. His name is Captain George Noble, and he
is the son of a wealthy merchant of London.”
Here their voices were drowned by a shrill, horrible, deafening cry—such
a cry as José, at least, had never heard before. He gazed at Fray
Fernando in consternation.
“That must be the _chamado_, the cry of the galley-slaves when they
advance to the attack,” said the monk.
José was greatly excited. “Patre, forgive me,” he exclaimed. “Needs must
that I go on deck and see what is happening there. I will bring you
tidings.”
XLII.
Joyful Meetings.
“O give thanks unto the Lord, for he is good: for his mercy
endureth for ever. Let the redeemed of the Lord say so, whom he
hath redeemed from the hand of the enemy.”
Ps. cvii. 1, 2.
The commander of the _San Cristofero_, while he seemed to be leaving
the _Trionfo_ to her fate, had been only making use of a stratagem. He
sheered off from the English ship, and rowed to a considerable distance,
fully intending to return so soon as the mariners, engaged in boarding
the great galleon, should have left their own vessel deserted and
defenceless. Then he hoped, with some help from the survivors of the
_Trionfo_, to sink or take her without difficulty. But the cowardice (as
he esteemed it) of those who commanded the galleon, in capitulating to
the English, somewhat disconcerted his plans. On seeing the white flag
put up, however, he at once ordered the slaves to row back to the scene
of the conflict. This was done with the rapidity and directness which
gave the galleys, in their independence of the action of the wind, such
an advantage over sailing-vessels. Then he issued orders for an immediate
onslaught. But he did not find the English as utterly unprepared as he
expected. Moreover, the _Trionfo_ failed to co-operate with her ally.
Already she had moved away; and either honour, prudence, or most likely
the absolute necessities of her own situation, prevented her return to
help the _San Cristofero_. So it was possible that, ere the end of that
day’s conflict, the commander of the galley might have occasion to recall
the Spanish proverb about those who “go out for wool, and come home
shorn.”
By the time that José, not without difficulty, climbed the ladder and
stood on the deck, the English had already driven back their assailants,
and pursued them on board the galley—roused to tenfold fury by their
captain’s hint that an Englishman was chained to one of its oars. Eagerly
did José gaze at the _San Cristofero_, but to his unpractised eye it
presented nothing save hideous and bewildering confusion. Those uncouth
figures, roughly clad, simply armed, swarmed all over it, with strong
cutlasses in their hands, hewing, smiting, struggling, in fierce conflict
with the stately, well-appointed Spanish soldiers.
But anon something happened that even José understood full well. The
first care of the English, on boarding the galley, had been to supply
the slaves with the means of freeing themselves from their fetters. Now
the work was accomplished, and with one fierce yell the gaunt figures
arose, each from his place, and sprang upon their hated tyrants like
blood-hounds on their prey. The vengeance of years was in every blow
they struck. José distinctly saw the quatrero—the captain of Walter’s
oar—seize the commissary, and after a moment’s desperate struggle, whirl
him round and fling him over the galley’s side into the seething depths
beneath. Then he saw the young sailor who had been his own guide on board
the English ship stand for one moment face to face with Walter Grey—then
put his arm round him, guard him through the _mêlée_, and lead him to the
spot where the captain was.
But what followed utterly baffled José’s comprehension. It was not until
afterwards that he learned that the soldiers of the _San Cristofero_,
now attacked at once by two terrible enemies, feared their own slaves
more than the English, and were glad to yield to the latter, and to be
taken on board their vessel as prisoners of war. That done, the liberated
slaves, who were now the masters of the galley, returned once more
to their oars and rowed away, free to go whithersoever they pleased,
provided only they came not within the shadow of the yellow flag of Spain.
But little did José care whither they went,—in that rapturous moment
when he grasped once more the hand of Walter Grey, and knew that his
friend was a free man now and for ever. He had thought it impossible
to be further surprised at anything, that day of surprises. But he was
certainly astonished to see the English captain take Walter Grey in his
great blood-stained arms, kiss him mouth to mouth, and then, throwing
off his cap, and raising his eyes to heaven, thank God solemnly before
them all. The rough mariners who stood around seemed to share his
emotion: they also bared their heads and added a reverent “Amen” to the
thanksgiving. Then a few anxious words, spoken hurriedly by Walter Grey,
won a brief but apparently satisfactory answer from the captain. Then the
young sailor, José’s guide, came forward also and embraced his rescued
countryman. And at last the strange proceedings concluded with a ringing,
vociferous English cheer which made José’s heart leap to his lips.
Before its echo had died away he was going back to the cabin to tell the
patre all, when Walter Grey intercepted him, embraced him affectionately,
and taking his hand, led him to the captain, to whom he spoke a few words
in his native tongue.
The captain immediately stretched out his own right hand to the Indian.
“Don José,” he said, in his imperfect Spanish, “Master Walter Grey, who
is my dear friend and kinsman, tells me that you have been a true brother
to him in the time of his adversity; and that, but for you, he would
not be here alive this day. I owe you more thanks than I can speak in
a breath. Come and sup with me. Our worthy chaplain is fluent in your
tongue, and will find words better than I can for what I wish to say to
you.”
About an hour afterwards a select party assembled in the state-cabin
of the _Sea Snake_. It consisted of Captain George Noble; two or three
gentlemen-volunteers on board his ship, including his own younger brother
and José’s guide, James Noble; the chaplain, Sir Thomas Hartfield; Walter
Grey, dressed now like an English gentleman; Fray Fernando; and, lastly,
José. The commander of the _San Cristofero_ had been courteously invited,
but had excused himself, to the comfort of all.
The viands were indifferent; but the wine, which was part of the spoil
of the _Trionfo_, made amends, and was duly appreciated by most of the
party. But whatever else the little festival lacked, in one thing it was
favourably distinguished from many more pretentious entertainments—every
man who took his seat at the board had a truly happy and thankful heart.
Even although the attack of the _San Cristofero_ had prevented their
rifling the _Trionfo_ as thoroughly as they would otherwise have done,
gold and silver enough had been won that day to make the fortunes both
of the owners and of the crew of the _Sea Snake_. If it was not strictly
true of the latter, that “the youngest cabin-boy amongst them might be a
captain for riches,” the glowing hyperbole was little more than a natural
and pardonable exaggeration. Perhaps only those who have greatly dared
and greatly suffered can taste the full joy of such success, more than
crowning their utmost hopes.
Yet this was the least joy of that joyful day. When the meal was over,
the captain filled a cup of wine, and, addressing Fray Fernando and José
in the best Spanish he could muster, said, very simply, “Señores and
true brothers, I desire to pledge you this day in grateful friendship.
First, however, I would fain let you know what I and others owe to
your kindness. I have not much Spanish, as you perceive; but our good
chaplain, who has the tongue of the learned, shall speak for me.”
“Nay,” said Walter Grey, with eager emotion, “let me speak. I know all.”
“Tell your own tale, if you will, my boy,” said the captain, looking at
him affectionately. “Mine you cannot tell, for as yet you know it not.”
“And mine,” Walter acquiesced, “our dear friends know already.”