THE SMUGGLERS
It was deep night; but the beacon on the Cabo de San Antonio, winking
with a blinding glare like the eye of a Cyclops, broke the foam curling
under the _Garbosa's_ bow into spangles of colored radiance and sent a
seething, restless, dancing pathway of fire out over the troubled
waters. The adventurers were sailing close in shore before a faint land
breeze. To starboard lowered the gigantic battlements of the Point,
precipitous, weather-beaten, blackened by storm and sea. Inland against
the starlit sky the somber Mongo reared its lofty head.
It had taken a whole day to cross the Gulf of Valencia; but now beyond
the Cape the fair road to Algiers was opening, and the _Garbosa_ would
soon be out on the deep sea. Astern at the tiller, his eye studying the
black outline of the promontory and checking up his bearings on the
murky glass face of an old compass of _tio_ Mariano's, sat the Rector,
anxiously consulting Tonet, the experienced hand on board, the only
member of the crew who had been "across the way."
"Easy as could be. The Cape, and then Southeast, Southeast, without
swerving. Set her right, and she'll get there by herself, if this wind
holds!"
The Rector gave a pull at the tiller with both hands. The _Garbosa_,
groaning like an invalid turning over in bed, swung around to the
course. The gentle swell that had been roiling her slightly from abeam
she now caught full under the bow, and she began to pitch, setting the
foam aboil. The light now came from dead astern, dousing its white sweep
in the rippling wake of the vessel.
"And now for a bit of sleep!" Tonet stretched out on a coil of line at
the foot of the mast and pulled a piece of canvas over him. His brother
would steer till midnight, when it would be his turn till dawn.
The Rector was now the only one awake on board the _Garbosa_. The
thrashing of the water forward was not loud enough to drown the snores
from the crew sleeping almost at his feet. For the first time in his
life, Pascualo was uneasy. He could draw a seine in a full gale. He had
never thought once of danger in the worst of weather. But now, in his
loneliness, he was filled with all manner of forebodings. How was this
venture going to turn out? What a responsibility to be in charge of
one's own enterprise! Would the old hulk hold together if a storm struck
her? Supposing they were caught on the way back with a full load! And he
sat on, listening to the agonized moans that came from the _Garbosa's_
joints, as she took the seas, or looking up at the throats of the giant
bellying canvas which, as it swayed to and fro, seemed to be scraping
the sky with the point of the mast.
But the night wore on uneventfully, and the dawn came, with a flock of
red clouds, and as hot as a mid-summer's morning. The sail now kept
flapping like the wing of a great bird in lazy flight. The wind was
coming in barely perceptible gusts that tickled the surface of the
burnished, prostrate sea, as blue as a Venetian mirror. The mainland was
completely down. Away off to port some pink blotches, hardly
distinguishable from the mist of sunrise, vaguely dimmed the horizon
line. "That's Ibiza off there!" Tonet called to his companions. Slowly
the _Garbosa_ crept along over the tranquil, circular immensity, beyond
whose rim black lines could occasionally be seen--the smoke of distant
steamers. A bare ripple under the vessel's bows marked her virtual
immobility. The sail hung lifeless from the mast, sweeping back over the
deck at times as a capricious zephyr headed the course. Looking down
over the sides, the eye plunged deep into the blue waters, where the
sky, the clouds and the boat were mirrored in bottomless mystery.
Schools of fish darted by underneath, shining like bits of tin. Dolphins
were playing about on the surface close at hand, showing their absurd
muzzles and their black sides sprinkled with diamond dust. Flying fish,
the butterflies of the sea, came up, flitted along for a distance, and
then sank again into the depths. Strange beings of fantastic shapes and
indescribable colors, some gayly striped like tigers, others in mournful
black, some huge and chubby, others small and wiry, some with cavernous
mouths and tiny bellies, others with enormous bodies and ridiculous
little snouts, swarmed around the old boat, as though the _Garbosa_ were
one of those mythological craft that used to lead processionals of
marine divinities.
Tonet and the two sailors were taking advantage of the calm to fish with
hand lines. The "cat" was busy forward with the midday meal. The Rector
was pacing the narrow deck astern, scanning the horizon and swearing for
wind. The _Garbosa_ was eating her way slowly along, but to all
appearances she might have been nailed to the surface of that placid
sea. Now, in the distance, a schooner was visible, caught in the calm,
her sails sagging, east-bound, for Malta or Suez, probably. Great
steamers occasionally slipped past along the horizon line, their funnels
smoking, their decks almost level with the water from the loads of
Russian wheat they were carrying from the Black Sea to the Straits.
And the sun rose high in the heavens. The waters shone with a dazzling
glare as though boiling from an infinite conflagration. The decks of
the _Garbosa_ grew hot, and her old timbers cracked stridently as they
shrank. Captain and crew ate dinner under the shade of the sail,
scooping with their spoons in the same spot, drinking deep draughts from
the wine jug to cool their parched throats, their shirts open in front,
sweating in streams, panting from the lifeless sultry calm, enviously
watching the gulls that sailed by just above the water, as though afraid
of the stifling muggy air on high. After their meal, the men walked
about on deck for a time, lazily, and with heavy eyes, drunk with
sunlight rather than with wine; then they went below, one after the
other, throwing themselves flat on boards that were wet with
bilge-water, and sagged under the slightest weight. So the afternoon,
and another night went by.
At dawn the wind freshened, and the _Garbosa_, like an old war-horse
touched with the spur, leapt forward, careering and dancing over the
ruffled waters. About noon clouds of smoke began to rise along the
horizon ahead, and gradually from the girdling sash of green sky, thick
steel masts with battletops, the towers of forts, it seemed, came into
view, and under them, floating castles painted white, spotted black with
thousands of men, going this way and that through their own smoke, now
forming in squares, now stringing out along the whole horizon--a flock
of Leviathans, churning the water with invisible fins.
Algiers could not be far away! That was the French Mediterranean
squadron, out for practice. God, what big boats people were making
nowadays! The smallest of those monsters, the white cruiser, with all
those flags and black balls, that kept going in and out among the other
ships, signaling and directing the evolutions, would only have to graze
the _Garbosa_ to reduce her to kindling wood! And those black pipes
sticking out of the turrets! One sneeze from those snouts, and it would
be all day with the Rector's outfit and part of to-morrow! The smugglers
studied the fleet with the uneasy respect a pickpocket has for a squad
of policemen marching by.
About three o'clock, a dark irregularity, something like the arched back
of a whale, rose on the horizon ahead! Land! And Tonet, who remembered
having seen it before, called it the _Cabo de la Mala Dona_, the
farthest outpost of the coast. Algiers was more to port! The breeze was
freshening every moment. The swelling lateen sail, as the boat heeled,
described a saucy curve on the tilted mast The prow went merrily up and
down, throwing a lively spray from the chop. The _Garbosa_, old horse,
was smelling her oats, and bolting along the last lap to the stable,
though every bone in her strained!
They were heading East-Southeast now; and by evening-fall, on the flanks
of the _Mala Dona_, indistinct still in the haze to starboard, could
nevertheless be seen the rolling tops of hills, and white blotches that
meant villages. Then, as the boat continued its rapid flight, these
faded from view, but the coast itself was up, ahead. The _Garbosa_
hugged the shore. With night, the saw-toothed crest of a ridge of
mountains, climbed up against the sky; and the wind veered to southward,
blowing off the land, warm, and fragrant with the perfume of an
enchanted country. Low in the west hung the new moon, a real Oriental
crescent, fine drawn with curving points--just as you saw it embroidered
on the standards of the Prophet, or shining from the weathervanes of
Mahometan minarets! That was what you called being in Africa! The beat
of the surf was audible from the _Garbosa's_ decks, and even calls from
Moors ashore there in the fields. Clusters of lights could be made out
along the coast--towns off there! Then, the sky above the end of the
mountain chain to the Eastward began to grow ruddy; the sea broke inland
in a capricious curve; and soon many, many lights began to glow.
Algiers!
In three hours they were in the roadstead. Now there were lights, of
varied grouping and intensity, everywhere, hundreds of them, winding
along in a serpentine course to mark a seashore boulevard. The
_Garbosa_, luffing slightly, shot round a promontory, and the city
itself, in all the splendor of a Levantine port, was before them.
_Cristo_, never mind _flor de mayo_ and _alguilla_! It was worth the
trip to see just that! And folks bragged about the harbor at the Grao!
The humble fishermen stood there mouths agape; with the exception of
Tonet, of course, who had seen many better things in his trip around the
world! The water of the great bay was absolutely calm. A red and green
beacon marked the entrance to the basin. The city climbed a hill in the
background, the houses shining white even in the dark, from the millions
of lights that suggested a festival. What a waste of gas! Long snaky
stripes of color came out over the surface of the water, flecked here
with the harbor lights of a merchant vessel, there with the
distinguishing marks of a man-o'-war. Off in this direction was the
European city--the brightest section, the restaurants and bazaars all
lighted up, while the black ant-like forms of people, and the
canvas-tops of swiftly moving vehicles, could be seen on the streets.
And what a strange mixture of sounds! Music from the cafes, trumpet
calls from the barracks, talking and shouting from the boulevards, cries
from boatmen on the water--the blended murmurings of a cosmopolitan city
of trade, cheating all day long for the money it wastes in pleasure
after sundown.
The Rector could not indulge in the ecstasies of wonderment too long.
His mind went back to business. The men of the crew were gathering in
the sail preparatory to lying to. Faithful to _tio_ Mariano's
instructions, Pascualo took a piece of tarred cable, set fire to it, and
began to describe circles above his head, in series of threes, marked
off by hiding the torch behind a piece of canvas which the "cat" held up
in front of it. The signal was repeated many many times, the Rector
meanwhile gazing steadily at the darkest part of the water-front. Tonet
and the others stood around watching the operations curiously. Finally a
red lantern gleamed on shore. The "market" had understood the message.
They would soon be off with the cargo.
The Rector explained the fine points of all this signaling. It wasn't
wise to take on a load inside the basin. _Tio_ Mariano knew, from
experience, that detectives were always on the watch there, ready to
telegraph the name and description of any boat likely to be smuggling.
These spies got a percentage on the profits of the confiscation. It was
better to load up outside, and at night. By morning they would be off
again, with absolutely no one the wiser. Then they could make Valencia
without any trouble at all. For, who the devil would ever guess, at
home, what they had on board? And the good-natured fisherman laughed at
his own shrewdness, though, inside, he rather admired the wily uncle who
had given him all this good advice.
And the Rector waited, his eyes anxiously fixed on the water in the
direction from which the red light had shone. Tonet and the two sailors
were sitting on the bow, their legs dangling over the water. They were
hungrily studying the brilliantly lighted town. Rosario's husband had
been stationed at Algiers once, and he had all sorts of stories to tell
about his gay escapades about the city. He could even point the places
out from the lights in front of them. They could actually hear the music
from one of the cafes, where he had had such a time, such a time! The
"cat" opened his mouth from ear to ear, and his eyes gleamed excitedly.
He could almost see the wonderful dancing girl the great man was
describing. That long straight avenue there, leading from the pier--all
arches, and a light under each one, so that it looked like the nave of a
church with candles--was the _Boulevard de la Republique_, where the
really swell places were. Only officers from the navy went
there--absinthe, mostly--with rich Moors--you ought to see the big
turbans they wore--and Jew merchants, with silk tunics, dirty usually,
but of fine colors. The streets leading off it also had arches and
pretty shops. Over there was the _Plaza del Caballo_ where the principal
mosque was--a big white building--and a lot of those Moor lunatics went
there, all washed and barefoot, to pay respects to that fake of a
Mahomet. You could even see the little tower of the place from the boat.
Well, at certain times of the day, a fellow in a turban got up there and
waved his arms and shouted like a crazy man. And _madames_, all along,
well dressed, and waddling in little steps like ducks, with a _mersi_
for every compliment you dropped them! And soldiers, with date-palm
hats, and trousers big enough for a whole family to get inside them; and
lots of fine fellows from every country, who had gone there to get away
from the police! A drinking place every two doors, with tables out on
the sidewalks, and absinthe in big glassfuls!
Tonet had seen it all himself, and described everything with gestures or
grimaces that vividly pictured each episode and kept his companions
laughing noisily. And up there was the Moorish city. They remembered
that alley just off the market at the Grao where you brushed the wall on
each side with your elbows? Well, that was a mile wide compared to the
holes those Moors crawled through, always uphill, the eaves coming
almost together overhead, and a stream of slop running down over the
steps in the pavement. You needed to have plenty of liquor aboard and
your nostrils plugged before you walked in front of the shops up there,
rotten filthy dens where those dark-skinned devils squatted smoking in
the doorways, muttering God knows what in that lingo of theirs. But you
could live like a king with those people, yes, sir, and for very little,
provided of course you didn't mind seeing people eat with their fingers
after rubbing them in the dirt! You got a whole meal for a couple of
cents, a pair of red painted eggs like you saw at home at Easter, and
tea in cups the size of egg-shells,--and you could go to sleep if you
wanted to, on the couch of some Moorish cafe there, to the sound of a
flute and the banging of tambourines.
And then the women! Little Moor girls, their cheeks all painted up,
their finger-nails stained blue, and queer tattooing on their breasts
and backs; and then black ones who worked as _masseuses_ in the baths;
and the ladies, finally, with veils over their faces till all you could
see was their nose and one eye, stumbling along in big fluffy trousers,
wearing gold-cloth vests under their shawls, their arms like the
show-window of a jewelry store, and all sorts of medals, coins, and
half-moons, on their bosoms. "And what eyes! You never saw anything like
it, boys! And the shapes they have. I remember once I ran into a big
black one--rich, I guess--in a street in the upper part of town. Well,
you know how I am--I simply couldn't help it! I just gave her a little
pinch from behind. Well, sir, that woman squealed like a sick rat, and
now from this direction and now from that a lot of big ugly devils came
running with clubs the size of your arm. There was a fellow with me, and
we took out our knives and held the gang off till the zouaves came. They
put us in the coop for a couple of days, and then the consul got us out.
You see," Tonet concluded, looking at his feet with an expression of
weariness, "in those days I was rather wild!" But his companions were
much impressed with the superiority of a man who had done all that. And
they liked the story of the black girl best of all.
The Rector, who was still astern, gave a sudden cry. Some one from shore
was coming aboard. And in fact a red light could be seen drawing nearer,
and a curious chugging was audible, as if a dog were splashing his way
toward the boat. It was the launch from the "market." A fine looking
young man with a blond mustache and wearing a blue coat climbed up on
deck. In the _lingua franca_ of the African ports, a mixture of Italian,
French, Greek and Catalan, he explained just what the situation was. He
had received the letter of _mosiu_ Mariano of Valencia, and had been
expecting them the night before. He had understood their signal and
brought the goods right off; for, even if the French usually winked at
such things, it was just as well not to waste any time in getting
through.
"All ready, boys," the Rector shouted to his men. "Load her on!"
The launch was piled high with bales, till barely a foot of smokestack
was visible over the top. But one by one the heavy bundles began to come
aboard, sewed up in waterproof burlap and exhaling a teasing fragrance.
The two craft were lashed together so that the transfer was not
difficult. As the packages vanished through the hatches of the
_Garbosa_, the old boat got lower and lower in the water, groaning and
creaking, meanwhile, like a long-suffering donkey complaining of its
load.
The blond Algerian kept looking the vessel over, and his astonishment
grew apace. Were they going to put to sea in a trap like that, loaded
way down to the water line? The Rector replied with several knocks on
his own strong breast to evidence an assurance that he really did not
feel. Put it all on, put it all on! The way he figured, with the help of
God and the Holy Christ of the Grao, every last bale would be on the
shore at the Cabanal within forty-eight hours. The hold was soon full
up. The remaining bundles were stowed on the old creaking deck, lashed
down and propped with planks so as not to wash overboard. "Well, good
luck, captain!" said the young man from the launch, and he shook the
Rector's hand warmly.
The vessels were pushed apart, and the launch ran off. The _Garbosa_
spread her sail again, and catching the wind, came around. The lights of
Algiers began now to come from the left, and soon they were fading
visibly in the distance. Once under way again, the Rector felt a gripe
at his heart. Heaven help them, and not send a storm! Fine weather now!
But still it was a miracle the old sieve got along at all. Amidships the
deck was almost level with the water, and the boat seemed down by the
head, and did not take the sea well. Though there was scarcely any chop,
the waves came over, forward, as though a storm were running. Tonet,
however, with nothing in particular to lose on the venture, made fun of
the old-tub--a torpedo-boat he called her, she sat so low in the water!
At dawn the _Mala Dona_ was just visible, as an indistinct silhouette,
over the stern, and an hour later they were fairly to sea. Out on the
Mediterranean once more, the Rector could hardly believe the cargo he
had taken aboard so rapidly during the night could be real. But there
the bales were! You could see them! The men, quite played out from the
hard work of loading, were sleeping on them. Besides the old _Garbosa_
was crawling along like a mud-turtle from such a burden! But Pascualo
liked the look of the weather. A smooth sea and a good breeze! If things
held like that, the ramshackle old girl might last to Valencia--but no
farther. It wasn't exactly fear. The Rector realized now the imprudence
of starting an important venture in a rig like that. His poor old father
had made fun of the sea, as he had; but that had not prevented him from
being tossed out on the beach one day like a chunk of rotting garbage!
But all that day and the following night the breeze continued fair and
the sea calm.
But the morning dawned with a sky that was overcast, and the wind came
hard in streaks and squalls that were gradually piling up a sea. The
Cabo de San Antonio had just come into view, with the mists curling
round it. Behind, the peak of the Mongo alone was visible, for the base
of the mountain was cloaked in cloud. The _Garbosa_ was running with an
alarming list to starboard, its bulging sail almost dipping into the
water, as the vessel raced along. The frown of the weather was not at
all to the liking of the captain, who, if he wanted to get his load
ashore, would not be able to run in till nightfall anyhow.
Suddenly the Rector jumped to his feet and let the tiller go. _Futro!_
There was no doubt about it. A sail had heaved in view out of the mists
around the Cape. He knew that craft well. It was the cutter from
Valencia on watch off the point. Some one had squealed at the Cabanal!
The real object of the _Garbosa_ had been not fishing, but something
else! Tonet had also recognized the boat, and he looked at his brother
anxiously.
There was still time! Out to sea with her! The _Garbosa_ swung round a
little, heading Northeast, away from the Cape. The maneuver was all in
her favor, as she now got the wind fairly over the stern quarter, and
was eating into the sea like anything, taking every wave aboard over the
bow. The cutter was surely after them, for she too came about and
followed. A better and a lighter boat with more speed in her! But the
Rector saw that the distance between them was considerable. He had a
good start. He would run, run, run, damn it, clear to Marseilles if
necessary--provided, that is, the old band-box didn't sink, cargo, crew,
and all.
At noon the _Garbosa_ had held her own. By that time they must surely
have been as far up as Valencia. Suddenly the cutter changed her course,
and turned shoreward, abandoning the chase. The sly devils! The Rector
understood what they were up to. The weather had an ugly look. The
cutter preferred to loaf along the coast, sure that sooner or later the
_Garbosa_ would try to get back home and land her booty.
"We'll go them one better," the Rector exclaimed, drawing a deep breath
of relief. "We've got to find a place to crawl into, boys! We can't stay
another night at sea in a mess of a boat like this. Off for the
Columbretas! There's always a place there for an honest free-trader!"
At nine o'clock that night, taking her course from a lighthouse, and
groaning and cracking as she bucked into a nasty sea, the _Garbosa_ shot
into the Big Columbreta, an extinct volcanic crater, caved in, on one
side, leaving a half-circle of steep, wave-eaten cliffs, within which
the water is calm, unless the storm happens to be coming from the East.
This island, uninhabited save by the keepers of the lighthouse, has not
a trace of beach. The abrupt, precipitous walls of lava are too bare to
feed a tree, so hot is the sun in summer, so heavy is the air with salt.
At their base are piles of pebbles that the storm-surf has rolled on
high, with a mixture of flotsam and jetsam and dead fish. Scattered
around the larger islet lie the Little Columbretas,--the Foradada,
piercing the surface of the water like the arch of a submarine temple,
and a cluster of barren rocks, bald, sheer-faced, unapproachable, like
the fingers of some prehistoric colossus buried there in the depths.
The _Garbosa_ came to anchor in the pool. No one seemed to notice her
presence. The lighthouse people were accustomed to these visits of
mysterious craft, which, for that matter, came to this solitary
archipelago just because they did not want to be noticed. The sailors
could see the lights in the buildings on shore and hear voices even, but
they paid no more attention to them than to the gulls that darted
rapidly by overhead on the blasts of the gale, wailing like infants in
agony. Outside, and on the windward shore of the island, the sea was
snarling angrily. As the waves rolled by the promontory they sent great
smooth undulations back into the calm of the bay.
As soon as it was light, Pascualo went ashore, and up over a winding
trail he found, he climbed the cliffs, to study the looks of things
between the islet and the mainland, which still lay invisible in the
storm. Not a sail in sight! But that did not reassure the Rector. The
Columbretas were notorious as a refuge for smugglers in bad weather. He
was sure his pursuers would follow him there. At the same time he was
afraid to put to sea again in that leaky boat. Not afraid to die, but
how about that load of tobacco, and the money he had put into it! Yes,
but stay there, and have the government get it? Not much! To sea, then,
even if the whole thing went to the bottom for the sharks to smoke! No
coast guard was ever going to brag about getting rich on him!
After the meal at noon time, the _Garbosa_ spread her sail, and left the
sheltered anchorage as mysteriously as she had come. She said not even
good-by to the lighthouse people who came out on the platform in front
of the beacon to see her off. _Dios_, what a wind! First a slap here and
then a slap there! The _Garbosa_ almost stood on her stern end as she
was lifted by the first wave, outside; but she staggered free and shoved
her nose into the green of the trough that followed, as though she were
headed for the depths through one of those gigantic eddies that blinked
like treacherous eyes of the abyss. Then, crash! The next comber came
full aboard, the water churning into a white roar or atomized in spray,
and sweeping aft in cascades over the bales of tobacco, while the crew,
soaked to the skin, held on for dear life. Tonet grew pale, and clenched
his teeth. He didn't mind bad weather in the right boat; but it was fool
business leaving shelter in that God-forsaken punt. But the Rector,
pot-bellied numskull that he was, would not listen to reason! The
driveling idiot seemed to grow fat on getting people into trouble! And
in fact, Pascualo's moon-face was glowing in the excitement of this
battle with the sea. At every buffet of the waves he smiled, a purple
flush suffusing his features, as though he were rising from a holiday
meal. His arms seemed part and parcel of the heavy tiller, and his legs
might just as well have been nailed to the deck. As the old _Garbosa_
leapt and lunged, shrieking in every seam from stem to stern as though
in panic-stricken agony, the Rector's spherical corpulence scarcely
moved at all.
"What's the matter with you fellows?" And he would laugh with the loud
bellow with which he applauded funny stories ashore--as soon as he saw
the point in them. "Scared? _Dios_, why don't you wait till we get a
breeze? Hardly enough air out this afternoon to catch your breath! Here
she comes, here she comes! Brrrmm! Never touched the old girl! If that
fellow had gotten us, good-night and good-morning! Anyhow, in the other
world every day is Sunday, the parson says! Die young, and the lobsters
eat you; die old, and it's the worms! What's the difference! Me for a
short life and a gay one! And if need be, we can swim for it. Hey there,
here she comes! Brrrrum! Tra, la, la! Missed again!..."
And the Rector talked on, expounding the sailor's philosophy of life he
had learned offshore under _tio_ Borrasca. But no one listened, except
the "cat," who was on his first voyage, and stood clinging, palish-green
with fright, to the mast, but with eyes and ears, nevertheless, for
everything.
Night fell. The _Garbosa_ was hanging on under a close-reefed sail,
driving head foremost into the pitchy dark. The lanterns had not been
lighted, for the risk of being seen was worse, almost, than the danger
of a collision. About nine o'clock, the Rector gave a frantic pull at
the rudder. A light had appeared in the mist, close by off the port bow.
It was a boat beating down in the opposite direction. Pascualo could not
make out the lines of the craft as she sped past; but he knew it was the
cutter, which had tired of loafing off the Cabanal, and was boldly
running for the Columbretas to catch the smugglers in their refuge
before the storm cleared. For the first time since leaving the pool that
afternoon, the Rector let go the tiller for a second. "This, for a
pleasant night!" laughed he, making a coarse but expressive gesture of
contempt towards his vanishing enemy.
At one o'clock another light came up ahead. Rosario! Rosario! That's the
beacon on the Church! Square off the Cabanal! And just the time to make
a landing! But would the folks at home be on hand?
The Rector headed inshore, but then his astonishing good humor gave way
to a thoughtful mood. He knew what that coast was like. If he tried to
lie to in that blow, it would be all over in two hours. They would smash
up, either on the Breakwater or on the bars in front of Nazaret. To run
offshore was out of the question. The _Garbosa_ was getting loggier and
loggier every moment. The water was already way up in the hold. She
would break to pieces in the sea before morning. There was no other way
out of it. Ashore she must go, and trust to luck! Driving as much before
the breakers as before the gale, the vessel held straight on toward the
beach still shrouded in gloom. Suddenly another light! And it flashed
three times, and went out. Then, three times again! Tonet joined the
Rector in a cry of joy. _Tio_ Mariano was on watch ashore. It was the
signal agreed upon. He had scratched three matches under cover of a
shawl, which kept the light from being seen except from the sea.
It looked like madness, but the Rector had the reef cut out of the sail.
The _Garbosa_ spurted like a race-horse, showing her keel, as she lunged
through the waves, now forward and now astern. The boom of the surf
ahead could now be heard above the howl of the gale. Finally, from the
top of a comber, the beach came into view, the black profiles of the
houses standing out against the sky. Then a sharp, snapping, crunching
crash! The boat stopped short, grinding and groaning as though her
timbers were being torn asunder. The wind caught the sail and the mast
went overboard. A huge breaker burst over the stern, washing the men off
their feet, and loosening the bales from their fastenings. The _Garbosa_
had struck bottom, but only a few yards from dry land. Out through the
surf a swarm of dark figures streamed, splashing into the water and
rushing at the boat. Men climbed up on board, and without saying a word
to the Rector and his crew, who stood there still speechless from the
shock, they began to pick up the bundles and pass them on from hand to
hand.
"_Tio, tio!_" the Rector called, finally recovering his wits, and
leaping into the water, which hardly passed his belt.
"Here I am," came the answer from the dark. "But shut up, for God's
sake, and get to work!"
And it was a strange weird spectacle, indeed. Darkness, everywhere, and
a sea bellowing in the gloom, the reeds and shore-grass bent low under
the gale, the breakers tumbling in as though bent on swallowing up the
land, while a legion of dark-skinned men, with their clothes off, tugged
at great bales in the hold of the vessel that was rapidly going to
pieces, or fished them out from the foaming waters and dragged them up
on the beach, where they disappeared mysteriously, while, in the
intervals between gusts of wind, the sound of creaking wagon wheels
could be heard.
_Tio_ Mariano was walking about from one point to another in his
long-legged boots, calling off sharp, imperious orders, and flourishing
a revolver in his hand. There was no danger from the revenue men. The
guards had all been "greased," and were watching to give the alarm if
their chief arrived. The gun was for those silent workmen handling the
bales, a light-fingered crew, faithful disciples of the doctrine that to
steal from a thief is a virtue. But none of them would sneak anything
away in the confusion! By God, the first man who tried any tricks would
get something!
By the time the Rector had recovered his composure after that
nerve-racking day and that terrible landing through the surf, and after
he had stopped nursing the bruises received from a fall as the vessel
struck, the last wagon was driving off; and the long-shoremen had
vanished silently in all directions, as though the beach had eaten them
alive. Not a bundle had been lost. Even those caught in the hold of the
_Garbosa_ had been pried loose from the crushed timbers, now sunk deep
in the sand. Tonet and the two sailors had salvaged the sail, and the
few things of value left aboard, and were carrying their load off up the
beach. The "cat," meanwhile, who had been washed overboard by the great
wave that first swept the boat, had been revived.
"Oh, _tio_!" the Rector exclaimed, when at last he was alone with his
uncle. "I can say that now, can't I! It was a tough job, but we pulled
it off, didn't we? The Christ of the Grao stood by us fine! We'll figure
up accounts by and by, eh? Now I'm going home to Dolores. And won't she
be glad to see me!"
And the pair walked off toward the distant village with scarcely a
glance at the poor vessel. The old _Garbosa_ lay there grinding up and
down, her nose in the sand, taking each breaker full over the stern, at
each crash losing some shred of her entrails out into the night. And
thus she died, like a worn-out horse, that labors on in the noblest of
emprises without glory and without reward, and finally leaves its bones
on the wayside to be picked white by buzzard and crow.