“EL NORTE”
Another moment and _el Norte_ had come in strength. First a sudden
rush of wind struck the vessel, causing her to shiver, and with a
sharp report rending from its fastenings the jib, which had not been
furled. This gust went howling by, and after it rolled the storm.
To us it seemed that the _Santa Maria_ dived head first into a huge
wave, a level line of white illumined with lightnings and swept
forward by the hurricane, for in an instant a foot of foaming water
tore along her deck from stem to stern, sweeping away everything
movable upon it, including two Indian sailors. We should have gone
with the rest had we not clung with all our strength to the rope
coiled about the foremast, but as it was we escaped with a wetting.
For a while the ship stood quite still, and it seemed as though she
were being pressed into the deep by the weight of water on her decks,
but as this fell from her in cataracts, she rose again and ploughed
forward. Fortunately the first burst of the tempest was also the most
terrible, and it had not taken her broadside on, for one or two more
such waves would have swamped us.
After it had passed shorewards, driven by the hurricane wind, for a
little space there was what by comparison might be called a lull, then
the _Santa Maria_ met the full weight of the norther. For a while she
forged ahead against the shrieking wind and vast succeeding seas,
shipping such a quantity of water that presently the captain found it
necessary to reduce her engines to half speed, which it was hoped
would suffice to give her way without filling her.
Now less water came aboard, but on the other hand, as was soon
evident, the vessel began to drift towards the Point Xicalango, and
from this moment it became clear that only a miracle could save her.
For an hour or more the _Santa Maria_ kept up a gallant and unequal
fight, being constantly pressed backwards by the might of the storm,
till at length we could see in the glare of the lightning that the
breakers of the Point were raging not two hundred paces from her
stern. The captain saw them also and made a last effort. Shifting the
vessel’s bow a little, so that the seas struck her on the port
quarter, he gave the order of “Full steam ahead,” and once more we
drove forward.
Before and since that day I have made many voyages across the Gulf of
Mexico in all weathers, but never have I met with such an experience
as that which followed. The ship plunged and strained and rocked,
lifting now her bow and now her stern high above the waves, till it
seemed as though she must fall to pieces, while water in tons rushed
aboard of her at every dip, which, as she righted herself, streamed
through the broken bulwarks.
Slowly, very slowly, we were forging away from the Point and out into
the channel which lies between it and Carmen Island, but the effort
was too fierce to last. Presently, after a succession of terrible
pitchings, one paddle-wheel suddenly ceased to thrash the water, while
the other broke to pieces, and a faint cry from below told those on
deck that the worn-out machinery had collapsed.
Now we were in the mid-race or channel, through which the boiling
current, driven by the fury of the gale and the push of the tide, tore
at a speed of fifteen or sixteen knots, carrying the _Santa Maria_
along with it as a chip of wood is carried down a flooded gutter.
Twice she whirled right round, for now that her machinery had gone
there was no power to keep her head to the waves, and on the second
occasion, as she lay broadside to them, a green sea came aboard of her
that swept her decks almost clean, taking away with it every boat
except the cutter, which fortunately was slung upon davits to
starboard and out of its reach.
Crouching under shelter of the mast, again the three of us clung to
our rope, nor did we leave go although the water ground us against the
deck, covering us for so long that before our heads were clear of it
we felt as though our lungs must burst. As it chanced, what remained
of the starboard bulwarks was carried away by the rush, allowing the
sea to escape, or the ship must have foundered at once. But it had
done its work, for the engine-room hatchway and the cabin light were
stove in, and the _Santa Maria_ was half full of water.
Before a second sea could strike her, her nose swung round, and in
this position she was washed along the race, her deck not standing
more than four feet above the level of the waves.
Now from time to time the moon shone out between rifts in the storm
clouds, revealing a dreadful scene. Fragments of the little bridge
still remained, and to them was lashed the large body of the captain
in an upright position, though, as he neither spoke nor stirred, we
never learned whether he was only paralysed by terror, or had been
killed by a blow from the funnel as it fell.
You will remember, my friend, that he had ordered the passengers to be
battened down, and there in the cabin they remained, twenty or more of
them, until the hatchways were stove in. Then, with the exception of
one or two, who were drowned by the water that poured down upon them,
they rushed up the companion, men and women together, for they could
no longer stay below, and, shrieking, praying, and blaspheming, clung
to fragments of the bulwarks, shrouds of the mast, or anything which
they thought could give them protection against the pitiless waves.
Awful were the wails of the women, who, clad only in their
night-dresses, now quitted their bunks for the first time since they
entered them in the harbour of Vera Cruz. Overcome by fear, and having
no knowledge of the dangers of the deep, these poor creatures flung
themselves at full length upon the deck, striving to keep a hold of
the slippery boards, whence one by one they rolled into the ocean as
the vessel lurched, or were carried away by the seas that pooped her.
Some of the men followed them to their watery grave, others, more
self-possessed, crept forward, attempting to escape the waves that
broke over the stern, but none made any effort to save them, and
indeed it would have been impossible so to do.
Among those who crawled forward to where we and some of the Indian
sailors were clinging to the rope that was coiled round the stump of
the broken foremast, was Don José Moreno. Even in his terror, which
was great, this man could still be ferocious, for, recognising the
señor, he yelled:
“Ah! _maldonado_--evil-gifted one--you called down the norther upon
us. Well, at least you shall die with the rest,” and, suddenly drawing
his long knife, he rose to his knees, and, holding the rope with one
hand, attempted to drive it into the señor’s body with the other.
Doubtless he would have succeeded in his wickedness had not an Indian
boatswain, who was near, bent forward and struck him so sharply on the
arm with his clenched fist that the knife flew from his hand. In
trying to recover it Don José fell face downwards on the deck, where
he lay making no further effort at aggression.
Afterwards the señor told me, such was the horror and confusion of
the scene, that, at the time, he scarcely noticed this incident,
though every detail came back to him on the morrow, and with it a
great wonder that even when death was staring them in the face, the
Indians did not forget their promise to watch over our safety.
Meanwhile, swept onward by the tide and gale, the _Santa Maria_,
waterlogged and sinking, rushed swiftly to her doom. Our last hour was
upon us, and for a space this knowledge seemed to benumb the mind of
the Señor Strickland, who crouched at my side, as the wet and cold
had benumbed his body. Nor was this strange, for it seemed terrible to
perish thus.
“Can we do nothing?” he said to me at length. “Ask the Indians if
there is any hope.”
Putting my face close to the ear of the boatswain, I spoke to him,
then shouted back:
“He says that the current is taking us round the point of the island,
and if the ship weathers it, we shall come presently into calmer
water, where a boat might live, if there is one left and it can be
launched. He thinks, however, that we must sink.”
When the señor heard this he hid his face in his hands, and doubtless
began to say his prayers, as I did also. Soon, however, we ceased even
from that effort, for we were rounding the point and once more the
seas were breaking on and over the vessel’s sides.
For a few minutes there was a turmoil that cannot be described; then,
although the wind still shrieked overhead, we felt that we were in
water which seemed almost calm to us. The ship no longer pitched and
rolled, she only rocked as she settled before sinking, while the moon,
shining out between the clouds, showed that what had been her bulwarks
were not more than two or three feet above the level of the sea.
Six Indians, our three selves, Don José, who seemed to be senseless,
and the body of the captain lashed to the broken bridge, alone
remained of the crew and passengers of the _Santa Maria_. The rest had
been swept away, but there close to us the cutter still hung upon the
davits.
The señor saw it, and I think that he remembered his saying of a few
hours before, that he would die fighting; at least he cried:
“The ship is sinking. To the boat, quick!” and, running to the cutter,
he climbed into her, as did I, Molas, and the six Indian sailors.
She was full of water almost to the thwarts, which could only be got
rid of by pulling out the wooden plug in her bottom.
Happily the boatswain, that same man who had struck the knife from the
hand of Don José, knew where to look for this plug, and, being a
sailor of courage and resource, he was able to loose it, so that
presently the water was pouring from her in a stream thick as a
hawser. Meanwhile, urged to it by the hope of escape, the other
Indians were employed in getting out the oars, and in loosening the
tackles before slipping them altogether when enough water had run out
to allow the boat to swim.
“Get the plug back,” said the señor, “the vessel is sinking, you must
bale the rest.”
Half a minute more and it was done; then, at a word from the
boatswain, the sailors lowered away--they had not far to go--and we
were afloat, and, better still, quite clear of the ship.
Scarcely had they brought the head of the cutter round and pulled
three or four strokes, when from the deck of the _Santa Maria_ there
came the sound of a man’s voice crying for help, and by the light of
the moon we discovered the figure of Don José Moreno clinging to the
broken bulwarks, that now were almost awash.
“For the love of God, come back to me!” he screamed.
The oarsmen hesitated, but the boatswain said, with an Indian oath:
“Pull on and let the dog drown.”
It seemed as if Don José heard him, at least he raised so piteous a
wailing that the señor’s heart, which was always over-tender, was
touched by it.
“We cannot desert the man,” he answered, “put back for him.”
“He tried to murder you just now,” shouted the boatswain, “and if we
go near the ship, she will take us down with her.”
Then he turned to me and asked, “Do you command us to put back, lord?”
“Since the señor wills it, I command you,” I answered. “We must save
the man and take our chance.”
“He commands whom we must obey,” shouted the boatswain again; “put
back, my brothers.”
Sullenly, but submissively, the Indians backed water till we lay
almost beneath the counter of the vessel, that wallowed in the trough
of the swell before she went down. On the deck, clinging to the stays
of the mast, stood Don José--his straight oiled hair beat about his
face, his gorgeous dress was soaked and disordered.
“Save me!” he yelled hoarsely, “save me!”
“Throw yourself into the sea, señor, and we will pick you up.”
“I dare not,” was the answer, “come aboard and fetch me.”
“Does the señor still wish us to stay?” asked the boatswain, calmly.
“Listen, you cur,” shouted the señor, “the ship is sinking and will
take us with it. At the word ‘three,’ give way, men. Now will you
come, or not? One, two----”
“I come,” said the Mexican, and, driven to it by despair, he cast
himself into the sea.
With difficulty the señor, assisted by an Indian with a boathook,
succeeded in getting hold of him as he was washed past on the swell. I
confess that I would have no hand in the affair, since--may I be
forgiven the sin--my charity was not true enough to make me wish to
save this villain. There, however, the matter rested for the present,
as they could not stop to pull him into the boat, for just then the
deck of the _Santa Maria_ burst with a rending sound, and she began to
go down bodily.
“Row for your lives,” shouted the boatswain, and they rowed, dragging
Don José in the wake of the cutter.
Down went the _Santa Maria_, bow first, making a hollow in the sea
that sucked us back towards her. For a moment the issue hung doubtful,
for the whirlpool caused by the vanished vessel was strong and almost
engulfed us, but in the end the stout arms of the Indians conquered
and drew our boat clear.
So soon as this great danger had gone by, the sailors with much labour
lifted Don José into the cutter, where he lay gasping but unharmed.
Then arose the question of what we could possibly do to save our
lives.
We were lying under the lee of Carmen Island, which sheltered us
somewhat from the fury of the norther, and we might either try to land
upon this island, or to put about and run for the mouth of the
Usumacinto river. There was a third course: to keep the boat’s head to
the seas, if that were possible, and let her drift till daylight. In
the end this was what we determined to do.
Indeed, while we were discussing the question it was settled for us,
for suddenly the rain began to fall in torrents, blotting out such
moonlight as there was; and to land in this darkness would have been
impossible, even if the nature of the beach allowed of it. Therefore
we lay to and gave our thoughts and strength to the task of preventing
the waves, which became more and more formidable as we drifted beyond
the shelter of the island, from swamping or oversetting us.
It was a great struggle, and had it not been that the heavy rain beat
down the seas, we could never have lived till morning. As it was we
must have been swamped many times over but for the staunchness of the
boat, which, fortunately, was a new one, and the seamanship and
ceaseless vigilance of the Indian boatswain who commanded her. For
hour after hour he crouched in the bow of the cutter, staring through
the sheets of rain and the darkness with his hawk-like eyes, and
shouting directions to the crew as he heard or caught sight of a
white-crested billow rolling down upon us, that presently would fling
us upwards to sink deep into the trough on its further side, sometimes
half filling the boat with water, which must be baled out before the
next sea overtook us.
Afterwards the señor told me that, knowing it to be the nature of
Indians to submit to evil rather than to struggle against it, he
wondered how it came about that these men faced the fight so
gallantly, instead of throwing down their oars and suffering
themselves to be drowned. I also was somewhat astonished till
presently the matter was explained, for once, when a larger sea than
those that went before had almost filled us, the boatswain called out
to his companions:
“Be brave, my brothers, and fear nothing. The Keeper of the Heart is
with us, and death will flee him.”
To the señor, however, this comfort seemed cold, since he did not
believe that any talisman could save us from the powers of the sky and
sea, nor indeed did I. Wet and half frozen as he was, his nerve broken
by the terrible scenes that we had witnessed upon the lost ship, and
by thoughts of the many who had gone down with her, his spirit, so he
told me, failed him at last.
He gave no outward sign of his inward state indeed; he did not follow
the example of the Mexican, who lay in the water at the bottom of the
boat, groaning, weeping, and confessing his sins, which seemed to be
many. Only he sat still and silent and surrendered himself to destiny,
till by degrees his forces, mental and bodily, deserted him and he
sank into a torpor. It was little wonder, for rarely have shipwrecked
men been in a more hopeless position. The blinding rain, the
bewildering darkness, the roaring wind and sea, all combined to
destroy us while we drifted in our frail craft we knew not whither.
As minute after minute of that endless night went by, our escape
seemed to become more impossible, for each took with it something of
the strength and mental energy of those who fought so bravely against
the doom that overshadowed us. For my part, I was sure that my hour
had come, but this did not trouble me overmuch, since my life had not
been so happy or successful that I grieved at the thought of losing
it. Moreover, ever since I became a man it has been my daily endeavour
to prepare my mind for Death, and so to live that I should not have to
fear the hour of his coming.
In truth it seems to me that without such preparation the life of any
man who thinks must be one long wretchedness, seeing that at the last,
strive as he may, fate will overtake him, and that there is no event
in our lives which can compare in importance with the inevitable end.
We live not to escape from death, but in order that we may die; this
is the great issue and object of our existence. Still, Death is
terrible, more especially when we are called upon to await him hour
after hour amid the horror and turmoil of shipwreck.
Therefore I was very thankful when, having flung my _serape_ about the
form of my friend, at length I also was overcome by cold and
exhaustion, and after a space of time, in which the present seemed to
fade from me, taking with it all fears and hopes of the future, and
the past alone possessed me, peopled by the dead, I sank into
unconsciousness or swoon.
How long I remained in this merciful state of oblivion I do not know,
but I was roused from it by Molas, who shook me and called into my ear
with a voice that trembled with cold or joy, or both:
“Awake, awake, we are saved!”
“Saved?” I said, confusedly. “What from?”
“From death in the sea. Look, lord.”
Then with much pain, for the salt spray had congealed upon my face
like frost, I opened my eyes to find that the morning was an hour old,
and though the skies were still leaden we were no longer at sea, but
floated on the waters of a river, whereof the bar roared behind us.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“In the Usumacinto river, thanks be to God!” answered Molas. “We have
been driven across the bay in the dark, and at the dawn found
ourselves just outside the breakers. Somehow we passed them safely,
and there before us is the blessed land.”
I looked at the bank of the river clothed with reeds and grasses, and
the noble palm-trees that grew among them. Then I looked at my
companions. The Señor Strickland lay as though he were dead beneath
the _serape_ that I had thrown over him, his head resting on the
thwarts, but the Mexican, Don José, was sitting up in the bottom of
the boat and staring wildly at the shore.
As for the Indians, the men to whom we owed our lives, they were
utterly worn out. Two of them appeared to have swooned where they sat,
and I saw that their hands were bleeding from the friction of the
oars. Three others lay gasping beneath the seats, but Molas held the
tiller at my side, and the boatswain still sat upright in the bow
where he had faced death for so many dreadful hours.
“Say, lord,” he asked, turning his face that was hollow with suspense
and suffering, and white with encrusted salt, to speak to me, “can you
row? If so, take the oars and pull us to the bank while Molas steers,
for our arms will work no more.”
Then I struggled from my seat, and with great efforts, for every
movement caused me pain, I pulled the cutter to the bank, and as her
bows struck against it, the sun broke through the thinning clouds.
So soon as the boat was made fast, Molas and I lifted the señor from
her, and, laying him on the bank, we removed his clothes so that the
sun might play upon his limbs, which were blue with cold. As the
clouds melted and the warmth increased, I saw the blood begin to creep
beneath the whiteness of his skin, which was drawn with the wet and
wind, and rejoiced, for now I knew that he did but sleep, and that the
tide of life was rising in his veins again, as in my own.
Whilst we sat thus warming ourselves in the sunlight, some Indians
appeared belonging to a _rancho_, or village, half a league away. On
learning our misfortunes and who we were, these men hurried home to
bring us food, having first pointed out to us a pool of sweet
rain-water, of which we stood in great need, for our throats were dry.
When they had been gone nearly an hour, the señor awoke and asked for
drink, which I gave him in the baling-bowl. Next he inquired where we
were and what had happened to us. When I had told him he hid his face
in his hands for a while, then lifted it and said:
“I am a fool and a boaster, Ignatio. I said that I would die fighting,
and it is these men who have fought and saved my life while I swooned
like a child.”
“I did the same, señor,” I answered; “only those who were working at
the oars could keep their senses, for labour warmed them somewhat.
Come to the river and wash, for now your clothes are dry again,” and
throwing the _serape_ over his shoulders, I led him to the water.
As we climbed down the bank we met the boatswain, and the señor said,
holding out his hand to him:
“You are a brave man and you have saved all our lives.”
“No, señor, not I,” answered the Indian. “You forget that with us was
the Keeper of the Heart, and the Heart that has endured so long,
cannot be lost. This we knew, and therefore we laboured on, well
assured that our toil would not be in vain.”
“I shall soon begin to believe in that talisman of yours myself,
Ignatio,” said the señor shrugging his shoulders; “certainly it did
us good service last night.”
Then he washed, and by the time he had dressed himself, women arrived
from the _rancho_ bearing with them baskets laden with _tortillas_ or
meal cakes, _frijole_ beans, a roast kid, and a bottle of good _agua
ardiente_, the brandy of this country. On these provisions we fell to
thankfully, and, before we had finished our meal, the _alcalde_, or
head man of the village, presented himself to pay his respects and to
invite us to his house.
Now I whispered to Molas, who had some acquaintance with this man, to
take him apart and discover my rank to him, and to learn if perchance
he had any tidings of that stranger whom we came to visit, the doctor
Zibalbay. He nodded and obeyed, and after a while I rose and followed
him behind some trees, where the _alcalde_, who was of our
brotherhood, greeted me with reverence.
“I have news, my lord,” said Molas. “This man says that he has heard
of the old Indian and his daughter, and that but this morning one who
has travelled down the river told him how some five or six days ago
they were both of them seized by Don Pedro Moreno, the father of Don
José yonder, and imprisoned at the _hacienda_ of Santa Cruz, where,
dead or alive, they remain.”
Now I thought a while, then, sending for the Señor James, I told him
what we had learnt.
“But what can this villain want to do with an old Indian and his
daughter?” he asked.
“The señor forgets,” said Molas, “that Don Pedro robbed me of the
gold which the doctor gave me, and that in my folly I told him from
whom it came. Doubtless he thinks to win the secret of the mine whence
it was dug, and of the mint where it was stamped with the sign of the
Heart. Also there is the daughter, whom some men might value above all
the gold in Mexico. Now, lord, I fear that your journey is fruitless,
since those who become Don Pedro’s guests are apt to stay with him for
ever.”
“That, I think, we must take the risk of,” said the señor.
“Yes,” I answered: “having come so far to find this stranger, we
cannot turn back now. At least we have lived through worse dangers
than those which await us at Santa Cruz.”