"What am I to do!"
It is the ex-man-o'-war's man, still lying under the launch, who thus
interrogates himself. He has put the question for the fourth time that
night, and now as emphatically as ever, but less despairingly.
True, the conspiring assassins have only stepped aside to a lurking
place from which they may more conveniently pounce upon their quarry,
and be surer of striking it. But their changed position has left him
free to change his; which he at once determines upon doing. Their talk
has told him where the man-of-war's boat will be awaiting to take the
officers back to their ship. He knows the new wharf referred to, the
very stair at which the _Crusaders_ have been accustomed to bring to.
It may be the cutter with her full crew of ten--or it may be but the
gig. No matter which. There cannot be fewer than two oarsmen, and
these will be sufficient. A brace of British tars, with himself to make
three, and the officers to tot up five--that will be more than a match
for four Spanish Californians. Four times four, thinks Harry Blew, even
though the sailors, like himself, be unarmed, or with nothing but their
knives and boat-hooks.
He has no fear, if he can but bring it to an encounter of this kind.
The question is, can he do so? And first, can he creep out from under
the launch, and steal away unobserved?
A glance of scrutiny towards the spot where the assassins have placed
themselves in ambuscade, satisfies him that he can. The fog favours
him. Through it he cannot see them; and should be himself equally
invisible.
Another circumstance will be in his favour: on the soft, sandy beach his
footsteps will make but slight noise: not enough to be heard above the
hoarse continuous surging of the surf.
All this passes in a moment, and he has made up his mind to start; but
hesitates from a new apprehension. Will he be in time? The stair at
which the boat should lie is not over a quarter of a mile off, and will
take but a few minutes to reach it. Even if he succeed in eluding the
vigilance of the ambushed villains, will it be possible for him to get
to the pier, communicate with the boat's crew, and bring them back,
before the officers reach the place of ambush?
To all this the answer is doubtful, and the doubt appals him. In his
absence, the young gentlemen may arrive at the fatal spot. He may
return to find their bodies lying lifeless along the sand, their pockets
rifled, their murderers gone!
The thought holds him irresolute, doubting what course to take. Should
he remain till they are heard approaching, then rush out, give them such
warning as he may, throw himself by their side, and do his best to
defend them? Unarmed, this would not be much. Against pistols and
poniards he would scarce count as a combatant. It might but end in all
three being slaughtered together! But there is also the danger of his
being discovered in his attempt to slip away from his place of
concealment. He may be followed, and overtaken; though he has little
fear of this. Pursued he may be, but not overtaken. Despite his
sea-legs, he knows himself a swift runner. Were he assured of a fair
start, he can hold his distance against anything Spanish or Californian.
In five minutes he might reach the pier--in five more be back. If he
find the _Crusaders_ there, a word will warn them. In all it would take
about ten minutes. But, meanwhile, Crozier and Cadwallader may get upon
the ground, and one minute--half a minute--after all would be over.
A terrible struggle agitates the breast of the man-o'-war's man; in his
thoughts is conflict agonising. On either side are _pros_ and _cons_,
requiring calm deliberation; and there is no time to deliberate. He
must act.
But one more second spends he in consideration. He has confidence in
the young officers. Both are brave as lions, and if attacked, will make
a tough fight of it. Crozier has also caution, on which dependence may
be placed; and at such a time of night he will not be going unguardedly.
The strife, though unequal, might last long enough for him, Harry Blew,
to bring the _Crusaders_--at least near enough to cry out--and cheer
their officers with the hope of help at hand.
All this flits through Harry Blew's brain in a tenth part of the time it
takes to tell it. And having resolved how to act, he hastens to carry
out his resolution--to proceed in quest of the boat's crew.
Sprawling like a lizard from beneath the launch, he glides off silently
along the strand. At first, with slow, cautious steps, and crouchingly,
but soon erect, in a rapid run, as if for the saving of his life; for it
is to save the lives of others, almost dear as his own.
The five minutes are not up, when his footsteps patter along the
planking of the hollow wooden wharf; and in ten seconds after, he stands
at the head of the sea-stairway, looking down.
Below is a boat with men in it--half-a-score of them--seated on the
thwarts, some lolling over against the gunwales asleep. At a glance he
can tell them to be _Crusaders_.
His hail startles them into activity; one and all recognising the voice
of their old shipmate.
"Quick!" he cries; "quick, mates! This way, and along with me! Don't
stay to ask questions. Enough for you to know that the lives of your
officers are in danger."
It proves enough. The tars don't wait for a word more; but spring from
their recumbent attitude, and out of the boat.
Rushing up the pier steps, they cluster around their comrade. They have
not needed instructions to arm themselves. Harry's speech, with its
tone, told of some shore hostility, and they have instinctively made
ready to meet it; each laying hold of the weapon nearest to his hand;
some a knife, some an oar, others a boat-hook.
"Heave with me, lads!" cries Harry; and they "heave"--at his heels--
rushing after, as if to extinguish a fire in the forecastle.
Soon they are coursing along the strand, towards the upturned boat,
silently, and without asking explanation. If they did, they could not
get it; for their leader is panting, breathless, almost unable to utter
a word. But five issue from his throat, jerked out disjointedly, and in
hoarse utterance. They are:
"Crozier--Cadwallader--waylaid--robbers--murderers!"
Enough to spur the _Crusaders_ to their best speed, if _not_ already at
it. But they are; every man of them straining his strength to the
utmost.
As they rush on, cleaving the thick fog, Harry at their head listens
intently. As yet he can distinguish no sound to alarm him; only the
monotonous swashing of the sea, and the murmur of distant voices in the
streets of the town. But no cries--no shouts, nor shots; nothing to
tell of deadly strife.
"Thank the Lord!" says the brave sailor, half speaking to himself;
"we'll be in time to save them."
The words have scarce passed from his lips, when he comes in sight of
the capsized launch; and almost simultaneously sees two figures upon the
beach beyond. They are of human shape, but through the fog looking
grand as giants.
He is not beguiled by the deception; he knows it to be the two officers,
their forms magnified by the mist. No others are likely to be coming
that way; for he can see they are approaching; and, as can be told by
their careless, swaggering gait, unsuspicious of danger, little dreaming
of an ambuscade, that in ten seconds more may deprive them of existence!
To him, hurrying to avert this catastrophe, it is a moment of intense
apprehension--of dread chilling fear. He sees them almost up to the
place where the assassins should spring out upon them. In another
instant he may hear the cracking of pistols, and see flashes through the
fogs. Expecting it even before he can speak, he nevertheless calls out:
"Avast there, Mr Crozier! We're _Crusaders_. Stop where you are.
Another step, and you'll be shot at. There's four men under that wall
waiting to murder ye. D'ye know the names, Calderon and Lara? It's
them!"
At the first words, the young officers--for it is they--instantly come
to a stand. The more promptly from being prepared to expect an attack,
but without the warning. Well-timed it is; and they have not stopped a
moment too soon.
Simultaneous with the sailor's last word, the sombre space under the
wall is lit up by four flashes, followed by the report of as many
pistols, while the "tzip-tzip" of bullets, like hornets hurtle pass
their ears, leaving no doubt as to who has been fired at.
Fired at, and fortunately missed; for neither feels hurt nor hit!
But the danger is not yet over. Quick following the first comes a
second volley, and again with like result. Bad marksmen are they who
design doing murder.
It is the last round of shots. In all likelihood, the pistols of the
assassins are double-barrelled, and both barrels have been discharged.
Before they can reload them, Harry Blew, with his _Crusaders_, has come
up, and it is too late for De Lara and his confederates to use the
steel.
Crozier and Cadwallader bound forward; and placing themselves at the
head of the boat's crew, advance toward the shadowed spot. They go with
a rush, resolved on coming to close quarters with their dastardly
assailants, and bringing the affair to a speedy termination.
But it is over already, to their surprise, as also chagrin. On reaching
the wall, they find nothing there save stones and timber! The dark
space for an instant illuminated by the pistol-flashes, has resumed its
grim obscurity. The assassins have got away, escaping the chastisement
they would surely have received had they stood their ground.
Some figures are seen in the distance, scuttling along a narrow lane.
Cadwallader brings his pistol to bear on them, his finger upon the
trigger. But it may not be they; and stayed by the uncertainty, he
refrains from firing.
"Let them go!" counsels Crozier. "'Twould be no use looking for them
now. Their crime will keep till morning; and since we know their names,
it'll be strange if we can't find them; though not so strange if we
should fail to get them punished. But that they shall be, if there's a
semblance of law to be found in San Francisco. Now, thanks, my brave
_Crusaders_! And there's a hundred pound note to be divided among you.
Small reward for the saving of two lives, with a large sum of money.
Certainly, had you not turned up so opportunely--But, Harry, how come
you to be here? Never mind now! Let us get on board! and you, Blew,
must go with us. It'll do you no harm to spend one more night on your
old ship. There you can tell me all."
Harry joyfully complies with a requisition so much to his mind; and,
instead of tossing discontentedly on a couch of wet sand, he that night
sleeps soundly in his old bunk in the frigate's forepeak.