"Up anchor!"
The order rings along the deck of the _Crusader_, and the men of the
watch stand by the windlass to execute it.
That same morning, Crozier and Cadwallader, turning out of their cots,
heard with surprise the order for sending up the "Blue-Peter," as also
that the ship was to weigh anchor by twelve o'clock noon. Of course,
they were expecting it, but not so soon. However, the arrival of the
corvette explains all; an officer from the latter vessel having already
come on board the _Crusader_ with despatches from the flag-ship of the
Pacific Squadron.
These contain orders for the frigate to set sail for the Sandwich
Islands without delay; the corvette to replace her on the San Francisco
station.
The despatch-bearer has also brought a mail; and the _Crusader's_ people
get letters--home-news, welcome to those who have been long away from
their native land; for she has been three years cruising in the South
Sea.
Something more than mere news several of her officers receive. In large
envelopes, addressed to them, and bearing the British Admiralty seal,
are documents of peculiar interest--commissions giving them promotion.
Among the rest, one reaches Edward Crozier, advancing him a step in
rank. His ability as an officer has been reported at headquarters; as
also his gallant conduct in having saved a sailor's life--rescued him
from drowning--that sailor Harry Blew. In all probability this has
obtained him his promotion; but whatever the cause, he will leave San
Francisco a _lieutenant_.
There are few officers, naval or military, who would not feel favoured
and joyous at such an event in their lives. And so might Edward Crozier
at any other time. But it has not this effect now. On the contrary, as
the white canvas is being spread above his head, there is a black shadow
upon his brow, while that of Cadwallader is alike clouded.
It is not from any regret either feels at leaving California; but
leaving it under circumstances that painfully impress them. The
occurrences of the day before, but more those of the night, have
revealed a state of things that suggest unpleasant reflections,
especially to the new-made lieutenant. He cannot cast out of his mind
the sinister impression made upon it by the discovery that Don Francisco
De Lara--his rival for the hand of Carmen Montijo--is no other than the
notorious "Frank Lara," the keeper of a monte table in the saloon "El
Dorado!" Now that he knows it, the knowledge afflicts him, to the
laceration of his heart. No wonder at the formality of that letter
which he addressed to Don Gregorio, or the insinuation conveyed by it.
Nor strange the cold compliments with which it was concluded; far
stranger had they been warm.
Among other unpleasant thoughts which the young officers have, on being
so soon summoned away, is that of leaving matters unsettled with Messrs.
De Lara and Calderon. Not that they have any longer either design or
desire to stand before such cut-throats in a duel, nor any shame in
shunning it. Their last encounter with the scoundrels would absolve
them from all stigma or reproach for refusing to fight them--even were
there time and opportunity. So, they need have no fear that their
honour will suffer, or that any one will apply to them the opprobrious
epithet--_lache_. Indeed, they have not, and their only regret is at
not being able to spend another hour in San Francisco in order that they
might look up the foiled assassins, and give them into the custody of
the police. But then that would lead to a difficulty which had better
be avoided--the necessity of leaving their ship, and staying to
prosecute an action in courts where the guilty criminal is quite as
likely to be favoured as the innocent prosecutor. It is not to be
thought of, and long before the frigate's anchor is lifted, they cease
thinking of it.
Crozier's last act before leaving port is to write the letter to Don
Gregorio; Cadwallader's to carry it ashore, and deliver it to Harry
Blew. Then, in less than twenty minutes after the returned midshipman
sets foot on the frigate's deck, the order is issued for her sails to be
sheeted home, the canvas hanging crumpled from her yards is drawn taut,
the anchor hauled apeak, and the huge leviathan, obedient to her helm
held in strong hands, is brought round, with head towards the Golden
Gate.
The wind catches her spread sails, bellies them out, and in five minutes
more, with the British flag floating proudly over her taffrail, she
passes out of the harbour; leaving many a vessel behind, whose captains,
for want of crews, bewail their inability to follow her.
But there are eyes following her, from farther off--beautiful eyes, that
express sadness of a different kind, and from a different cause. Carmen
Montijo and Inez Alvarez stand upon the house-top, glasses in hand.
Instead, there should have been kerchiefs--white kerchiefs--waving
adieu. And there would have been, but for those chilling words:
"_Parting compliments to the senoritas_." Strange last words for
lovers! _Santissima_! what can it mean?
So reflect they to whom they were sent, as they stand in attentive
attitude, watching the warship, and straining their eyes upon her, till
rounding Telegraph Hill she disappears from their sight.
A sad cruel shock both have received--a blow almost breaking their
hearts.
Equally unhappy are two young officers on the departing ship. They too
stand with glasses in hand levelled upon the house of Don Gregorio
Montijo. They can see, as once before, two heads over the parapet, and,
as before, recognise them; but not as before, or with the same feelings,
do they regard them. All is changed now, everything doubtful and
indefinite, where it might be supposed everything had been
satisfactorily arranged. But it has not--especially in the thoughts of
Crozier; whose dissatisfaction is shown in a soliloquy to which he gives
utterance, as Telegraph Hill, interfering with his field of view, causes
him to take the telescope from his eye.
"Carmen Montijo!" he exclaims, crushing it to its shortest, and
returning the instrument to its case. "To think of a `sport'--a common
gambler--even having acquaintance with her--far less presuming to make
love to her!"
"More than gamblers--both of them," adds Cadwallader by his side.
"Robbers--murderers--anything if they had but the chance."
"Ay, true, Will; everything vile and vulgar. Don't it make you mad to
think of it?"
"No, not mad. That isn't the feeling I have; rather fear."
"Fear! Of what!"
"That the scoundrels may do some harm to our dear girls. As we know
now, they're up to anything. Since they don't stick at assassination,
they won't at abduction. I hope your letter to Don Gregorio may open
his eyes about them, and put him on his guard. My Inez! who's to
protect her? I'd give all I have in the world to be sure of her getting
safely embarked in that Chilian ship. Once there, dear old Harry Blew
will take care of her--of them both."
Cadwallader's words seem strangely to affect his companion, changing the
expression upon his countenance. It is still shadowed, but the cloud is
of a different kind. From anger it has altered to anxiety!
"You've struck a chord, Will, that, while not soothing the old pain,
gives me a new one. I wasn't thinking of that; my thoughts were all
occupied with the other trouble--you understand?"
"I do. At the same, I think you make too much of the other trouble, as
you call it. I confess it troubles me too a little; though, perhaps,
not as it does you. And luckily less, the more I reflect on it. After
all, there don't seem so much to be bothered about. As you know, Ned,
it's a common thing among Spanish-Americans, whose customs are
altogether unlike our own--to have gamblers going into their best
society. Besides, I can tell you something that may comfort you a
little--a bit of information I had from Inez, as we were _platicando_
along the road on our ride. It was natural she should speak about the
sky-blue fellow and my sticking his horse in the hip."
"What did she say?" asks Crozier, with newly awakened interest.
"That he was a gentleman by birth; but falling fast, and indeed quite
down."
"And De Lara; did she say aught of him?"
"She did; she spoke of him still more disparagingly, though knowing him
less. She said he had been introduced to them by the other, and they
were accustomed to meet him on occasions. But of late they had learned
more of him; and learning this, her aunt--your Carmen--had become very
desirous of cutting his acquaintance, as indeed all of them. And that
they intended doing so--even if they had remained in California. But
now--so soon leaving it, they did not like to humiliate De Lara by
giving him the _conge_ he deserves."
Crozier, with eyes earnestly fixed upon Cadwallader, has listened to the
explanation. At its close he cries out, grasping his comrade's hand:
"Will! you've lifted a load from my heart. I now see daylight where all
seemed darkness; and beholding yonder hill feel the truth of Campbell's
splendid lines:--
"A kiss can consecrate the ground,
Where mated hearts are mutual bound;
The spot, where love's first links are wound,
That ne'er are riven,
Is hallowed down to Earth's profound,
And up to Heaven!"
After repeating the passionate words, he stands gazing on a spot so
consecrated to him--the summit of the hill--where, just twenty-four
hours ago, he spoke love's last appeal to Carmen Montijo. For the
_Crusader_ has passed out through the Golden Gate, and is now beating
down the coast of the Pacific.
Cadwallader's eyes, with equal interest, are turned upon the same spot,
and for a time both are silent, absorbed in sweet reflections; recalling
all that had occurred in a scene whose slightest incident neither can
ever forgot.
Only when the land looms low, and the outlines of the San Bruno
Mountains begin to blend with the purpling sky, does a shadow again show
itself on the countenances of the young officers. But now it is
different, no longer expressing chagrin, nor the rancour of jealousy;
but doubt, apprehension, fear, for the loved ones left behind. Still
the cloud has a silver lining, and that is--Harry Blew.