With all sail set, the barque glides silently on to her doom.
Gomez now "cons" Slush the steering, he alone having any knowledge of
the coast. They are but a half-league from land, shaving close along
the outer edge of the breakers. The breeze blowing off-shore makes it
easy to keep clear of them.
There is high land on the starboard bow, gradually drawing to the beam.
Gomez remembers it; for in the clear moonlight is disclosed the outline
of a hill, which, once seen, could not easily be forgotten; a _cerro_
with two summits, and a _col_ or saddle-like depression between.
Still, though a conspicuous landmark, it does not indicate any
anchorage; only that they are entering a great gulf which indents the
Veraguan coast.
As the barque glides on, he observes a reach of clear water opening
inland; to all appearance a bay, its mouth miles in width.
He would run her into it, but is forbidden by the breakers, whose
froth-crested belt extends across the entrance from cape to cape.
Running past, he again closes in upon the land, and soon has the
two-headed hill abeam, its singular silhouette conspicuous against the
moonlit sky. All the more from the moon being directly beyond it, and
low down, showing between the twin summits like a great globe-shaped
lamp there suspended.
When nearly opposite, Gomez notes an open space in the line of breakers,
easily told by its dark tranquil surface, which contrasts with the white
horse-tails lashing up on each side of it.
Soon as sighting it, the improvised pilot leaves the helm, after giving
Slush some final instructions about the steering. Then forsaking the
poop, he proceeds towards the ship's waist, where he finds all the
others ready for action. Striker and La Crosse with pieces of rope for
making fast the ill-fated men; Padilla and his party armed with axes and
crowbars--the keys with which they intend to open the locker-doors.
Near the mainmast stands the first mate, a lighted lantern in his hand;
Davis beside him, with auger, mallet, and chisel. They are by the
hatchway, which they have opened, intending descent into the hold. With
the lantern concealed under the skirt of his ample dreadnought, Harry
Blew stands within the shadow of the mast, as if reflecting on his
faithlessness--ashamed to let his face be seen. He even appears
reluctant to proceed in the black business, while affecting the
opposite.
As the others are now occupied in various ways, with their eyes turned
from him, he steps out to the ship's side, and looks over the rail. The
moon is now full upon his face, which, under her soft innocent beams,
shows an expression difficult as ever to interpret. The most skilled
physiognomist could not read it. More than one emotion seem struggling
within his breast, mingling together, or succeeding each other, quick as
the changing hues of the chameleon. Now, as if cupidity, now remorse,
anon the dark shadow of despair!
This last growing darker, he draws nearer to the side, and looks
earnestly over, as if about to plunge into the briny deep, and so rid
himself of a life, ever after to be a burden!
While standing thus, apparently hesitating as to whether he shall drown
himself and have done with it, soft voices fall upon his ear, their
tones blending with the breeze, as it sweeps in melancholy cadence
through the rigging of the ship. Simultaneously there is a rustling of
dresses, and he sees two female forms robed in white, with short cloaks
thrown loosely over their shoulders, and kerchiefs covering their heads.
Stepping out on the quarterdeck, they stand for a short while, the moon
shining on their faces, both bright and innocent as her beams. Then
they stroll aft, little dreaming of the doom that awaits them.
That sight should soften his traitorous heart. Instead, it seems but to
steel it the more--as if their presence recalled and quickened within
him some vow of revenge. He hesitates no longer; but gliding back to
the hatch, climbs over its coaming, and, lantern in hand, drops down
into the hold--there to do a deed which neither light of moon nor sun
should shine upon.
Though within the tropic zone, and but a few degrees from the
equinoctial line, there is chillness in the air of the night, now
nearing its mid-hours.
Drawing their cloaks closer around them, the young ladies mount up to
the poop-deck, and stand resting their hands on the taffrail.
For a time they are silent; their eyes directed over the stern, watching
the foam in the ship's wake, lit up with luminous phosphorescence.
They observe other scintillation besides that caused by the _Condor's_
keel. There are broad splatches of it all over the surface of the sea,
with here and there elongated _sillons_, seemingly made by some
creatures in motion, swimming parallel to the ship's course, and keeping
pace with her.
They have not voyaged through thirty degrees of the Pacific Ocean to be
now ignorant of what these are. They know them to be sharks, as also
that some of larger size and brighter luminosity are the tracks of the
_tintorera_--that species so much-dreaded by the pearl-divers of Panama
Bay and the Californian Gulf.
This night both _tiburones_ and _tintoreras_ are more numerous than they
have ever observed them--closer also to the vessel's side; for the
sharks, observantly have seen a boat lowered down, which gives
anticipation of prey within nearer reach of their ravenous jaws.
"_Santissima_!" exclaims Carmen, as one makes a dash at some waif
drifting astern. "What a fearful thing it would be to fall overboard
there--in the midst of those horrid creatures! One wouldn't have the
slightest chance of being saved. Only to think how little space there
is between us and certain death! See that monster just below, with its
great, glaring eyes! It looks as if it wanted to leap up, and lay hold
of us. Ugh! I mustn't keep my eyes on it any longer. It makes me
tremble in a strange way. I do believe, if I continued gazing at it, I
should grow giddy, and drop into its jaws."
She draws back a pace or two, and for some moments remains silent--
pensive. Perhaps she is thinking of a sailor saved from sharks after
falling among them, and more still of the man who saved him. Whether or
no, she soon again speaks, saying:
"_Sobrina_! are you not glad we're so near the end of our voyage?"
"I'm not sorry, _tia_--I fancy no one ever is. I should be more
pleased, however, if it _were_ the end of our voyage, which
unfortunately it isn't. Before we see Spain, we've another equally as
long."
"True--as long in duration, and distance. But otherwise, it may be very
different, and I hope more endurable. Across the Atlantic we'll have
passage in a big steamship, with a grand dining saloon, and state
sleeping-rooms, each in itself as large as the main-cabin of the
_Condor_. Besides, we'll have plenty of company--passengers like
ourselves. Let us hope they may turn out nice people. If so, our
Atlantic voyage will be more enjoyable than this on the Pacific."
"But we've been very comfortable in the _Condor_; and _I'm_ sure Captain
Lantanas has done all he could to make things agreeable for us."
"He has indeed, the dear good creature; and I shall ever feel grateful
to him. Still you must admit that, however well meant, we've been at
times a little bored by his learned dissertations. O Inez, it's been
awfully lonely, and frightfully monotonous--at least, to me."
"Ah! I understand. What you want is a bevy of bachelors as
fellow-passengers, young ones at that. Well; I suppose there will be
some in the big steamer. Like enough, a half-score of our moustached
_militarios_, returning from Cuba and other colonies. Wouldn't that
make our Atlantic voyage enjoyable?"
"Not mine--nothing of the sort, as you ought to know. To speak truth,
it was neither the loneliness nor monotony of our Pacific voyage that
has made it so miserable. Something else."
"I think I can guess the something else."
"If so, you'll be clever. It's more than I can."
"Might it have anything to do with that informal leave-taking? Come,
Carmen--you promised me you'd think no more about it till we see them in
Cadiz, and have it all cleared up."
"You're wrong again, Inez. It is not anything of that."
"What then? It can't be the _mare amiento_? Of it I might complain.
I'm even suffering from it now--although the water is so smooth. But
you! why, you stand the sea as well as one of those rough sailors
themselves! You're just the woman to be a naval officer's wife; and
when your _novio_ gets command of a ship, I suppose you'll be for
circumnavigating the world with him."
"You're merry, _mora_."
"Well, who wouldn't be, with the prospect of soon setting foot on land.
For my part, I detest the sea; and when I marry my little
_guardia-marina_, I'll make him forsake it, and take to some pleasanter
profession. And if he prefer doing nothing, by good luck the rent of my
lands will keep us both comfortably, with something to spare for a town
house in Cadiz. But say, Carmen! What's troubling you? Surely you
must know?"
"Surely I don't, Inez."
"That's strange--a mystery. Might it be regret at leaving behind your
_preux chevaliers_ of California--that grand, gallant De Lara, whom, at
our last interview, we saw sprawling in the road dust? You ought to
feel relieved at getting rid of him, as I of my importunate suitor, the
Senor Calderon. By the way, I wonder whatever became of them! Only to
think of their never coming near us to say good-bye! And that nothing
was seen or heard of them afterwards! Something must have happened.
What could it have been! I've tried to think, but without succeeding."
"So I the same. It is indeed very strange; though I fancy father heard
something about them, which he does not wish to make known to us. You
remember what happened after we'd left the house--those men coming to it
in the night. Father has an idea they intended taking his gold,
believing it still there. What's more, I think he half suspects that of
the four men--for there appears to have been four of them--two were no
other than our old suitors, Francisco de Lara and Faustino Calderon."
She had almost said _sweethearts_, but the word has a suggestion of
pain.
"_Maria de Merced_!" exclaims Inez. "It's frightful to think of such a
thing. We ought to be thankful to that good saint for saving us from
such villains, and glad to get away from a country where their like are
allowed to live."
"_Sobrina_, you've touched the point. The very thought that's been
distressing me is the remembrance of those men. Even since leaving San
Francisco, as before we left, I've had a strange heaviness on my heart--
a sort of boding fear--that we haven't yet seen the last of them. It
haunts me like a spectre. I can't tell why, unless it be from what I
know of De Lara. He's not the man to submit to that ignominious defeat
of which we were witnesses. Be assured he will seek to avenge it. We
expected a duel, and feared it. Likely there would have been one, but
for the sailing of the English ship. Still that won't hinder such a
desperate man as De Lara from going after Edward, and trying to kill him
any way he can. I have a fear he'll follow him--is after him now."
"What if he be? Your _fiance_ can take care of himself. And so can
mine, if Calderon should get into his silly head to go after _him_. Let
them go, so long as they don't come after us; which they're not likely--
all the way to Spain."
"I'm not so sure of that. Such as they may make their way anywhere.
Professional gamblers--as we know them to be--travel to all parts of the
world. All cities give them the same opportunity to pursue their
calling--why not Cadiz? But, Inez, there's something I haven't told
you, thinking you might make mock of it. I've had a fright more than
once--several times, since we came aboard."
"A fright! what sort of a fright?"
"If you promise not to laugh at me, I'll tell you."
"I promise. I won't."
"'Twould be no laughing matter were it true. But, of course, it could
only be fancy."
"Fancy about what? Go on, _tia_: I'm all impatience."
"About the sailors on board. All have bad faces; some of them seem very
_demonios_. But there's one has particularly impressed me. Would you
believe it, Inez, he has eyes exactly like De Lara's! His features too
resemble those of Don Francisco; only that the sailor has a beard and
whiskers, while he had none. Of course the resemblance can be but
accidental. Still, it caused me a start, when I first observed it, and
has several times since. Never more than this very morning, when I was
up here, and saw that man. He was at the wheel, all by himself,
steering. Several times, on turning suddenly round, I caught him
looking straight at me, staring in the most insolent manner. I had half
a mind to complain to Captain Lantanas; but reflecting that we were so
near the end of our voyage--"
She is not permitted to say more. For at the moment, a man appearing on
the poop-deck, as if he had risen out of it, stands before her--the
sailor who resembles De Lara!
Making a low bow, he says:
"Not _near_ the end of your voyage, _senorita_; but _at_ it," adding
with an ironical smile: "Now, ladies! you're going ashore. The boat is
down; and, combining business with pleasure, it's my duty to hand you
into it."
While he is speaking, another of the sailors approaches Inez; Hernandez,
who offers his services in a similar style and strain.
For a moment, the girls are speechless, through sheer stark
astonishment. Horror succeeds, as the truth flashes upon them. And
then, instead of coherent speech, they make answer by a simultaneous
shriek; at the same time making an attempt to retreat towards the
cabin-stair.
Not a step is permitted them. They are seized in strong arms; and
half-dragged, half-lifted off their feet, hurried away from the
taffrail.
Their cries are stifled by huge woollen caps drawn over their heads, and
down to their chins, almost choking them. But though no longer seeing,
and only indistinctly hearing, they can tell where they are being taken.
They feel themselves lifted over the vessel's side, and lowered down
man-ropes into a boat; along the bottom of which they are finally laid,
and held fast--as if they had fallen into the jaws of those terrible
_tintoreras_, they so lately looked at keeping company with the ship!