While the scuttlers are shirking their work in the _Condor's_ hold, and
simultaneous with the abduction on deck, a scene is transpiring in her
cabin, which might be likened to a saturnalia of demons.
The skipper and Don Gregorio, sitting over their walnuts and wine, are
startled by the sound of footsteps descending the stair. As they are
heavy and hurried, bearing no resemblance to the gentle tread of woman--
it cannot be the ladies coming down again. Nor yet the negro cook,
since his voice is heard above in angry expostulation. Two of the
sailors have just seized him in his galley, throttled him back on the
bench, and are there lashing him with a piece of log-line.
They at the cabin-table know nothing of this. They hear his shouts, and
now also the shrieks of the young girls; but have no time to take any
steps, as at that instant the cuddy-door is dashed open, and several men
come rushing in; the second mate at their head. Lantanas, sitting with
his face to the door, sees them first, Don Gregorio, turning in his
seat, the instant after.
Neither thinks of demanding a reason for the rude intrusion. The
determined air of the intruders, with the fierce expression on their
faces, tells it would be idle.
In a time shorter than it takes to tell it, the two doomed men are made
fast to the stanchioned chairs; where they sit bolt upright, firm as
bollard heads. But not in silence. Both utter threats, oaths, angry
fulminations.
Not for long are they allowed this freedom of speech. One of the
sailors, seizing a pair of nutcrackers, thrusts them between the
skipper's teeth, gagging him. Another with a corkscrew, does the like
for Don Gregorio.
Then the work of pillage proceeds. The locker lids are forced, and the
boxes of gold-dust dragged out.
Several goings and comings are required for its transport to the
pinnace; but at length it is stowed in the boat, the plunderers taking
their seats beside it.
One lingers in the cabin behind the rest; that fiend in human shape who
has all along counselled killing the unfortunate men.
Left alone with them, helpless, and at his mercy, he looks as if still
determined to do this. It is not from any motive of compassion that he
goes from one to the other, and strikes the gags from between their
teeth. For at the same time he apostrophises them in horrid mockery:
"_Carramba_! I can't think of leaving two gentlemen seated at such a
well-furnished table, and no end of wine, without being able to hob-nob,
and drink one another's health!"
Then specially addressing himself to Lantanas, he continues:
"You see, captain, I'm not spiteful; else I shouldn't think of showing
you this bit of civility, after the insults you've offered me, since
I've been second officer of your ship."
After which, turning angrily upon Don Gregorio, and going close up, he
shrieks into his ears:
"Perhaps you don't know me, Montijo? Can your worship recall a
circumstance that occurred some six years ago, when you where
_alcalde-mayor_ of Yerba Buena? You may remember having a poor fellow
pilloried, and whipped, for doing a bit of contraband. I was that
unfortunate individual. And this is my satisfaction for the indignity
you put upon me. Keep your seats, gentlemen! Drink your wine and eat
your walnuts. Before you've cleared the table, this fine barque, with
your noble selves, will be at the bottom of the sea."
The ruffian concludes with a peal of scornful laughter, continued as he
ascends the cabin-stair, after striding out and banging the door behind
him!
On deck, he sees himself alone; and hurrying to the ship's waist,
scrambles over the side, down into the boat; where he finds everything
stowed, the oarsmen seated on the thwarts, their oars in the rowlocks,
ready to shove off.
They are not all there yet. Two--the first mate and Davis are still
aboard the barque--down in her hold.
There are those who would gladly cast loose, and leave the laggards
behind. Indeed, soon as stepping into the boat, Padilla proposes it,
the other Spaniards abetting him.
But their traitorous desire is opposed by Striker. However otherwise
debased, the ex-convict is true to the men who speak his own tongue.
He protests in strong determined language, and is backed by the
Dutchman, Dane, and La Crosse, as also Tarry and Slush.
"Bah!" exclaims Padilla, seeing himself in the minority; "I was only
jesting. Of course, I had no intention to abandon them. Ha, ha, ha!"
he adds with a forced laugh, "we'd be the blackest of traitors to behave
that way."
Striker pays no heed to the hypocritical speech, but calls to his old
chum and Harry Blew--alternately pronouncing their names.
He gets response, and soon after sees Davis above, clambering over the
rail.
Blew is not far behind, but still does not appear. He is by the foot of
the mainmast with a haulyard in his hands as though hoisting something
aloft. The moon has become clouded, and it is too dark for any one to
see what it is. Besides, there is no one observing him--no one could,
the bulwarks being between.
"Hillo, there, Blew!" again hails Striker; "what be a-keepin' ye? Hurry
down! These Spanish chaps are threetnin' to go off without ye."
"Hang it!" exclaims the chief mate, now showing the side; "I hope that
an't true!"
"Certainly not!" exclaims Padilla; "nothing of the kind. We were only
afraid you might delay too long, and be in danger of going down with the
vessel."
"Not much fear of that," returns Blew, dropping into the boat, "It'll be
some time afore she sinks. Ye fixed the rudder for her to run out,
didn't ye?"
"Ay, ay!" responds he who was the last at the wheel.
"All right; shove off, then! That wind'll take the old _Condor_
straight seawart; and long afore sunrise she'll be out sight o' land.
Give way there--way!"
The oars dip and plash. The boat separates from the side, with prow
turned shoreward.
The barque, with her sails still spread, is left to herself, and the
breeze, which wafts her gently away towards the wide wilderness of
ocean.
Proceeding cautiously, guarding against the rattle of an oar in its
rowlock, the pirates run their boat through the breakers, and approach
the shore. Right ahead are the two summits, with the moon just going
down behind; and between is a cove of horseshoe shape, the cliffs
extending around it.
With a few more strokes the boat is brought into it and glides on to its
innermost end.
As the keel grates upon the shingly strand, their ears are saluted by a
chorus of cries--the alarm signal of seabirds, startled by the
intrusion; among them the scream of the harpy eagle, resembling the
laugh of a maniac.
These sounds, despite their discordance, are sweet to those now hearing
them. They tell of a shore uninhabited--literally, that the "coast is
clear"--just as they wish it.
Beaching the boat, they bound on shore, and lift their captives out;
then the spoils--one unresisting as the other.
Some go in search of a place where they may pass the night; for it is
too late to think of proceeding inland.
Between the strand and the cliff's base, these discover a beach, several
feet above sea-level, having an area of over an acre, covered with
coarse grass, just the spot for a camping-place.
As the sky has become clouded, and threatens a downpour of rain, they
carry thither the boat's sail, intending to rig it up as an awning.
But a discovery is made which spares them the trouble. Along its base
the cliff is honeycombed with caves, one of ample dimensions, sufficient
to shelter the whole crew. A ship's lamp, which they have brought with
them, when lighted throws its glare upon stalactites, that sparkle like
the pendants of chandeliers.
Disposing themselves in various attitudes, some reclined on their spread
pilot-coats, some seated on stones or canvas bags, they enter upon a
debauch with the wines abstracted from the stores of the abandoned
barque--drinking, talking, singing, shouting, and swearing, till the
cavern rings with their hellish revelry. It is well their captives are
not compelled to take part in, or listen to, it. To them has been
appropriated one of the smaller grottoes, the boat-sail fixed in front
securing them privacy. Harry Blew has done this. In the breast of the
British man-o'-war's man there is still a spark of delicacy. Though his
gratitude has given way to the greed of gold, he has not yet sunk to the
level of that ruffianism around him.
While the carousal is thus carried on within the cave, without, the
overcast sky begins to discharge itself. Lightning forks and flashes
athwart the firmament; thunder rolls reverberating along the cliffs; a
strong wind sweeps them; the rain pouring down in torrents.
It is a tropic storm--short-lived, lasting scarce half-an-hour.
But, while on, it lashes the sea into fury, driving the breakers upon
the beach, where the beat has been left loosely moored.
In the reflux of the ebbing tide, this is set afloat and carried away
seaward. Driven then upon the coral reef, it bilges, is broken to
pieces, when the fragments, as waifs, dance about, and drift far away
over the foam-crested billows.