It is the fourth day since the English officers boarded the Chilian
barque. They are still on board of her, and she still afloat--the one a
sequence of the other; or, she would now be at the bottom of the sea. A
tough struggle they have had of it; only the three to manage so large a
craft in a tempest which, though short-lived, was fierce as ever swept
over the Pacific. And with no aid from any of the other three. Captain
Lantanas is still delirious, locked up in his state-room, lest, in his
violence, he may do some harm; while Don Gregorio, weak as a child,
reclines on the cabin settee, unable to go upon deck. The negro alone,
having partially recovered strength, lends some assistance.
The barque's sails still hang tattered from the spars, for they have
since encountered other winds, and had neither the time nor strength to
clear them. But they have contrived to patch up the foresail, and bend
on a new jib from some spare canvas found in the stores. With these she
is making way at the rate of some five or six knots to the hour, her
head East and by South. It is twelve o'clock mid-day, and Grummet is at
the wheel; the officers on the quarter; Crozier, sextant in hand,
"shooting the sun." They have long since given up hope of finding the
frigate, or being found by her at sea.
Aware of this, they are steering the crippled vessel towards Panama in
hope of their coming across her. In any case, that is the port where
they will be most likely to get tidings of her.
A prey to saddened thoughts are the two young officers, as they stand on
the quarterdeck of the Chilian vessel taking the altitude of the sun,
with instruments her own skipper is no longer able to use. Fortunately,
these had not been carried off, else there would be but little
likelihood of their making Panama.
At best, they will reach it with broken hearts; for they have now heard
the whole story in all its dark details, so far as Don Gregorio could
give them.
Having already determined their longitude by the barque's chronometer,
they have kept it by log-reckoning, and their present observation is but
to confirm them in the latitude.
"Starboard your helm!" shouts Crozier to Grummet. "Give her another
point to port. Keep her east-by-south. Steady!"
Then turning to Cadwallader, he says:
"If all goes well, we shall make Panama in less than two days. We might
do it in one, if we could but set sail enough. Anyhow, I think old
Bracebridge will stay for us at least a week. Ah! I wish that were all
we had to trouble us. To think they're gone--lost to us--for ever!"
"Don't say that, Ned. There's still a hope we may find them."
"And found, what then! You needn't answer. Will; I don't wish you to
speak of it. I daren't trust myself to think of it. Carmen Montijo--my
betrothed--captive to a crew of pirate cut-throats--oh!"
Cadwallader is silent. He suffers the same agony thinking of Inez.
For a time the picture remains before their minds, dark as their
gloomiest fancies can make it. Then across it shoot some rays of hope,
saddened, but sweet, for they are thoughts of vengeance. Cadwallader
first gives expression to it.
"Whatever has happened to the girls, we shall go after them anyhow. And
the robbers, we _must_ find them."
"Find, and punish them," adds Crozier. "That we surely shall. If it
costs all my money, all the days of my life, I'll revenge the wrongs of
Carmen Montijo."
"And I those of Inez Alvarez."
For a while they stand silently brooding upon that which has brought
such black shadow over their hearts. Then Cadwallader says:
"The scoundrels must have plotted it all before leaving San Francisco;
and shipped aboard the Chilian vessel for the express purpose of getting
this gold. That's Don Gregorio's idea of it, borne out by what he heard
from that one of them he knew there--Rocas the name, he says."
"It seems probable--indeed certain," rejoins Crozier. "Though it don't
much matter how, or when, they planned the damnable deed. Enough that
they've done it. But to think of Harry Blew turning traitor, and taking
part with them! That is to me the strangest thing of all, frightfully,
painfully, strange."
"But do you believe he _has_ acted in such a manner?"
"How can one help believing it? What Don Gregorio heard leaves no
alternative. He went off in the boat along with the rest; besides
saying words which prove he went willingly. Only to think of such black
ingratitude! Cadwallader, I'd as soon have thought of suspecting
yourself!"
"His conduct, certainly, seems incredible. I believed Blew to be a
thoroughly honest fellow. No doubt the gold corrupted him; as it has
many a better man. But let's think no more about it; only hope we may
some day lay hands on him."
"Ah! if I ever do that. With my arms around him, I once saved his
worthless life. Let me but get him in my embrace again, and he'll have
a hug that'll squeeze the last breath out of his body!"
"The chance may come yet, and with the whole scoundrelly crew. What
brutes they must have been! According to Don Gregorio's account, they
were of all nations, and the worst sort of each. The negro says the
same. Among them four that spoke Spanish, and appeared to be Spaniards,
or Spanish-Americans. Suppose we pay a visit to the forecastle, and see
if we can find any record of their names. It might be of use
hereafter."
"By all means!" asserts the lieutenant; "let us." They proceed towards
the fore-deck in silence, their countenances showing a nervous
apprehension. For there is a thought in their hearts, which neither has
yet made known to the other--blacker, and more bitter, than even the
thought of Harry Blew's treason.
Unspoken, they carry it into the forecastle; but they are not many
minutes there, before seeing what brings it out, without either saying a
word.
A bunk--the most conspicuous of the two tiers--is explored first. They
turn out of it papers of various sorts: some letters, several numbers of
an old newspaper, and a pack of Spanish playing-cards--all pictured.
But among them is one of a different sort--a white one, with a name
printed upon it.
A visiting card--but whose?
As Crozier picks it up, and reads the name, his blood curdles, the hair
crisping on his head:
"Mr Edward Crozier; H.B.M. Frigate Crusader."
His own!
He does not need to be told how the card came there. Too well remembers
he when, where, and to whom he gave it--to Don Francisco De Lara on the
day of their encounter.
Thrusting it into his pocket, he clutches at the letters, and looks at
their superscription--"_Don Francisco de Lara_!"
Opening, he rapidly reads them one after another. His hands holding
them shake as with a palsy; while in his eyes there is a look of keenest
apprehension. For he fears that, subscribed to some, he will find
another name--that of Carmen Montijo! If so, farewell to all faith in
human kind. Harry Blew's ingratitude has destroyed his belief in man.
A letter from the daughter of Don Gregorio Montijo to the gambler Frank
Lara, will alike wither his confidence in woman.
With eager eyes, and lips compressed, he continues the perusal of the
letters. They are from many correspondents, and relate to various
matters, most about money and _monte_, signed "Faustino Calderon."
As the last of them slips through his fingers, he breathes freely, but
with a sigh of self-reproach for having doubted the woman who was to
have been his wife.
Turning to Cadwallader--as himself aware of all--he says, in solemn
emphasis:
"_Now we know_!"