"Sail in sight!"
Three little words, but full of big meaning, of carrying the question of
life or death.
To the ears of that starving crew sweet as music, despite the harsh
Teutonic pronunciation of him who gave them utterance.
Down drops the pannikin, spilling out the shells; which they have hopes
may be no more needed.
At the shout from above, all have faced towards the sea, and stand
scanning its surface. But with gaze unrewarded. The white flecks seen
afar are only the wings of gulls.
"Where away?" shouts one, interrogating him on the hill.
"Sou'-westart."
South-westward they cannot see. In this direction their view is
bounded; a projection of the cliff interposing between them and the
outside shore. All who are able start off towards its summit. The
stronger ones rush up the gorge as if their lives depended on speed.
The weaker go toiling after. One or two, weaker still, stay below to
wait the report that will soon reach them.
The first up, on clearing the scarp, have their eyes upon the Dutchman.
His behaviour might cause them surprise, if they could not account for
it. As said, the beacon is upon the higher of the two peaks, some two
hundred yards beyond the clift's brow. He is beside it, and apparently
beside himself. Dancing over the ground, he makes grotesque
gesticulations, tossing his arms about, and waving his hat overhead--all
the while shouting as if to some vessel close at hand--calling in rapid
repetition:
"Ship, Ahoy! Ahoy!"
Looking they can see no ship, nor craft of any kind. For a moment they
think him mad, and fear, after all, it may be a mistake. Certainly
there is no vessel near enough to be hailed.
But sending their eyes farther out, their fear gives place to joy almost
delirious. There _is_ a sail, and though leagues off, seeming but a
speck, their practised eyes tell them she is steering that way--running
coastwise. Keeping this course, she must come past the isle--within
sight of their signal, so long spread to no purpose.
Without staying to reflect farther, they strain on towards the summit,
where the staff is erected.
Harry Blew is the first to reach it; and clutching the telescope, jerks
it from the hands of the half-crazed Dutchman. Raising it to his eye,
he directs it on the distant sail--there keeping it more than a minute.
The others have meanwhile come up, and, clustering around, impatiently
question him.
"What is she? How's she standing?"
"A bit o' a barque," responds Blew. "And from what I can make out,
close huggin' the shore. I'll be better able to tell when she draws out
from that clump of cloud."
Gomez, standing by, appears eager to get hold of the glass; but Blew
seems unwilling to give it up. Still holding it at his eye, he says:
"See to that signal, mates! Spread the tarpaulin' to its full streetch.
Face it square, so's to _give_ 'em every chance of sightin' it."
Striker and Davis spring to the piece of tarred canvas; and grasping it,
one at each corner, draw out the creases, and hold as directed.
All the while Blew stands with the telescope levelled, loath to
relinquish it. But Gomez, grown importunate, insists on having his
turn, and it is at length surrendered to him.
Blew, stepping aside, seems excited with some emotion he would conceal.
Strong it must be, judging from its effects on the ex-man-o'-war's man.
On his face there is an expression difficult to describe--surprise
amounting to amazement--joy subdued by anxiety. Soon, as having given
up the glass, he pulls off his dreadnought, then divesting himself of
his shirt--a scarlet flannel--he suspends it from the outer end of the
cross-piece which supports the tarpauling; as he does so, saying to
Striker and Davis:
"That's a signal no ship ought to disregard, and won't if manned by
Christian men. _She_ won't, if she sees it. You two stay here, and
keep the things well spread I'm goin' below to say a word to them poor
creeturs in the cave. Stand by the staff, and don't let any o' them
haul it down."
"Ay, ay!" answers Striker, without comprehending, and somewhat wondering
at Blew's words--under the circumstances strange. "All right, mate. Ye
may depend on me an' Bill."
"I know it--I do," rejoins the ex-man-o'-war's man, again slipping the
pilot-coat over his shirtless skin.
"Both o' you be true to me, and 'fore long I may be able to show as
Harry Blew an't ungrateful."
Saying this, he separates from them, and hurries back down the gorge.
The Sydney Ducks, left standing by the staff, more than ever wonder at
what he has said, and interrogate one another as to his meaning.
In the midst of their mutual questioning, they are attracted by a cry
strangely intoned. It is from Gomez, who has brought down the
telescope, and holds it in hands that shake as with a palsy.
"What is it?" asks Padilla, stepping up to him.
"Take the glass, Rafael Rocas. See for yourself!"
The contrabandista does as directed.
He is silent for some seconds, while getting the telescope on the
strange vessel. Soon as he has her within the field of view, he
commences making remarks, overheard by Striker and Davis, giving both
surprise--though the latter least.
"Barque she is--polacca-masts. _Carramba_! that's queer. About the
same bulk, too! If it wasn't that we're sure of the _Condor_ being
below, I'd swear it was she. Of course, it can be only a coincidence.
_Santissima_! a strange one!"
Velarde, in turn, takes the telescope; he, too, after a sight through
it, expressing himself in a similar manner.
Hernandez next--for the four Spaniards have all ascended to the hill.
But Striker does not wait to hear what Hernandez may have to say.
Dropping the tarpauling, he strides up to him, and, _sans ceremonie_,
jerks the instrument out of his fingers. Then bringing it to his eye,
sights for himself.
Less than twenty seconds suffice for him to determine the character of
the vessel. Within that time, his glance taking in her hull, traversing
along the line of her bulwarks, and then ascending to the tops of her
tall smooth masts, he recognises all, as things with which he is well
acquainted.
He, too, almost lets drop the telescope, as, turning to the others, he
says in a scared, but confident voice:
"_By God, its the Condor_!"