Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: "In a short time they had bound our arms tightly with
strips of hide."]
[Transcriber's note: frontispiece missing from book.]
At the Point of the Sword
A Story for Boys
By
HERBERT HAYENS
Author of "Ye Mariners of England," "Under the Lone Star,"
"For the Colours," "A Captain of Irregulars,"
"In the Grip of the Spaniard,"
&c., &c.
THOMAS NELSON & SONS, LTD.
LONDON, EDINBURGH, AND NEW YORK
1903
CONTENTS.
I. A BIRTHDAY EVE
II. AN EXCITING VOYAGE
III. THE END OF THE "AGUILA"
IV. THE SILVER KEY
V. IN THE HIDDEN VALLEY
VI. WE LEAVE THE HIDDEN VALLEY
VII. WHOM THE GODS LOVE DIE YOUNG
VIII. A FRIENDLY OPPONENT
IX. A GLEAM OF HOPE
X. A STORMY INTERVIEW
XI. A NARROW ESCAPE
XII. A STERN PURSUIT
XIII. HOME AGAIN
XIV. FRIEND OR FOE?
XV. WE CATCH A TARTAR
XVI. GLORIOUS NEWS
XVII. DUTY FIRST
XVIII. DARK DAYS
XIX. FALSE PLAY, OR NOT?
XX. "SAVE HIM, JUAN, SAVE HIM!"
XXI. ROUGH JUSTICE
XXII. THE "SILVER KEY" AGAIN
XXIII. AN OPEN-AIR PRISON
XXIV. A DANGEROUS JOURNEY
XXV. BACK TO DUTY
XXVI. THE HUSSARS OF JUNIN
XXVII. A DISASTROUS RETREAT
XXVIII. THE BATTLE OF THE GENERALS
XXIX. HOME AGAIN
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
"IN A SHORT TIME THEY HAD BOUND OUR ARMS TIGHTLY
WITH STRIPS OF HIDE" . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
"'HELP, HELP!' I EXCLAIMED FAINTLY; BUT HE HEARD ME,
AND I KNEW I WAS SAVED."
"PUSHING OFF HIS SANDY BED-CLOTHES AT OUR APPROACH,
HE STRUGGLED TO HIS FEET."
"'SAVE HIM, JUAN, SAVE HIM!'"
"HE GLANCED CONTEMPTUOUSLY AT THE GIGANTIC SORILLO."
"'A SOLDIER FROM AYACUCHO! HERE IS ONE OF OUR BRAVE
DELIVERERS!'"
AT THE POINT OF THE SWORD.
CHAPTER I.
A BIRTHDAY EVE.
In spite of my English name--Jack Crawford--and my English blood, I
have never set foot on that famous little island in the North Sea, and
now it is quite unlikely that I ever shall do so.
I was born in Peru, on the outskirts of beautiful Lima, where, until
the year 1819, on the very eve of my fourteenth birthday, the days of
my childhood were passed.
I expect you know that in ancient days Peru was called the "Land of the
Sun," because the sun was worshipped by the natives. Their great city
was Cuzco, built, it is said, in 1043 A.D., by Manco Capac, the first
of the Incas, or Emperors of Peru.
The natives believed Manco to be a child of the sun; but I have heard
an old story that his father was a shipwrecked Englishman, who married
the daughter of a Peruvian chief. I do not think this tale correct,
but it is full of interest.
Most of the Incas ruled very wisely, and the remains of palaces,
temples, and aqueducts show that the people were highly civilized; but
in 1534 the Spaniards, under Pizarro, invaded the country, and swept
away the glorious empire of the Incas.
After that Peru became a part of Spanish America, and Pizarro founded
the city of Lima, which he made the capital.
My father, who settled in the country when quite a young man, married a
Peruvian lady of wealthy and influential family. The estate near Lima
formed part of her marriage portion, and a beautiful place it was, with
a fine park, and a lake which served me both for boating and bathing.
I had several friends, chiefly Spaniards, but two English boys, whose
fathers were merchants in Callao, often visited me, and many a pleasant
game we had together.
At this time Peru was a Spanish colony, but some people, among whom was
my father, wanted to make it an independent country, having its own
ruler. Being still a boy, I did not hear much of these things, though,
from certain talk, I understood that the country was in a most
unsettled state, and that the Spanish governor had thrown many good men
into prison for urging the people to free themselves.
One evening, in March 1819, I was busy in my workshop painting a small
boat. My father had been absent for nearly a week, but he had promised
to return for my birthday, and every moment I expected to see him
crossing the courtyard.
Presently, hearing old Antonio unfasten the wicket-gate, I put down my
brush, wiped my hands, and ran out joyously.
The happy welcome died on my lips. It was not my father who had
entered, but Rosa Montilla, the young daughter of a famous Spanish
officer. She was nearly a year younger than myself, and a frequent
visitor at our house. Often we had gone together for a row on the
lake, or for a gallop on our ponies round the park.
She was very pretty, with deep blue eyes and fair hair, quite unlike
most Spanish girls, and generally full of fun and good spirits. Now,
however, she was very pale and looked frightened. I noticed, too, that
she had no covering on her head or shoulders, and that she had not
changed the thin slippers worn in the house.
These things made me curious and uneasy. I feared some evil had
befallen her father, and knew not how to act. On seeing me she made a
little run forward, and, bursting into tears, cried, "O Juan, Juan!"
using, as also did my mother, the Spanish form of my name.
Now, being only a boy, and being brought up for the most part among
boys, I was but a clumsy comforter, though I would have done anything
to lessen her grief.
"What is it, Rosa?" I asked; "what has happened?" But for answer she
could only wring her hands and cry, "O Juan, Juan!"
"Do not cry, Rosa!" I said, and then doing what I should have done in
the first place, led her toward the drawing-room, where my mother was.
"Mother will comfort you. Tell her all about it," I said confidently,
for it was to my mother I always turned when things went wrong.
On this her tears fell faster, but she came with me, and together we
entered the room.
"Juan!" cried my mother.--"Rosa! what is the matter? Why are you
crying? But come to me, darling;" and in another moment she was
pressing the girl to her bosom.
At a sign from her I left the room, but did not go far away. Rosa's
action was so odd that I waited with impatience to hear the reason.
She must have left her home hurriedly and unobserved, since it was an
unheard-of thing that the daughter of Don Felipe Montilla should be out
on foot and unattended. I was sure that should her father discover it
he would be greatly annoyed. The whole affair was so mysterious that I
could make nothing of it. The girl's sobs were more under control now,
and she began to speak. As she might not wish me to hear her story, I
walked away, meaning to chat with Antonio at the gate, and to await my
father's return.
He might not come for hours yet, as it was still early evening, but I
hoped he would, and the more so now on Rosa's account. She might need
help which I was not old enough to give; while, as it chanced, Joseph
Craig, my father's trusty English servant, had gone that afternoon into
Callao. However, he also might be back at any moment now, and would
not, in any case, be late.
Half an hour had perhaps passed, and I was turning from the gate, when
two horsemen dashed up at full speed. One was Joseph Craig, or José as
the Spaniards called him, and my feeling of uneasiness returned as I
noticed that his face, too, wore a strange and startled look.
José, as I have said, was my father's servant; but we all regarded him
more as a friend, and treated him as one of ourselves. He was a
well-built man of medium height, with good features and keen gray eyes.
He spoke English and Spanish fluently, and could make himself
understood in several Indian dialects. He kept the accounts of the
estate, and might easily have obtained a more lucrative situation in
any counting-house in Callao. He excelled, too, in outdoor sports, and
had taught me to fence, to shoot, and to ride straight.
The second man I did not know. He seemed to be an Indian of the
mountains, and was of gigantic stature. His dress was altogether
different from that of the Spaniards, and in his cap he wore a plume of
feathers. His face was scarred by more than one sword-cut, his brows
were lowering, and his massive jaw told of great animal strength.
José's horse had galloped fast, but the one ridden by the stranger was
flaked with foam.
Antonio would have opened the big gate without question: but I,
thinking of Rosa, forbade him, saying to José in English, "Does he mean
harm to the girl?"
You see, my head was full of the one idea, and I could think of nothing
else. I imagined that Rosa had run away from some peril, and that this
man with the savage face and cruel eyes had tracked her to our gate.
So I put the question to José, who looked at me wonderingly.
"The girl?" he repeated slowly; "what girl?"
"Rosa Montilla," I answered.
We spoke in English; but at the mention of Rosa's name the mountaineer
scowled savagely, and leaned forward as if to take part in the
conversation.
"The man has come from the mountains with a message for your mother,"
said José; "I met him at the entrance to the park. But if Rosa
Montilla is here, the news is known already."
His face was very pale, and he spoke haltingly, as if his words were
burdensome, and there was a look in his eyes which I had never seen
before.
I motioned to Antonio, and the two passed through. What message did
they bring? What news could link dainty little Rosa with this wild
outlaw of the hills?
José jumped to the ground and walked with me, laying a hand on my
shoulder. Until then I had no thought of the truth, but the touch of
his fingers sent a shiver of fear through me, and I looked at his face
in alarm.
"What is it, José?" I asked; "what has happened? Why did Rosa steal
here alone and sob in my mother's arms as if her heart would break?"
"The little maid has heard bad news," he answered quietly, "though how
I do not know."
"And as she had no mother, she came to mine for comfort," I said. "It
was a happy thought: mother will make her forget her trouble."
José stopped, and looked searchingly in my face.
"Poor boy!" he said. "You have no idea of the truth, and how can I
tell you? The little maid did not weep for her own sorrow, but for
yours and your mother's."
At that I understood without further words, though I was to learn more
soon. The reason of it I guessed, though not the matter; but I knew
that somewhere my dear father lay dead--killed by order of the Spanish
viceroy.
José saw from my face that I knew, and there was sympathy in the very
touch of his hand.
"It is true," he whispered. "The Spaniards trapped him in the
mountains, whither he had gone to meet the Indians. They wished to
rise against the government; but he knew it was madness just now, and
thought to keep them quiet till his own plans were ready."
"And the Spaniards slew him?"
"Yes," replied José simply. "Here," pointing to the mountaineer, "is
our witness."
"But how did Rosa hear of it? she was not in the mountains. Ah, I
forgot! Her father stands high in the viceroy's favour. And so my
father is dead!"
The thought unnerved me, and I could have cried aloud in my sorrow.
"Hold up your head, boy!" exclaimed the harsh voice of the mountaineer.
"Tears are for women and girls. Years ago my father's head was cut
off, but I did not cry. I took my gun and went to the mountains," and
he finished with a bitter laugh.
"But my mother!" I said. "The news will break her heart."
"The world will not know it," he answered, and he spoke truly.
"I am glad the little maid has told her," remarked José, giving his
horse and that of the stranger to a serving-man. "Jack, do you go in
and prepare her for our coming."
A single glance showed that Rosa had indeed told her story. She sat on
a lounge, looking very miserable. My mother rose and came toward me.
Taking my hands, she clasped them in her own. She was a very beautiful
woman, famous for her beauty even among the ladies of Lima. She was
tall and slightly built, with black hair and glorious dark eyes that
shone like stars. I have heard that at one time she was called the
"Lady of the Stars," and I am not surprised. They shone now, but all
gentleness had gone from them, and was replaced by a hard, fierce
glitter which half frightened me. Her cheeks were white, and her lips
bloodless; but as far as could be seen, she had not shed a tear.
Still holding my hands, and looking into my face, she said, "You have
heard the news, Juan? You know that your father lies dead on the
mountains, slain while carrying a message of peace to the fierce men
who live there?"
I bowed my head, but could utter no sound save the anguished cry of
"Mother, mother!"
"Hush!" she exclaimed; "it is no time for tears now. I shall weep
later in my own room, but not before the world, Juan. Our grief is our
own, my son, not the country's. And there is little Rosa, brave little
Rosa, who came to bring me the news; she must go back. Let Miguel
bring round the carriage, and see that half a dozen of the men ride in
attendance. Don Felipe's daughter must have an escort befitting her
father's rank."
I began to speak of the strange visitor outside; but Rosa was her first
care, and she would see no one until Rosa had been attended to. So I
hurried Miguel, the coachman, and the men who were to ride on either
side of the carriage, returning to the room only when all was ready.
Mother had wrapped Rosa up warmly, and now, kissing her, she said,
"Good-bye, my child. You were very good to think of me, and I shall
not forget. Tell your father the truth; he will not mind now."
Rosa kissed my mother in reply, and walked unsteadily to the coach.
She was still sobbing, and the sight of her white face added to my
misery.
"Don't cry, Rosa," said I, as I helped her into the carriage and wished
her good-bye, neither of us having any idea of the strange events which
would happen before we met again.
As soon as the carriage had gone, my mother directed that the stranger
should be admitted, and he came in accompanied by José. I would have
left the room, but my mother stopped me, saying,--
"No, Juan; your place is here. An hour ago you were but a thoughtless
boy; now you must learn to be a man.--Señor, you have brought news?
You have come to announce the death of my husband; is it not so?"
The mountaineer bowed almost to the ground.
"It is a sad story, señora, but it will not take long to tell. The
Spaniards pretended he was stirring up our people to revolt; they
waited for him in the passes, and shot him down like a dog."
"Did you see him fall?"
The fellow's eyes flashed with savage rage. "Had I been there," he
cried, "not a soldier of them all would have returned to his quarters!
But they shall yet pay for it, señora. My people are mad to rise.
Only say the word, and send the son of the dead man to ride at their
head, and Lima shall be in flames to-morrow."
My mother made a gesture of dissent.
"Don Eduardo liked not cruelty," she exclaimed; "and it would be but a
poor revenge to slay the innocent. But Juan shall take his father's
place, and work for his country's freedom. When the time comes to
strike he shall be ready."
"Before the time comes he will have disappeared," cried the
mountaineer, with a harsh laugh. "Do you think Don Eduardo's son will
be allowed to live? Accidents, señora, are common in Peru!"
"It is true," remarked José; "Juan will never be out of danger."
"But the country is not ready for revolt, and only harm can come from a
rising now. Should the Indians leave their mountain homes, the trained
soldiers will annihilate them."
"But Juan must be saved!"
"Yes," assented my mother; "we must save Juan to take his father's
place."
After this there was silence for a time. Then José spoke, "There is
one way," said he slowly. "He can find a refuge in Chili till San
Martin is ready; but he must go at once."
A spasm of fresh pain shot across my mother's face, but it disappeared
instantly; even with this added grief she would not let people know how
she suffered. Only as her hand rested on mine I felt it tremble.
"Let it be so, José," she said simply. "I leave it to you."
Then she thanked the mountaineer who had ridden so far to break the
terrible news to her, and the two men went away, leaving us two
together.
"Mother," I said, "must I really leave you?"
For answer she clasped me in her arms and kissed my face passionately.
"But you will come back, my boy!" she cried; "you will come back. Now
that your father is no more, you are my only hope, the only joy of my
life. O Juan, Juan! it is hard to let you go; but José is right--there
is no other way. I will be brave, dear, and wait patiently for your
return. Follow in your father's footsteps. Do the right, and fear not
whatever may happen; be brave and gentle, and filled with love for your
country, even as he was. Keep his memory green in your heart, and you
cannot stray from the path of honour."
"I will try, mother."
"And if--if we never meet again, my boy, I will try to be brave too."
She wiped away the tears which veiled like a mist the brilliance of her
starry eyes, and we sat quietly in the darkening room, while outside
José was making preparations for our immediate departure.
At last he knocked at the door, and without a tremor in her voice she
bade him enter.
"The horses are saddled, señora."
"Yes; and your plan, what is it?" she asked.
"It is very simple, señora. Juan and I will ride straight to Mr.
Warren at Callao. He may have a vessel bound for Valparaiso; if not,
he will find us one for my master's sake. Once at sea, we shall be out
of danger. General San Martin will give us welcome, and there are many
Peruvians in his army."
Once my mother's wonderful nerve nearly failed her. "You will take
care of him, José," she said brokenly.
"I will guard him with my life, señora!"
"I know it, I am sure of it; and some day yon will bring him back to
me. God will reward you, José.--Good-bye, Juan, my boy. Oh how
reluctant I am to let you go!"
I will not dwell on the sadness of that parting. The horses were
waiting in the courtyard, and after the last fond embrace I mounted.
"Good-bye, mother!"
"Farewell, my boy. God keep you!" and as we moved away I saw her white
handkerchief fluttering through the gloom.
At the gate the Indian waited for us, and he followed a few paces in
the rear.
I thought this strange, and asked José about it.
"It may be well to have a friend to guard our backs," he replied.
So in the gathering darkness I stole away from my home, with my heart
sore for my father's death and my mother's suffering. And it was the
eve of my birthday--the eve of the day to which I had looked forward
with such delight!
Being so young, I did not really understand the peril that surrounded
me; but my faith in José was strong, and I felt confident that in
taking me away he was acting for the best.
Our path through the park led us near the lake, and I glanced
sorrowfully at its calm waters and fern-fringed border. I would have
liked to linger a moment at its margin, dwelling on past joys; but José
hurried me on, remarking there was no time to waste.
Only, as the great gates swung open, he let me stop, so that I might
bid a silent adieu to the beautiful home where my happy days of
childhood had been passed.
"Keep a brave heart," said he kindly; "we shall be back some day. And
now for a word of advice. Ride carefully and keep your eyes open. I
don't want to frighten you, but the sooner we're clear of Lima the
better I shall be pleased."
With that he put spurs to his horse, and with the clanging of the gate
in our ears we rode off on the road to Callao, while the gigantic
Indian followed about twenty paces behind.
CHAPTER II.
AN EXCITING VOYAGE.
It may be that José's fears on my account had exaggerated the danger,
as we reached Callao without interruption, and dismounted outside Mr.
Warren's villa. Here the Indian took leave of us, but before going he
unfastened a silver key from the chain round his neck, and pressed it
into my hand.
"It may happen," said he, "that at some time or other you will need
help. That key and the name of Raymon Sorillo will obtain it for you
from every patriot in the mountains of Peru. For the present,
farewell. When you return from Chili we shall meet again."
Without waiting for my thanks he bade adieu to José and then, spurring
his horse into a gallop, he disappeared.
From the man who opened the gate in answer to our summons we learned
that my father's friend was at home, and leaving our horses, we went
immediately into the house. This English merchant had often been our
guest, and it was soon abundantly evident that we had done right in
trusting him. He was a short, round-faced man, with a florid
complexion, twinkling eyes, and sandy hair. He was very restless and
irritable, and had a queer habit of twiddling his thumbs backward and
forward whenever his hands were unoccupied.
"How do, Joseph?" exclaimed he, jumping up. "Come to take that berth I
offered you? No? Well, well, what a fool a man can be if he tries!
Why, bless me, this is young Jack Crawford! Eight miles from home, and
at this time of night too! Anything the matter? Get it out, Joseph,
and don't waste time."
While Joseph was explaining the circumstances, the choleric little man
danced about the room, exclaiming at intervals, "Ted Crawford gone?
Dear, dear! Not a better fellow in South America! I'd shoot 'em all
or string 'em up! The country's going to the dogs, and a man isn't
safe in his own house! Eh? What? Hurt the boy? What's the boy to do
with it? They can't punish him if his father had been fifty times a
rebel!"
"That is so, sir," remarked José; "but he might meet with an
unfortunate accident, or vanish mysteriously, or something of that
kind. What's the use of making believe? Those who have got rid of the
father won't spare the son, should he happen to stand in their way."
"Which he will," interrupted Mr. Warren. "My poor friend was hand in
glove with the Indians, and they'll rally round the boy."
"There are other things, too, which need not be gone into now,
however," said José; "but the long and the short of it is that Jack
must be got out of the way at present."
"And his mother?"
"She has sent him to you."
"But he can't be hidden here. The rascally Dons will have him in the
casemates before one can say 'Jack Robinson!'"
"We don't mean to stay here, sir," replied José. "Our idea is to go to
Valparaiso, and we thought if you had a ship--"
"The very thing, Joseph," and the thumbs went backward and forward
taster than ever. "Maxwell has a schooner leaving in the morning. You
can go on board to-night if you choose, but you had better have some
supper first."
As it happened, both José and I had been some time without food, so we
were glad to have something to eat; after which Mr. Warren took us to
the quay, where the schooner _Aguila_ lay moored.
"There she is," he remarked; "let us go aboard. Most likely we shall
find Maxwell there.--Hi, you fellows, show a light!--Lazy dogs, aren't
they? Mind your foot there, and don't tumble into the harbour; you
won't get to Valparaiso that way.--That you, Maxwell? I have brought a
couple of friends who are so charmed with your boat that they want to
make a trip in her. Where do you keep your cabin? Let's go down
there; we can't talk on deck."
Mr. Maxwell was another English merchant at Callao, and as soon as he
heard what had happened, he readily agreed to give us a passage in the
_Aguila_. We must be prepared to rough it, he said. The schooner had
no accommodation for passengers, but she was a sound boat, and the
Chilian skipper was a trustworthy sailor. Then he sent to his
warehouse for some extra provisions, and afterwards introduced us to
the captain, whose name was Montevo.
As the schooner was to sail at daylight, our friends remained with us,
and, sitting in the dingy cabin, chatted with José about the state of
the country. By listening to the talk I learned that General San
Martin was a great soldier from Buenos Ayres, who, having overthrown
the Spanish power in Chili, was collecting an army with which to drive
the Spanish rulers from Peru. At the same time another leader, General
Bolivar, was freeing the northern provinces, and it was thought that
the two generals, joining their forces, would sweep Peru from north to
south.
"And a good thing, too!" exclaimed Mr. Warren. "Perhaps we shall have
a little peace then!"
"Pooh! stuff!" said his friend; "things will be worse than ever! These
people can't rule themselves. They're like disorderly schoolboys, and
need a firm master who knows how to use the birch. I am all for a
stern master."
"So am I," agreed José, "if he's just, which the Spaniards aren't."
"That is so," cried Mr. Warren. "What would our property be worth if
it wasn't for the British frigate lying in the harbour? Tell me that,
Maxwell; tell me that, sir! They'd confiscate the whole lot, and clap
us into prison for being paupers," and the thumbs revolved like the
sails of a windmill.
So the talk continued until daybreak, when the skipper, knocking at the
cabin door, informed us that the schooner was ready to sail; so we all
went on deck, where the kindly merchants bade us good-bye, and hoped we
should have a pleasant voyage.
"Keep the youngster out of mischief, Joseph. There's plenty of food
for powder without using him," were Mr. Warren's last words as he
stepped ashore, followed by his friend.
It was the first time I had been on board a ship, and I knew absolutely
nothing of what the sailors were doing; but presently the boat began to
move, the merchants, waving their hands, shouted a last good-bye, and
very quickly we passed to the outer harbour.
I have been in many dangers and suffered numerous hardships since then,
some of which are narrated in this book, but I have never felt quite so
wretched and miserable as on the morning of our departure from Callao.
Wishing to divert my thoughts, José pointed out the beauties of the bay
and the shore; but my gaze went far inland--to the lonely home where my
mother sat with her grief, to the mighty cordillera where my father lay
dead. Time softened the pain, and brought back the pleasures of life,
but just then it seemed as if I should never laugh or sing or be merry
again.
The first day or two on the _Aguila_ did not tend to make me more
cheerful, though the skipper did what he could to make us comfortable.
We slept in a dirty little box, which was really the mate's cabin, and
had our meals, or at least José had, at the captain's table.
By degrees, however, my sickness wore off, and on the fourth morning I
began to take an interest in things. By this time the land was out of
sight; for miles and miles the blue water lay around us--an
interminable stretch. There was not a sail to be seen, and the utter
loneliness impressed me with a feeling of awe.
José was as ignorant of seafaring matters as myself; but the captain
said we were making a good voyage, and with that we were content. A
stiff breeze blew the schooner along merrily, the blue sky was flecked
only by the softest white clouds, and the swish, swish of the water
against the vessel's sides sounded pleasantly in our ears. I began to
think there were worse ways of earning a living than by going to sea.
That same evening I turned in early, leaving José on deck, but I was
still awake when he entered the cabin.
"There's an ugly storm brewing," said he, kicking off his boots, "and I
don't think the skipper much likes the prospect of it. He has all
hands at work taking in the sails and getting things ready generally.
Rather a lucky thing for us that the _Aguila_ is a stout boat. Listen!
That's the first blast!" as the schooner staggered and reeled.
Above us we heard the captain shouting orders, the answering cries of
the sailors, and the groaning of the timbers, as if the ship were a
living being stretched on a rack. Slipping out of my bunk and dressing
quickly, I held on to a bar to steady myself.
"Let us go on deck before they batten down the hatches," said José,
putting on his boots again. "I've no mind to stay in this hole. If
the ship sinks, we shall be drowned like rats in a trap."
He climbed the steps, and I followed, shuddering at the picture his
words had conjured up. The scene was grand, but wild and awful in the
extreme. I hardly dared to watch the great waves thundering along as
if seeking to devour our tiny craft. Now the schooner hung poised for
a moment on the edge of a mountainous wave; the next instant it seemed
to be dashing headlong into a fathomless, black abyss. The wind tore
on with a fierce shriek, and we scudded before it under bare poles,
flying for life.
Two men were at the wheel; the captain, lashed aft, was yelling out
orders which no one could understand, or, understanding, obey. The
night, as yet, was not particularly dark, and I shivered at sight of
the white, scared faces of the crew. They could do nothing more; in
the face of such a gale they were helpless as babies; those at the
wheel kept the ship's head straight by great effort, but beyond that,
everything was unavailing. Our fate was in the hands of God; He alone
could determine whether it should be life or death.
Once, above the fury of the storm, the howling of the wind, the
straining of the timber, there rose an awful shriek; and though the
tragedy was hidden from my sight, I knew it to be the cry of an unhappy
sailor in his death-agony. A huge wave, leaping like some ravenous
animal to the deck, had caught him and was gone; while the spirit of
the wind laughed in demoniacal glee as he was tossed from crest to
crest, the sport of the cruel billows.
The captain had seen, but was powerless to help. The schooner was but
the plaything of the waves, while to launch a boat--ah, how the
storm-fiends would have laughed at the attempt! So leaving the hapless
sailor to his fate, we drove on through a blinding wall of rain into
the dark night, waiting for the end. No sky was visible, nor the light
of any star, but the great cloud walls stood up thick on every side,
and it seemed as if the boat were plunging through a dark and dreary
tunnel.
Close to me, where a lantern not yet douted [Transcriber's note:
doused?] cast its fitful light, a man lay grovelling on the deck. He
was praying aloud in an agony of fear, but no sound could be heard from
his moving lips. Suddenly there came a crash as of a falling body, the
light went out, and I saw the man no more. How long the night lasted I
cannot tell; to me it seemed an age, and no second of it was free from
fear. Whether we were driving north, south, east, or west no one knew,
while the fury of the storm would have drowned the thunder of waves on
a surf-beaten shore. But the _Aguila_ was an English boat, built by
honest English workmen, and her planks held firmly together despite the
raging storm.
For long hours, as I have said, we were swallowed up in darkness,
feeling ourselves in the presence of death; but the light broke through
at last, a cold gray light, and cheerless withal, which exactly suited
our unhappy condition. The wind, too, as though satisfied with its
night's work, sank to rest, while by degrees the tossing of the angry
billows subsided into a peaceful ripple.
We looked at each other and at the schooner. One man had been washed
overboard; another, struck by a falling spar, still lay insensible; the
rest were weary and exhausted. Thanks to the skipper's foresight, the
_Aguila_ had suffered less than we had expected, and he exclaimed
cheerfully that the damage could soon be repaired. But though our good
ship remained sound, the storm had wrought a fearful calamity, which
dazed the bravest, and blanched every face among us.
The skipper brought the news when he joined us at breakfast, and his
lips could scarcely frame the words.
"The water-casks are stove in," he exclaimed, "and we have hardly a
gallon of fresh water aboard!"
"Then we must run for the nearest port," said José, trying to speak
cheerily.
The captain spread out his hands dramatically.
"There is no port," he replied, in something of a hopeless tone, "and
there is no wind. The schooner lies like a log on the water."
We went on deck, forgetting past dangers in the more terrifying one
before us. The captain had spoken truly: not a breath of air stirred,
and the sea lay beneath us like a sheet of glass. The dark clouds had
rolled away, and though the sun was not visible, the thin haze between
us and the sky was tinged blood-red. It was such a sight as no man on
board had seen, and the sailors gazed at it in awestruck silence.
Hour after hour through the livelong day the _Aguila_ lay motionless,
as if held by some invisible cable. No ripple broke the glassy
surface, no breath of wind fanned the idle sails, and the air we
breathed was hot and stifling, as if proceeding from a furnace.
The men lounged about listlessly, unable to forget their distress even
in sleep. The captain scanned the horizon eagerly, looking in vain for
the tiniest cloud that might promise a break-up of the hideous weather.
José and I lay under an awning, though this was no protection from the
stifling atmosphere.
Every one hoped that evening would bring relief, that a breeze might
spring up, or that we might have a downpour of rain. Evening came, but
the situation was unchanged, and a great fear entered our hearts. How
long could we live like this--how long before death would release us
from our misery? for misery it was now in downright, cruel earnest.
Once José rose and walked to the vessel's side, but, returning shortly,
lay face downward on the deck.
"I must shut out the sight of the sea," he said, "or I shall go mad.
What an awful thing to perish of thirst with water everywhere around
us!"
This was our second night of horror, but very different in its nature
from the first. Then, for long hours, we went in fear of the storm;
now, we would have welcomed the most terrible tempest that ever blew,
if only it brought us rain.
Very slowly the night crept by, and again we were confronted by the
gray haze, with its curious blood-red tint. We could not escape from
the vessel, as our boats had been smashed in the hurricane; we could
only wait for what might happen in this sea of the dead.
"Rain or death, it is one or the other!" remarked José, as, rising to
our feet, we staggered across to the skipper.
Rain or death! Which would come first, I wondered.
The captain could do nothing, though I must say he played his part like
a man--encouraging the crew, foretelling a storm which should rise
later in the day, and asserting that we were right in the track of
ships. We had only to hold on patiently, he said, and all would come
right.
José also spoke to the me cheerfully, trying to keep alive a glimmer of
hope; but as the morning hours dragged wearily along, they were fain to
give way to utter despair. No ships could reach us, they said, while
the calm lasted, and not the slightest sign of change could be seen.
Our throats were parched, our lips cracked, our eyes bloodshot and
staring. One of the crew, a plump, chubby, round-faced man, began
talking aloud in a rambling manner, and presently, with a scream of
excitement, he sprang into the rigging.
"Sail ho!" he cried, "sail ho!" and forgetting our weakness, we all
jumped up to peer eagerly through the gauzy mist.
"Where away?" exclaimed the captain.
The sailor laughed in glee. "Oho! Here she comes!" cried he; "here
she comes!" and, tearing off his shirt, waved it frantically.
The action was so natural, the man seemed so much in earnest, that we
hung over the schooner's side, anxiously scanning the horizon for our
rescuer. Again the fellow shouted, "Here she comes!" and then, with a
frenzied laugh, flung himself into the glassy sea.
A groan of despair burst from the crew, and for several seconds no one
moved. Then José, crying, "Throw me a rope!" jumped overboard, and
swam to the spot where the man had gone down.
"Come back!" cried the skipper hoarsely; "you will be drowned! The
poor fellow has lost his senses." But José, unheeding the warning,
clutched the man as he came to the surface a second time.
We heard the demented laugh of the drowning sailor, and then the two
disappeared--down, down into the depths together.
"He has thrown his life away for a madman!" said the captain, and his
words brought me to my senses.
With a prayer in my heart I leaped into the sea, hoping that I might
yet save the brave fellow.
A cry from the schooner told me that he had reappeared, and soon I saw
him alone, and well-nigh exhausted. A dozen strokes took me to his
side, and then, half supporting him, I turned toward the vessel. The
men flung us a rope, and willing hands hauled first José and then me
aboard.
"A brave act," said the skipper gruffly, "but foolhardy!"
José smiled, and, still leaning on me, went below to the cabin, where,
removing our wet things, we had a good rub down.
"Thanks, my boy!" said José, "but for your help I doubt if I could have
got back. The poor beggar nearly throttled me, down under!" and I
noticed on his throat the marks of fingers that must have pressed him
like a vice.
"Do you feel it now?" I asked.
"Only here," touching his throat; "but for that, I should be all the
better for the dip. Let us go on deck again; I am stifling here. And
keep up your spirits, Jack. Don't give way the least bit, or it will
be all over with you. We are in a fearful plight, but help may yet
come." And I promised him solemnly that I would do my best.
CHAPTER II.
THE END OF THE "AGUILA."
The drowning of the crazy sailor had a bad effect on the rest of the
crew, and it became evident that they had abandoned all hope. They
hung about so listlessly that even the captain could not rouse them,
and indeed there was nothing they could do.
This utter inability to help ourselves was the worst evil of the case.
Even I, though only a boy, wanted to do something, no matter what, if
it would help in the struggle for life; but I, like the rest, could
only wait--wait with throat like a furnace, peeling lips, smarting
eyes, and aching head, till death or rain put an end to the misery.
I tried not to think of it, tried to shut out the horrible end so close
at hand; but in vain. José sat beside me, endeavouring to rouse me.
It must rain, he said, or the wind would spring up, and we should meet
with a ship; but in his heart I think he had no hope.
The day crawled on, afternoon came, and I fell into a troubled sleep.
The pain of my throat directed my wandering thoughts perhaps, and
conjured up horrible visions. I was lashed to the wheel of the
_Aguila_, and the schooner went drifting, drifting far away into an
unknown sea. All was still around me, though I was not alone. Sailors
walked the deck or huddled in the forecastle--sailors with skin of
wrinkled parchment, with deep-set, burning yet unseeing eyes, with
moving lips from which no sound came; and as we sailed away ever
further and further into the darkness, the horror of it maddened me. I
struggled desperately to free myself, calling aloud to José to save me.
Then a hand was laid softly on my forehead, and a kind, familiar voice
whispered,--
"Jack! Jack! Wake up. You are dreaming!" Opening my eyes I saw José
bending over me, his face stricken with fear. My head burned, but my
face and limbs were wet as if I had just come from the sea. "Get up,"
said José sharply, "and walk about with me. You must not dream again."
It seems that in my sleep I had screamed aloud; but the sailors took no
notice of me either then or afterwards. They had troubles enough of
their own, and were totally indifferent to those of others.
The red tinge had now gone from the haze, leaving it cold and gray; the
sea was dull and lifeless, no ripple breaking the stillness of its
surface.
"Is there any hope, José?" I asked in a whisper, and from his face,
though not from his speech, learned there was none.
The captain had stored two bottles of liquor in the cabin for his own
use. These he shared amongst us; but it was fiery stuff, and even at
the first increased rather than allayed our thirst. Most of the crew
were lying down now; but one had climbed to the roof of the forecastle,
and stood there singing in a weak, quavering voice. José spoke to him
soothingly; but he only laughed, and continued his weird song. His
face haunted me; even when darkness closed like a pall around us I
could still see it. He sang on and on in the gloom, and it appeared to
me that he was wailing our death-chant. Presently there was silence,
followed by a slight shuffling sound as the man moved to another part
of the deck; then the song began again, and was followed by a burst of
uncanny laughter. Suddenly it seemed as if the poor fellow realized
his position, as he broke into a sob and called on God to save him.
Making our way to the other side of the vessel, we found him sitting
disconsolately on a coil of rope, and did our best to cheer him. The
skipper joined us, but no other man stirred hand or foot. Apparently
their terrible suffering had overpowered all feeling of sympathy.
"Don't give way," said José brightly, laying a hand on his shoulder;
"bear up, there's a good fellow. Rain may fall at any moment now, and
then we shall be saved."
"Ah, señor," cried the poor fellow huskily, "my throat is parched,
parched; my head is like a burning coal! but I will be quiet now and
brave--if I can."
"This is terrible," exclaimed the captain piteously, as after a time we
turned away.
"Hope must be our sheet-anchor," said José. "Once cut ourselves adrift
from that, and we shall go to ruin headlong."
He spoke bravely, but his words came from the lips only, and this we
all knew. Sitting down on a coil of rope, we waited for the night to
pass, longing for yet dreading the appearance of another dawn. It was
dreadfully silent, except when some poor fellow broke the stillness
with his groans and cries of anguish.
It was, as nearly as I could judge, about one o'clock in the morning,
when José suddenly sprang to his feet with a cry of joy.
"What is it?" I asked; and he, clapping his hands, exclaimed,--
"Lightning! See, there is another flash.--Get up, my hearties; the
wind's rising. There's a beautiful clap of thunder. We shall have a
fine storm presently!"
One by one the men staggered to their feet. They heard the crash of
the thunder, and a broad sheet of lightning showed them banks of cloud
gathering thick and black overhead. Directed by the captain and helped
by José, they spread every sail and awning that could be used,
collected buckets and a spare cask, and awaited the rain eagerly and
expectantly. Would it come? Fiery snakes played about the tops of the
masts or leaped from sky to sea; the thunder pealed and pealed again
through the air; the wind rose, the sails filled, the schooner moved
through the water, but no rain fell.
I cannot tell you a tithe of the hopes and fears which passed through
our hearts during the next half-hour. Now we exulted in the certainty
of relief; again we were thrown into the abyss of despair. We stood
looking at the darkness, hoping, praying that the life-giving rain
might fall speedily upon our upturned faces.
Another terrific crash, and then--ah, how earnestly we gave thanks to
God for His mercy--the raindrops came pattering to the deck, lightly at
first, lightly and softly, like scouts sent forward to spy out the
land, and afterwards the main body in a crowd beating fiercely, heavily
upon us. How we laughed as, making cups of our hands, we lapped the
welcome water greedily! What cries of delight ascended heavenward as
we filled our spare cask and every vessel that would hold water! The
rain came down in a steady torrent, soaking us through; but we felt no
discomfort, for it fed us with new life.
Presently the captain got some of the men to work, while the others ate
the food which had lain all day untasted, and then, doubly refreshed,
they relieved their comrades. José and I, too, ate sparingly of some
food; but even this little, with the water, made new beings of us.
As yet the wind was no more than a fair breeze, but by degrees it
became boisterous, and the crew, still weak and now short of three men,
could barely manage the schooner. José and I knew nothing of
seamanship, but we bore a hand here and there, straining at this rope
or that as we were bidden, and encouraging the crew to the best of our
ability.
As yet we gave little thought to the new danger that menaced us, being
full of thanks for our escape from a horrible death; but the fury of
the storm increased, the wind battered against the schooner in howling
gusts, and presently the topgallant mast fell with a crash to the deck.
Fortunately no one was hurt, and we quickly cut the wreckage clear; but
misfortune followed misfortune, and at length, with white, scared face,
the carpenter announced that water was fast rising in the hold.
Here, at least, José and I were of service. Taking our places at the
pumps, we toiled with might and main to keep the water down. Thus the
remainder of the night passed with every one working at the pumps or
assisting the captain to manage the vessel.
Morning brought no abatement of the storm, but the light enabled us to
realize more clearly how near we were, a second time, to death. The
rain still poured down in torrents, the wind leaped at us with
hurricane fury, the schooner tossed, a helpless wreck, in the midst of
a mountainous sea. The carpenter reported that, in spite of all our
labours, the water was fast gaining on us. The sailors now lost heart,
and one of them left his post, saying sullenly they might as well drown
first as last. It was a dangerous example, but the skipper checked the
mischief. Running forward with loaded pistol, he shouted,--
"Go back to the pumps, you coward, or I will shoot you down like a dog!
Call yourself a man? Why, that youngster there is worth fifty of you!"
The fellow returned to his work; but as the hours passed we became more
and more certain that no amount of pumping would save the ship. Even
now she was but a floating wreck, and soon she would be engulfed by the
raging sea.
While José and I were taking a rest, the captain told us that, even
should the storm cease, the _Aguila_ must go down in less than
twenty-four hours, and that he knew not whether we were close to the
shore or a hundred leagues from it. José received the news coolly. He
came of a race that does not believe in whimpering, and his only care
was on my account.
"I am sorry for your mother, Jack," said he, "and for you too. We're
in a fair hole, and I don't see any way of getting out; but for all
that we will keep our heads cool. Never go under without a fight for
it--that's as good a motto as any other. You heard the skipper say the
schooner is bound to go down, and you know we have no boats--they
wouldn't be any good if we had, while this storm lasts; but if the sea
calms, a plank will keep you afloat a long time, and maybe a ship will
come along handy. Anyhow, make a fight for it, my boy. Now we'll have
a snack of something to eat, and then for another spell at the pumps."
By this time a feeling of despair had seized the crew, and but for fear
of the captain's pistol they would have stopped work in a body.
However, he kept them at it, and towards noon the tempest ceased almost
as suddenly as it had begun. The gale dropped to a steady breeze, and
the surface of the ocean became comparatively calm.
The change cheered us; we looked on it as a good omen, and toiled at
the pumps even harder than before. We could not lessen the quantity of
water, but for a time we kept it from gaining, and a germ of hope crept
back into our hearts. Every hour now was likely to be in our favour,
as the captain judged the wind was blowing us to some part of the
coast, where we might either fall in with a vessel or effect a landing.
Thus, between hope and fear, the afternoon passed, and then we saw that
the captain's judgment was correct.
Straight before us, though far off as yet, appeared the dark line of
coast with a barrier of mountains in the background, and in front a
broad band of snow-white foam.
Would the schooner cover the distance? If so, would she escape being
dashed to pieces in the thundering surf? These were the questions
which agitated our minds as, impelled by the breeze, she drove through
the water. We of ourselves could do nothing save work at the pumps and
wait for what might happen.
Afternoon merged into evening, and evening into night. A few stars
peeped forth in the sky, but were soon veiled by grayish clouds. The
broad white band along the shore was startlingly distinct, and still
the issue was undecided.
The end came with such unexpected suddenness that the men hardly had
time to cry out. José and I were resting at the moment, when the
schooner lurched heavily, tried to right herself and failed, filled
with water, and sank like a stone.
I often think of that shipwreck as a horrible dream. Down, down I
went, holding my breath till it seemed impossible to stay longer
without opening my mouth and swallowing the salt water. By an effort I
restrained myself till my head shot above the surface and once more I
was free to breathe.
The ship had disappeared entirely, and it was too dark to see such a
small object as a man's head. By great good fortune I managed to seize
a floating spar, and, resting on it, called aloud for José. The only
answer was the anguished cry of a drowning man across the waste of
waters. Twice again it came, and then all was silent, though in
imagination I still could hear that anguished cry. The sea rolled in
long surges, carrying me forward without effort and at a great rate
toward the clear white line. Live or die, I could not help myself now,
but was entirely at the mercy of the waves. I thought of José's advice
to make a fight for it, but there was nothing to be done. Clinging to
my spar, I was tossed from crest to depth like a ball bandied about by
boys.
And now my ears were filled with a great roaring as I approached nearer
to the crested foam; then feeling that the end was very near, I prayed
silently yet fervently that God would comfort my mother in this her new
trial, and prepared myself to die.
From the top of a high wave I went down into the depths, rose again to
the crest of a second huge roller, and then was flung with the velocity
of lightning into the midst of the great sea-horses with their snowy
manes.
Of this part of the adventure I remember but little, only that for a
moment I lay bruised and battered at the foot of a high rock.
Once more José's advice sounded in my ear, and loosing my spar, I
clambered, dizzy and half blind, to the top. The ramping white horses
raced after as if to drag me back, but finding that impossible, retired
sullenly to spring yet once again. Shrieking and hissing, the great
white monsters tore along, dashing in fury and breaking in impotence
against the immovable rocks. The wild, weird scene, too, frightened
me; for I was but a boy, remember, who up to this had never met with a
more stirring adventure, perhaps, than a tussle with a high-spirited
pony. I was worn out, too, by hard toil, faint from loss of blood,
saddened by the loss of my faithful José, and by the awful calamity
that had overtaken the crew of the schooner. Yet, in spite of all, so
strong was the instinct to live, that, almost without thought, I
clambered along the rocky ridge which jutted out from the mainland,
while the baffled waves raced hungrily on either side of me, as if even
now loath to abandon their expected prey.
At length the line of white foam was at my back. I found myself on a
boulder-strewn beach, and for the time safe! Although half dead with
privation and exposure, I wandered some way along the beach, calling
aloud on José and the sailors, forgetful that the roar of the surf
drowned my voice.
Presently I could go no further, the beach in that direction being
walled in by a rocky cliff, steep and high, and but for a narrow
fissure upon which I happily came, insurmountable.
I say happily, for at the summit of the cliff I fancied I saw the flash
of a lantern. A lantern meant human beings, who on hearing my story
would search the shore, and find, perhaps, that others besides myself
had escaped from the wreck. With this idea in my head, I began to
climb, going very steadily; for, as I have said, the track was little
more than a fissure in the rock, and my head was far from clear. I
toiled on, cutting my hands and legs with the jagged rocks, but making
some progress, till at length I had covered the greater part of the
distance; then I could do no more. A tiny crevice gave me foothold,
and I was able to rest my arms on a wide ledge, but had no strength to
draw myself up to it. Twice I tried and failed; then fearful lest my
strength should give way, I strove no more, but, raising my voice,
shouted loudly for help. Very mournful the cry sounded in the silent
night, as I hung there utterly helpless on the face of the cliff.
Again and again I shouted with all my might, to be answered at first
only by the roar of the surf below. Presently, on the summit of the
cliff, not far above me, a lantern flashed, then another, and another,
and a voice hailed me through the darkness.
"Help!" I cried, "help!" and my voice was full of despair, for my
strength was fast ebbing. I must soon lose my hold, and be dashed to
pieces at the foot of the cliff.
The lanterns flashed to and fro above me. Would they never come
nearer? What was that? A big stone bounding and bouncing from rock to
rock whizzed past my head, and disappeared in the gloom below.
Collecting all my strength, I shouted again, fearing that it must be
for the last time.
But now--oh, how sincerely I gave thanks to God!--a light had come over
the edge of the cliff, and though moving slowly, it certainly advanced
in my direction. Yes, I saw a man's outline. In one hand he carried a
lantern, in the other a noosed rope, and he felt his way carefully.
"Help! help!" I exclaimed, faintly enough now; but he heard me, and I
knew I was saved. Putting the lantern on the ledge and grasping the
collar of my coat, he got the noose round my body under the arms, and
those above drew me up.
[Illustration: "Help! help!" I exclaimed, faintly; but he heard me, and
I knew I was saved.]
The lanterns showed a group of men in uniform, who crowded around me as
I reached the top; but being uncertain how long my strength would last,
I cried,--
"A wreck! Search the beach. There may have been others washed ashore."
Upon this there was much talking, and then two men carried me away,
leaving their companions, as I hoped, to search for any chance
survivors.