CHRISTOBAL’S TEMPTATION
“By the way, what of Monsieur de Poincilit?” said Courtenay. “I saw him
come aboard with Malcolm, but he dived into the saloon, and has not
reappeared. Is he ill?”
Gray’s mouth set like a steel trap; his eyes had a glint in them. He
seemed to be unwilling to speak; when words came, they were cold and
measured.
“I haven’t any use for that fellow,” he said. “I suppose the unpleasant
story must be told sooner or later, so here goes. In the first place,
Poincilit forgot that I understood Spanish, and I heard him yelping to
the Chileans in the jolly-boat that if we took any more people on board
we should be swamped. It was he who put the notion in their heads to
cast off while you were lowering Miss Baring’s maid into my arms. I
tried to forget that, as he was blue-white with fear, and some fellows
are not responsible for their actions when their liver melts. But I can
never forget his action on the island. Yesterday morning I was just in
time to stop him and four others from sneaking off in the life-boat
with all our provisions.”
Courtenay’s face hardened too.
“Necessity may have no laws,” said he; “but I fancy I should have found
a code to meet his case.”
“I have organized a Vigilance Committee in my time, and its articles
kind of fitted in,” was the American’s quiet reply. “That is why I have
a few recent knife-cuts distributed about my skin; I began to shoot and
we were two short on the muster roll next day. De Poincilit ran, and
fell on his knees. So did a skunk of an Italian, and I did not want to
waste cartridges. They were tied back to back until we sailed to-day.”
“And the fifth?”
“The fifth was a woman.”
“Huh!” Boyle reached out for a bottle of wine and refilled his glass.
For a little while there was silence. Then Courtenay muttered:
“Poor devil of a Count! ‘She gave me of the tree and I did eat.’ Did he
blame the woman?”
“Well, yes. But it was a mean business, any how.”
“Better sponge it off the slate, eh?”
“I agree heartily. Drink up, Boyle, and pass the buck. I have a five
years’ thirst.”
They talked until day-break; then Courtenay turned in. He did not
appear on deck again until noon. By that time the _Kansas_ had lost all
marks of the fight excepting the smashed windows, and a sailor who
understood the glazier’s art was replacing the broken glass. Making the
round of the ship, the captain found Elsie sitting with Isobel and Mrs.
Somerville on the promenade deck. She was binding Joey’s foot, and he
knew then why the dog had scampered off on three legs as soon as the
cabin door was opened.
The girl colored very prettily the moment she set eyes on her lover.
Memories of the previous night became exceedingly vivid. She was
adorably shy, Courtenay thought. As he approached, he debated the
manner of his greeting; being a sailor, he did not hesitate.
Lifting his cap with a smile and a general “Good morning,” he bent over
Elsie.
“Well,” he said, “surely you owe me at least one kiss?”
If her cheeks were red before they became scarlet now. But his kindling
glance had warned her that he would adopt no pretence, so she lifted
her face to his, though she did not dare to look at her amazed
companions. Courtenay explained matters quite coolly.
“If Elsie has not told you already, it is my privilege to announce that
she and I have signed articles,” he said with a smile. “That is, we
intend to get married as soon as the ship reaches England.”
“Indeed, I congratulate you both most heartily,” said the missionary’s
wife.
“Events have marched, then, while we were stranded on that wretched
island?” tittered Isobel. Her voice was rather shrill. She, too, was
excited, not quite mistress of herself. She did not know how far Gray’s
statements might have prejudiced her with the captain; she had already
sent de Poincilit a note urging him to deny absolutely all knowledge of
the plot to steal the boat, and attribute the American’s summary action
to his mistaken rendering of the Spanish patois used by the Chilean
sailors.
“Yes,” laughed Courtenay, ready to put her at ease. “One crowds the
events of a month into a day under some conditions. Last night, for
instance, I had five minutes’ amusement with a steampipe and a
double-barrelled gun which will serve all my requirements in the way of
physical exercise for a long time to come.”
“You feel sure that we shall see no more of the Indians?” asked Isobel,
quickly.
“I think so. One never can tell, but if they have the grit to attack us
again I shall regard them as first-class fighters.”
“Dr. Christobal says they have an astonishing power of bearing pain
without flinching,” said Elsie, plunging into the talk with a hot
eagerness. “The Alaculofs in the fore cabin were afraid of him,
thinking he meant to kill them, but, when they found that he wished
only to dress their wounds, they followed his actions with a curious
interest, as though he were tending some other person’s hurts and not
their own. And that reminds me. He told me you ought to have that cut
on your forehead washed. Let me look at it.”
She stood up, and placed the dog on a chair. Lifting Courtenay’s cap
she brushed back his hair with her fingers, and found that he had
covered an ugly scar with a long strip of skin plaster. The tense
anxiety in Isobel’s face forthwith yielded to sheer bewilderment. These
two were behaving with the self-possession of young people who regard
the “engagement” stage as a venerable institution.
Of course Courtenay liked to be fondled in this manner. Elsie was at
her best as a ministering angel. But he protested against the need of
the doctor’s precaution.
“No, no,” he cried, “you already have one faithful patient in Joey. I
wonder he did not wake me earlier so that he might rush off to you. I
never have known him play the old soldier before. To see him curled up
there, gazing at you with those pathetic eyes, who would think that his
teeth met in Alaculof sinews last night? Twice, to my knowledge, he
saved my life. And the way he dodged blows aimed at him was something
marvelous. He used all four paws then, I assure you.”
“Ah, yes,” agreed Elsie, blushing again as she recalled the scene in
the saloon. “He could have told me the Indians were aboard long before
I knew it myself. Dr. Christobal deceived me so admirably that I am not
sure yet if I have forgiven him.”
“He is a first-rate chap in an emergency,” said Courtenay, “though I
have a bone to pick with him, too. He promised to call me at eight
o’clock, but I expect he and Boyle, or Tollemache, conspired to let me
sleep on. I was astounded when I saw the time. What do you think of a
skipper who lies abed all the morning, Miss Baring?”
“Gray has told him nothing,” she decided at once. “That is very nice of
Gray. I must thank him.” But she replied instantly, in her piquant way:
“Elsie certainly kept us in the dark about her _fiançailles_, Captain
Courtenay; but has not been silent as to your other achievements. If
you were not telling us that you have actually slept, I should have
cherished the belief that you had not closed an eyelid since the ship
struck.”
Isobel meant to be on her best behavior. Her pact with the Frenchman
was discreditable but smooth words might restrain tongues from wagging
until she could leave the ship. Moreover, the vicissitudes of life in
these later days were not without their effect. She had known what it
was to suffer. She had seen men dying like cattle in the shambles. The
shadow of eternity had fallen so closely that twice during the
preceding night she was rudely awaked by the shrieking fear of a too
vivid dream. These things were not the butterfly flutterings of sunlit
Valparaiso. They were of a more ardent order, and her wings had not yet
recovered from the singeing.
Courtenay, willing to maintain a fiction which evidently gave her
relief, answered lightly that he yet had to earn these compliments, but
he hoped to be able soon to fix a date when everybody might bombard him
with the nicest phrases they could think of, and end the embarrassing
ordeal once for all.
“I went through something of the sort last year on board the
_Florida_,” he added. “People insist on regarding it as marvelous that
a man should strive to do his simple duty.”
Suddenly it occurred to him that the topic was unpleasantly analogous
to the little French count’s cowardly escapades. If one talks of duty,
and recognizes its prior claim, what of the man who, in his selfish
frenzy, is prepared to leave others to their fate, whether on a wrecked
ship or a barren island? So he turned to Elsie again.
“By the way, you have never seen those letters,” he said. “I was
hunting for them when the alarm was raised last night. Shall I bring
them now?”
Elsie gave him a glance of subtle meaning. Her eyes telegraphed “What
matters it whether I see them to-day or in half a century? Do I not
trust you?” But she only murmured:
“Not now, I am telling Mrs. Somerville and Isobel all the news.”
He squeezed her shoulder. Any excuse would serve for those slight
pettings which mean so much during early days in wonderland.
“Then I shall resume my rounds. I expect to be received reproachfully
by Walker. He made great progress yesterday. Let me whisper a secret.
Then you may pass it on, in strictest confidence.”
He placed his lips close to her ear.
“I am dreadfully in love with you this morning,” he breathed.
“That is no secret,” she retorted.
“It is. You and I together must daily find new paths in Eden. But my
less poetic tidings should be welcome, also. Walker says he hopes to
get steam up to-morrow.”
“Well, tell us quickly,” cried Isobel, with a show of intense interest,
when Courtenay had gone. She had decided on a line of conduct, and
meant to follow it carefully. The more sympathy she extended towards
her friend’s love idyll, the less likelihood was there of disagreeable
developments in other respects. That trick of calculating gush was
Isobel’s chief failing. She was so wrapped up in self that her own
interests governed every thought. Courtenay’s reference to letters sent
a wave of alarm pulsing through each nerve. Though his manner betokened
that the affair was something which concerned Elsie alone, she was on
fire until she learnt that his “secret” alluded to the restored
vitality of the ship.
For once, her expressions of gratitude were heartfelt. Mrs. Somerville
even wept for joy. This poor woman after living twenty-five years in
the oasis of a mission-house, was a strange subject for storm-tossed
wandering and fights with cannibals. Seldom has fate conspired with the
fickle sea to sport with such helpless human flotsam, save, perhaps, in
that crowning caprice of the waves which once cast ashore a live baby
in a cradle.
But the baby’s emotions were crude, and probably in no wise connected
with the tremors of ship-wreck, whereas Mrs. Somerville, during these
full days, was constantly asking herself how it could be possible that
she was living at all.
“It will be a real manifestation of Providence if we ever reach England
again,” she cried, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. “I’m sure John
and I have said so many a time during the past week. To think of the
ship’s blowing up in the way she did, it makes me all of a tremble, it
does.”
“Oh,” broke in Elsie, thinking that the information she possessed would
help to calm the older woman, “we have made a good many discoveries
since—since the boat went away without me, I mean. But do tell me, how
did those horrid Chileans manage to cast off the tackle before Mr. Gray
or some of the other men were able to stop them? Of course, it is
matterless now, in a sense, but at that moment it looked like leaving
those on the ship to certain death.”
Mrs. Somerville was stricken dumb. The American’s shooting of two men
on White Horse Island had naturally called for a complete explanation
on his part, and she did not know how to answer Elsie’s question.
Before she could gather her wits, Isobel intervened.
“If you had been in that boat, dear,” she said sweetly, “you would
realize the topsy-turvy condition of our brains. Even Mr. Gray himself,
the coolest man on board, imagined we might sink any moment. So what
can you expect of those excitable Chileans? Besides, the thing was done
so quickly that we were swept away by the tide before any one fully
understood what was happening. Anyhow, you had the best of it, as
events transpired. What are the discoveries you spoke of?”
“Well, some one placed dynamite among the coal.”
“But who would do such a thing?”
“That is hard to say. The captain believes that the culprit will be
found out through the insurance policies. He and the others were
discussing the affair one day in the chart-house—soon after the
dynamite cartridges were discovered—and you cannot tell how surprised I
was to hear him mention Ventana’s name in connection with it.”
“Ventana’s name!”
The blood ebbed away from Isobel’s cheeks, leaving her pallid as a
statue. There was a gasp in her voice which startled her own ears. Lest
her agitation should be noted too keenly, she bent forward and propped
her face on her clenched hands, staring fixedly at the distant cliffs
in a supreme effort to appear apathetic. Elsie heard that dry sob, but
her friend’s seeming indifference misled her.
“Yes,” she said, wondering a little whether or not Christobal’s veiled
hint regarding a by-gone tenderness between the two might account for
Isobel’s hysterical outburst on the night of the ship’s break-down.
Indeed, so warm-hearted was she that she hesitated a moment before
continuing; but she felt that it would be altogether better for Isobel
to be prepared for the revelations which the successful end of the
ship’s voyage would assuredly bring forth. So, pondering unspoken
thoughts the while, she told the others exactly what Tollemache,
Christobal and Courtenay had said, and even revealed to them that which
Courtenay himself did not yet know.
“You remember the poor fellow who got into trouble soon after we sailed
from Valparaiso?” she said. “His name is Frascuelo. He was wounded
again in last night’s fight, but not seriously, and he and I are quite
chums. He assures me that he was drugged by a man named José Anacleto,
who took his place among the coal-trimmers—”
“Oh, Miss Maxwell, come quick!” screamed Mrs. Somerville, for Isobel
had lurched sideways out of her chair in a fainting fit, and the
missionary’s wife was barely able to save her head from striking the
ship’s rails.
Joey was shot out of Elsie’s lap with such surprising speed that he
trotted away without any exhibition of lameness. He was quite
disgusted, for at least five minutes, but it is reasonable to suppose
that a dog of his intelligence would brighten up when he heard the
wholly unlooked-for story which Christobal was translating to
Courtenay, word for word, as it was dragged hesitatingly out of Suarez.
The Argentine miner had been badly injured during the struggle for
possession of the promenade deck. Owing to loss of consciousness,
supplemented by an awkward fall, he might have choked to death had he
not been rescued within a few minutes. He was very ill all night, and
it was not until midday that he recovered sufficient strength to enable
him to question the Indians on board.
Courtenay wished specially to find out what chance, if any, there was
of the Alaculof attack being renewed. When Christobal assured him that
Suarez might safely leave his bunk, he asked the doctor to bring the
Spaniard to the fore-cabin, in which the wounded savages lay under an
armed guard.
It was obvious that some of the maimed wretches recognized Suarez,
notwithstanding his changed appearance, the instant he spoke to them.
At once they broke out into an excited chattering, and Suarez was so
disconcerted by the tidings they conveyed that he stammered a good
deal, and seemed to flounder in giving the Spanish rendering.
“This fellow is telling us just as much as he thinks it is good for us
to know,” said Courtenay, sternly, when the interpreter avoided his
accusing gaze. “Bid him out with the whole truth, Christobal, or it
shall be his pleasing task to escort his dear friends back to their
family circles.”
Being detected, Suarez faltered no longer. A ship’s life-boat had been
driven ashore lower down the coast. Fourteen men had landed; they were
captured by the Indians, after a useless resistance, in which three
were killed. The dead men supplied a ghoulish feast next day, and the
others were bound securely, and placed in a cave, in order to be killed
at intervals, an exact parallel to the fate of Suarez’s own companions
five years earlier.
But, on this occasion, a woman intervened. Suarez confessed, very
reluctantly, that there was a girl in the tribe to whom he had taught
some words of his own language. He said that she cooked for him, and
caught fish or gathered shell-fish for their joint needs when the
larder was otherwise empty. He declared that the relations between them
were those of master and servant, but the poor creature had fallen in
love with him, and had become nearly frantic with grief when he
disappeared. It was difficult to analyze her motives, but she had
undoubtedly freed the eleven sailors, and led them over the rocks at
low water to the haunted cave on Guanaco Hill. The Indians dared not
follow; but they took good care that no canoes were obtainable in which
the unhappy fugitives could reach the ship, and they were confident
that hunger would soon drive them forth.
Courtenay’s brow became black with anger when he understood the
significance of this staggering story.
“It comes to this,” he said to Christobal. “The men who got away from
the _Kansas_ in No. 3 life-boat fell into the hands of the savages
early on the day of the ship’s arrival here. Suarez slipped his cable
that night, being aware at the time that eleven white captives were
still alive. Yet he said no word, not even when he heard that we had
seen one of the boat’s water-casks in a canoe. He, a Christian, bolted
and remained silent, while some poor creature of a woman risked her
life, and ran counter to all her natural instincts, in the endeavor to
save the men of his own race. What sort of mean hound can he be?”
Suarez needed no translation to grasp the purport of Courtenay’s words.
He besought the señor captain to have patience with him. He had escaped
from a living tomb, and felt that he would yield up his life rather
than return. Therefore, when he saw how few in number and badly armed
were they on board the ship, he thought it best to remain silent as to
the fate of the boat’s crew. In the first place, he fully expected that
they had been killed by the Indians, who would be enraged by his own
disappearance. Secondly, he alone knew how hopeless any attempt at a
rescue must prove. Finally, he wished to spare the feelings of those
who had befriended him; of what avail were useless mind-torturings
regarding the hapless beings in the hands of the savages?
There was a certain plausibleness in this reasoning which curbed
Courtenay’s wrath, though it in no way diminished the disgust which
filled his soul. What quality was there lacking in the Latin races
which rendered them so untrustworthy? His crew had mutinied, de
Poincilit was ready to consign his companions in misfortune to a most
frightful death on the barren island, and here was Suarez hugging to
his breast a ghastly secret which chance alone had brought to light. He
strove hard to repress the contempt which rose in his gorge, as it was
essential that the broken-spirited miner should not be frightened out
of his new-born candor.
“Ask him to ascertain if the Indians believe the white men are still
living?” he said. A fresh series of grunts and clicks elicited the fact
that the smoke-column seen the previous day on Guanaco Hill had not
been created by the tribe. Suarez begged the señor captain to remember
that he had spoken truly when he declared that its meaning was unknown
to him. Probably, from what he now learnt, the girl who threw in her
lot with the sailors had built a fire there.
Courtenay turned on his heel and quitted the cabin. The smell of the
Indians was loathsome, the mere sight of Suarez offensive. For this
discovery had overcast the happiness of his wooing as a thunder-cloud
darkens and blots the smiling life out of a fair valley. There rushed
in on him a hundred chilling thoughts, each gloomier than its
forerunner. Ravens croaked within him; misshapen imps whispered evil
omens; his spirit sat in gloom.
Christobal, well knowing how the demons of doubt and despair were
afflicting Courtenay, followed him to the upper deck. Boyle was in the
chart-house and Tollemache. Each man noted the captain’s troubled face;
from him they glanced towards the doctor; but the Spaniard had
undergone his purgatory some hours earlier; his thin features were now
quite expressionless.
Courtenay obtained a telescope. With the tact which never failed him,
even in such a desperate crisis as this, he handed the doctor his
binoculars. Then, both men looked at the summit of Guanaco Hill. Though
it was high noon, and the landscape was shimmering in the heat-mist
created by the unusual power and brilliance of the sun, they distinctly
saw a thin pillar of smoke rising above the trees. Courtenay closed his
telescope. He made to approach Boyle, evidently for the purpose of
giving some order, when Christobal said quietly:
“Wait! I have something to say to you. You ought to remain on the ship.
Let _me_ go!”
“You?”
“Yes, I. After all, it is only a matter of taking command. One man
cannot go alone. He could not even pull the life-boat so far. Hence,
what you can do I can do, and I have no objection to dying in that
way.”
“Why should either of us die?”
“You know better than I how little chance there is of saving those men.
You may deem me callous if I suggest that the reasonable thing would be
to forget the miserable statement you have just heard. Oh, please hear
me to the end. I am not talking for your sole benefit, believe me.
Greatly as I and all on board are beholden to you, I do not propose
giving my life in your stead because of my abounding admiration for
your many virtues. Well, then since you are so impatient as to be
almost rude, I come straight to the point. If you take command of a
boat’s crew and endeavor to save the men imprisoned over there, you
will almost certainly throw away your life and the lives of those who
help you. In that event, a lady in whom we are both interested will
suffer grievously. On the other hand, if I were killed, she would weep
a little, because she has a large heart, but you would console her. And
the odd thing is that you and I are fully aware that either you or I
must go off on this fool’s errand. There is none other to take the
vacant place. Now, have I made myself clear?”
“You are a good fellow, Christobal. You revive my faith in human
nature, and that is my best apology if I irritated you just now by my
attitude. But don’t you see that I can neither accept your generous
offer nor sail away from our harbor of refuge without making an attempt
to save my men?”
“They are not your men. They forfeited your captaincy by their own
action. In the effort to succor them you will lose at least one life
which is precious to all on board this ship. I am twice your age,
Courtenay, and I affirm unhesitatingly that you are wrong.”
“Yet you are ready to take my place?”
“I have given you my reasons.”
“They do you honor; but you would fail where I might succeed. You are
not a sailor. Brave as I know you to be, you are not physically fitted
for the rough work which may be needed. I think, too, you exaggerate
the risk. The Alaculofs are broken by last night’s failure. They will
not dare to face us.”
“At least spare me an argument which does not convince yourself;
otherwise you would depute me instantly for the service.”
“Well, you force plain speaking. While I command the _Kansas_ I am
responsible for the well-being of the ship, her crew, and her
passengers. I could never forgive myself if I left those men to the
mercy of the Indians. I cannot permit either you or Tollemache to take
a risk which I shirk. Boyle and Walker must remain on board—lest I
fail. Now, Christobal, don’t make my duty harder. Shake hands! I am
proud to claim you as a friend.”
“Huh!” said Boyle, strolling towards them. “What is it? A bet?”
“Yes,” laughed Courtenay, from whose face all doubt had vanished; “a
bet, indeed, and you hold the stakes. Have you seen the smoke signal
yonder?” and he pointed across the bay.
“Yes. Tollemache found it again, twenty minutes since.”
“It means that eleven of our men are there, expecting us to save them.
Hoist the ship’s answering pennant from the main yard swung out to
starboard. Build a small fire on the poop and throw some oil and
lampblack on it. If they don’t recognize the pennant they will
understand the smoke. Get some food and water stowed in the life-boat,
and offer five pounds a head to six men who will volunteer for a trip
ashore.”
“I go in charge, of course, sir?” said Boyle.
“You remain here, and take command during my absence. I want two
revolvers for a couple of the crew, and I shall take my own gun. Please
make all arrangements promptly. I am going to my cabin for five
minutes, and shall start immediately afterwards.”
This was the captain speaking. His tone admitted of no contention.
Boyle hurried off, and Courtenay went into his quarters.
“What do you think of it?” Christobal asked Tollemache, as the latter
appeared to be sauntering after the chief officer.
“Rot!” said Tollemache.
“But what can we do? He is committing suicide.”
“One must do that occasionally. It’s rotten, but it can’t be helped.”
Christobal threw out his hands in a despairing gesture. “I tried to
stop him, but I failed,” he cried.
“Courtenay is a hard man to stop,” said Tollemache, vanishing down the
companion. The Spaniard was left alone on the bridge. He paced to and
fro, deep in thought. He scarce dared probe his own communings. So
complex were they, such a queer amalgam of noble fear and base
expectation, that he could have cried aloud in his anguish. Big drops
of perspiration stood on his forehead when Courtenay came to him.
“For God’s sake, don’t go,” said he hoarsely. “Do you know you are
placing me on the rack?”
“Your sufferings are of your own contriving, then. Why, man, there is
no reason for all this agony. I have written to Elsie, briefly
explaining matters. Here is the letter. Give it to her, if I don’t
return. And now, pull yourself together. I want you to cheer her. Above
all things, don’t let her know I am leaving the ship. I’ll just swing
myself overboard at the last moment. I can’t say good-by. I don’t think
I could stand that.”