A GREAT GALLEON
Señorita Teresa Fernandez was the stewardess of the _Tarragona_. A dark,
handsome young woman, she wore a cap and uniform of white, severely
plain, that were singularly becoming. They also conveyed the impression
that she had no time for sentiment or frivolity. She talked easily, with
a flash of white teeth, a sparkling eye, and graceful gestures. The
ladies were apt to confide their affairs to her when she carried the
breakfast trays to their rooms.
In return she told them various things about herself. She had been left
motherless when a child. Her father, a South American merchant who had
traveled much and visited many countries of Europe, had taken her with
him and she had learned to know the sea and to speak French and Italian
and English. He had died after very sad business troubles and there had
been no relatives to look after her except an uncle, a very eccentric
and disagreeable old gentleman to get along with.
She had preferred making her own way in the world to seeking shelter
under her uncle’s roof. She was very young for a stewardess? Yes, but
her father had been a friend of certain officials of the Fruit Company,
and she had been given a trial. It was enough for her to say that she
had been kept in the service. For one whose family was very old and
dignified, with an honored name, it was unusual, in a way; but what
would you? If Teresa Fernandez was not ashamed to be earning an honest
living, why pay attention to what others might say?
When off duty she liked to sit in a wicker chair near the saloon
staircase of the _Tarragona_. It was a cool, breezy place. She was close
enough to the electric bells to respond to any summons. It was
convenient for chatting with her friends as they passed, the second
steward, the wireless operators, the purser, or the doctor. They agreed
that Señorita Fernandez was a good scout.
Now and then Richard Cary had stopped for a bit of gossip. He liked this
cheerful, good-looking young stewardess who always had a smile for him
and a gay word of greeting. She offered to darn his socks and overhaul
his shirts for missing buttons, and refused payment for it. This was out
of the ordinary. She was a thrifty soul who overlooked no opportunities
to add to her income.
From his seat in the dining-saloon, Cary often caught her looking at him
when she was resting in the wicker chair near the landing. And when
their eyes met, the tint in the olive cheek of Teresa Fernandez was
likely to deepen. It was to be surmised that she was a woman of feelings
as well as a very competent stewardess.
During the run from Jamaica to the Spanish Main, Dick Cary paused
oftener and stayed longer beside the wicker chair. He had lost that air
of serene indifference to the feminine equation. This Teresa Fernandez
strongly attracted him. She knew ships and the sea and the ports of many
climes. She made conversation delightfully easy.
One evening he found her standing on the lower deck, in a corner
sheltered from the wind. A scarf of Spanish lace was thrown over her
ebon, lustrous hair. She was alluring, exotic, a woman in another role
than that of the efficient, industrious stewardess of the _Tarragona_.
“What are you, Spanish or Portuguese?” asked Richard Cary, gazing down
at her from his commanding height.
“Oh, Spanish, ’most all of it,” laughed Teresa Fernandez, with a tilt of
her shapely head. “Where do you think I come from, Don Ricardo Cary?”
“From Spain? Vigo? Santander? Bilbao? I know that coast. Fine women in
those ports. They were easy to look at.”
“_Gracias, señor._ Is it a compliment?” she archly replied. “But I am
not a fine woman—just a stewardess in funny clothes like a nurse or
something. Ah, yes, I know Spain. I have been there in ships, but my
home is not there. I am a Colombian, from Cartagena. Yes, my dear mother
and father they died in Cartagena, and my uncle he lives there now.”
“Cartagena?” echoed Richard Cary, his pulse beating faster. “Did you
really come from that old town? And you know it well?”
“Better than any other place, you bet,” cried Teresa Fernandez, her
rounded shoulder touching Cary’s arm. “This Cartagena—poof! she is too
old and dead, you understand. Plenty of big walls and forts and plazas
for the tourists to see, but it is not up-to-date, not one little bit.
Hot and stupid! Lots of people there, but they are too slow. Nothing
doing, thank you.”
“I could tell you some things about Cartagena,” said Richard Cary, “but
they might not interest you. I have been reading and dreaming about it
until I know the whole story by heart.”
“The history, you mean, Don Ricardo?” she exclaimed, with a disdainful
shrug. “The books you have been reading so hard? My gracious, I can tell
you better stories than that. Look at me! I am what you call a chapter
of the old history of Cartagena. Is it not much nicer to study me?”
“Very much nicer,” warmly agreed the yellow-haired giant of a sailor. He
dared to let his arm steal around her trim waist and to press her close.
Teresa Fernandez laughed softly nor drew herself away. It was necessary,
however, for her to explain:
“You must not think I am this way with the other boys in the ship. No, I
am never this way at all. You ask them if you want to. They will say
Señorita Fernandez is very proper—she minds her own business all the
time. My goodness, Don Ricardo, what can I do with you? You are so
strong, so terrible. I never saw such a man in my life. Will you not
have some mercy on poor Teresa?”
True it was that she had never met such a man as this. Her heart might
flutter, however, but it was not so easy to turn her head. An episode,
this? Perhaps, but it was not to be resisted.
“A chapter of history, are you, Teresa?” smiled he. “Then you are all I
want to read from now on. I was surely wasting my good time on books.”
“You were pretty thick, it seemed so,” said she. “Always talk, talk with
that chief engineer. Listen! Now let me tell you something. My
great-great—I don’t know how many times—grandfather was the _capitan_
of the great galleon _Nuestra Señora del Rosario_. His name it was Don
Juan Diego Fernandez, a man very proud—what you call noble blood. There
was his galleon, four hundred sailors and soldiers and maybe a hundred
cannon, in Cartagena harbor. When we go into port, you will see just
where she was anchored that time. My brave ancestor, this Don Juan Diego
Fernandez, he was all ready to make the voyage to Spain with his galleon
full of gold and silver bars from the mines of Peru, eh? The treasure it
was brought across the Isthmus of Panama on the backs of mules. You
know. It was the plate fleet that sailed once a year for Cadiz. This my
old Don Juan Diego Fernandez he waited for the other galleons.
“_Valgame Dios!_ Right into the harbor of Cartagena sailed the
Englishmen, the _piraticos_. The forts bang at them plenty. They give
those forts the merry laugh. Two little ships! My old grandfather, so
proud in his gold armor, he was not scared at all. He would sink these
crazy little ships and send the English heretics to the Holy Inquisition
in Cartagena. Now listen to this! What _do_ you suppose? Mother of God,
they gave Don Juan Diego Fernandez no show at all to fire his hundred
cannon and shoot the muskets of his four hundred sailors and soldiers.
Did he get a run for his money? I guess not! First thing you know, one
little English ship is tied fast on the starboard side of the tremendous
big galleon _Nuestra Señora del Rosario_, and the other little ship on
the port side.
“_Carramba!_ These crazy Englishmen they climb to the decks of that
galleon just like monkeys. These four hundred Spanish sailors and
soldiers are all chopped to pieces. The tall galleon she is on fire and
blazes all up. And these English _piraticos_ dump the gold and silver
bars through the ports, into their two little ships, just like you
shovel coal.
“Whew! My old grandfather in his shiny armor, all so grand and brave,
has to give up his sword to the English _capitan_. He is treated very
nice as a prisoner, but he has to get ransom for himself in Cartagena,
four thousand pieces of eight. Some money, to buy old Don Juan Diego
Fernandez with! Maybe if those wicked Englishmen had not captured the
_Nuestra Señora del Rosario_, I will be a rich woman now and not have to
go to sea.”
“Yes, the old boy was out of luck,” heartily agreed Richard Cary. “Of
course I feel more like cheering the Englishmen. Do you happen to know
the names of their ships?”
“Yes. It is written down in Spanish, in the library of the Bishop of
Cartagena. My father made a copy one time. The ships were named the
_Bonaventure_ and the _Rose of Plymouth_.”
Richard Cary seemed to forget the allurement of Teresa Fernandez. He
folded his arms and stood detached and erect, staring out at the
darkened sea. It was thus he stood whenever these misty, fleeting
emotions came to disquiet him. McClement was right, no doubt. It was
nothing more than the voice of romance to which hitherto he had been
deaf. He brushed a hand across his eyes. His massive body relaxed. He
laughed awkwardly, patted Teresa’s soft cheek, and muttered:
“You described it so well that I seemed to see the thing just as it
happened.”
“Please do not look like that again,” said Teresa, her accents slightly
tremulous. “You scare me. It was just like the ghost of one of those mad
Englishmen in the little ships. I was going to tell you some more, but
you must be nice and gentle. The ship’s bell from the galleon _Nuestra
Señora del Rosario_ was saved by a Spanish officer from a fort when the
hulk drifted ashore. This one he gave the bell to my old ancestor, Don
Juan Diego Fernandez, and it stayed always in Cartagena. I give you my
word, Ricardo, it is hanging right now in the _patio_ of my uncle’s
house, close to the Plaza de la Independencia. There is the bronze bell,
very beautiful, and it hangs from an oak timber that was in the galleon.
If you go ashore with me, I will show you the bell in my uncle’s
_patio_. We can sit there, and my uncle he will amuse you. He is a very
funny old guy.”
“The bell of the _Nuestra Señora del Rosario_,” Richard Cary mused
aloud. “Yes, I shall want to see it, Teresa.”
“Hum-m, in Cartagena you will be admired, let me tell you that,
Ricardo,” said she, with a flash of asperity. “A girl in every port? And
you have made a fool of Teresa Fernandez. It does not happen every day.
I swear by the blessed Santa Marta.”
“I’ll swear it never happened to me before—to find a girl like you and
fall in love with her,” was his ardent declaration.
“Do you truly love me, Ricardo? Such a man as you?” Her sigh was both
wistful and happy. “I was hoping—I thought I saw it in your eyes, in
your smile, but—”
For answer he kissed her on the lips, clinging lips that returned the
caress. Responsively she surrendered to his masterful sway. In her heart
was the faith to believe that he could never be fickle or inconstant,
once his love was pledged. A girl in every port? She had spoken in jest.
It was time for them to part. On watch, later in the night, he found
himself repeating:
“Could man be drunk forever
With liquor, love or fights,
Lief should I rouse at morning
And lief lie down of nights.”
He stood alone with the wind and the clamorous sea and the stars in the
velvet sky. Gazing forward from the bridge, the ship’s derrick booms and
cargo winches were obscurely shadowed. The forecastle deck and lofty
prow lifted against the curtain of night. The spray broke over them and
beat like gusts of rain. It was possible to forget that this was a
modern steamer, infinitely complex and cunningly contrived, a steel
trough driven by tireless engines. To Richard Cary she was a ship
steering across the Caribbean as ships had steered in bygone centuries.
Never had his heart beat so high nor had he been conscious of such a
keen-edged joy in living.
Teresa Fernandez, the blood in whose veins ran back to Don Juan Diego
Fernandez, commander of the shattered treasure galleon! It pleased
Richard Cary’s awakened fancy to picture such a girl as this in the
Cartagena of long ago, a scarf of Spanish lace thrown over her lustrous
hair, and a tall, fair Devon lad to woo her when the seamen of the
_Bonaventure_ had landed on the beach to parley for ransom.
At breakfast next morning, Cary could see the competent stewardess,
graceful, light of foot, flitting to and fro on this errand or that,
with a shrewd eye to the main chance. No nonsense, her aspect seemed to
say. She was the “good scout,” the unsentimental friend of the second
steward, the wireless operators, the purser, and the doctor. She colored
divinely, however, when her sailor lover smiled a greeting from his
table. A little later, when he passed her on the staircase, and they
were unobserved, her fingers lightly brushed the sleeve of his coat.
The _Tarragona_ was approaching the Colombian coast. In the afternoon a
trifling incident occurred. It was destined, however, to affect the
fortunes of Richard Cary in a manner unforeseen. Captain Jordan Sterry,
that vigorous figure of a middle-aged shipmaster, had displayed a
fatherly interest in a pert young creature with bobbed hair who seemed
to enjoy it, for lack of a better game to play. He had invited her to
visit the bridge. It was a courtesy often shown favored passengers.
The second officer was on duty. He happened to overhear some chance
remark of the skipper, a rather silly thing to say, fatuous in a man old
enough to be the bobbed one’s father. Most unluckily Richard Cary
chuckled aloud. A lively sense of the ridiculous was too much for him.
The infatuated Captain Sterry turned and glared. Cary was fairly caught.
His face betrayed him. It mirrored the merciless verdict of youth. Words
could have put it no more bitingly.
Captain Sterry turned red. He bit his lip. His second mate thought him
absurd. To be laughed at was degrading, intolerable. It penetrated his
vanity and seared his soul like acid.
A fleeting tableau, but Cary had made an enemy who both hated and feared
him. His offense was beyond all forgiveness. He stepped to a wheel-house
window and took the binocular from the rack. It occupied him to watch a
distant steamer almost hull down. He felt rather sorry for what he had
done. It was uncomfortable to think of the look in the skipper’s eyes,
not so much anger as profound humiliation. Never again would these twain
be happy in the same ship together.
It meant that Richard Cary might have to leave the _Tarragona_ and find
another berth. This was his regretful conclusion. He liked the ship nor
could he imagine himself as forsaking the Caribbean Sea to return to the
Western Ocean trade.