IN WHICH SATAN HAS HIS WAY WITH THE _CONCEPCION_
Dawn crept sullenly across the heaving bosom of the gulf, as if
disaffected by the night’s dark deed. The sun gazed for a moment
upon a ship accursed, then hid its light behind black, evil-looking
clouds. From the east and south came winds that smote the sea and dug
deep valleys in the briny waste. Then, where the valleys gaped, great
hills of water rose and wet the air, and chased each other toward the
wind-made chasms just beyond. Losing their temper in their wild career,
the boisterous blasts let forth an angry roar and lashed the waters
viciously. Before the dawn could take the name of day, a mighty battle
raged between the gale and gulf.
The command of the _Concepcion_ had fallen to Miquel Sanchez, a
veteran seaman, but unskilled in the nicer points of navigation.
Knowing the treacherous nature of the waters through which his ship
was reeling, uncertain of his course, and depending for aid upon a
sullen, superstitious crew, already persuaded that the vessel had
been doomed to destruction, the outlook seemed menacing, wellnigh
hopeless, to the new master of the _Concepcion_, as he paced his narrow
deck at dawn, and hoarsely shouted orders for the taking in of sail.
The ship, showing her keel to the yawning chasms in the sea, rushed
affrighted under bare poles through the welter toward the west. As the
storm increased in fury, the panic of the crew grew less controllable.
Even the helmsman strove to tell his beads when the eyes of Sanchez
turned to scan the sky; and, broken by the howling blasts, the noise of
prayers and curses echoed from the decks. The desperate sailors knew
the sea too well to hug the hope that such a ship as theirs could foil
the fury of the storm. Had not a priest deserted them? Had not their
captain perished in the waves? Who doubted Satan’s presence on the ship
would be too dull to die!
Don Rodrigo de Aquilar had made his way with much effort to Doña
Julia’s cabin, and had found her on her knees before the painting
of the Virgin, praying for a miracle that should snatch the vessel
from its certain doom. The girl’s face, above which raven-black locks
were coiled in picturesque disorder, was white from the imminence of
their peril, while her soft, dark eyes gleamed with the fervor of her
supplication. As she arose to greet her father, the hand which she
slipped into his was cold, but trembled not. If the fear of death
lurked in her heart, it was only by the pallor of her cheek its
presence could be known. Her eyes were steady and her lips were firm as
she stood there reading her father’s haggard face to find, if so the
saints decreed, a gleam of hope to cheer her soul.
“God’s mercy on us all!” muttered the old Spaniard, pressing his
daughter’s hand to his breast. “This Sanchez is as stubborn as a Moor!
He will not change his helm! I am no seaman, but I’ve sat with poor
Hernandez many an hour and conned the chart of this same sea we sail.
But yesternoon he made a reckoning. If the sun spake sooth, upon the
course we hold we’ll dash to pieces ’gainst a curving coast. I told
this sullen Sanchez what I knew, but, ’though he crossed himself, he
gave no heed to me.”
Doña Julia’s arm, showing white as marble against the black cloak
hanging from his shoulders, was thrown around her father’s neck.
Kissing his pallid cheek, she said:
“I have no love of life; no fear of death! To die with you, my
father--will it be so hard?”
“To die without confession--that is hard!” exclaimed Don Rodrigo,
despondently. “I begged the Carmelite to stay with us; but, still,
he gave me absolution ere he left. And if I perish, ’tis for Mother
Church! But listen, Julia! I am old and worn. A few years more or less
are little worth. But you are young. You must not die, my child! If I
had lured you to an ocean grave, I’m sure my soul would find no peace
in Paradise.”
Doña Julia had seated herself upon the edge of her uneasy hammock,
and was looking down at her father, who had attempted to maintain an
upright posture upon the treacherous surface of a sea-chest fastened by
clamps to the cabin floor. Suddenly the old Spaniard arose and stumbled
to the hatchway.
“Juan!” he cried, striving to cast his voice amidships in spite of the
howling of the gale, the ominous thumping of the loosened ballast, the
cries of frantic sailors, and the thunder of the seas as they pounded
vengefully against the frail timbers of the ship. “Juan Rodriquez, come
aft at once! Juan! Juan!”
A hand, cold as ice, was clapped upon the old man’s white and trembling
lips.
“Father, I implore you, do not summon him,” prayed Julia, striving to
drag the aged Spaniard back into her cabin. “He cannot serve you now.
For Mother Mary’s sake, I beg of you to leave him to his prayers. He
has sore need of them.”
Her protest came too late. In the dim, gray light of the hatchway the
girl caught sight of a face which even in that awful hour wore an
inscrutable, evil smile, as if the diabolical spirit of the storm had
rejoiced the soul of Juan Rodriquez.
“We’re driving fast, Juan, upon an unknown coast,” said Don Rodrigo,
coolly, a detaining arm thrown around his daughter’s waist. “You’re
lithe and muscular, and come of fearless stock. I’ve seen you in the
water at Seville.” At this moment the increasing uproar aboard ship
compelled the old man to raise his thin voice to a shout. Drawing from
his breast a package wrapped in oil-skin, he thrust it toward the
out-stretched hand of his secretary. “Here is my patent from the King
of Spain. ’Twill serve as Julia’s title to the mines--to the greater
glory of our Mother Church! And, for the sake of heathen souls beyond,
your arm, my Juan, must save my daughter from these hungry seas. I say
to you--”
“Father, as you love me, as you hope for Paradise, put no trust in
this man’s loyalty! If you must die, I do not care to live. A thousand
deaths were better than a life saved by a--”
At that instant a crash, as if the storm had served as usher to the
crack of doom, drove the word she would have uttered back upon her
tongue. Don Rodrigo’s white head was turned to crimson by its impact
with an iron-jointed beam, and, plunging forward, he lay dead beside
his daughter’s feet. Doña Julia tottered forward a step or two, and
then fell swooning into Juan’s arms.