The Flag of Distress Part 50

And one does this--a ruffian of unmitigated type, whose breast is not stirred by the slightest throb of humanity. It is the second mate, Padilla. Breaking silence, he says:

"Let us cut their throats, and have done with it!"

The horrible proposition, more so from its very laconism, despite the auditory to whom it is addressed, does not find favourable response.

Several speak in opposition to it; Harry Blew first and loudest. Though broken his word, and forfeited his faith, the British sailor is not so abandoned as to contemplate murder in such cool, deliberate manner.

Some of those around him have no doubt committed it; but he does not feel up to it. Opposing Padilla's counsel, he says:

"What need for our killin' them? For my part, I don't see any."

"And for your part, what would you do?" sneeringly retorts the second mate.

"Give the poor devils a chance for their lives."

"How?" promptly asks Padilla.

"Why; if we set the barque's head out to sea, as the wind's off-sh.o.r.e, she'd soon carry them beyond sight o' land, and we'd niver hear another word o' 'em."

"No, no! that won't do," protest several in the same breath. "They might get picked up, and then we'd be sure of hearing of them--may be something more than words."

"_Carrai_!" exclaims Padilla scornfully; "that _would_ be a wise way.

Just the one to get our throats in the _garrota_. You forget that Don Gregorio Montijo is a man of the big grandee kind. And should he ever set foot ash.o.r.e, after what we'd done to him, he'd have influence enough to make most places--ay, the whole of the habitable globe--a trifle too hot for us. There's an old saw, about dead men telling no tales. No doubt most of you have heard it, and some have reason to know it true.

Take my advice, _camarados_, and let us act up to it. What's your opinion, Senor Gomez?"

"Since you ask for it," responds Gomez, speaking for the first time on this special matter, "my opinion is, that there's no need for any difference among us. Mr Blew's against the spilling of blood, and so would I, if it could be avoided. But it can't, with safety to ourselves; at least not in the way he has suggested. To act as he advises would be madness on our part--nay more, it might be suicide.

Still, there don't seem any necessity for a cold cutting of throats, which has an ugly sound about it. The same with knocking on the head; they're both too brutal. I think I know a way that will save us from resorting to either, and, at the same time, ensure our own safety."

"What way?" demanded several voices. "Tell us!"

"One simple enough; so simple, I wonder you haven't all thought of it, same as myself. Of course, we intend sending this craft to the bottom of the sea. But she's not likely to go down all of a sudden; nor till we're a good way off out of sight. We can leave the gentlemen aboard, and let them slip quietly down along with her!"

"Why, that's just what Blew proposes," say several.

"True," returns Gomez; "but not exactly as I mean it. He'd leave them free to go about the ship--perhaps get out of her before she sinks, on a sofa, or hencoop, or something."

"How would _you_ do with them?" asks one, impatiently.

"Tie, before taking leave of them."

"Bah!" exclaims Padilla, a monster to whom spilling blood seems congenial. "What's the use of being at all that bother? It's sure to bring some. The skipper will resist, and so'll the old Don. What then?

We'll be compelled to knock them on the head all the same, or toss them overboard. For my part, I don't see the object of making such a worry about it; and still say, let's stop their wind at once!"

"Dash it, man!" cries Striker, hitherto only a listener, but a backer of Harry Blew; "you 'pear to 'a been practisin' a queery plan in jobs o'

this sort. Mr Gomez hev got a better way o't, same as I've myself seed in the Australian bush, wheres they an't so bloodthirsty. When they stick up a chap theer, so long's he don't cut up nasty, they settle things by splicin' him to a tree, an' leavin' him to his meditashuns.

Why can't we do the same wi' the skipper, an' the Don, an' the darkey-- supposin' any o' 'em to show reefractry?"

"That's it!" exclaims Davis, strengthening the proposal thus endorsed by his chum, Striker. "My old pal's got the correct idea of sich things."

"Besides," continues the older of the ex-convicts, "this job seems to me simple enuf. We want the swag, an' some may want the weemen. Well, we can git both 'ithout the needcessity o' doin' murder!"

Striker's remonstrance sounds strange--under the circ.u.mstances, serio-comical.

"What might you call murder?" mockingly asks Padilla. "Is there any difference between their getting their breath stopped by drowning, or the cutting of their throats? Not much to them, I take it; and no more to us. If there's a distinction, it's so nice I can't see it.

_Carramba_! no!"

"Whether you see it or not," interposes Harry Blew, "there be much; and for myself, as I've said, I object to spillin' blood, where the thing an't absolute needcessary. True, by leavin them aboard an' tied, as Mr Gomez suggests, they'll get drowned, for sartin; but it'll at least keep our hands clear o' blood murder!"

"That's true!" cried several in a.s.sent. "Let's take the Australian way of it, and tie them up!"

The a.s.senting voices are nearly unanimous; and the eccentric compromise is carried.

So far everything is fixed, and it but remains to arrange about the action, and apportion to every one his part.

For this very few words suffice, the apportionment being, that the first officer, a.s.sisted by Davis, who has some knowledge of ship-carpentry, is to see to the scuttling of the vessel; Gomez and Hernandez to take charge of the girls, and get them into the boat; Slush to look after the steering; Padilla to head the party entrusted with the seizure of the gold; while Striker, a.s.sisted by Tarry and the Frenchman, is to secure the unfortunate men by fast binding, or, as he calls it, "sticking them up."

The atrocious plan is complete, in all its revolting details--the hour of execution at hand.

CHAPTER FIFTY NINE.

THE TINTORERAS.

With all sail set, the barque glides silently on to her doom.

Gomez now "cons" Slush the steering, he alone having any knowledge of the coast. They are but a half-league from land, shaving close along the outer edge of the breakers. The breeze blowing off-sh.o.r.e makes it easy to keep clear of them.

There is high land on the starboard bow, gradually drawing to the beam.

Gomez remembers it; for in the clear moonlight is disclosed the outline of a hill, which, once seen, could not easily be forgotten; a _cerro_ with two summits, and a _col_ or saddle-like depression between.

Still, though a conspicuous landmark, it does not indicate any anchorage; only that they are entering a great gulf which indents the Veraguan coast.

As the barque glides on, he observes a reach of clear water opening inland; to all appearance a bay, its mouth miles in width.

He would run her into it, but is forbidden by the breakers, whose froth-crested belt extends across the entrance from cape to cape.

Running past, he again closes in upon the land, and soon has the two-headed hill abeam, its singular silhouette conspicuous against the moonlit sky. All the more from the moon being directly beyond it, and low down, showing between the twin summits like a great globe-shaped lamp there suspended.

When nearly opposite, Gomez notes an open s.p.a.ce in the line of breakers, easily told by its dark tranquil surface, which contrasts with the white horse-tails lashing up on each side of it.

Soon as sighting it, the improvised pilot leaves the helm, after giving Slush some final instructions about the steering. Then forsaking the p.o.o.p, he proceeds towards the ship's waist, where he finds all the others ready for action. Striker and La Crosse with pieces of rope for making fast the ill-fated men; Padilla and his party armed with axes and crowbars--the keys with which they intend to open the locker-doors.

Near the mainmast stands the first mate, a lighted lantern in his hand; Davis beside him, with auger, mallet, and chisel. They are by the hatchway, which they have opened, intending descent into the hold. With the lantern concealed under the skirt of his ample dreadnought, Harry Blew stands within the shadow of the mast, as if reflecting on his faithlessness--ashamed to let his face be seen. He even appears reluctant to proceed in the black business, while affecting the opposite.

As the others are now occupied in various ways, with their eyes turned from him, he steps out to the ship's side, and looks over the rail. The moon is now full upon his face, which, under her soft innocent beams, shows an expression difficult as ever to interpret. The most skilled physiognomist could not read it. More than one emotion seem struggling within his breast, mingling together, or succeeding each other, quick as the changing hues of the chameleon. Now, as if cupidity, now remorse, anon the dark shadow of despair!

This last growing darker, he draws nearer to the side, and looks earnestly over, as if about to plunge into the briny deep, and so rid himself of a life, ever after to be a burden!

While standing thus, apparently hesitating as to whether he shall drown himself and have done with it, soft voices fall upon his ear, their tones blending with the breeze, as it sweeps in melancholy cadence through the rigging of the ship. Simultaneously there is a rustling of dresses, and he sees two female forms robed in white, with short cloaks thrown loosely over their shoulders, and kerchiefs covering their heads.