The Flag of Distress Part 51

Stepping out on the quarterdeck, they stand for a short while, the moon shining on their faces, both bright and innocent as her beams. Then they stroll aft, little dreaming of the doom that awaits them.

That sight should soften his traitorous heart. Instead, it seems but to steel it the more--as if their presence recalled and quickened within him some vow of revenge. He hesitates no longer; but gliding back to the hatch, climbs over its coaming, and, lantern in hand, drops down into the hold--there to do a deed which neither light of moon nor sun should shine upon.

Though within the tropic zone, and but a few degrees from the equinoctial line, there is chillness in the air of the night, now nearing its mid-hours.

Drawing their cloaks closer around them, the young ladies mount up to the p.o.o.p-deck, and stand resting their hands on the taffrail.

For a time they are silent; their eyes directed over the stern, watching the foam in the ship's wake, lit up with luminous phosph.o.r.escence.

They observe other scintillation besides that caused by the _Condor's_ keel. There are broad splatches of it all over the surface of the sea, with here and there elongated _sillons_, seemingly made by some creatures in motion, swimming parallel to the ship's course, and keeping pace with her.

They have not voyaged through thirty degrees of the Pacific Ocean to be now ignorant of what these are. They know them to be sharks, as also that some of larger size and brighter luminosity are the tracks of the _tintorera_--that species so much-dreaded by the pearl-divers of Panama Bay and the Californian Gulf.

This night both _tiburones_ and _tintoreras_ are more numerous than they have ever observed them--closer also to the vessel's side; for the sharks, observantly have seen a boat lowered down, which gives antic.i.p.ation of prey within nearer reach of their ravenous jaws.

"_Santissima_!" exclaims Carmen, as one makes a dash at some waif drifting astern. "What a fearful thing it would be to fall overboard there--in the midst of those horrid creatures! One wouldn't have the slightest chance of being saved. Only to think how little s.p.a.ce there is between us and certain death! See that monster just below, with its great, glaring eyes! It looks as if it wanted to leap up, and lay hold of us. Ugh! I mustn't keep my eyes on it any longer. It makes me tremble in a strange way. I do believe, if I continued gazing at it, I should grow giddy, and drop into its jaws."

She draws back a pace or two, and for some moments remains silent-- pensive. Perhaps she is thinking of a sailor saved from sharks after falling among them, and more still of the man who saved him. Whether or no, she soon again speaks, saying:

"_Sobrina_! are you not glad we're so near the end of our voyage?"

"I'm not sorry, _tia_--I fancy no one ever is. I should be more pleased, however, if it _were_ the end of our voyage, which unfortunately it isn't. Before we see Spain, we've another equally as long."

"True--as long in duration, and distance. But otherwise, it may be very different, and I hope more endurable. Across the Atlantic we'll have pa.s.sage in a big steamship, with a grand dining saloon, and state sleeping-rooms, each in itself as large as the main-cabin of the _Condor_. Besides, we'll have plenty of company--pa.s.sengers like ourselves. Let us hope they may turn out nice people. If so, our Atlantic voyage will be more enjoyable than this on the Pacific."

"But we've been very comfortable in the _Condor_; and _I'm_ sure Captain Lantanas has done all he could to make things agreeable for us."

"He has indeed, the dear good creature; and I shall ever feel grateful to him. Still you must admit that, however well meant, we've been at times a little bored by his learned dissertations. O Inez, it's been awfully lonely, and frightfully monotonous--at least, to me."

"Ah! I understand. What you want is a bevy of bachelors as fellow-pa.s.sengers, young ones at that. Well; I suppose there will be some in the big steamer. Like enough, a half-score of our moustached _militarios_, returning from Cuba and other colonies. Wouldn't that make our Atlantic voyage enjoyable?"

"Not mine--nothing of the sort, as you ought to know. To speak truth, it was neither the loneliness nor monotony of our Pacific voyage that has made it so miserable. Something else."

"I think I can guess the something else."

"If so, you'll be clever. It's more than I can."

"Might it have anything to do with that informal leave-taking? Come, Carmen--you promised me you'd think no more about it till we see them in Cadiz, and have it all cleared up."

"You're wrong again, Inez. It is not anything of that."

"What then? It can't be the _mare amiento_? Of it I might complain.

I'm even suffering from it now--although the water is so smooth. But you! why, you stand the sea as well as one of those rough sailors themselves! You're just the woman to be a naval officer's wife; and when your _novio_ gets command of a ship, I suppose you'll be for circ.u.mnavigating the world with him."

"You're merry, _mora_."

"Well, who wouldn't be, with the prospect of soon setting foot on land.

For my part, I detest the sea; and when I marry my little _guardia-marina_, I'll make him forsake it, and take to some pleasanter profession. And if he prefer doing nothing, by good luck the rent of my lands will keep us both comfortably, with something to spare for a town house in Cadiz. But say, Carmen! What's troubling you? Surely you must know?"

"Surely I don't, Inez."

"That's strange--a mystery. Might it be regret at leaving behind your _preux chevaliers_ of California--that grand, gallant De Lara, whom, at our last interview, we saw sprawling in the road dust? You ought to feel relieved at getting rid of him, as I of my importunate suitor, the Senor Calderon. By the way, I wonder whatever became of them! Only to think of their never coming near us to say good-bye! And that nothing was seen or heard of them afterwards! Something must have happened.

What could it have been! I've tried to think, but without succeeding."

"So I the same. It is indeed very strange; though I fancy father heard something about them, which he does not wish to make known to us. You remember what happened after we'd left the house--those men coming to it in the night. Father has an idea they intended taking his gold, believing it still there. What's more, I think he half suspects that of the four men--for there appears to have been four of them--two were no other than our old suitors, Francisco de Lara and Faustino Calderon."

She had almost said _sweethearts_, but the word has a suggestion of pain.

"_Maria de Merced_!" exclaims Inez. "It's frightful to think of such a thing. We ought to be thankful to that good saint for saving us from such villains, and glad to get away from a country where their like are allowed to live."

"_Sobrina_, you've touched the point. The very thought that's been distressing me is the remembrance of those men. Even since leaving San Francisco, as before we left, I've had a strange heaviness on my heart-- a sort of boding fear--that we haven't yet seen the last of them. It haunts me like a spectre. I can't tell why, unless it be from what I know of De Lara. He's not the man to submit to that ignominious defeat of which we were witnesses. Be a.s.sured he will seek to avenge it. We expected a duel, and feared it. Likely there would have been one, but for the sailing of the English ship. Still that won't hinder such a desperate man as De Lara from going after Edward, and trying to kill him any way he can. I have a fear he'll follow him--is after him now."

"What if he be? Your _fiance_ can take care of himself. And so can mine, if Calderon should get into his silly head to go after _him_. Let them go, so long as they don't come after us; which they're not likely-- all the way to Spain."

"I'm not so sure of that. Such as they may make their way anywhere.

Professional gamblers--as we know them to be--travel to all parts of the world. All cities give them the same opportunity to pursue their calling--why not Cadiz? But, Inez, there's something I haven't told you, thinking you might make mock of it. I've had a fright more than once--several times, since we came aboard."

"A fright! what sort of a fright?"

"If you promise not to laugh at me, I'll tell you."

"I promise. I won't."

"'Twould be no laughing matter were it true. But, of course, it could only be fancy."

"Fancy about what? Go on, _tia_: I'm all impatience."

"About the sailors on board. All have bad faces; some of them seem very _demonios_. But there's one has particularly impressed me. Would you believe it, Inez, he has eyes exactly like De Lara's! His features too resemble those of Don Francisco; only that the sailor has a beard and whiskers, while he had none. Of course the resemblance can be but accidental. Still, it caused me a start, when I first observed it, and has several times since. Never more than this very morning, when I was up here, and saw that man. He was at the wheel, all by himself, steering. Several times, on turning suddenly round, I caught him looking straight at me, staring in the most insolent manner. I had half a mind to complain to Captain Lantanas; but reflecting that we were so near the end of our voyage--"

She is not permitted to say more. For at the moment, a man appearing on the p.o.o.p-deck, as if he had risen out of it, stands before her--the sailor who resembles De Lara!

Making a low bow, he says:

"Not _near_ the end of your voyage, _senorita_; but _at_ it," adding with an ironical smile: "Now, ladies! you're going ash.o.r.e. The boat is down; and, combining business with pleasure, it's my duty to hand you into it."

While he is speaking, another of the sailors approaches Inez; Hernandez, who offers his services in a similar style and strain.

For a moment, the girls are speechless, through sheer stark astonishment. Horror succeeds, as the truth flashes upon them. And then, instead of coherent speech, they make answer by a simultaneous shriek; at the same time making an attempt to retreat towards the cabin-stair.

Not a step is permitted them. They are seized in strong arms; and half-dragged, half-lifted off their feet, hurried away from the taffrail.

Their cries are stifled by huge woollen caps drawn over their heads, and down to their chins, almost choking them. But though no longer seeing, and only indistinctly hearing, they can tell where they are being taken.

They feel themselves lifted over the vessel's side, and lowered down man-ropes into a boat; along the bottom of which they are finally laid, and held fast--as if they had fallen into the jaws of those terrible _tintoreras_, they so lately looked at keeping company with the ship!

CHAPTER SIXTY.