The Flag of Distress Part 53

"_Carramba_! I can't think of leaving two gentlemen seated at such a well-furnished table, and no end of wine, without being able to hob-n.o.b, and drink one another's health!"

Then specially addressing himself to Lantanas, he continues:

"You see, captain, I'm not spiteful; else I shouldn't think of showing you this bit of civility, after the insults you've offered me, since I've been second officer of your ship."

After which, turning angrily upon Don Gregorio, and going close up, he shrieks into his ears:

"Perhaps you don't know me, Montijo? Can your worship recall a circ.u.mstance that occurred some six years ago, when you where _alcalde-mayor_ of Yerba Buena? You may remember having a poor fellow pilloried, and whipped, for doing a bit of contraband. I was that unfortunate individual. And this is my satisfaction for the indignity you put upon me. Keep your seats, gentlemen! Drink your wine and eat your walnuts. Before you've cleared the table, this fine barque, with your n.o.ble selves, will be at the bottom of the sea."

The ruffian concludes with a peal of scornful laughter, continued as he ascends the cabin-stair, after striding out and banging the door behind him!

On deck, he sees himself alone; and hurrying to the ship's waist, scrambles over the side, down into the boat; where he finds everything stowed, the oarsmen seated on the thwarts, their oars in the rowlocks, ready to shove off.

They are not all there yet. Two--the first mate and Davis are still aboard the barque--down in her hold.

There are those who would gladly cast loose, and leave the laggards behind. Indeed, soon as stepping into the boat, Padilla proposes it, the other Spaniards abetting him.

But their traitorous desire is opposed by Striker. However otherwise debased, the ex-convict is true to the men who speak his own tongue.

He protests in strong determined language, and is backed by the Dutchman, Dane, and La Crosse, as also Tarry and Slush.

"Bah!" exclaims Padilla, seeing himself in the minority; "I was only jesting. Of course, I had no intention to abandon them. Ha, ha, ha!"

he adds with a forced laugh, "we'd be the blackest of traitors to behave that way."

Striker pays no heed to the hypocritical speech, but calls to his old chum and Harry Blew--alternately p.r.o.nouncing their names.

He gets response, and soon after sees Davis above, clambering over the rail.

Blew is not far behind, but still does not appear. He is by the foot of the mainmast with a haulyard in his hands as though hoisting something aloft. The moon has become clouded, and it is too dark for any one to see what it is. Besides, there is no one observing him--no one could, the bulwarks being between.

"Hillo, there, Blew!" again hails Striker; "what be a-keepin' ye? Hurry down! These Spanish chaps are threetnin' to go off without ye."

"Hang it!" exclaims the chief mate, now showing the side; "I hope that an't true!"

"Certainly not!" exclaims Padilla; "nothing of the kind. We were only afraid you might delay too long, and be in danger of going down with the vessel."

"Not much fear of that," returns Blew, dropping into the boat, "It'll be some time afore she sinks. Ye fixed the rudder for her to run out, didn't ye?"

"Ay, ay!" responds he who was the last at the wheel.

"All right; shove off, then! That wind'll take the old _Condor_ straight seawart; and long afore sunrise she'll be out sight o' land.

Give way there--way!"

The oars dip and plash. The boat separates from the side, with prow turned sh.o.r.eward.

The barque, with her sails still spread, is left to herself, and the breeze, which wafts her gently away towards the wide wilderness of ocean.

Proceeding cautiously, guarding against the rattle of an oar in its rowlock, the pirates run their boat through the breakers, and approach the sh.o.r.e. Right ahead are the two summits, with the moon just going down behind; and between is a cove of horseshoe shape, the cliffs extending around it.

With a few more strokes the boat is brought into it and glides on to its innermost end.

As the keel grates upon the shingly strand, their ears are saluted by a chorus of cries--the alarm signal of seabirds, startled by the intrusion; among them the scream of the harpy eagle, resembling the laugh of a maniac.

These sounds, despite their discordance, are sweet to those now hearing them. They tell of a sh.o.r.e uninhabited--literally, that the "coast is clear"--just as they wish it.

Beaching the boat, they bound on sh.o.r.e, and lift their captives out; then the spoils--one unresisting as the other.

Some go in search of a place where they may pa.s.s the night; for it is too late to think of proceeding inland.

Between the strand and the cliff's base, these discover a beach, several feet above sea-level, having an area of over an acre, covered with coa.r.s.e gra.s.s, just the spot for a camping-place.

As the sky has become clouded, and threatens a downpour of rain, they carry thither the boat's sail, intending to rig it up as an awning.

But a discovery is made which spares them the trouble. Along its base the cliff is honeycombed with caves, one of ample dimensions, sufficient to shelter the whole crew. A ship's lamp, which they have brought with them, when lighted throws its glare upon stalact.i.tes, that sparkle like the pendants of chandeliers.

Disposing themselves in various att.i.tudes, some reclined on their spread pilot-coats, some seated on stones or canvas bags, they enter upon a debauch with the wines abstracted from the stores of the abandoned barque--drinking, talking, singing, shouting, and swearing, till the cavern rings with their h.e.l.lish revelry. It is well their captives are not compelled to take part in, or listen to, it. To them has been appropriated one of the smaller grottoes, the boat-sail fixed in front securing them privacy. Harry Blew has done this. In the breast of the British man-o'-war's man there is still a spark of delicacy. Though his grat.i.tude has given way to the greed of gold, he has not yet sunk to the level of that ruffianism around him.

While the carousal is thus carried on within the cave, without, the overcast sky begins to discharge itself. Lightning forks and flashes athwart the firmament; thunder rolls reverberating along the cliffs; a strong wind sweeps them; the rain pouring down in torrents.

It is a tropic storm--short-lived, lasting scarce half-an-hour.

But, while on, it lashes the sea into fury, driving the breakers upon the beach, where the beat has been left loosely moored.

In the reflux of the ebbing tide, this is set afloat and carried away seaward. Driven then upon the coral reef, it bilges, is broken to pieces, when the fragments, as waifs, dance about, and drift far away over the foam-crested billows.

CHAPTER SIXTY TWO.

TWO TARQUINS.

It is after midnight. A calm has succeeded the storm; and silence reigns around the cove where the pirates have put in. The seabirds have returned to their perches on the cliff, and now sit noiselessly--save an occasional angry scream from the osprey, as a whip-poor-will, or some other plumed plunderer of the night, flits past his place of repose, near enough to wake the tyrant of the sea-sh.o.r.e, and excite his jealous rage.

Other sounds are the dull boom of the outside breakers, and the lighter ripple of the tidal wave washing over a strand rich in sh.e.l.ls.

Now and then, a _manatee_, raising its bristled snout above the surf, gives out a low prolonged wail, like the moan of some creature in mortal agony.

But there is no human voice now. The ruffians have ended their carousal. Their profane songs, ribald jests, and drunken cachinations, inharmoniously mingling with the soft monotone of the sea, have ceased to be heard. They lie astretch along the cavern floor, its hollow aisles echoing back their snores and stertorous breathing.

Still they are not all asleep, nor all within the cavern. Two are outside, sauntering along the shadow of the cliff. As the moon has also gone down, it is too dark to distinguish their faces. Still, there is light enough reflected from the luminous surface of the sea to show that neither is in sailor garb, but the habiliments of landsmen--this the national costume of Spanish California. On their heads are _sombreros_ of ample brim; wide trousers--_cahoneras_--flap loose around their ankles; while over their shoulders they carry cloaks, which, by the peculiar drape, are recognisable as Mexican _mangas_. In the obscurity the colour of these cannot be determined, though one is scarlet, the other sky-blue.

Apparelled as the two men are now, it would be difficult to identify them as Gil Gomez and Jose Hernandez. For all it is they.

They are strolling about without fear, or thought of any one observing them. Yet one is; a man, who has come out of the larger cavern just after them, and who follows them along the cliff's base. Not openly or boldly, as designing to join in their deliberation; but crouchingly and by stealth, as if playing spy on them.

He is in sailor togs, wearing a loose dreadnought coat, which he b.u.t.tons on coming out of the cavern. But before closing it over his breast, the b.u.t.t of a pistol, and the handle of a knife, could be seen gleaming there, both stuck behind a leathern waist belt.

On first stepping forth, he stands for a time with eyes fixed upon the other two. He can see them but indistinctly, while they cannot see him at all, his figure making no silhouette against the dark disc of the cave's mouth. And afterwards, as he moves along the cliff, keeping close in, its shadow effectually conceals him from their view. But still safer is he from being observed by them, after having ensconced himself in a cleft of rock; which he does while their backs are turned upon him.