The Flag of Distress Part 66

A VERY NEMESIS.

Striker's announcement, profanely as emphatically made, thrills the hearts of those hearing it with fear. Not fear of the common kind, but a weird undefinable apprehension.

"_Caspitta_!" exclaims Padilla. "The _Condor_! that cannot be. How could it?"

"It's her for all that," returns Striker. "How so, I don't understan'

any more than yourselves. But that yonder craft be the Chili barque, or her ghost, I'll take my affydavy on the biggest stack o' Bibles."

His words summon up strange thoughts which take possession of the minds of those listening. For how can it be the _Condor_, scuttled, sent to the bottom of the sea? Impossible!

In their weak state, with nerves unnaturally excited, they almost believe it an illusion--a spectre! One and all are the prey to wild fancies, that strike terror to their guilty souls. Something more than mortal is pursuing--to punish them. Is it the hand of G.o.d? For days they have been in dread of G.o.d's hand; and now they seem to see it stretched out, and coming towards them! Surely a Fate--an avenging Nemesis!

"It's the barque, beyond doubt!" continues Striker, with the gla.s.s again at his eye. "Everythin' the same, 'ceptin' her sails, the which show patched-like. That be nothin'. It's the Chili craft, and no other.

Yonner's the ensign wi' the one star trailin' over her taffrail. Her, sure's we stan' heer!"

"_Chingara_!" cries Gomez. "Where are they who took charge of the scuttling? _Did_ they do it?"

Remembering the men, all turn round, looking for them. They are not among the group gathered around the staff. Blew has long ago gone down the gorge, and Davis is just disappearing into it.

They shout to him to come back. He hears; but heeds not. Continuing on, he is soon out of sight.

It matters little questioning him, and they give up thought of it. The thing out at sea engrosses all their attention.

Now nearer, the telescope is no longer needed to tell that it is a barque, polacca-masted; in size, shape of hull, sit in the water-- everything the same as with the _Condor_. And the bit of bunting, red, white, blue--the Chilian ensign--the flag carried by the barque they abandoned. They remember a blurred point in the central star: 'tis there!

Spectre or not, with all canvas spread, she is standing towards them-- straight towards them--coming on at a rate of speed that soon brings her abreast the islet. She has seen their signal--no doubt of that. If there were--it is before long set at rest. For, while they are watching her, she draws opposite the opening in the reef; then lets sheets loose; and, squaring her after-yards, is instantly hove to.

A boat is dropped from the davits; as it strikes the water, men are seen swarming over the side into it. Then the plash of oars, their wet blades glinting in the sun; as the boat is rowed through the reef-pa.s.sage.

Impelled by strong arms, it soon crosses the stretch of calm water, and shoots up into the cove.

Beaching it, the crew spring out on the pebbly strand--some not waiting till it is drawn up, but dashing breast-deep into the surf. There are nearly twenty, all stalwart fellows, with big beards--some in sailor garb, but most red-shirted, belted, bristling with bowie-knives, and pistols!

Two are different from the rest--in the uniform of naval officers, with caps gold-banded. One of these seems to command, being the first to leap out of the boat; soon as on sh.o.r.e, drawing his sword, and advancing at the head of the others.

All this observed by the four Spaniards, who are still around the signal-staff, like it, standing fixed; though not motionless, for they are shaking with fear. Their apprehensions, hitherto, of the supernatural, are now real. Even Frank Lara, despite his great courage--his only good quality--feels fear now. For in the officer, leading with drawn sword, he recognises the man who made smash of his Monte bank!

For some moments, he stands in silence, with eyes dilated. He has watched the beaching of the boat, and the debarking of her crew, without saying word. But, soon as recognising Crozier, he clutches Calderon by the arm; more vividly than ever now his crime recalled to him, for now its punishment, as that of them all, seems near. There is no chance to escape it. To resist, will only be to hasten their doom--death.

They do not think of resistance, nor yet flight; but remain upon the hill-top, sullen and speechless.

Calderon is the first to break the silence, frantically exclaiming:

"_Santos Dios_! the officers of the English frigate! Mystery of Mysteries! What can it mean?"

"No mystery," rejoins De Lara, addressing himself to the other three; "none whatever. I see it all now, clear as the sun at noonday. Blew has been traitor to us, as I suspected all along. He and Davis have not scuttled the barque, but left her to go drifting about; and the frigate to which these officers belong has come across, picked her up--and lo!

they are there!"

"That's it, no doubt," says Velarde, otherwise Don Manuel Diaz. "But those rough fellows along with them don't appear to be men-of-war's men, nor sailors of any kind. More like gold-diggers, I should say; such as crowd the streets of San Francisco. They must have come thence."

"It matters not what they are, or where from. Enough that they're here, and we in their power."

At this Diaz and Padilla, now known as Rafael Rocas, step towards the cliff's edge to have a look below, leaving the other two by the staff.

"What do you suppose they'll do to us?" asks Calderon of De Lara. "Do you think they'll--"

"Shoot, or hang us?" interrupts De Lara; "that's what you'd say. I don't think anything about it. I'm sure of it. One or other they'll do, to a certainty."

"_Santissima_!" piteously exclaims the ex-ganadero. "Is there no chance of escaping?"

"None whatever. No use our trying to get away from them. There's nowhere we could conceal ourselves; not a spot to give us shelter for a single hour. For my part, I don't intend to stir from this spot. I may as well be taken here as anywhere else. _Carramba_, no!" he exclaims, as if something has occurred to make him change his mind. "I shall go below, and meet my death like a man. No; like a tiger. Before dying, _I shall kill_. Are you good to do the same? Are you game for it?"

"I don't comprehend you," answers Calderon. "Kill what, or whom?"

"Whomsoever I can. Two for certain."

"Which two?"

"Edward Crozier and Carmen Montijo. You may do as you please. I've marked out my pair, and mean to have their lives before yielding up my own--hers, if I can't his. She sha'n't live to triumph over me. No; by the Almighty G.o.d!"

While speaking, the desperado has taking out his revolver, and holding it at half-c.o.c.k, spins the cylinder round, to see that all the six chambers are loaded, with the caps on the nipples. a.s.sured of this, he returns it to its holster; and then glances at his _machete_, hanging on his left hip. All this with a cool carefulness, which shows him determined upon his h.e.l.lish purpose.

Calderon, trembling at the very thought of it, endeavours to dissuade him; urging that, after all, they may be only made prisoners, and leniently dealt with.

He is cut short by De Lara crying out:

"You may go to prison and rot there, if it so please you. After what's happened, that's not the destiny for me. I prefer death, and vengeance."

"Better life, and vengeance," cries Rocas, coming up, Diaz along with him, both in breathless haste. "Quick, comrades!" he continues; "follow me! I'll find a way to save the first, and maybe get the last, sooner than you expected."

"It's no use, Rafael," argues De Lara, misunderstanding the speech of the seal-hunter. "If we attempt flight, they'll only shoot us down the sooner. Where could we flee too?"

"Come on; I'll show you where. _Carajo_! Don't stand hesitating; every second counts now. If we can but get ther in time--"

"Get where?"

"_Al bote_!"

On hearing the words, De Lara utters an exclamation of joy. They apprise him of a plan which may not only get him out of danger, but give revenge, sweet as ever fell to the lot of mortal man.

He hesitates no longer, but hastens after the seal-hunter; who, with the other two, has already started towards the brow of the cliff.

But not to stay there; for in a few seconds after the four are descending it; not through the gorge by which they came up, but another--also debouching into the bay.

Little dream the English officers, or the brave men who have landed with them, of the peril impending. If the scheme of the seal-hunter succeed, theirs will be a pitiful fate: the tables will be turned upon them!

CHAPTER SEVENTY SEVEN.