Chapter Fifty Five.
“Down Helm.”
“Land, ho!”
The cry is from a man stationed on the fore-topmast cross-trees of the Condor. Since sunrise he has been aloft—on the lookout for land. It is now near noon, and he has sighted it.
Captain Lantanas is not quite certain of what land it is. He knows it is the Veraguan coast, but does not recognise the particular place.
Noon soon after coming on, with an unclouded sky, enables him to catch the sun in its meridian altitude, and so make him sure of a good sight. It gives for latitude 7 degrees 20 minutes North, while his chronometer furnishes him with the longitude 82 degrees 12 minutes West.
As the Chilian is a skilled observer, and has confidence in the observations he has made, the land in sight should be the island of Coiba; or an island that covers it, called Hicaron. Both are off the coast of Veragua, westward from Panama Bay, and about a hundred miles from its mouth; into which the Condor is seeking to make entrance.
Having ciphered out his reckoning, the skipper enters it on his log:
“Latitude 7 degrees 20 minutes North, Longitude 82 degrees 12 minutes West Wind West-South-West. Light breeze.”
While penning these slight memoranda, little dreams the Chilian skipper how important they may one day become. The night before, while taking an observation of the stars, could he have read them astrologically, he might have discovered many a chance against his ever making another entry in that log-book.
A wind west-sou’-west is favourable for entering the Bay of Panama. A ship steering round Cabo Mala, once she has weathered this much-dreaded headland, will have it on her starboard quarter. But the Condor, coming down from north, gets it nearly abeam; and her captain, perceiving he has run a little too much coastwise, cries out to the man at the wheel—
“Hard a-starboard! Put the helm down! Keep well off the land!”
Saying this, he lights a cigarrito; for a minute or two amuses himself with his monkeys, always playful at meeting him; then, ascending to the poop-deck, enters into conversation with company more refined—his lady passengers.
These, with Don Gregorio, have gone up some time before, and stand on the port-side, gazing at the land—of course delightedly: since it is the first they have seen since the setting of that sun, whose last rays gleamed upon the portals of the Golden Gate, through which they had passed out of California.
The voyage has been somewhat wearisome: the Condor having encountered several adverse gales—to say nothing of the long period spent in traversing more than three thousand miles of ocean-waste, with only once or twice a white sail seen afar off, to vary its blue monotony.
The sight of terra firma, with the thought of soon setting foot on it, makes all joyous; and Captain Lantanas adds to their exhilaration by assuring them, that in less than twenty-four hours he will enter the Bay of Panama, and in twenty-four after, bring his barque alongside the wharf of that ancient port, so often pillaged by the filibusteros—better known as buccaneers. It is scarcely a damper when he adds, “Wind and weather permitting;” for the sky is of sapphire hue, and the gentle breeze wafting them smoothly along seems steady, and as if it would continue in the same quarter, which chances to be the right one.
After staying an hour or so on deck, indulging in cheerful converse, and happy anticipations, the tropic sun, grown too sultry for comfort, drives them down to the cabin, for shade and siesta—this last, a habit of all Spanish-Americans.
The Chilian skipper is also accustomed to take his afternoon nap; and this day, in particular, there is no need for his remaining longer on deck. He has determined his latitude, cast up his dead-reckoning, and set the Condor on her course. Sailing on a sea without icebergs, or other dangerous obstructions, he can go to sleep without anxiety on his mind.
So, leaving his second mate in charge—the first being off-watch—he descends to the cabin, and enters his sleeping-room on the starboard side.
But before lying down, he summons the cook, and gives orders for a dinner—to be dressed in the very best style the ship’s stores can furnish; this in celebration of the event of having sighted land.
Then, stretching himself along a sofa, he is soon slumbering; profoundly, as one with nothing on his conscience to keep him awake.
For a time, the barque’s decks appear deserted. No one seen, save the helmsman at the wheel, and the second mate standing by his side. The sailors not on duty have betaken themselves to the forecastle, and are lolling in their bunks; while those of the working-watch—with no work to do—have sought shady quarters, to escape from the sun’s heat, now excessive.
The breeze has been gradually dying away, and is now so light that the vessel scarce makes steerage way. The only vigorous movements are those made by the Bornean apes. To them the great heat, so far from being disagreeable, is altogether congenial. They chase one another along the decks, accompanying their grotesque romping by cries equally grotesque—a hoarse jabbering, that sounds with weird strangeness throughout the otherwise silent ship. Except this, everything is profoundly still; no surging of waves, no rush of wind through the rigging, no booming of it against the bellied sails; only now and then a flap of one blown back, and aboard. The breeze has fallen to “light;” and the Condor, though with all canvas spread, and studding-sails out, is scarce making two knots an hour. This too with the wind well upon her quarter.
Still, there is nothing strange about the barque making so little way. What is strange, is the direction in which the breeze is now striking her. It is upon her starboard quarter, instead of the beam, as it should be; and as Captain Lantanas left it on going below!
Yet, since he went below, the wind has not shifted, not by a single point!
The barque must have changed her course; and indeed, has done this; the man at the wheel having put the helm up, instead of down, causing her to draw closer to the land, in direct contradiction to the orders of the captain!
Is it ignorance on the steersman’s part? No, that cannot be. Gil Gomez has the helm; and being a seaman, should know how to handle it. Besides, Padilla is standing beside him; and the second mate, whatever his moral qualities, knows enough for the “conning” of a ship; and cannot fail to observe that the barque is running too much inshore.
Why the skipper’s orders are not being carried out, is because they who now guide the Condor’s course, do not intend that her keel shall ever cleave the waters of Panama Bay.
Why, this is told by the speech passing between them:
“You know all about the coast in there?” inquires Padilla, pointing to land looming up on the port-side.
“Every inch of it; at least, sufficient to make sure of a place where we can put in. That headland rising on the port-bow is Punta Marietta. We must stand well under, taking care not to round it before evening. If we did, and the breeze blow off-shore, which it surely will, we’d have trouble to make back. With this light wind, we won’t make much way before nightfall. When Lantanas and the rest are down at dinner, we can put about, and run along till we sight a likely landing place.”
“So far as being looked after by Lantanas,” observes the second mate, “we need have no fear. To-day the cabin-dinner is to be a grand spread. I overheard his orders to that effect. He intends making things pleasant for his passengers before parting with them. As a matter of course, he’ll stay all evening below—perhaps get fuddled to boot—which may spare us some trouble. It looks like luck, doesn’t it?”
“Not much matter about that,” rejoins Gomez; “it’ll have to end all the same. Only, as you say, his staying below will make things a little easier, and save some unpleasantness in the way of blood-spilling. After dinner, the señoritas are sure to come on deck. They’ve done so every night, and I hope they won’t make this night an exception. If Don Gregorio and the skipper keep downstairs, and—”
The dialogue is interrupted by the striking of bells to summon the relief-watch on duty.
Soon as the change is effected, Harry Blew takes charge, Striker replacing Gomez at the helm.
Just at this instant, the head of Captain Lantanas shows above the coaming of the companion stair.
Gomez seeing him, glides back to the wheel, gives a strong pull at the spokes, Striker assisting him, so as to bring the barque’s head up, and the wind upon her beam.
“Good heavens!” exclaims the skipper excitedly, rushing on up the stair, and out. For he sees what not only excites his surprise, but makes him exceedingly angry.
Soon as setting his foot on deck, he steps briskly on to the rail, and looks out over the sea—shoreward, towards land, where no land should be seen!
First he glances ahead, then over the port-side, and again in the direction of the vessel’s course. What sees he there to make such an impression upon him? A high promontory stretching out into the ocean, almost butting against the bows of his ship! It is Punta Marietta! He knows the headland, but knows, too, it should not be on the bow had his instructions been attended to.
“Que cosa!” he cries in a bewildered way, rubbing his eyes, to make sure they are not deceiving him; then to the helmsman:
“What does this mean, sir? You’ve been keeping too close inshore—the very contrary to what I commanded! Helm down—hard!”
Striker grumblingly obeys, bringing the barque up close to wind. Then the skipper turning angrily upon him, demands to know why his orders have not been carried out.
The ex-convict excuses himself, saying, that he has just commenced his trick, and knows nothing of what has been done before. He is keeping the vessel too on the same course she was on, when he took her from the last steersman.
“Who was the last?” thunders the irate skipper.
“Gil Gomez,” gruffly replies Striker.
“Yes; it was he,” says the first mate, who has come aft along with the captain. “The watch was Señor Padilla’s, and Gomez has just left the wheel.”
“Where is Gomez?” asks the captain, still in a towering passion, unusual for him.
“Gone forward, sir: he’s down in the forecastle.”
“Call him up! Send him to me at once!”
The first officer hurries away towards the head, and soon returns, Gomez with him.
The latter meets the gaze of Lantanas with a sullen look, which seems to threaten disobedience.
“How is this?” asks the Chilian. “You had the wheel during the last watch. Where have you been running to?”
“In the course you commanded, Captain Lantanas.”
“That can’t be, sir. If you’d kept her on as I set her, the land couldn’t have been there, lying almost across, our cut-water. I understand my chart too well to have made such a mistake.”
“I don’t know anything about your chart,” sulkily rejoins the sailor. “All I know is, that I kept the barque’s head as directed. If she hasn’t answered to it, that’s no fault of mine; and I don’t much like being told it is.”
The puzzled skipper again rubs his eyes, and takes a fresh look at the coast-line. He is as much mystified as ever. Still the mistake may have been his own; and as the relieved steersman appears confident about it, he dismisses him without further parley, or reprimand.
Seeing that there will be no difficulty in yet clearing the point, his anger cools down, and he is but too glad to withdraw from an angry discussion uncongenial to his nature.
The Condor now hauled close to wind, soon regains lost weather-way, sufficient for the doubling of Punta Marietta; and before the bells of the second dog-watch are sounded, she is in a fair way of weathering the cape. The difficulty has been more easily removed by the wind veering suddenly round to the opposite point of the compass. For now near night, the land-breeze has commenced blowing off-shore.
Well acquainted with the coast, and noticing the change, Captain Lantanas believes all danger past; and with the tranquillity of his temper restored, goes back into his cabin, to join his passengers at dinner, just in the act of being served.