Chapter Seventy.
Conjectures too True.
No need to say that the two officers who have entered the Condor’s cabin are Crozier and Cadwallader. For she is the polacca-barque chased by a frigate, and that frigate the Crusader.
The cry simultaneously raised by them is one of strange intonation, telling less of surprise, than conjecture too fatally confirmed.
While in chase of the barque, and her national colours were first made out, they had no thought of connecting her with the vessel which Don Gregorio Montijo had chartered to take him to Panama. True, they had heard that this was a Chilian vessel, and her skipper of that nation. But they had also been told she was a ship, not a barque. And as among the many craft in San Francisco Bay, neither had noticed her, how would they think of identifying her with the chased polacca.
Gradually, however, as the frigate drew upon her, certain suspicions of a painful nature began to shape themselves in Crozier’s mind; still so vague he did not deem it worth while communicating them to Cadwallader. He remembered having seen a polacca-masted vessel in the harbour of San Francisco; besides, that she was a ship. And so far as his recollection served, she was of the same size as that running before the frigate. Besides, he could distinctly recall the fact of her flying Chilian colours. The peculiar style of her masting had drawn his attention to her.
And while they were still pursuing the barque, and commenting on the coincident statement of the brig and whaler about men having been aboard of her covered with red hair, Crozier also recalled a statement strangely significant, which Harry Blew had made to one of the men who had rowed Cadwallader ashore, on the day the Crusader sailed. Blew had been aboard the Chilian vessel, and being asked by his old shipmate what sort of crew she had, laughingly replied: “Only a black man, and two red ones.” Pressed for an explanation about the red ones, he said they were a couple of orang-outangs.
Putting these odd data together, and comparing them, the Crusader’s third lieutenant began to have an uneasy feeling, as they followed the retreating vessel. That she was a barque, and not a ship, meant nothing. As a seaman, he knew how easy the conversion—how often made.
When at length both vessels lay becalmed, and an order for boarding was given, he had solicited the command—by a private word to the frigate’s captain, as had Cadwallader the leave to accompany him; the latter actuated by impulses not very dissimilar.
When both at length climbed the barque’s sides, saw the red monkeys on deck, and the black man in the galley, their apprehension became sharpened to the keenest foreboding—far more than a presentiment of misfortune.
Alas! as they entered the Condor’s cabin, beholding its fulfilment.
The cry that escaped their lips came on the recognition of Don Gregorio Montijo; followed by other exclamations, as they looked at the two unoccupied chairs, a fan upon the one, a scarf over the back of the other. It was then that Crozier rushing upon deck, sent the cutter off for the surgeon, himself instantly returning to the cabin.
Still wilder—almost a wail—is the shout simultaneously raised by the young officers, when, after dashing open the state-room doors, they look in and see all empty!
They turn to those at the table, asking information—entreating it: one answers with a strange Bedlamite laugh; the other not at all. It is Don Gregorio who is silent. They see that his head is hanging over. He appears insensible.
“Great God! is he dead?”
They glide towards him, grasp table-knives, and cut the cords that have been confining him. Senseless, he sinks into their arms.
But he is not dead; only in a faint. Though feebly, his pulse still beats!
With wine they wet his lips—the wine so long standing untasted! They open his mouth, and pour some of it down his throat, then stand over him to await the effect.
Soon his pulse grows stronger, and his eyes sparkle with the light of reviving life.
Laid gently along the sofa, he is at length restored to consciousness; with sufficient strength to answer the questions eagerly put to him. There are two, simultaneously asked, almost echoes of one another.
“Where is Carmen? Where is Iñez?”
“Gone!” he gasps out. “Carried away by the—”
He does not finish the speech. His breath fails him, and he seems relapsing into the syncope from which he has been aroused. Fearing this, they question him no farther, but continue to administer restoratives. They give him more wine, making him also eat of the fruits found upon the table.
They have also set the skipper free; but soon see cause to regret it. He strides to and fro, flings his arms about in frenzied gesture, clutches at decanters, glasses, bottles, and breaks them against one another, or dashes them down upon the floor. He needs restraining, and they do that, by shutting him up in a state-room.
Returning to Don Gregorio, they continue to nurse him; all the while wishing the surgeon to come.
While impatiently waiting they hear a hail from the top of the cabin-stairs. It is their coxswain, who shouts:—
“Below there!”
He is about to announce the cutter’s return from the frigate.
Ah no! It is not that; but something different; which instead of gratifying, gives them a fresh spasm of pain. Listening, they hear him say:—
“Come on deck, Mr Crozier! There’s a bank o’ black fog rollin’ up. It’s already close on the barque’s starboard bow. It look like there’s mischief in’t; and I believe there be. For God’s sake, hurry up, sir!”