Chapter Seventy Nine.

A Sailor’s True Yarn.

It is the second day after the tragedy upon the isle, and the Chilian barque has sailed away from the Veraguan coast, out of that indentation known upon modern maps as “Montijo Bay.”

She has long since rounded Cabo Mala, and is standing in for the port of Panama. With a full crew—most of them old and able seamen—no fear but she will reach it now.

Crozier in command, has restored Harry Blew to his old rank of first officer; which so far from having forfeited, he is now deemed to doubly deserve. But still weak from his long privation, the ex-man-o’-war’s man is excused from duty, Cadwallader doing it for him.

Harry is strong enough, however, to tell the young officers what they are all ears to hear—the story of that Flag of Distress. Their time hitherto taken up attending upon their fiancées, they have deferred calling for the full account, which only the English sailor can give them.

Now having passed Cabo Mala, as if with that promontory of bad repute all evil were left behind, they are in the mood to listen to the narration in all its details; and for this have summoned the chief officer to their side.

“Your honours!” he begins, “it’s a twisted-up yarn, from the start to the hour ye hove in sight; an’ if ye hadn’t showed yerselves just in the nick o’ time, an’ ta’en the twist out o’ it, hard to say how ’twould ’a ended. No doubt, in all o’ us dyin’ on that desert island, an’ layin’ our bones there. Thank the Lord, for our delivery—’ithout any disparagement to what’s been done by both o’ you, young gentlemen. For that He must ha’ sent you, an has had a guidin’ hand throughout the whole thing, I can’t help thinkin’, ’specially when I look back on the scores o’ chances that seemed goin’ against the right, an’ still sheered round to it after all.”

“True,” assents Crozier, honouring the devout faith of the sailor. “You’re quite right in ascribing it to Divine interference. Certainly, God’s hand seems to have been extended in our favour. But go on!”

“Well, to commence at the beginnin’, which is when you left me at San Francisco. As I told Master Willie, that day he comed ashore in the dingy, I war engaged to go chief mate in the Chili barque. She war then a ship; afterward converted as ye see, through our shortness o’ hands.

“When I went aboard her, an’ for sev’ral days after, I war the only thing in the shape o’ sailor she’d got. Then her captain—that poor crazed creetur below—put advertisements in the papers, offering big pay; the which, as I then supposed, brought eleven chaps, callin’ themselves sailors, an’ shippin’ as such. One o’ ’em, for want o’ a better, war made second mate—his name bein’ entered on the books as Padilla. He war the last o’ the three swung up, an’ if ever man desarved hangin’, he did, bein’ the cruellest scoundrel o’ the lot.

“After we’d waited another day or two, an’ no more makin’ appearance, the skipper made up his mind to sail. Then the old gentleman, along wi’ the two saynoreetas, came aboard; when we cleared an’ stood out to sea.

“Afore leavin’ port, I had a suspishun about the sort o’ crew we’d shipped. But soon’s we are fairly afloat, it got to be somethin’ worse than suspishun; I war sartin then we’d an ugly lot to deal with. Still, I only believed them to be bad men—an’, if that war possible, worse seamen. I expected trouble wi’ them in sailin’ the vessel; an’ a likelihood o’ them bein’ disobedient. But on the second night after leavin’ land, I found out somethin’ o’ a still darker stripe—that they war neither more nor less than a gang o’ piratical conspirators, an’ had a plan already laid out. A lucky chance led to me discoverin’ their infarnal design. The two we’ve agreed to let go off—Jack Striker an’ Bill Davis—both old birds from the convict gangs o’ Australia—war talkin’ it over atween themselves, an’ I chanced to overhear them. What they sayed made everythin’ clear—as it did my hair to stand on eend. Twar a scheme to plunder the ship o’ the gold-dust Don Gregorio hed got in her; an’ carry off your young ladies. Same time they war to scuttle the vessel, an’ sink her; first knockin’ the old gentleman on the head, as well as the skipper; whiles your humble sarvint an’ the darkey are to be disposed o’ same sweet fashion.

“On listenin’ to the dyabolikal plot, I war clear dumfoundered, an’ for a while didn’t know what to do. ’Twar a case o’ life an’ death to some o’ us; an’ for the saynoreetas, somethin’ worse. At first I thort o’ telling Captain Lantanas, an’ also Don Gregorio. But then I seed if I shud, that ’twould only make death surer to all as were doomed. I knowed the skipper to be a man o’ innocent, unsuspishus nature, an’ mightn’t gi’e belief to such ’trocious rascality, as bein’ a thing possible. More like he’d let out right away, an’ bring on the bloody bizness sooner than they intended it. From what Striker and Davis said, I made out that it war to be kept back, till we should sight land near Panyma.

“Well; after a big spell o’ thinkin’, I seed a sort o’ way out of it—the only one appearin’ possible. ’Twar this: to purtend joinin’ in wi’ the conspirators, an’ put myself at thar head. I’d larnt from the talk o’ the two Sydney Ducks there war a split ’mong them, ’bout the dividin’ o’ the gold-dust. I seed this would gi’e me a chance to slip in along wi’ them. So takin’ advantage o’ it, I broached the bizness to Striker that same night, and got into his confidence, an’ theer councils; arterwards obtaining the influence I wanted.

“Mind, gentlemen, it took a smart show o’ trickery and maneuvrin’. ’Mong other things, I had to appear cool to the cabin people throughout all the voyage—specially them two sweet creeturs. Many’s the time my heart ached thinkin’ o’ yourself, Mr Crozier, as also Master Willie—an’ then o’ your sweethearts, an’ what might happen, if I should fail in my plan for protectin’ ’em. When they wanted to be free and friendly, an’ once began talkin’ to me, I hed to answer ’em gruff an’ growlin’, knowin’ that eyes war on me all the while, an’ ears listenin’. As to tellin’ them what was before, or givin’ them the slimmest hint o’ it, that would ’a spoilt my plans, an’ ruined everything. They’d a gone straight to the old gentleman, an’ then it would ’a been all up wi’ us. ’Twar clear to me they all couldn’t be saved, an’ that Don Gregorio himself would hev to be sacrificed, as well as the skipper an’ cook. I thought that dreadful hard; but thar war no help for’t, as I’d have enough on my hands in takin’ care o’ the women, without thinkin’ o’ the men. As the Lord has allowed, an’ thank Him for it, all ha’e been saved!”

The speaker pauses, in the fervour of his gratitude; which his listeners, respecting, in silence wait for him to continue the narration. He does so:

“At last, on sightin’ land, as agreed on, the day had come for the doin’ of the dark deed. It war after night when they set about it, myself actin’ as a sort o’ recognised leader. I’d played my part, so’s to get control o’ the rest. We first lowered a boat, putting our things into her. Then we separated, some to get out the gold-dust, others to seize the saynoreetas. I let Gomez look after them, for fear of bringing on trouble too soon. Me an’ Davis—who chances to be a sort o’ Jack carpenter—were to do the scuttlin’; an’, for that purpose, went down into the hold. There I proposed to him to give the doomed ones a chance for their lives, by lettin’ the barque float a bit longer. Though he be a convict, he warn’t nigh so bad as the rest.

“He consented to my proposal, an’ we returned on deck ’ithout tapping the barque’s bottom-timbers.

“Soon’s I had my head over the hatch coamin’, I seed them all below in the boat, the girls along wi’ them. I didn’t know what they’d done to the Don an’ skipper I had my fears about ’em, thinkin’ they might ha’e been murdered, as Padilla had proposed. But I darn’t go back to the cabin then, lest they might shove off, an’ leave us in the lurch: as some war threatenin’ to do, more than one wantin’ it, I know. If they’d done that—well, it’s no use sayin’ what might ha’ been the upshot. Tharfore, I had to hurry down into the boat. Then, we rowed away; leavin’ the barque just as she’d been the whole o’ that day.

“As we pulled shoreward, we could see her standing off, all sails set—same as tho’ the crew wor abroad o’ her workin’ ’em.”

“But her ensign reversed?” asks Cadwallader. “She was carrying it so, when we came across her. How came that, Harry?”

“Ah! the bit o’ buntin’ upside-down! I did that myself in the dark; thinkin’ it might get them a better chance o’ bein’ picked up. I’d just time to do it afore droppin’ into the boat.”

“And you did the very thing!” exclaims Crozier. “I see God’s hand in that surely! But for the distress signal, the Crusader would have kept on without giving chase; and—. But, proceed! Tell us what happened afterwards.”

“Well; we landed in the island, not knowin’ it to be a island. An’ theer’s another o’ the chances, showin’ we’ve been took care o’ by the little cherub as sits up aloft. If it hed been the mainland—well, I needn’t tell ye, things would now be different. After landin’, we stayed all night on the shore; the men sleeping in the biggest o’ the caves, while the ladies occupied a smaller one. I took care ’bout that separation myself, detarmined they shouldn’t come to no harm.

“That night theer war a thing happened which I dar say they’ve told you; an’ twar from them I afterwards larned that Gomez an’ Hernandez war no other than the two chaps you’d trouble wi’ at San Francisco. They went into the cave, an’ said some insultin’ things to the saynoreetas; I warn’t ’far off, an’ would ’a made short work wi’ them, hed it goed farther than talk.

“Well; up at a early hour next mornin’, we found the boat had drifted off seaward, an’ got bilged on the breakers. But supposin’ we shouldn’t want her any more, nobody thought anythin’ about it. Then comed the dividin’ o’ the gold-dust, an’ after it the great questyun—leastwise, so far as I war consarned—as to who should take away the girls. I’d been waitin’ for this, an’ for the settlin’ o’t I war ready to do or die. Gomez an’ Hernandez war the two who laid claim to ’em—as I knowed, an’ expected they would. Pertendin’ a likin’ for Miss Carmen myself, an’ puttin’ Davis up to what I wanted ’bout the tother, we also put in our claim. It ended in Gomez an’ me goin’ in for a fight; which must ’a tarminated in the death o’ one or other o’ us. I hed no dread o’ dyin’; only from the fear o’ its leavin’ the saynoreetas unprotected. But thar war no help for’t, an’ I agreed to the duel, which war to be fought first wi’ pistols, an’ finished up, if need be, wi’ the steel.

“Everythin’ settled, we war ’bout settin’ to, when one o’ the fellows—who’d gone up the cliff to take a look ahead—just then sung out, that we’d landed on a island. Recallin’ the lost boat, we knew that meant a dreadful danger. In coorse it stopped the fight, an’ we all rushed up to the cliff.

“When we saw how things stood, there war no more talk o’ quarrellin’. The piratical scoundrels war scared nigh out o’ thar senses; an’ would ’a been glad to get back aboard the craft they’d come out o’, the which all, ’ceptin’ Davis an’ myself, supposed to be at the bottom o’ the sea.

“After that, ’twar all safe, as far as concarned the saynoreetas. To them as wanted ’em so bad, they war but a second thought, in the face of starvation; which soon tamed the wolves down, an’ kep ’em so till the last o’ the chapter.

“Now, young gentlemen; ye know how Harry Blew hev behaved, an’ can judge for yourselves, whether he’s kep the word he gi’ed you ’fore leavin’ San Francisco.”

“Behaved nobly, grandly!” cries Crozier. “Kept your word like a man: like a true British sailor! Come to my arms—to my heart, Harry! And forgive the suspicions we had, not being able to help them. Here, Will! take him to yours, and show him how grateful we both are, to the man who has done more for us than saving our lives.”

“Bless you, Blew! God bless you!” exclaims Cadwallader, promptly responding to the appeal; and holding Harry in a hug that threatens to crush in his ribs.

The affecting scene is followed by an interval of profound silence; broken by the voice of Grummet, who, at the wheel, is steering straight into the port of Panama, now in sight.

“Mr Crozier!” calls out the old coxswain, “do ye see that craft—the one riding at anchor out yonder in the roadstead?”

All three turn their eyes in the direction indicated; soon as they have done so, together exclaiming:

“The Crusader!”

The last incident of our tale takes place at Cadiz, in a grand cathedral church; before the altar of which stand two English naval officers, and alongside each a beautiful Spanish damsel, soon to be his wedded wife.

It scarce needs to tell that the bridegrooms are Edward Crozier and Willie Cadwallader—both now lieutenants. Nor need we say who are the brides; since they are to be given away by Don Gregorio Montijo.

As little necessary to speak of the ceremonial splendour of that double wedding—long time the novedad of Cadiz.

Enough to say that present at it are all the wealth and fashion of the old Andalusian city, with foreign consuls, and the commanders of warships in the port: conspicuous amongst these, Captain Bracebridge, and the officers of Her Britannic Majesty’s frigate Crusader.

Also two other men of the sea—of its merchant service; to hear of whose presence there will, no doubt, make the reader happy, as it does both the brides and the bridegrooms to see them. They belong to a ship lying in the harbour, carrying polacca-masts, on her stern lettered “El Condor;” one of the two being her captain, called Lantanas; the other her chief officer, by name Blew.

God has been just and good to the gentle Chilian skipper, having long since lifted from his mind the cloud that temporarily obscured it. He now knows all, and above all, Harry Blew in his true colours; and, though on the Condor’s deck they are still captain and mate, when below by themselves in her cabin, all distinction of rank disappears, and they are affectionate friends—almost as brothers.

In the prosperous trading-craft Condor, re-converted into her original shape of ship—regularly voyaging between Valparaiso and Cadiz, exchanging the gold and silver of Chili for the silks and sweet wines of Spain—but few would recognise a barque once chased over the South Sea, believed to be a spectre; and, it is to be hoped, no one will ever again see her sailing under a Flag of Distress.