Chapter Seventy Two.
A Card Recovered.
It is the fourth day since the English officers boarded the Chilian barque. They are still on board of her, and she still afloat—the one a sequence of the other; or, she would now be at the bottom of the sea. A tough struggle they have had of it; only the three to manage so large a craft in a tempest which, though short-lived, was fierce as ever swept over the Pacific. And with no aid from any of the other three. Captain Lantanas is still delirious, locked up in his state-room, lest, in his violence, he may do some harm; while Don Gregorio, weak as a child, reclines on the cabin settee, unable to go upon deck. The negro alone, having partially recovered strength, lends some assistance.
The barque’s sails still hang tattered from the spars, for they have since encountered other winds, and had neither the time nor strength to clear them. But they have contrived to patch up the foresail, and bend on a new jib from some spare canvas found in the stores. With these she is making way at the rate of some five or six knots to the hour, her head East and by South. It is twelve o’clock mid-day, and Grummet is at the wheel; the officers on the quarter; Crozier, sextant in hand, “shooting the sun.” They have long since given up hope of finding the frigate, or being found by her at sea.
Aware of this, they are steering the crippled vessel towards Panama in hope of their coming across her. In any case, that is the port where they will be most likely to get tidings of her.
A prey to saddened thoughts are the two young officers, as they stand on the quarterdeck of the Chilian vessel taking the altitude of the sun, with instruments her own skipper is no longer able to use. Fortunately, these had not been carried off, else there would be but little likelihood of their making Panama.
At best, they will reach it with broken hearts; for they have now heard the whole story in all its dark details, so far as Don Gregorio could give them.
Having already determined their longitude by the barque’s chronometer, they have kept it by log-reckoning, and their present observation is but to confirm them in the latitude.
“Starboard your helm!” shouts Crozier to Grummet. “Give her another point to port. Keep her east-by-south. Steady!”
Then turning to Cadwallader, he says:
“If all goes well, we shall make Panama in less than two days. We might do it in one, if we could but set sail enough. Anyhow, I think old Bracebridge will stay for us at least a week. Ah! I wish that were all we had to trouble us. To think they’re gone—lost to us—for ever!”
“Don’t say that, Ned. There’s still a hope we may find them.”
“And found, what then! You needn’t answer. Will; I don’t wish you to speak of it. I daren’t trust myself to think of it. Carmen Montijo—my betrothed—captive to a crew of pirate cut-throats—oh!”
Cadwallader is silent. He suffers the same agony thinking of Iñez.
For a time the picture remains before their minds, dark as their gloomiest fancies can make it. Then across it shoot some rays of hope, saddened, but sweet, for they are thoughts of vengeance. Cadwallader first gives expression to it.
“Whatever has happened to the girls, we shall go after them anyhow. And the robbers, we must find them.”
“Find, and punish them,” adds Crozier. “That we surely shall. If it costs all my money, all the days of my life, I’ll revenge the wrongs of Carmen Montijo.”
“And I those of Iñez Alvarez.”
For a while they stand silently brooding upon that which has brought such black shadow over their hearts. Then Cadwallader says:
“The scoundrels must have plotted it all before leaving San Francisco; and shipped aboard the Chilian vessel for the express purpose of getting this gold. That’s Don Gregorio’s idea of it, borne out by what he heard from that one of them he knew there—Rocas the name, he says.”
“It seems probable—indeed certain,” rejoins Crozier. “Though it don’t much matter how, or when, they planned the damnable deed. Enough that they’ve done it. But to think of Harry Blew turning traitor, and taking part with them! That is to me the strangest thing of all, frightfully, painfully, strange.”
“But do you believe he has acted in such a manner?”
“How can one help believing it? What Don Gregorio heard leaves no alternative. He went off in the boat along with the rest; besides saying words which prove he went willingly. Only to think of such black ingratitude! Cadwallader, I’d as soon have thought of suspecting yourself!”
“His conduct, certainly, seems incredible. I believed Blew to be a thoroughly honest fellow. No doubt the gold corrupted him; as it has many a better man. But let’s think no more about it; only hope we may some day lay hands on him.”
“Ah! if I ever do that. With my arms around him, I once saved his worthless life. Let me but get him in my embrace again, and he’ll have a hug that’ll squeeze the last breath out of his body!”
“The chance may come yet, and with the whole scoundrelly crew. What brutes they must have been! According to Don Gregorio’s account, they were of all nations, and the worst sort of each. The negro says the same. Among them four that spoke Spanish, and appeared to be Spaniards, or Spanish-Americans. Suppose we pay a visit to the forecastle, and see if we can find any record of their names. It might be of use hereafter.”
“By all means!” asserts the lieutenant; “let us.” They proceed towards the fore-deck in silence, their countenances showing a nervous apprehension. For there is a thought in their hearts, which neither has yet made known to the other—blacker, and more bitter, than even the thought of Harry Blew’s treason.
Unspoken, they carry it into the forecastle; but they are not many minutes there, before seeing what brings it out, without either saying a word.
A bunk—the most conspicuous of the two tiers—is explored first. They turn out of it papers of various sorts: some letters, several numbers of an old newspaper, and a pack of Spanish playing-cards—all pictured. But among them is one of a different sort—a white one, with a name printed upon it.
A visiting card—but whose?
As Crozier picks it up, and reads the name, his blood curdles, the hair crisping on his head:
“Mr Edward Crozier; H.B.M. Frigate Crusader.”
His own!
He does not need to be told how the card came there. Too well remembers he when, where, and to whom he gave it—to Don Francisco De Lara on the day of their encounter.
Thrusting it into his pocket, he clutches at the letters, and looks at their superscription—“Don Francisco de Lara!”
Opening, he rapidly reads them one after another. His hands holding them shake as with a palsy; while in his eyes there is a look of keenest apprehension. For he fears that, subscribed to some, he will find another name—that of Carmen Montijo! If so, farewell to all faith in human kind. Harry Blew’s ingratitude has destroyed his belief in man. A letter from the daughter of Don Gregorio Montijo to the gambler Frank Lara, will alike wither his confidence in woman.
With eager eyes, and lips compressed, he continues the perusal of the letters. They are from many correspondents, and relate to various matters, most about money and monté, signed “Faustino Calderon.”
As the last of them slips through his fingers, he breathes freely, but with a sigh of self-reproach for having doubted the woman who was to have been his wife.
Turning to Cadwallader—as himself aware of all—he says, in solemn emphasis:
“Now we know!”