CHAPTER XIX.
WE CRUISE OFF CARTHAGENA AWAITING THE GALLEON, AND I
FALL INTO THE HANDS OF THE SPANIARDS
In three days after leaving the Samballas Islands, we had beat so far to the norwest, that we counted upon being rather to windward of Carthagena, and from nine to twelve leagues distance from the coast. The west winds blow here with very little intermission, the land-breeze being very slight when it does come, which is but seldom. It was necessary now to determine exactly upon our mode of proceeding, and this was the plan we adopted. The prize which we expected was a private Patache, or treasure-ship, which, not waiting the convoy of the great fleet which sails once in every three years from the West Indies for Spain, intended, as we were informed by Mr. Pratt’s prisoner, to risk the chances of the homeward passage unprotected. Now, it was clear, that the first thing which we had to do, was to ascertain whether the Patache, or galleon, was still in Carthagena, and if so, when she would probably come out. Our next care would be to keep to sea, and watch the coast and the harbour, so as, if possible, to prevent the galleon putting off unknown to us; while, at the same time, we managed so as to prevent any alarm being excited upon the coast. With this view, we would, of course, run in tolerably close with the land at nights, keeping further in the offing during the day, and showing as little sail as possible. But our first business, as I have said, was clearly to ascertain that the mouse was actually in the hole; and that we might be sure, we determined to venture well in towards the harbour that very night, and, if possible, capture some small coasting craft or fisherman, who could give us the information which we required. Accordingly, we turned the schooner’s head to the southward, and ran along with a pleasant breeze abeam. By sunset we saw the land; and so correct was our reckoning, and so skilful our pilots, that John Clink and Captain Jem, who knew the coast well, pronounced the hummock, on which we were gazing, to be a high hill just behind the city of Carthagena, on which there stands a cathedral, which boasts of a very rich shrine, dedicated to the Holy Virgin, and of which more hereafter. Carthagena itself is principally built upon a small sandy island in a bay. The city lies upon the seaward side of the island, which is connected, by a long wooden bridge, with the suburbs or faubourgs along the main coast, the strait being, as may be supposed, a mere belt of shallow water. Well, by ten o’clock, we saw the lights of Carthagena quite plainly ahead of us; and afraid of venturing too near, we hove to, and kept a good look out around us. But the sea was as shipless, as though it heaved round a desolate island. The breeze was light and fitful, and we lay tossing on the long swell, our bows plunging deeply, and our gaffs and sails creaking and surging in perfect solitude. One by one the lights on shore disappeared, as the citizens went to bed, quite unwitting who was watching the gleam from their casements; and, presently, the dusky line of the shore was unbroken even by the twinkling of a single lantern. All at once, however, we saw a bright glow begin to shine forth from the top of the hill which I have mentioned. At first, we thought it a fire breaking out in a large and lofty house; but, presently, I discerned that it was the cathedral of Nuestra a Senora de Papa, lighted up for some night service. It was very brave to trace the outline of the great arched windows, all shining, as it were, with different-coloured fire, by reason of the stained glass, covered with the figures of martyrs, and angels, and saints; but when I was intently gazing at this glorious sight, John Clink, the boatswain, suggested that we might well run in closer. ‘For,’ quoth he, ‘all the people of the town will be at their devotions, this place being the very Loretto of the West Indies.’ The boatswain’s advice was followed, and we edged in with the land, until we could hear the sound of the surf very distinctly, and made out furthermore—the stars shining out somewhat—that there were several large ships and many smaller craft in the bay. Not daring to approach these too closely in the schooner, the shallop was got out with little noise, and I was appointed to go in her to reconnoitre. I made the men muffle their oars with canvas, and we agreed that the schooner should show two lights, one above the other, for a space of thirty seconds, every ten minutes, until we returned. I also took a dark-lantern in the boat, and we pulled silently away from the schooner towards the land. Presently the white glimmer of the surf could be seen plainly, close ahead of us; and so we pulled leisurely along the outer edge, making for that part of the bay where the shipping lie, somewhat to the westward of the town. We paused on our oars now and then, and listened very attentively for sounds of alarm. But none came. There was a holy calm abroad upon the night, and the stars shone down through the stirless air. The coast seemed like a dark cloud lying on the water, except where, at its highest ridge, the festival tapers gleamed from out the great cathedral. We sat as men spell-bound, gazing on the beauty of it. Presently, it appeared as though great folding doors had been flung open, a burst of light, like a glory, streamed forth from what was a vision of pillars and arches, and great gleaming aisles; and falling on the broad steps leading to the portals, streamed over a dusky crowd of worshippers, men and women, kneeling with almost prostrate forms upon the marble ledges; and at the same instant, the mighty swell of a great organ, and the deep peal of a thousand mingled voices, rose solemnly up, overflowing, as it were, the very atmosphere, and mingling with the dim surf-music, as though both sea and land would join their tones in that great harmony. So, rude sailors as we were, we could not but listen, and in our hearts, adore. It was a Latin chant the people sung. Sometimes it fell so low, that we could hear but a faint and distant hum. Anon it rose, and pealed, and rung so gloriously out, that I could discern the very syllables of that mighty chorus, of ‘Jubilate, Jubilate, Jubilate. Amen.’
At length the organ ceased, and there was silence.
‘Very well sung,’ said Simon Radley, who pulled the stroke-oar, ‘and a very good psalm.’
Our solemn moods seldom lasted long. Howbeit, I was sunk in musing. The grave and solemn season of a tranquil night invokes like thoughts. I looked at our muffled oars, and thought how, darkling, we skulked upon the water, watching for our prey; and, as I mused, I could not help hearing, as it were, in my ears, the echo of a hollow sing-song voice, the utterance of that good man, but somewhat wearisome preacher, the Rev. Michael Wylieson, of Kirk Leslie, in Fife, who loved to take for his text the verse which speaks of a certain coming, as like unto the coming of a thief in the night. But all this lasted only for a minute; I started up, crying—
‘Pull, my men, pull—we’ve come to seek a rich galleon, and not to list the droning of chests full of whistles.’
And so we stole cautiously on, until there rose, cutting the starry skies ahead of us, the tall masts of several ships of price. Which of these was the patache? We gazed and whispered, and while we whispered, there suddenly rose, as it seemed from the water, not a score fathoms ahead of us, a loud voice singing, in the Spanish language, and presently we discovered a small dark object, like a canoe, very low in the water, with the form of one man on board. As we gazed, the figure moved and turned; then appearing to observe the boat, the man stopped in his song, and bursting into a laugh, so that one could discern he was a negro, called out to us in bad Spanish,—
‘You may as good go home to your hammocks, the pisareros (that is a kind of fish) will not bite till the tide turn, or the moon rises.’
‘All is well, he suspects nothing,’ I whispered; ‘let us make sure of him.’ And so, as my comrades bent to their oars, I replied with a sort of imitation of the song which the fisherman, for such he was, had been singing, and at which he laughed again in his peculiar manner. But his mirth did not last long. Just as the shallop came with somewhat of a rude surge against the canoe, a couple of muscular hands grasped the poor negro by neck and arm, while I said in Spanish,—
‘Not a cry—not a sound—if you value your life.’