“Can’t desert my ship,” said the gallant fellow; “the last to quit where danger is, my dear sir. It is my charter; but, Mr Cringle, go you, and hand the ladies out.”
“I’ll be d——d if I do,” said I. “Beg pardon, sir; I simply mean to say, that I cannot usurp the pas from you.”
“Then,” quoth Don Ricardo—a more discreet personage than any one of us “I will go myself;” and forthwith he screwed himself through one of the round holes in the wall behind the altar-piece. “Give me out one of the wax tapers—there is no wind now,” said Don Ricardo “and hand out my wife, Captain Transom.”
“Ave Maria!” said the matron, “I shall never get through that hole.”
“Try, my dear madam,” said Bang, for by this time we were all deucedly alarmed at our situation. “Try, madam;” and we lifted her towards the hole—fairly entered her into it head foremost, and all was smooth, till a certain part of the excellent woman’s earthly tabernacle stuck fast.
We could hear her invoking all the saints in the calendar on the outside to “make her thin;” but the flesh and muscle were obdurate through she would not go, until—delicacy being now blown to the winds, Captain Transom placed his shoulder to the old lady’s extremity, and with the regular “Oh, heave oh!” shot her through the aperture into her husband’s arms. The young ladies we ejected much more easily, although Francesca Cangrejo did stick a little too. The priest was next passed, then Don Picador; and so we went on, until in rotation we had all made our exit, and were perched shivering on the high bank. God defend us! we had not been a minute there when the rushing of the stream increased the rain once more fell in torrents several large trees came down with a fearful impetus in the roaring torrent, and struck the corner of the chapel. It shook—we could see the small cross on the eastern gable tremble. Another stump surged against it—it gave way—and in a minute afterwards there was not a vestige remaining of the whole fabric.
“What a funeral for thee, Maria!” said Don Ricardo.
Not a vestige of the body was ever found.
There was nothing now for it. We all stopped, and turned, and looked, there was not a stone of the building to be seen—all was red precipitous bank, or dark flowing river—so we turned our steps towards the house. The sun by this time had risen. We found the northern range of rooms still entire, so we made the most of it; and, by dint of the Captain’s and my nautical skill, before dinner-time, there was rigged a canvass jury-roof over the southern part of the fabric, and we were once-more seated in comparative comfort at our meal. But it was all melancholy work enough. However, at last we retired to our beds; and next morning, when I awoke, there was the small stream once more trickling over the face of the rock, with the slight spray wafting into my bedroom, a little discoloured certainly, but as quietly as if no storm had taken place.
We were kept at Don Picador’s for three days, as, from the shooting of the soil from the opposite hill, the river had been dammed up, and its channel altered, so that there was no venturing across. Three Negroes were unfortunately drowned, when the bank shot, as Bang called it. But the wonder passed away; and by nine o’clock on the fourth morning, when we mounted our mules to proceed, there was little apparently on the fair face of nature to mark that such fearful scenes had been. However, when we did get under weigh, we found that the hurricane had not passed over us without leaving fearful evidences of its violence.