Four Bells: A Tale of the Caribbean

by Ralph Delahaye Paine

For Teresa Fernandez to allow herself to hope was to destroy the whole fabric of her justification. Even the faintest whisper of hope and she was no longer absolved. She had killed Colonel Fajardo because he had deserved to die, because otherwise he would have gone unpunished. He was guilty. Of this she had been as certain as that the tides flowed and the sun set.

But this certainty could never convince Richard Cary’s mother. And in her heart of hearts did it entirely convince Teresa Fernandez? During the voyage northward to New York she had been visited by visions of hope. They had come not in her waking hours, however, but when she was asleep and dreaming. Then had Richard Cary appeared to her, masterful and tender, his deep voice vowing that he loved her, aye, for much longer than a little while. She had felt his kisses warm on her lips and his arms holding her close.

Cruel, empty dreams she had called them, but now they took substance and seemed to be calling her. For Richard Cary’s mother and for her own sake, she discerned that she must go back to Cartagena. It had been necessary for her to leave the ship and seclude herself amid different scenes where she might be solitary and detached. Now she was thinking clearly, recovered from that impulse of flight and concealment that had driven her away. It was ordained that she should go back to Cartagena in order to try to bring to light the hidden circumstances. She could do nothing else than attempt it. By sea or land she could find no peace or sanctuary.

A fortnight in New York sufficed to rid this conclusion of its fears and hesitations. It was the sequel, logical and unescapable, of the verdict which she had privately inflicted upon the wicked Colonel Fajardo.

Winter had gone. It was in the month of April when Teresa made this voyage to the southward. The tourist travel had slackened. There were few tired business men and restless wives and daughters. Teresa was fortunate enough to be given a stateroom to herself. She was also alone at a small table in the dining-saloon. It would have made her happier to have been helping the stewardess, who was a heavy, middle-aged woman with twinges of rheumatism.

There were novels to read, long hours in a deck-chair, and the chat of casual acquaintances. The men tried to flirt with her and found it wasted time. The voyage was something to be endured in quietude, with all the patience she could summon. Her courage was equal to the undertaking.

Apart and silent she stood, with an air of grave serenity, when the ship passed in through the Boca Chica and slowly followed the channel of the broad lagoon. The Colombian customs officials would come aboard and summon the passengers for Cartagena into the saloon to check them on the list and examine their passports. This was what Teresa was inwardly dreading. If suspicion had followed her departure, she would learn it now.

A new Comandante of the Port entered the saloon. He was a white-haired, kindly man wearing spectacles. Importantly he scrutinized the purser’s papers and ticked off the names with a pencil. Teresa sat watching him. He had not come to her name. One little white shoe tapped the floor with a quick pit-pat. Otherwise she appeared calm. He held the pencil in air and exclaimed: “Señorita Teresa Fernandez.”

Glancing over his spectacles, he perceived her sitting there. In tones of surprise he repeated the name. She flinched and held her breath. Rising from his chair, the Comandante crossed over to her and put out his hand. It was a friendly gesture. With a sigh she took the hand he offered. Her fingers were as cold as ice.

“It is an agreeable surprise, my dear young lady,” said he, “to find you among the passengers, bound homeward to Cartagena. I welcome the lovely niece of my friend Señor Ramon Bazán.”