Four Bells: A Tale of the Caribbean

by Ralph Delahaye Paine

“Please forget it,” urged Ricardo. “If I can find Teresa and she still loves me, what else in the world do I want?”

“That girl used to tease me and call me a horrid old monkey, but I will never scold her again,” said Papa Ramon. “Yes, Ricardo, perhaps there are more precious things than money. I have been learning it for myself. Loyalty? Is that the word? It is bigger than life itself. Why did you capture the schooner? Why will these men follow you anywhere you say? It is not for money at all.”

“It is never too late to learn,” smiled Ricardo. “I should call this a liberal education for all hands of us. Travel and entertainment, with frequent trips ashore. It puts it all over a cruise in a banana boat.”

It was late in the afternoon when the watchers on the Valkyrie saw Don Miguel’s party come down the road to the beach, dragging the last cart-loads of the stuff they wished to take with them. Their boats carried it off to the schooner. Prize-master Duff, at a signal from Captain Cary, withdrew his guard and returned to the steamer. A light breeze was sighing off the land. Shortly before sunset the tall sails were hoisted and the anchor weighed.

The schooner rippled slowly past the Valkyrie to trim her sheets and follow the fairway out beyond the headlands of the bay. Don Miguel O’Donnell paced the quarterdeck, a straight, vigorous figure of a man who bore himself gallantly. He raised his hat and bowed in courteous farewell. As he turned away, however, his hand went to his cheek, to touch the ugly cut that had marked him for life. It was a gesture which did not escape the scrutiny of Richard Cary. He made up his mind to steer clear of Ecuador. Soon the schooner caught a stronger draught of wind and heeled to its pressure as she made for the open sea.

Captain Cary mustered a landing party and beckoned Señor Bazán. Alas, the old gentleman was the picture of unhappiness. It had occurred to him, as an appalling possibility, that the piraticos of Don Miguel O’Donnell might have discovered the treasure during their one day in camp. Perhaps it was some of the bullion in canvas bags that they had been trundling in the carts. To soothe Papa Ramon it was advisable to lose not a moment in investigating the camp. And so they lugged him along in the hammock slung from a pole.

To his immense relief, the excavation which they had begun close to the face of the cliff was found to be no deeper, nor had the gravel been disturbed elsewhere. Captain Cary’s first task, after they had put the tents to rights, was to detail a burial party for the body of the Colombian sailor which had been hidden in the bushes during the forced retreat. Papa Ramon wept. He had turned quite sentimental. He would pay for many masses to be said in the cathedral of Cartagena for the soul of this valiant mariner.

The air was uncommonly cool at dusk. The wind suddenly shifted and swept in from the sea. It was a refreshing night for tired men to rest their bones in sleep. They were eager to be up with the dawn and resume the toil with pick and shovel. Therefore most of them were in their hammocks as soon as darkness fell. Señor Bazán was snoring in his tent, after pottering about until his legs rebelled. Richard Cary wandered to a smooth rock and sat down to smoke and ponder. His nerves were still taut. It was difficult to relax.

The camp became silent. The only sounds were the rustle of the cocoanut palms and the music of falling water. For some time he sat there, and then prowled to and fro. The sky presaged fair weather. The sky was brilliant with stars, and almost cloudless. Little by little he felt lazily at ease. He decided to go to his tent.

Just then he heard a bell. Its notes were sonorous. The air fairly hummed with them. They were lingeringly vibrant. They were the tones of such a bell as had hurled its mellow echoes against the walls of Cartagena when the galleons of the plate fleet had ridden to their hempen cables. To Richard Cary’s ears the sound of this bell seemed to come from a distance, and yet it throbbed all about him. It was the bell of the Nuestra Señora del Rosario which had been mounted upon the roof of the Valkyrie’s forecastle.