True it was that she had never met such a man as this. Her heart might flutter, however, but it was not so easy to turn her head. An episode, this? Perhaps, but it was not to be resisted.
“A chapter of history, are you, Teresa?” smiled he. “Then you are all I want to read from now on. I was surely wasting my good time on books.”
“You were pretty thick, it seemed so,” said she. “Always talk, talk with that chief engineer. Listen! Now let me tell you something. My great-great—I don’t know how many times—grandfather was the capitan of the great galleon Nuestra Señora del Rosario. His name it was Don Juan Diego Fernandez, a man very proud—what you call noble blood. There was his galleon, four hundred sailors and soldiers and maybe a hundred cannon, in Cartagena harbor. When we go into port, you will see just where she was anchored that time. My brave ancestor, this Don Juan Diego Fernandez, he was all ready to make the voyage to Spain with his galleon full of gold and silver bars from the mines of Peru, eh? The treasure it was brought across the Isthmus of Panama on the backs of mules. You know. It was the plate fleet that sailed once a year for Cadiz. This my old Don Juan Diego Fernandez he waited for the other galleons.
“Valgame Dios! Right into the harbor of Cartagena sailed the Englishmen, the piraticos. The forts bang at them plenty. They give those forts the merry laugh. Two little ships! My old grandfather, so proud in his gold armor, he was not scared at all. He would sink these crazy little ships and send the English heretics to the Holy Inquisition in Cartagena. Now listen to this! What do you suppose? Mother of God, they gave Don Juan Diego Fernandez no show at all to fire his hundred cannon and shoot the muskets of his four hundred sailors and soldiers. Did he get a run for his money? I guess not! First thing you know, one little English ship is tied fast on the starboard side of the tremendous big galleon Nuestra Señora del Rosario, and the other little ship on the port side.
“Carramba! These crazy Englishmen they climb to the decks of that galleon just like monkeys. These four hundred Spanish sailors and soldiers are all chopped to pieces. The tall galleon she is on fire and blazes all up. And these English piraticos dump the gold and silver bars through the ports, into their two little ships, just like you shovel coal.
“Whew! My old grandfather in his shiny armor, all so grand and brave, has to give up his sword to the English capitan. He is treated very nice as a prisoner, but he has to get ransom for himself in Cartagena, four thousand pieces of eight. Some money, to buy old Don Juan Diego Fernandez with! Maybe if those wicked Englishmen had not captured the Nuestra Señora del Rosario, I will be a rich woman now and not have to go to sea.”
“Yes, the old boy was out of luck,” heartily agreed Richard Cary. “Of course I feel more like cheering the Englishmen. Do you happen to know the names of their ships?”
“Yes. It is written down in Spanish, in the library of the Bishop of Cartagena. My father made a copy one time. The ships were named the Bonaventure and the Rose of Plymouth.”
Richard Cary seemed to forget the allurement of Teresa Fernandez. He folded his arms and stood detached and erect, staring out at the darkened sea. It was thus he stood whenever these misty, fleeting emotions came to disquiet him. McClement was right, no doubt. It was nothing more than the voice of romance to which hitherto he had been deaf. He brushed a hand across his eyes. His massive body relaxed. He laughed awkwardly, patted Teresa’s soft cheek, and muttered:
“You described it so well that I seemed to see the thing just as it happened.”