Four Bells: A Tale of the Caribbean

by Ralph Delahaye Paine

It was a battered, useless gift, the wreckage of Richard Cary. Hard to kill, though, as Palacio had concluded. In his favor were youth, extraordinary vitality, and clean blood untainted by dissipation. Illness was unknown to him. Through two long days and nights the devoted Palacio watched and nursed him, nodding off at intervals. That bitter brew in the bottle was holding the fever in check, and the diet of goat’s-milk and onion broth was efficacious.

The patient babbled while delirious. Palacio understood almost nothing of what he said, but one inference was beyond doubt. The sick man’s voice, the message of his eyes, the restless movements of his hands were easily interpreted. He was afraid of discovery. Enemies were in pursuit of him. It was an issue of life and death. Palacio referred the problem to the responsive Mercedes while milking her.

“What is to be done, little comfort of mine? This man is innocent of crime. You have seen him for yourself. He has won my trust and affection, and he is my guest. Not many visitors come to La Popa from the city. It is an old story to them. But the American tourists from the fruit boats will come early some morning to see the convent. The men will sit on the rocks and say, ‘Zowie! damn-fine-view,’ and the women will poke their noses everywhere. Our guest will make curiosity and be chattered about in Cartagena and down at the ships. He wishes to be hidden away until his health is restored. What do you advise, most intelligent of little goats?”

The most intelligent Mercedes tossed her head and ambled in the direction of the convent wall, as far as her tether permitted. Then she pawed the grass with a sharp hoof. Palacio eyed her gravely. She was trying to assist him. He pondered the matter, twisting his beard tight. Blockhead that he was! To have to be instructed by a goat! She was showing him what to do. He hurried into the hut for a lantern. Into the convent cellar he clambered and then crept into an opening where the stones had been dislodged.

It was the entrance of the ancient tunnel which was said to have led to the foot of the hill and so beneath the walls of Cartagena as a secret passage to be used in time of siege. Such was the tradition. It was possible, however, to explore only a short distance from La Popa because rocks and dirt had filled the tunnel.

“Two or three days more,” said Palacio, “and I can move my guest into this chamber where only God himself will find him. Visitors can be told that the tunnel has caved in since the last heavy rain.”

This was partly the truth. A hole had appeared in the gullied surface of the hill, but it was a dozen yards away from the convent wall and hidden by a clump of small trees. It let the light into the tunnel, and the air drew through it by day and night. Palacio courteously thanked Mercedes for stamping her hoof directly over the underground passage. She had handsomely solved the problem.

He spared no pains to make the secret chamber habitable for his guest. In the chapel was found a disused table and a carved oak chair big enough to hold an archbishop. There was also a strip of carpet and two brass candlesticks. Palacio fashioned a bed of limber poles bound with rawhide thongs, and stretched a piece of old canvas across the frame.

During the labor of love, what of Richard Cary? The stormy stress of mind and body was past. The whirling tumult of emotions, the repeated shocks of perils and escapes, were no more tangible than dreams. Indeed, they seemed to belong with his dreams of the Cartagena of the galleons and the conquistadores. He was in a haven of lucid tranquillity, unvexed by the past, with no thought of the future. Physical weakness constrained him, but Nature was eager to heal and restore, and he felt no great discomfort. It was a state of apathy that brought the anodyne of contentment.

It amused him to listen to the droning monologues of Palacio as he pottered about the hut. They exchanged a few phrases in English and Spanish and became amazingly well acquainted thereby. Between them was the fondness of a father and son. The goats walked in to pay their respects, Mercedes the well-mannered lady at a bedside, Lolita rudely foraging for provender and chewing stray garments until Palacio thumped her with a broken stool.