Our trial was shorter, even, than a drum-head court martial. Senhor Francisco stated the offence, and then simply inquired what the safety of the commonwealth demanded. The twelve judges were never so unanimous. In the multitude of counsellors there was but one opinion—and that, though differently expressed, resolved itself into one pithy adage, namely—that “dead men tell no tales.”
From the apparent character of those around me, I certainly considered that I should be defunct to a moral before morning; but Mark Antony boldly demurred to the sentence: and put forward the reasons why death and execution should be stayed; but as the fosterer’s plea involved a confused story about ghosts and music, I question whether it would have carried an overwhelming conviction of our innocence to the dread tribunal before whom we stood. As it turned out, however, we were not on the verge of death, but, happily, on the eve of deliverance—and in a brief space, the colour of our fortunes changed.
While the senhor was listening, and with marked incredulity, to the fosterer’s defence, a noise was heard without, and the personage who bore the appearance of an English seaman, but who, from his position at the table had eluded our former espionage, burst suddenly into the apartment.
“What the devil is all this I hear about spies, and land-loupers?” he exclaimed. “Are these the chaps?—Egad—this here one,” and he pointed to me, “looks too honest to play traitor. But, what!—Do my eyes deceive me?—why, dash my buttons—it can’t be possible—but it is—an old messmate by heaven! What, Mark—am I so changed, that William Rawlings is forgotten?”
It was indeed the brother of the fosterer’s mistress; and the next moment, like Homer’s heroes, their hands were locked together, and the pleasure of an unexpected meeting, was expressed in sea parlance on the one part, and an eloquent admixture of English and Irish on the other, which must have been perfectly unintelligible to the auditory, as I could but partially comprehend it.
With the host, a brief conversation put matters in excellent train. As regarded felonious designs, we received an honourable acquittal; and better far, the welcome assurance was made, that before two suns rose, if luck were on our side, we should be clear of the fortress and free as the ocean-bird itself.
We returned to our own apartments, accompanied by William Rawlings. The senhor was full of mystery and business; and, I presume, the gentlemen of the spado school were equally engaged; and, consequently, from the sailor we learned the particulars not only of our host’s domestic relations, but, what was of more importance, the means and the probability of effecting an immediate escape.
Senhor La Pablos, it appeared, was a contrabandista, and did business on a most extensive scale. His principles were neither considered particularly nice, nor was he a patriot of the purest water; albeit, he hated the French with an intensity which Dr. Johnson himself would have admired. The senhor’s antipathy to the invaders, arose rather from private than from public considerations. He had acquired much wealth as honestly as smugglers generally do, and, year after year, the invading commanders laid him under heavy contributions, and obliged him to disgorge extensively. Senhor La Pablos had also been blessed with a very young and a very pretty help-mate; and on a short excursion to the frontier in the course of business, on his return he received the unwelcome intelligence that the lady of his love had levanted the second day after he had bidden her a tender, but as he, “good easy man,” believed, only a temporary adieu. He had replaced her loss as speedily as it could be effected—and as the successor of the lost one was equally fair, and might prove, “alas! for womankind” equally frail, he secluded her as much as possible from common gaze; and, certainly, he had never intended that we, during our brief sojourn in his hospitable mansion, should have been introduced to the family circle. “But now for more important matters,” said the sailor; “it would waste time to tell you by what course of events I got connected with these contrabandistas, and shut up for the last month in this confounded fortress. I think escape tolerably secure—but could we but command one hundred dollars, it were certain. These Spanish smugglers are cold, calculating scoundrels—every movement is made for a mercenary object—but if they receive the consideration for their services, they are proverbially faithful, even to death itself, in a punctual performance of what they have undertaken.”
“How unfortunate!” I exclaimed. “Thrice the sum required is lying with my baggage outside, and all I am at present master of is this valueless ring, and a holy keepsake from my lady mother. Would your friends, Rawlings, deal in relics of marvellous value? for I doubt not that this I bear upon me is such.”
The sailor smiled.