The Flag of Distress: A Story of the South Sea

“He consented to my proposal, an’ we returned on deck ’ithout tapping the barque’s bottom-timbers.

“Soon’s I had my head over the hatch coamin’, I seed them all below in the boat, the girls along wi’ them. I didn’t know what they’d done to the Don an’ skipper I had my fears about ’em, thinkin’ they might ha’e been murdered, as Padilla had proposed. But I darn’t go back to the cabin then, lest they might shove off, an’ leave us in the lurch: as some war threatenin’ to do, more than one wantin’ it, I know. If they’d done that – well, it’s no use sayin’ what might ha’ been the upshot. Tharfore, I had to hurry down into the boat. Then, we rowed away; leavin’ the barque just as she’d been the whole o’ that day.

“As we pulled shoreward, we could see her standing off, all sails set – same as tho’ the crew wor abroad o’ her workin’ ’em.”

“But her ensign reversed?” asks Cadwallader. “She was carrying it so, when we came across her. How came that, Harry?”

“Ah! the bit o’ buntin’ upside-down! I did that myself in the dark; thinkin’ it might get them a better chance o’ bein’ picked up. I’d just time to do it afore droppin’ into the boat.”

“And you did the very thing!” exclaims Crozier. “I see God’s hand in that surely! But for the distress signal, the Crusader would have kept on without giving chase; and – . But, proceed! Tell us what happened afterwards.”

“Well; we landed in the island, not knowin’ it to be a island. An’ theer’s another o’ the chances, showin’ we’ve been took care o’ by the little cherub as sits up aloft. If it hed been the mainland – well, I needn’t tell ye, things would now be different. After landin’, we stayed all night on the shore; the men sleeping in the biggest o’ the caves, while the ladies occupied a smaller one. I took care ’bout that separation myself, detarmined they shouldn’t come to no harm.

“That night theer war a thing happened which I dar say they’ve told you; an’ twar from them I afterwards larned that Gomez an’ Hernandez war no other than the two chaps you’d trouble wi’ at San Francisco. They went into the cave, an’ said some insultin’ things to the saynoreetas; I warn’t ’far off, an’ would ’a made short work wi’ them, hed it goed farther than talk.

“Well; up at a early hour next mornin’, we found the boat had drifted off seaward, an’ got bilged on the breakers. But supposin’ we shouldn’t want her any more, nobody thought anythin’ about it. Then comed the dividin’ o’ the gold-dust, an’ after it the great questyun – leastwise, so far as I war consarned – as to who should take away the girls. I’d been waitin’ for this, an’ for the settlin’ o’t I war ready to do or die. Gomez an’ Hernandez war the two who laid claim to ’em – as I knowed, an’ expected they would. Pertendin’ a likin’ for Miss Carmen myself, an’ puttin’ Davis up to what I wanted ’bout the tother, we also put in our claim. It ended in Gomez an’ me goin’ in for a fight; which must ’a tarminated in the death o’ one or other o’ us. I hed no dread o’ dyin’; only from the fear o’ its leavin’ the saynoreetas unprotected. But thar war no help for’t, an’ I agreed to the duel, which war to be fought first wi’ pistols, an’ finished up, if need be, wi’ the steel.

“Everythin’ settled, we war ’bout settin’ to, when one o’ the fellows – who’d gone up the cliff to take a look ahead – just then sung out, that we’d landed on a island. Recallin’ the lost boat, we knew that meant a dreadful danger. In coorse it stopped the fight, an’ we all rushed up to the cliff.

“When we saw how things stood, there war no more talk o’ quarrellin’. The piratical scoundrels war scared nigh out o’ thar senses; an’ would ’a been glad to get back aboard the craft they’d come out o’, the which all, ’ceptin’ Davis an’ myself, supposed to be at the bottom o’ the sea.

“After that, ’twar all safe, as far as concarned the saynoreetas. To them as wanted ’em so bad, they war but a second thought, in the face of starvation; which soon tamed the wolves down, an’ kep ’em so till the last o’ the chapter.

“Now, young gentlemen; ye know how Harry Blew hev behaved, an’ can judge for yourselves, whether he’s kep the word he gi’ed you ’fore leavin’ San Francisco.”

“Behaved nobly, grandly!” cries Crozier. “Kept your word like a man: like a true British sailor! Come to my arms – to my heart, Harry! And forgive the suspicions we had, not being able to help them. Here, Will! take him to yours, and show him how grateful we both are, to the man who has done more for us than saving our lives.”

“Bless you, Blew! God bless you!” exclaims Cadwallader, promptly responding to the appeal; and holding Harry in a hug that threatens to crush in his ribs.

The affecting scene is followed by an interval of profound silence; broken by the voice of Grummet, who, at the wheel, is steering straight into the port of Panama, now in sight.

“Mr Crozier!” calls out the old coxswain, “do ye see that craft – the one riding at anchor out yonder in the roadstead?”

All three turn their eyes in the direction indicated; soon as they have done so, together exclaiming:

“The Crusader!”

The last incident of our tale takes place at Cadiz, in a grand cathedral church; before the altar of which stand two English naval officers, and alongside each a beautiful Spanish damsel, soon to be his wedded wife.

It scarce needs to tell that the bridegrooms are Edward Crozier and Willie Cadwallader – both now lieutenants. Nor need we say who are the brides; since they are to be given away by Don Gregorio Montijo.

As little necessary to speak of the ceremonial splendour of that double wedding – long time the novedad of Cadiz.

Enough to say that present at it are all the wealth and fashion of the old Andalusian city, with foreign consuls, and the commanders of warships in the port: conspicuous amongst these, Captain Bracebridge, and the officers of Her Britannic Majesty’s frigate Crusader.

Also two other men of the sea – of its merchant service; to hear of whose presence there will, no doubt, make the reader happy, as it does both the brides and the bridegrooms to see them. They belong to a ship lying in the harbour, carrying polacca-masts, on her stern lettered “El Condor;” one of the two being her captain, called Lantanas; the other her chief officer, by name Blew.

God has been just and good to the gentle Chilian skipper, having long since lifted from his mind the cloud that temporarily obscured it. He now knows all, and above all, Harry Blew in his true colours; and, though on the Condor’s deck they are still captain and mate, when below by themselves in her cabin, all distinction of rank disappears, and they are affectionate friends – almost as brothers.

In the prosperous trading-craft Condor, re-converted into her original shape of ship – regularly voyaging between Valparaiso and Cadiz, exchanging the gold and silver of Chili for the silks and sweet wines of Spain – but few would recognise a barque once chased over the South Sea, believed to be a spectre; and, it is to be hoped, no one will ever again see her sailing under a Flag of Distress.