The Flag of Distress: A Story of the South Sea

“They’ll meet – they must!” says Carmen, apprehensively.

“Let them!” rejoins Iñez, in a tone of nonchalance. “What if they do?”

“What! They may quarrel. I’m almost sure they will.”

“No fear for that; and, if they should, where’s the danger? You, such a believer in the romantic – stickler for old knight-errantry – instead of regretting it, should be glad! Look there! Lovers coming from all sides – suitors by land and suitors by sea! Knights terrestrial, knights aquatic. No lady of the troubadour times ever had the like; none ever honoured by such a rivalry! Come, Carmen, be proud! Stand firm on your castle-keep! Show yourself worthy to receive this double adoration!”

“Iñez, you don’t know the danger.”

“There is none. If they should come into collision, and have a fight, let them. I’ve no fear for mine. If Willie Cadwallader isn’t a match for Faustino Calderon, then he’s not match, or mate, for me – never shall be.”

“Sobrina! you shock me. I had no idea you were such a demonia. The Moorish blood, I suppose. Your words make me almost as wicked as yourself. It isn’t for that I’m afraid. I’ve as much confidence in my lover as you in yours. No fear that Señor Crozier will cower before Francisco de Lara. If he do, I shall take back my heart a second time, and carry it unscathed to Cadiz!”

Chapter Fourteen.

A Sweet Pair of Suitors

While the young ladies upon the house-top are discussing the characters of De Lara and Calderon, these worthies, in return, are conversing of them, and in a strain which bodes little good to Iñez, with much evil to Carmen. That the visit designed for them is of no ordinary nature, but for an all important purpose, can be gleaned from the speech passing between the two horsemen as they ride along the road.

De Lara commences it by remarking: —

“Well, friend Faustino, from something you said before setting out, I take it you’re going to Don Gregorio’s on an errand very similar to my own? Come, camarado! declare it!”

“Declare yours!”

“Certainly. I shall make no secret of it to you; nor need I. Why should there be any between us? We’ve now known one another long enough, and intimately enough, to exchange confidences of the closest kind. To-day mine is – that I mean proposing to Don Gregorio’s daughter – offering her my hand in marriage.”

“And I,” returns Calderon, “intend doing the same to his grand-daughter.”

“In that case, we’re both in the same boat; and, as there’s no rivalry between us, we can pull pleasantly together. I’ve no objection to being your uncle; even admitting you to a share in the old Spaniard’s property – proportioned to your claims of kinship.”

“I don’t want a dollar of the Don’s money; only his grand-daughter. I’m deeply in love with her.”

“And I,” continues De Lara, “am just as deeply in love with his daughter – it may be deeper.”

“You couldn’t. I’m half-mad about Iñez Alvarez. I could kill her – if she refuse me.”

“I shall kill Carmen Montijo – if she refuse me.” The two men are talking seriously, or seem so. Their voices, the tone, the flashing of their eyes, the expression upon their faces, with their excited gesticulation – all show them to be in earnest.

At the last outburst of passionate speech they turn in their saddles, and look each other in the face. De Lara continues the dialogue:

“Now, tell me, Faustino; what hope have you of success?”

“For that, fair enough. You remember the last fandango held at Don Gregorio’s – on the day of the cattle-branding!”

“Certainly I do. I’ve good reason to remember it. But go on.”

“Well, that night,” proceeds Calderon, “I danced twice with Iñez, and made many sweet speeches to her. Once I went farther, and squeezed her pretty little hand. She wasn’t angry, or at all events didn’t say or show it. Surely, after such encouragement, I may ask that hand in marriage – with fair presumption of not being refused. What’s your opinion?”

“Your chances seem good. But what about himself. He’ll have something to say in the matter.”

“Too much, I fear; and that’s just what I do fear. So long as his bit of grazing-land was worth only some thirty thousand dollars, he was amiable enough. Now that by this gold discovery it’s got to be good value for eight or ten times the amount, he’s become a different man, and in all likelihood will go dead against me.”

“Like enough; it’s the way of the world. And therefore, on that account, you needn’t have a special spite against the Señor Montijo. You’re sure no one else stands between you and your sweetheart? Or is there something in the shape of a rival?”

“Of course there is – a score of them, as you ought to know; same as with yourself, De Lara. Suitors have been coming and going with both, I suppose, ever since either was old enough to receive them. The last I’ve heard of paying attentions to Iñez is a young naval officer – a midshipman on board a British man-of-war now lying in the harbour. Indeed there are two of them spoken of; one said to be your rival, as the other is mine. Shall I tell you what’s been for some time the talk of the town? You may as well know it, if you don’t already.”

“What?” asks the Creole, excitedly.

“Why, that the one represented as your competitor has cut out all Carmen’s other admirers – yourself among the rest.”

Bitter words to the ear of Francisco de Lara, bringing the red colour to his cheeks, as if they had been smitten by a switch. With eyes flashing, and full of jealous fire, he exclaims:

“If that be so, I’ll do as I’ve said – ”

“Do what?”

“Kill Carmen Montijo! I swear it. I’m in earnest, Calderon, and mean it. If it be as you’ve heard, I’ll surely kill her. I’ve the right to her life – by her giving me the right to her love.”

“But did she do that? Has she ever confessed to loving you?”

“Not in words, I admit. But there are other signs of assent strong as speech, or the hand-squeezings you speak of. Carmen Montijo may be cunning. Some call her a coquette. All I know is, that she has led me to believe she loved me; and if she’s been playing a false game, she shall rue it, one way or the other. This day I’m determined to ascertain the truth, by offering her my hand, as I’ve said, and asking hers. If she refuse it, then I’ll know how things stand, and take steps for squaring accounts between us. She shall find that Frank Lara is not the sort of man to let one of womankind either laugh at, or play tricks with him.”

“I admire your spirit, amigo. I catch courage from it, and will imitate your action. If it turn out that Iñez has been trifling with me, I’ll – well, we must first find what answer there is for us; which we shall, I suppose, soon after ascending yonder hill. One of us may be accepted, the other rejected. In that case, one will be happy, the other wretched. Or both may be accepted, and then we’ll both be blessed. Taking things at their worst, and that we both get refused – what then? Despair, and a speedy end, I suppose?”

“The last, if you like, but not the first. When despair comes to Frank Lara, death will come along with it, of soon after. But we waste time talking; let us forward and learn our fate!”

With stroke of spur, urging their horses into a gallop, the two hasten on; in the countenances of both a cast showing them half-hopeful, half-doubting – such as may be seen when men are about to make some desperate attempt, with uncertainty as to the result. On Calderon’s, notwithstanding his assumed levity, the expression is almost despairing; on that of De Lara it is more defiant and demon-like.

Chapter Fifteen.

A Rude Rencontre

Having steeled themselves to the reception of their rival suitors, with brave words one supporting the other, the two girls remain upon the azotea. Meanwhile, the man-o’-war’s boat has been drawing in towards the beach, heading for a little embayment, formed by the shore-line and the sand-bar already spoken of.

The horsemen advancing from the town-side do not see it; nor can the crew of the boat perceive them. The land-ridge is between the two parties, its crest concealing them from one another.

They are approaching it at a like rate of speed; for although the horses appear to be in a gallop, it is only a fancy gait fashionable among Spanish-Americans, its purpose to exhibit equestrian skill. For the two horsemen looking up the hill, have seen heads on the house-top, and know that ladies’ eyes are upon them.

Surreptitiously goaded by the spur, their steeds plunge and curvet, apparently progressing at a rapid pace, but in reality gaining little ground.

After a time both parties disappear from the eyes of those on the azotea. They have gone under the brow of the hill, which, overhanging for a short distance, shuts out a view of the road, as also the sea-shore, along the sand-spit.

Unseen from above, the man-o’-war’s boat beaches, and the two officers spring out upon the strand. One of them turning, says something to the coxswain, who has remained in the stern-sheets, with the tiller-ropes in hand. It is an order, with instructions about where and when he is to wait for them on return to the ship.

“At the new wharf in the harbour,” Crozier is heard to say; for it is he who commands.

His order given, the boat shoves off, and is rowed back towards the ship; while the officers commence climbing the slope, to get upon the shore-road.

At the same time the horsemen are ascending from the opposite side.

Soon both parties are again within view of those on the house-top; though neither as yet sees the other, or has any suspicion of such mutual proximity. The crest of the ridge is still between, but in a few seconds more they will sight one another.

The men afoot are advancing at about the same rate of speed as those on horseback. The latter have ceased showing off, as if satisfied with the impression they must have made, and are now approaching in tranquil gait, but with an air of subdued triumph – the mock modesty of the matador, who, with blood-stained sword, bends meekly before the box where beauty sits smiling approbation.

The two pedestrians climb the hill less ceremoniously. Glad to stretch their limbs upon land – “shake the knots out of their knees,” as Cadwallader gleefully remarks – they eagerly scale the steep. Not silent either, but laughing and shouting like a couple of schoolboys abroad for an afternoon’s holiday.

Suddenly coming within view of the house, they bring their boisterous humour under restraint at sight of two heads above the parapet. For they know to whom these belong, and note that the faces are turned towards them.

At the same instant the horsemen also see the heads, and observe that the faces are not turned towards them. On the contrary, from them, the ladies looking in another direction.

Some chagrin in this. After all their grand caracolling, and feats of equitation, which must have been witnessed by the fair spectators.

At what are these now gazing? Is it a ship sailing up the bay, or something else on the water? No matter what, and whether on land, or water; enough for the conceited fellows to think they are being slightingly received.

Disconcerted, they seek an explanation, mutually questioning one another. But before either can make answer in speech, they have it under their eyes – in the shape of a brace of British naval officers.

Like themselves, the latter have just reached the summit of the ridge, and are moving on towards Don Gregorio’s gate. It is midway between; and keeping on at the same rate of speed, the two pairs will meet directly in front of it.

Before that moment, neither has ever set eyes on the other. Notwithstanding, there is an expression on the faces of all four, which tells of mutual recognition, and of no friendly nature.

Calderon whispers to De Lara:

“The English officers!”

Cadwallader says, sotto-voce to Crozier:

“The fellows we’ve heard about – our rivals, Ned, like ourselves, I suppose, going to visit the girls.”

De Lara makes no response to Calderon. Neither does Crozier to Cadwallader. There is not time. They are now close up to the gate, and there is only its breadth between them.

They have arrived there at the same instant of time, and simultaneously make stop. Face to face, silence on both sides, neither word nor salute offered in exchange. But looks are quite as expressive – glances that speak the language of jealous rivalry – of rage with difficulty suppressed.

It is a question of precedence, as to who shall first pass into the entrance. Their hesitation was not from any courtesy, but the reverse. The men on horseback look down on those afoot contemptuously, scornfully. Threateningly, too; as though they had thoughts of riding over, and trampling them under the hoofs of their horses. No doubt they would like to do it, and might make trial, were the young officers unarmed. But they are not. Crozier carries a pistol – Cadwallader his midshipman’s dirk, both weapons conspicuous outside their uniforms.

For a period of several seconds’ duration, the rivals stand vis-à-vis, neither venturing to advance. Around them is a nimbus of angry electricity, that needs but a spark to kindle it into furious flame. A single word will do it. This word spoken, and two of the four may never enter Don Gregorio’s gate – at least not alive.

It is not spoken. The only thing said is by Crozier to Cadwallader – not in a whisper, but aloud, and without regard to what effect it may have on the enemy.

“Come along, Will! We’ve something better to do than stand shilly-shallying here. Heave after me, shipmate!”

Crozier’s speech cut the Gordian knot; and the officers, gliding through the gateway, advance along the avenue.

With faces now turned towards the house, they see the ladies still upon the azotea.

Soon as near enough for Carmen to observe it, Crozier draws out the treasured tress, and fastens it in his cap, behind the gold band. It falls over his shoulder like a cataract of liquid amber.

Cadwallader does likewise; and from his cap also streams a tress, black as the plumes of a raven.

The two upon the house-top appear pleased by this display. They show their approval by imitating it. Each raises hand to her riding-hat; and when these are withdrawn, a curl of hair is seen set behind their toquillas– one chestnut-brown, the other of yellowish hue.

Scarce is this love-telegraphy exchanged, when the two Californians come riding up the avenue, at full speed. Though lingering at the gate, and still far-off, De Lara had observed the affair of the tresses, clearly comprehending the symbolism of the act. Exasperated beyond bounds, he can no longer control himself, and cares not what may come.

At his instigation, Calderon spurs on by his side, the two tearing furiously along. Their purpose is evident: to force the pedestrians from the path, and so humble them in the eyes of their sweethearts.

On his side, Crozier remains cool, admonishing Cadwallader to do the same. They feel the power of possession: assured by those smiles, that the citadel is theirs. It is for the outsiders to make the assault.

“Give a clear gangway, Will!” counsels Crozier; “and let them pass. We can talk to the gentlemen afterwards.”

Both step back among the manzanita bushes, and the ginetes go galloping past; De Lara on Crozier’s side scowling down, as if he would annihilate the English officer with a look. The scowl is returned with interest, the officer still reserves speech.

On the other edge of the avenue the action is a little different. The midshipman, full of youthful freak, determines on having his “lark.” He sees the chance, and cannot restrain himself. As Calderon sweeps past, he draws his dirk, and pricks the Californian’s horse in the hip. The animal, maddened by the pain, springs upward, and then shoots off at increased speed, still further heightened by the fierce exclamations of his rider, and the mocking laughter of the mid.

Under the walls the two horsemen come to a halt, neither having made much by their bit of rude bravadoism. And they know they will have a reckoning to settle for it – at least De Lara does. For on the brow of Crozier, coming up, he can read a determination to call him to account. He is not flurried about this. On the contrary, he has courted it, knowing himself a skilled swordsman, and dead shot. Remembering that he has already killed his man, he can await with equanimity the challenge he has provoked. It is not fear has brought the pallor to his cheeks, and set the dark seal upon his brow. Both spring from a different passion: observable in his eyes as he turns them towards the house-top. For the ladies are still there, looking down.

Saluting, he says:

“Dona Carmen, can I have the honour of an interview?”

She thus interrogated does not make immediate answer. Spectator of all that has passed, she observes the hostile attitude between the two sets of visitors. To receive both at the same time will be more than embarrassing. With their angry passions roused to such a pitch, it must end in a personal encounter.

Her duty is clear. She is mistress of the house, representing her father, who is absent. The English officers are there by invitation. At thought of this she no longer hesitates.

“Not now, Don Francisco de Lara,” she says, replying to his question; “not to-day. I must beg of you to excuse me.”

“Indeed!” rejoins he sneeringly. “Will it be deemed discourteous in me to ask why I am denied?”

It is discourteous; and so Doña Carmen deems it. Though she does not tell him as much in words, he can take it from her rejoinder.

“You are quite welcome to know the reason. We have an engagement!”

“Oh! an engagement!”

“Yes, sir, an engagement,” she repeats, in a tone telling of irritation. “Those gentlemen you see are our guests. My father has invited them to spend the day with us.”

“Ah! your father has invited them! How very good of Don Gregorio Montijo, extending his hospitality to gringos! And Doña Carmen has added her kind compliments with earnest entreaties for them to come, no doubt?”

“Sir!” says Carmen, no longer able to conceal her indignation, “your speech is impertinent – insulting. I shall listen to it no longer.”

Saying which, she steps back, disappearing behind the parapet – where Iñez has already concealed herself, at the close of a similar short, but stormy, dialogue with Calderon.

De Lara, a lurid look in his eyes, sits in his saddle as if in a stupor. He is roused from it by a voice, Crozier’s, saying:

“You appear anxious to make apology to the lady? You can make it to me.”

“Caraji!” exclaims the gambler, starting, and glaring angrily at the speaker. “Who are you?”

“One who demands an apology for your very indecorous behaviour.”

“You’ll not get it.”

“Satisfaction, then.”

“That to your heart’s content.”

“I shall have it so. Your card, sir?”

“There; take it. Yours?”

The bits of cardboard are exchanged; after which De Lara, casting another glance up to the azotea– where he sees nothing but blank wall – turns his horse’s head; then spitefully plying the spur, gallops back down the avenue – his comrade close following.

Calderon has not deemed it incumbent upon him to demand a card from Cadwallader. Nor has the latter thought it necessary to take one from him; the mid is quite contented with that playful prod with his dirk.

The young officers enter the house, in cheerful confidence. They have lost nothing by the encounter, and those inside will still smilingly receive them – as indeed they do.

Chapter Sixteen.

A Ship without Sailors

Among the vessels lying in the harbour of San Francisco is one athwart whose stern is lettered the name El Condor.

She is a ship of small dimensions – some five or six hundred tons – devoted to peaceful commerce, as can be told by certain peculiarities of rig and structure, understood by the initiated in nautical affairs.

The name will suggest a South American nationality – Ecuadorian, Peruvian, Bolivian, or Chilian – since the bird after which she has been baptised is found in all these States. Columbia and the Argentine Confederation can also claim it.

But there is no need to guess at the particular country to which the craft in question belongs. The flag suspended over her taffrail declares it, by a symbolism quite intelligible to those who take an interest in national insignia.

It is a tricolour – the orthodox red, white, and blue – not, as with the French, disposed vertically, but in two horizontal bands; the lower one crimson red, the upper half-white, half-blue – the last contiguous to the staff, with a single five-pointed star set centrally in its field. This disposition of colours proclaims the ship that carries them to be Chilian.

She is not the only Chilian craft in the harbour of San Francisco. Several others are there showing the same colours; brigs, barques, schooners, and ships. For the spirited little South American Republic is as prosperous as enterprising, and its flag waves far and wide over the Pacific. With its population of skilled miners, it had been among the first of foreign states in sending a large representative force to “cradle” the gold placers of California, and not only are its ships lying in the bay, but its guasos and gambusinos in goodly number tread the streets of the town; while many of the dark-eyed damsels, who from piazzas and balconies salute the passer-by with seductive smiles, are those charming little Chileñas that make havoc with the heart of almost every Jack-tar who visits Valparaiso.

On the ship El Condor we meet not much that can be strictly called Chilian; little besides the vessel herself and the captain commanding her. Not commanding her sailors: since there are none upon her hailing from Chili or elsewhere. Those who brought the Condor into San Francisco Bay have abandoned her – gone off to the gold-diggings! Arriving in the heat of the placer-fever, they preferred seeking fortune with pick, shovel, and pan, to handling tarry ropes at ten dollars a month. Almost on the instant of the ship’s dropping anchor they deserted to a man, leaving her skipper to himself, or with only his cook for a companion.

Neither is the latter Chilian, but African – a native of Zanzibar. No more the two great monkeys, observed gambolling about the deck; for the climate of Chili, lying outside the equatorial belt, is too cold for indigenous quadrumana.

Not much appearing upon the Condor would proclaim her a South American ship; and nothing in her cargo, for a cargo she carries. She has just arrived from a trading voyage to the South Sea Isles, extending to the Indian Archipelago, whence her lading – a varied assortment, consisting of tortoise-shell, spices, mother-of-pearl, Manilla cigars, and such other commodities as may be collected among the Oriental islands. Hence also the myas monkeys – better known as orang-outangs – seen playing about her deck. These she has brought from Borneo.

Only a small portion of her freight had been consigned to San Francisco; this long ago landed. The rest remains in her hold for further transport to Valparaiso.

How soon she may arrive there, or take departure from her present anchorage, is a question that even her skipper cannot answer. If asked, he would most probably reply, “Quien sabe?” and, further pressed, might point to her deserted decks, offering that as an explanation of his inability to satisfy the inquirer.

Her captain – Antonio Lantanas by name – is a sailor of the Spanish-American type; and being this, he takes crosses and disappointments coolly. Even the desertion of his crew seems scarcely to have ruffled him; he bears it with a patient resignation, that would be quite incomprehensible to either English or Yankee skipper. With a broad-brimmed jipi-japa hat shading his swarth features from the sun, he lounges all day long upon the quarterdeck, his elbows usually rested upon the capstan-head; his sole occupation rolling and smoking paper cigarritos, one of which is usually either in his fingers, or between his lips. If he at any time varies this, it is to eat his meals, or to take a turn at play with his pet monkeys.