The Flag of Distress: A Story of the South Sea

What now hinders him from going out of the “Home” is a man coming into it; or rather two – since two shadows have suddenly darkened the door, and are projected across the sanded floor of the bar-room. Not like shadows in the eyes of Harry Blew, but streaks of brightest sunlight! For in the individuals entering he recognises two of his officers; one of them his best friend, who saved his life. Crozier and Cadwallader have discovered him.

At sight of them the discharged sailor salutes promptly, and with as much respect as if all were on the quarterdeck of the Crusader. But with much more demonstration; for their well-timed appearance draws from him an exclamation of joy. Jerking off his straw hat, and giving a twitch to one of his brow-locks, he bobs his head several times in succession, with a simultaneous back-scrape of his foot upon the floor.

His obeisance ended, he stands silently awaiting whatever communication the young officers have to make. He is already aware that their business is with himself: for the bar-room is but dimly lit, and Crozier, while crossing its threshold, not at once recognising him, had called out:

“Is there a sailor staying here, by name Harry Blew!”

“Ay, ay, sir!” was the prompt response, the sailor himself giving it, along with the salutation described.

During the short interval of silence that succeeds, Harry’s heart can be distinctly heard beating. Lately depressed – “Down in the dumps,” as he himself would word it – it is now up in his throat. The sight of his patron, the saver of his life, is like having it saved a second time. Perhaps they have come to ask him to rejoin the ship? If so, ’tis the very thing he was thinking of. He will not anticipate, but waits for them to declare their errand.

“Well, Harry, old boy,” says Crozier, after warmly shaking the sailor’s hand, “I’m right glad to find you here. I was afraid you’d gone off to the diggings.”

“True, Master Ed’ard; I did intend standin’ on that tack, but ha’n’t been able to get under way, for want o’ a wind.”

“Want of a wind? I don’t quite understand you.”

“Why, you see, sir, I’ve been a little bit spreeish since comin’ ashore, and my locker’s got low – more’n that, it’s total cleared out. Though I suppose there be plenty of gold in them diggin’s, it takes gold to get there; and as I ha’n’t any, I’m laid up here like an old hulk foul o’ a mud bank. That’s just how it be, gen’lemen.”

“In which case, perhaps you mightn’t feel indisposed to go to sea again?”

“Just the thing I war thinkin’ o’, Master Ed’ard. I’d a’most made up my mind to it, sir, an’ war ’bout startin’ to try get aboard the old Crusader, and askin’ your honour to ha’ my name entered on her books again. I’m willin’ to join for a fresh tarm, if they’ll take me.”

“They’d take, and be glad to get you, Harry; you may be sure of that. Such a skilled sailor need never be without a ship, where there’s a British man-of-war within hailing distance. But we don’t want you to join the Crusader.”

“How is that, sir?”

“Because we can help you to something a little better. At least, it will be more to your advantage in a pecuniary sense. You wouldn’t mind shipping in a merchant-vessel, with wages three or four times as much as you can get in a man-of-war? How would you like that, Harry?”

“I’d like it amazin’ly, sir. And for the matter o’ being a merchanter, that’s neither here nor there, so long’s you recommend it. I’ll go as cook, if you tell me to.”

“No, no, Harry, not that,” laughingly replies the young officer. “That would never do. I should pity those who had to eat the dishes you’d dress for them. Besides, I should be sorry to see you stewing your strength away in front of a galley-fire. You must do better than that; and it chances I’m authorised to offer you something better. It’s a berth on board a trading-ship, and one with some special advantages. She’s a Chilian vessel, and her captain is, I believe, either Chilian or Spanish. That won’t make any difference to you?”

“Not a doit, sir. I don’t care what the ship’s colours be, nor what country her skipper, so long’s he allows good wages an’ plenty o’ grub.”

“And plenty of grog too, Harry?”

“Ay, ay, sir. I confess to a weakness for that – leastways the reg’lar three times a day.”

“No doubt you’ll get it, as often as you’ve a mind. But, Harry, I have a word to say about that. Besides my interest in your own welfare, I’ve another and more selfish one in this Chilian ship. So has Mr Cadwallader. We both want you to be on your best behaviour during the trip you’re to take in her. On board will be two lady passengers, as far as Panama; for the ship is bound thither, and for ports beyond – I believe as far as Valparaiso. But the ladies are to land at Panama; and, so long as they’re with you, you must do everything in your power to make things agreeable for them. If they should ever be in any danger – from storm, shipwreck, or otherwise – you’ll stand by them?”

“Yes, Harry,” adds Cadwallader, “you’ll do that, won’t you?”

“Lor’, your honours!” exclaims the sailor, showing surprise. “Sure ye needn’t put sich a questin to me – a British man-o’-war’s man? I’d do that much, anyhow, out o’ sheer starn sense o’ duty. But when it comes to takin’ care o’ two ladies – to say nothin’ about theer bein’ so young, and so beautiful – ”

“Avast, Harry! How do you know they are either one or the other?” asks Crozier, surprised; Cadwallader repeating the question.

“Lor’ love ye, masters! Do ye think a common sailor han’t got eyes in his head, for anythin’ but ropes an’ tar? You forget I war o’ the boat’s crew as rowed two sweet creeturs on board the Crusader, the night o’ the grand dancin’; and arterward took the same ashore, along wi’ two young gen’lemen, as went to see ’em home. Sure, sirs, actin’ cox on that occasion, I couldn’t help hearin’ some o’ the speeches as passed in the starn-sheets – tho’ they wur spoken in the ears of the señoritas, soft as the breeze that fanned their fair cheeks, an’ brought the colour out on ’em red as Ribston pippins.”

“Avast again, you rascal! So you’ve been eavesdropping, have you? I quite forgot you understood Spanish.”

“Only a trifle, Master Ed’ard.”

“Too much for that occasion.”

“Ah! well, your honour, it may stand me in good stead now – aboard the ship you speak o’.”

“Well, Harry, I’m not going to scold you, seeing that you couldn’t help hearing what you did. And now, I may as well tell you that the young ladies you saw that night in the boat are the same who are to be the passengers in the Chilian ship. You’ll take good care of them, I know.”

“That you may depend on, sir. Any one as touches hair o’ their heads, to do ’em an injury, ’ll have to tear the whole o’ his off the head o’ Harry Blew. I’ll see ’em safe to Panama, or never show myself there. I promise that; an’ I think both your honours ’ll take the word of a British man-o’-war’s man.”

“That’s enough – perfectly satisfactory! Now to give you the necessary directions about joining this ship. She’s lying at anchor somewhere about in the bay. I didn’t think of getting her name, but you’ll find her easily enough. An’ you needn’t go in search of her till you’ve seen the gentleman whose name is upon this card. You see: ‘Don Tomas Silvestre,’ a ship-agent. His office is down in one of the streets by the strand. Report yourself to him first thing in the morning. In all likelihood he’ll engage you on sight, make out your papers, and give you full directions for getting aboard the ship. It appears she’s short of hands; indeed, even without a single sailor. And, by the way, Harry, if you apply soon enough, it’s good as certain you’ll be made mate – first at that; all the more from your being able to speak Spanish. It’s too late for you to do anything about it to-night; but don’t oversleep yourself. Be at the ship-agent’s to-morrow betimes.”

“Ye can trust me for that, sir. I’ll show my figurehead there first thing in the mornin’. No fears o’ any one getting theer afore me, if they’ve not gone a’ready.”

“I think no one will be before you – I hope not. Send us word how you have succeeded, as the Crusader will likely be in port long enough for us to hear from you. Still, as she may sail on short notice, we may not see you again. Remember, then, what we’ve said about the señoritas. We shall rely upon your fidelity.”

“An’ well may ye, masters. You can both trust your lives to Harry Blew, an’ those of them as is dear to you.”

“All right, old boy!” exclaims Crozier, satisfied. “We must now part; but let’s hope we’ll meet again. When you get back to England you know where to find me. So, good-bye! Give us a grip of your honest fist, and God bless you!”

Saying this, he grasps the horny hand of the sailor, and warmly presses it. The pressure is returned by a squeeze that gives assurance of more than ordinary friendship. It is the grip of true gratitude; and the look which accompanies it tells of a devoted friendship, bordering on adoration.

Cadwallader also exchanges a like parting salutation; after which, the young officers start off, to continue their cruise through the streets of “Frisko.”

Chapter Twenty Seven.

An Inhospitable Hostelry

Harry Blew stands in the doorway of the “Sailor’s Home,” watching the two gentlemen as they walk away, his eyes glowing with gratitude and sparkling with joy. And no wonder, considering the change in his situation brought about by their influence. Ten minutes before, his spirits were at the lowest and darkest. But the prospect of treble, or quadruple pay on board a snug ship, though it be a trading-vessel, with the additional chance of being mate instead of foremast-man, has given him a fillip, not only restoring them to their ordinary condition of cheeriness, but raising them to the highest exaltation.

The only damper is regret at parting with the fine young fellow who has done so much for him. But he has passed through that already, when separating from his ship, and can now better bear it under the reflection that, though apart from his patron, he will have an opportunity of doing something to show his gratitude. He knows how much Crozier is interested in the wellbeing of Carmen Montijo – for Harry has been made acquainted with her name, as also that of Iñez Alvarez – and to be entrusted with a sort of guardianship over these young ladies is a proud thought to the ex-man-o’-war’s man – a fine feather in his cap.

To carry out the confidence thus reposed in him will be a labour of love; and he vows in his heart it shall be done, if need be, at the risk of life.

Indeed, the interview just ended has made a new man of him in more senses than one; for upon the spot he registers a mental resolve to give up dram-drinking for ever, or at all events till he has seen his charge – the two Spanish señoritas – safe landed at Panama, and the Chilian ship snug in the harbour of Valparaiso. After that, he is less sure that he may not again go upon a spree, and possibly a big one.

Heaving a sigh as the English officers pass out of sight, he turns back into the bar-room. It is no longer a question of his going aboard the Crusader. He must remain ashore, to be up betimes in the morning, so that he may be early at the office of the ship-agent.

And now, again, a shadow, though only a slight one, comes over his countenance. He has still before him the undetermined question, where he is to sleep. Notwithstanding his fine prospects for the future, the present is still unchanged, and yet unprovided for.

Unfortunately, he did not think of this while the officers were with him, else a word would have made all well. Either of them, he doubted not, would have relieved his necessities had they been but told of them. Too late now; they are gone out of sight, out of hail, and whether he cannot tell or guess; and to attempt searching for them in such crowded streets would be only a waste of time.

While thus ruefully reflecting, he is confronted by the bar-keeper, whose usually grave countenance is now beset with smiles. The fellow has got it into his head that his sailor-guest is no longer impecunious. The navy gentlemen just gone have no doubt been to engage him for their ship, and perhaps made him an advance of wages.

“Well, my salt,” says he, in a tone of jocular familiarity, “I guess you’ve got the shiners now, an’ kin settle up your score?”

“No, indeed, sir,” answers Harry, more than ever taken aback; “I’m sorry to say I ha’n’t.”

“You hain’t! Then what hev them gold-buttoned fellers been palaverin’ ye about?”

“Not about money, master. Them’s two o’ the officers belongin’ to my old ship – the British frigate Crusader. An’ fine young fellows they be too.”

“Much good their finikin fineness seems to hev done you! So they hain’t gin you nuthin’ better than their talk, hev they? Nuthin’ besides?”

“Nothing besides,” rejoins Blew, restraining his temper, a little touched by the bar-keeper’s inquisitiveness, as also his impertinent manner.

“Nuthin’ but fine words, eh? Well, thar’s plenty o’ them ’bout hyar, but they won’t butter no parsnips; and let me tell you, my sailor-man, they won’t pay your board bill.”

“I know that,” returns the other, still keeping his temper. “But I hope to have money soon.”

“Oh! that’s been your story for the last two days; but it won’t bamboozle me any longer. You get no more credit here.”

“Can’t I have supper, and bed for another night?”

“No; that you can’t – not so much as a shake-down.”

“I’ll pay for them first thing in the mornin’.”

“You’ll pay for ’em this night – now, if you calc’late to get ’em. An’ if you’ve no cash, tain’t any use talkin’. What d’ye think we keep a tavern for? ’Twould soon be to let – bar, beds, and all – if we’d only such customers as you. So, the sooner you slope, the better the landlord ’ll like it. He’s jest gin me orders to tell ye to clar out.”

“It’s gallows hard, master,” says Harry, heaving a sigh; “the more so, as I’ve got the promise o’ a good berth ’board a ship that’s down in the harbour. The gentlemen you seed have just been to tell me about it.”

“Then why didn’t they give you the money to clar your kit?”

“They’d have done that – no doubt of it – if I’d only thought o’ askin’ them. I forgot all about it.”

“Ah, that’s all very fine – a likely tale; but I don’t believe a word of it. If they cared to have you in their ship, they’d have given you the wherewithal to git there. But, come! it’s no use shilly-shallyin’ any longer. The landlord won’t like it. He’s gin his orders sharp: Pay or go.”

“Well, I suppose I must go.”

“You must; an’, as I have already said, the sooner you’re off the better.”

After delivering this stern ultimatum, the bar-keeper jauntily returns behind his bar, to look more blandly on two guests who have presented themselves at it, called for “brandy smashes,” and tossed down a couple of dollars to pay for them.

Harry Blew turns towards the door; and, without saying another word, steps out of the room.

Once on the street, he does not stop or stand hesitating. The hospitality of the so-called “home” has proved a sorry sham; and, indignant at the shabby treatment received, he is but too glad to get away from the place. All his life used to snug quarters in a fine ship’s forecastle, with everything found for him, he has never before experienced the pang of having no place to lay his head. He not only feels it now, in all its unpleasantness, but fancies the passers-by can tell all about the humiliating position he is placed in.

Haunted by this fancy – urged on by it – he quickens his steps; nor stays them till out of sight of the “Sailor’s Home,” out of the street in which the detestable tavern stands. He even dislikes the idea of having to go back for his chest; which, however, he must some time do.

Meanwhile what is to become of him for the remainder of that night? Where is he to obtain supper, and a bed? About the latter he cares the least; and having had no dinner and but a spare breakfast he is hungry – half-famished – and could eat a pound or two of the saltest and toughest junk ever drawn out of a ship’s cask.

In this unhappy frame of body as of mind he strays on along the street. There is no lack of food before his eyes, almost within reach of his hand; but only to tantalise, and still further whet the edge of his appetite. Eating-houses are open all around him; and under their blazing gas-jets he can see steaming dishes, and savoury joints, in the act of being set upon tables surrounded by guests seeming hungry as himself, but otherwise better off. He, too, might enter there without fear of being challenged as an intruder; for among the men inside are many in coarse garb, some of them not so respectably apparelled as himself. But what would be the use of his going into a restaurant without even a penny in his pockets? He could only gaze at dishes he may not eat, and dare not call for. He remembers his late discomfiture too keenly to risk having it repeated.

Thus reflecting, he turns his back upon the tables so temptingly spread, and keeps on along the street.

Again the double question recurs: Where is he to get supper, and where sleep?

And again he regrets not having given his confidence to the young gentlemen, and told them of the “fix” he was in. Either would have relieved him on the instant, without a word. But it is too late now to think of it, or hope seeing them in the streets. By this time, in all likelihood, they have started back to their ship.

How he wishes himself aboard the Crusader! How happy he would feel in her forecastle, among his old shipmates! It cannot be; and therefore it is idle to ponder upon it.

What on earth is he to do?

A thought strikes him.

It is of the ship-agent whose card Crozier left with him, and which he has thrust into his coat-pocket. He draws the bit of pasteboard out, and holds it up to a street-lamp, to make himself acquainted with the ship-agent’s address. The name he remembers, and needs not that.

Though but a common sailor, Harry is not altogether illiterate. The seaport town where he first saw the light had a public school for the poorer people, in which he was taught to read and write. By the former of these elementary branches – supplemented by a smattering of Spanish, picked up in South American ports – he is enabled to decipher the writing upon the card – for it is in writing – and so gets the correct address, both the street and number.

Having returned it to his pocket, he buttons up his dreadnought; and, taking a fresh hitch at his duck trousers, starts off again – this time with fixed intent: to find Don Tomas Silvestre.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

The “Hell” El Dorado

A Monté Bank in the city of San Francisco, in the establishment y-cleped “El Dorado” – partly drinking-house, for the rest devoted to gambling on the grandest scale. The two are carried on simultaneously, and in a large oblong saloon. The portion of it devoted to Bacchus is at the end farthest from the entrance-door; where the shrine of the jolly god is represented by a liquor-bar extending from side to side, and backed by an array of shining bottles, glittering glasses, and sparkling decanters; his “worship” administered by half-a-dozen “bartenders,” resplendent in white shirts with wrist ruffles, and big diamond breast-pins – real, not paste!

The altar of Fortuna is altogether of a different shape and pattern, occupying more space. It is not compact, but extended over the floor, in the form of five tables, large as if for billiards; though not one of them is of this kind. Billiards would be too slow a game for the frequenters of “El Dorado.” These could not patiently wait for the scoring of fifty points, even though the stake were a thousand dollars. “No, no! Monté for me!” would be the word of every one of them; or a few might say “Faro.” And of the five tables in the saloon, four are for the former game, the fifth furnished for the latter; though there is but little apparent difference in the furniture of the two; both having a simple cover of green baize, or broadcloth, with certain crossing lines traced upon it, that of the Faro table having the full suite of thirteen cards arranged in two rows, face upwards and fixed; while on the Monté tables but two cards appear thus – the Queen and Knave; or, as designated in the game – purely Spanish and Spanish-American – “Caballo” and “Sota.” They are essentially card games, and altogether of chance, just as is the casting of dice.

Other gambling contrivances have place in the “El Dorado;” for it is a “hell” of the most complete kind; but these are of slight importance compared with the great games, Monté and Faro – the real pièces de résistance– while the others are only side-dishes, indulged in by such saunterers about the saloon as do not contemplate serious play. Of all, Monté is the main attraction, its convenient simplicity – for it is simple as “heads or tails” – making it possible for the veriest greenhorn to take part in it, with as much likelihood of winning as the oldest habitus of the hell. Originally Mexican, in many of the western states it has become Americanised.

Of the visible insignia of the game, and in addition to the two cards with their faces turned up, there is a complete pack, with several stacks of circular-shaped and variously coloured pieces of ivory – the “cheques” or counters of the game. These rest upon the table to the right or left of the dealer – usually the “banker” himself – in charge of his “croupier,” who pays them out, or draws them in, as the bank loses or wins, along with such coin as may have been staked upon the albur.

Around the table’s edge, and in front of each player, is his own private pile, usually a mixture of doubloons, dollars, and ivory cheques, with bags or packets of gold-dust and nuggets. Of bank-notes there are few, or none – the currency of California being through the medium of metal; at this date, 1849, most of it unminted, and in its crude state, as it came out of the mine, or the river’s mud. By the croupier’s hand is a pair of scales with weights appertaining; their purpose being to ascertain the value of such little gold packages as are “punted” upon the cards – this only needed to be known when the bank is loser. Otherwise, they are ruthlessly raked in alongside the other deposits, without any note made of the amount.

The dealer sits centrally at the side of the table, in a grand chair, cards in hand. After shuffling, he turns their faces up, one by one, and with measured slowness. He interrupts himself at intervals as the face of a card is exposed, making a point for or against him in the game. Calling this out in calm voice and long-drawn monotone, he waits for the croupier to square accounts; which the latter does by drawing in, or pushing out, the coins and cheques, with the nimbleness of a presti-digitateur. Old bets are rearranged, new ones made, and the dealing proceeds.

Around the tables sit, or stand, the players, exhibiting a variety of facial types, and national costumes. For there you may see not only human specimens of every known nationality, but of every rank in the social scale, with the callings and professions that appertain to it; an assemblage such as is rarely, if ever, observed elsewhere: gentlemen who may have won university honours; officers wearing gold straps on their shoulders, or bands of lace around the rims of their caps; native Californians, resplendent in slashed and buttoned velveteens; States’ lawyers, and doctors, in sober black; even judges, who that same morning were seated upon the bench – may be all observed at the Monté table, mingling with men in red flannel shirts, blanket coats, and trousers tucked into the tops of mud-bedaubed boots; with sailors in pea-jackets of coarse pilot, or Guernsey smocks, unwashed, unkempt, unshorn; not only mingling with, but jostled by them – rudely, if occasion call.

All are on an equality here; no class distinction in the saloon “El Dorado;” for all are on the same errand – to get rich by gambling. The gold gleaming over the table is reflected in their faces. Not in smiles, or cheerfully; but by an expression of hungry cupidity – fixed, as if stamped into their features. No sign of hilarity, or joyfulness; not a word of badinage passing about, or between; scarce a syllable spoken, save the call-words of the dealer, or an occasional remark by the croupier, explanatory of some disputed point about the placing, or payment, of stakes.