The Flag of Distress: A Story of the South Sea

So reflect they to whom they were sent, as they stand in attentive attitude, watching the warship, and straining their eyes upon her, till rounding Telegraph Hill she disappears from their sight.

A sad cruel shock both have received – a blow almost breaking their hearts.

Equally unhappy are two young officers on the departing ship. They too stand with glasses in hand levelled upon the house of Don Gregorio Montijo. They can see, as once before, two heads over the parapet, and, as before, recognise them; but not as before, or with the same feelings, do they regard them. All is changed now, everything doubtful and indefinite, where it might be supposed everything had been satisfactorily arranged. But it has not – especially in the thoughts of Crozier; whose dissatisfaction is shown in a soliloquy to which he gives utterance, as Telegraph Hill, interfering with his field of view, causes him to take the telescope from his eye.

“Carmen Montijo!” he exclaims, crushing it to its shortest, and returning the instrument to its case. “To think of a ‘sport’ – a common gambler – even having acquaintance with her – far less presuming to make love to her!”

“More than gamblers – both of them,” adds Cadwallader by his side. “Robbers – murderers – anything if they had but the chance.”

“Ay, true, Will; everything vile and vulgar. Don’t it make you mad to think of it?”

“No, not mad. That isn’t the feeling I have; rather fear.”

“Fear! Of what!”

“That the scoundrels may do some harm to our dear girls. As we know now, they’re up to anything. Since they don’t stick at assassination, they won’t at abduction. I hope your letter to Don Gregorio may open his eyes about them, and put him on his guard. My Iñez! who’s to protect her? I’d give all I have in the world to be sure of her getting safely embarked in that Chilian ship. Once there, dear old Harry Blew will take care of her – of them both.”

Cadwallader’s words seem strangely to affect his companion, changing the expression upon his countenance. It is still shadowed, but the cloud is of a different kind. From anger it has altered to anxiety!

“You’ve struck a chord, Will, that, while not soothing the old pain, gives me a new one. I wasn’t thinking of that; my thoughts were all occupied with the other trouble – you understand?”

“I do. At the same, I think you make too much of the other trouble, as you call it. I confess it troubles me too a little; though, perhaps, not as it does you. And luckily less, the more I reflect on it. After all, there don’t seem so much to be bothered about. As you know, Ned, it’s a common thing among Spanish-Americans, whose customs are altogether unlike our own – to have gamblers going into their best society. Besides, I can tell you something that may comfort you a little – a bit of information I had from Iñez, as we were platicando along the road on our ride. It was natural she should speak about the sky-blue fellow and my sticking his horse in the hip.”

“What did she say?” asks Crozier, with newly awakened interest.

“That he was a gentleman by birth; but falling fast, and indeed quite down.”

“And De Lara; did she say aught of him?”

“She did; she spoke of him still more disparagingly, though knowing him less. She said he had been introduced to them by the other, and they were accustomed to meet him on occasions. But of late they had learned more of him; and learning this, her aunt – your Carmen – had become very desirous of cutting his acquaintance, as indeed all of them. And that they intended doing so – even if they had remained in California. But now – so soon leaving it, they did not like to humiliate De Lara by giving him the congé he deserves.”

Crozier, with eyes earnestly fixed upon Cadwallader, has listened to the explanation. At its close he cries out, grasping his comrade’s hand:

“Will! you’ve lifted a load from my heart. I now see daylight where all seemed darkness; and beholding yonder hill feel the truth of Campbell’s splendid lines: —

“A kiss can consecrate the ground,Where mated hearts are mutual bound;The spot, where love’s first links are wound,That ne’er are riven,Is hallowed down to Earth’s profound,And up to Heaven!”

After repeating the passionate words, he stands gazing on a spot so consecrated to him – the summit of the hill – where, just twenty-four hours ago, he spoke love’s last appeal to Carmen Montijo. For the Crusader has passed out through the Golden Gate, and is now beating down the coast of the Pacific.

Cadwallader’s eyes, with equal interest, are turned upon the same spot, and for a time both are silent, absorbed in sweet reflections; recalling all that had occurred in a scene whose slightest incident neither can ever forgot.

Only when the land looms low, and the outlines of the San Bruno Mountains begin to blend with the purpling sky, does a shadow again show itself on the countenances of the young officers. But now it is different, no longer expressing chagrin, nor the rancour of jealousy; but doubt, apprehension, fear, for the loved ones left behind. Still the cloud has a silver lining, and that is – Harry Blew.

Chapter Forty Two.

A Solemn Compact

A Cottage of the old Californian kind – in other words, a rancho; one of the humblest of these humble dwellings – the homes of the Spanish-American poor. It is a mere hut, thatched with a species of sea-shore grass, the “broombent” seen growing in the sand-dunes near by. For it is by the sea, or within sight of it; inconspicuously placed by reason of rugged rocks, that cluster around, and soar up behind, forming a background in keeping with the rude architectural style of the dwelling. From the land side it is only approachable by devious and difficult paths, known but to a few familiar friends of its owner.

From the shore, equally difficult, for the little cove leading up to it would not have depth sufficient to permit the passage of a boat, but for a tiny stream trickling seaward, which has furrowed out a channel in the sand. That by this boats can enter the cove is evident from one being seen moored near its inner end, in front of, and not far from, the hovel. As it is a craft of the kind generally used by Californian fishermen – more especially those who chase the fur-seal – it may be deduced that the owner of the hut is a seal-hunter.

This is his profession reputedly; though there are some who ascribe to him callings of a different kind; among others, insinuating that he occasionally does business as a contrabandista.

Whether true or not, Rafael Rocas – for he is the owner of the hut – is not the man to trouble himself about denying it. He would scarce consider smuggling an aspersion on his character; and indeed, under old Mexican administration, it would have been but slight blame, or shame, to him. And not such a great deal either under the new, at the time of which we write, but perhaps still less. Compared with other crimes then rife in California, contrabandism might almost be reckoned an honest calling.

But Rafael Rocas has a repute for doings of a yet darker kind. With those slightly acquainted with him it is only suspicion; but a few of his more intimate associates can say for certain that he is not disinclined to a stroke of road robbery or a job at housebreaking; so that, if times have changed for the worse, he has not needed any change to keep pace with them.

It is the day on which the British frigate sailed from San Francisco Bay, and he is in his hut; not alone, but in the company of three men, in personal appearance altogether unlike himself. While he wears the common garb of a Californian fisherman – loose pea-coat of coarse canvas, rough water-boots, and seal-skin cap – they are attired in costly stuffs – cloaks of finest broadcloth, jaquetas of rich velvet, and cahoneras, lashed with gold lace, and gleaming with constellations of buttons.

Notwithstanding their showy magnificence, the seal-hunter, smuggler, or whatever he may be, does not appear to treat his guests with any obsequious deference. On the contrary, he is engaged with them in familiar converse, and by his tone and gestures, showing that he feels himself their equal.

Two of the individuals thus oddly consorting are already well known to the reader – the third but slightly. The former are Francisco de Lara and Faustino Calderon; the latter is Don Manuel Diaz, famed for his fighting cocks. The first two have just entered under Rocas’ roof, finding the cockfighter already there, as De Lara predicted.

After welcoming his newly arrived guests in Spanish-American fashion, placing his house at their disposal – “Mia casa a la disposition de Vms,” – the seal-hunter has set before them a bottle of his best liquor – this being aguardiente of Tequila. They have taken off their outer apparel – cloaks and hats – and are seated around a small deal table, the only one the shanty contains – its furniture being of the scantiest and most primitive kind.

Some conversation of a desultory nature has passed between them; but they have now entered on a subject more interesting and particular, the keynote having been struck by De Lara. He opens by asking a question:

“Caballeros! do you want to be rich?”

All three laugh, while simultaneously answering:

“Carramba! Yes.”

Diaz adds:

“I’ve heard many an idle interrogatory; but never, in all my life, one so superfluous as yours; not even when there’s twenty to one offered against a staggering cock.”

Rocas inquires:

“What do ye call rich, Don Francisco?”

“Well,” responds the Creole, “say sixty thousand dollars. I suppose you’d consider that sufficient to bestow the title?”

“Certainly,” rejoins Rocas; “not only the title, but the substantial and real thing. If I’d only the half of it, I’d give up chasing seals.”

“And I cock fighting,” put in Diaz; “that is, so far as to look to it for a living; though I might still incline to have a main for pastime’s sake. With sixty thousand dollars at my back, I’d go for being a grand ganadero, like friend Faustino here, whose horses and horned cattle yield him such a handsome income.”

The other three laugh at this, since it is known to all of them that the ganadero has long since got rid both of his horses and horned cattle.

“Well, gentlemen,” says De Lara, after this bit of preliminary skirmishing, “I can promise each of you the sum I speak of, if you’re willing to go in with me in a little affair I’ve fixed upon. Are you the men for it?”

“Your second question is more sensible than the first, though equally uncalled for – at least so far as concerns me. I’m the man to go in for anything which promises to make me the owner of sixty thousand dollars.”

It is Diaz who thus unconditionally declares himself Calderon endorses it by a declaration of like daring nature. The seal-hunter simply nods assent, but in a knowing manner. For he is already acquainted with De Lara’s design; knows all about it; being, in fact, its real originator.

“Now, Don Francisco! let’s know what you’re driving at?” demands Diaz, adding: “Have you struck a veta, or discovered a rich placer? If so, we’re ready for either rock-mining or pan-washing, so long as the labour’s not too hard. Speak out, and tell us what it is. The thought of clutching such a pretty prize makes a man impatient.”

“Well, I’ll let you into the secret so far – it is a veta– a grand gold mine – a very bonanza– but one which will need neither rock-crushing nor mud-cradling. The gold has been already gathered; and lies in a certain place, all in a lump; only waiting transport to some other place, which we can select at our leisure.”

“Your words sound well,” remarks Don Manuel.

“Wonderful well,” echoes Rocas, with assumed surprise.

“Are they not too good to be true?” asks Diaz.

“No. They’re true as good. Not a bit of exaggeration, I assure you. The gold only wants to be got at, and then taken.”

“Ah! there may be difficulty about that?” rejoins the doubting Diaz.

“Do you expect to finger sixty thousand pesos without taking the trouble to stretch out your hand?”

“Oh, no. I’m not so unreasonable. For that I’d be willing to stretch out both hands, with a knife in one, and a pistol in the other.”

“Well, it’s not likely to need either, if skilfully managed. I ask you again, are you the men to go in for it?”

“I’m one,” answers Diaz.

“And I another,” growls Rocas.

“I’m not going to say nay,” assents Calderon, glancing significantly at the questioner.

“Enough!” exclaims De Lara; “so far you all consent to the partnership. But before entering fully into it, it will be necessary to have a more thorough understanding, as also a more formal one. Are you willing to be bound, that there shall be truth between us?”

“We are!” is the simultaneous response of all three.

“And fidelity to the death!”

“To the death.”

“Bueno! But we must take an oath to that effect. After which, you shall know what it’s for. Enough now to say it’s a thing that needs swearing upon. If there’s to be treason, there shall be perjury also. Are you ready to take the oath?”

They signify assent unanimously.

“To your feet, then!” commands the chief conspirator. “It will be more seemly to take it standing.”

All four spring up from their chairs, and stand facing the table.

De Lara draws a dagger and lays it down before him. The others have their stilettos too – a weapon carried by most Spanish Californians.

Each exhibits his own, laying it beside that already on the table.

With the four De Lara forms a cross – Maltese fashion, and then standing erect, Diaz opposite, Rocas and Calderon on either flank – he repeats in firm, solemn voice, the others after him:

“In the deed we this day agree to do, acting together and jointly, we swear to be true to each other – to stand by one another, if need be, to the death; to keep what we do a secret from all the world; and if any one betray it, the other three swear to follow him wherever he may flee, seek him wherever he may shelter himself, and take vengeance upon him, by taking his life. If any of us fail in this oath, may we be accursed ever after. Amen!”

Chapter Forty Three.

The “Bonanza.”

The infamous ceremony duly ratified, a drink of the fiery spirit of the mescal plant – a fit finale – is quaffed. Then they take up their stilettos, replace them in their sheaths, and again sitting down, listen to De Lara, to learn from him the nature of that deed, for doing which they have so solemnly compacted.

In a short time he makes it known, the disclosure calling for but a few words. It is after all but a common affair, though one that needs skill and courage. Simply a “bit of burglary,” but a big thing of its kind. He tells them of three hundred thousand dollars’ worth of gold-dust lying in a lone country-house, with no other protection than that of its owner, with some half-dozen Indian domestics.

There are but two of them to whom this is news – Diaz and Calderon. Rocas smiles while the revelation is being made; for he has been the original discoverer of the so-called “bonanza.” It was that he communicated to De Lara, when, on the day before, he stopped him and Calderon at the tinacal of Dolores.

It is not the first time for the seal-hunter to do business of a similar kind in conjunction with the gambler; who, like himself, has been accustomed to vary his professional pursuits. But, as now, he has always acted under De Lara – whose clear, cool head and daring hand assure him leadership in any scheme requiring superior courage, with intelligence for its execution.

“How soon?” asks Diaz, after all has been declared. “I should say the sooner the better.”

“You’re right about that, Don Manuel,” rejoins Rocas.

“True,” assents De Lara. “At the same time caution must not be lost sight of. There’s two of you aware of what danger we’d be in, if just now we went near the town, or anywhere outside this snug little asylum of Señor Rocas – whose hospitality we may have to trench upon for some time. I don’t know, Don Rafael, whether friend Diaz has told you of what happened last night?”

“He’s given me a hint of it,” replies the smuggler.

“Oh, yes,” puts in Diaz; “I thought he might as well know.”

“Of course,” agrees De Lara. “In that case, then, I’ve only to add, that there will be no safety for us in San Francisco, so long as the English man-o’-war stays in port. He who broke our bank is rich enough to buy law, and can set its hounds after us by night, or by day. Until he and his ship are gone – ”

“The ship is gone,” says Rocas, interrupting.

“Ha! What makes you say that?”

“Because I know it.”

“How?”

“Simply by having seen her. Nothing like the eyes to give one assurance about anything – with a bit of glass to assist them. Through that thing up there,” – he points to an old telescope resting on hooks against the wall – “I saw the English frigate beating out by the Farrallones, when I was up on the cliff about an hour ago. I knew her from having seen her lying in the bay. She’s gone to sea for sure.”

At this the others looked surprised as well as pleased; more especially Calderon. He need no longer fear encountering the much-dreaded midshipman either in a duel or with his dirk.

“It’s very strange,” says De Lara. “I’d heard she was to sail soon, but not till another ship came to relieve her.”

“That ship has come,” returns Rocas – “a corvette. I saw her working up the coast last evening just before sunset. She was making for the Gate, and must be inside now.”

“If all this be true,” says the chief conspirator, “we need lose no more time, but put on our masks and bring the affair off at once. It’s too late for doing anything to-night; but there’s no reason why we shouldn’t act to-morrow night, if it prove a dark one. We four of us will be strength enough for such a trifling affair. I thought of bringing Juan Lopez, our croupier; but I saw he wouldn’t be needed. Besides, from the way he’s been behaving lately I’ve lost confidence in him. Another reason for leaving him out will be understood by all of you. In a matter of this kind it isn’t the more the merrier, though it is the fewer the better cheer. The yellow dust will go farther among four than five.”

“It will,” exclaims the cockfighter with emphasis, showing his satisfaction at what De Lara has done. He adds: “To-morrow night, then, we are to act?”

“Yes, if it be a dark one. If not, ’twill be wiser to let things lie over for the next. A day can’t make much difference; while the colour of the night may. A moonlit sky, or a clear starry one, might get us all where we’d see stars without any being visible – through a noose round our neck?”

“There’ll be no moon to-morrow night,” puts in the smuggler, who, in this branch of his varied vocations, has been accustomed to take account of such things. “At least,” he adds, “none that will do us any harm. The fog’s sure to be on before midnight; at this time of year, it always is. To-morrow night will be like the last – black as a pot of pitch.”

“True,” says De Lara, as a man with some experience of the sea, also having meteorological knowledge. “No doubt, ’twill be as you say, Rocas. In that case we’ll have nothing to fear. We can get the job done, and be back here before morning. Ah, then seated round the table, we’ll not be like we are now – poor as rats; but every one with his pile before him – sixty thousand pesos.”

“Carramba!” exclaims Diaz, in a mocking tone, “while saying vespers to-night, let’s put in a special prayer for to-morrow night to be what Rocas says it will – black as a pot of pitch.”

The profane suggestion is hailed with a burst of ribald laughter; after which they set about preparing the mascaras, and other disguises, to be used in their nefarious enterprise.

Chapter Forty Four.

“Ambre La Puerta!”

Another sun has shone upon San Francisco Bay, and again gone down in red gleam over the far-spreading Pacific, leaving the sky of a leaden colour, moonless and starless.

As the hour of midnight approaches it assumes the hue predicted by Rocas, and desired by Diaz. For the ocean fog has again rolled shoreward across the peninsula, and shrouds San Francisco as with a pall. The adjacent country is covered with its funereal curtain, embracing within its folds the house of Don Gregorio Montijo.

The inmates seem all asleep, as at this hour they should. No light is seen through the windows, nor any sound heard within the walls. Not even the baying of a watch-dog, the bellow of a stalled ox, or the stamping of a horse in the stables. Inside, as without, all is silence.

The profound silence seems strange, though favourable, to four men not far from the place, and gradually, but with slow steps, drawing nearer to it. For they are approaching by stealth, as can be told by their attitudes and gestures. They advance crouchingly, now and then stopping to take a survey of the terrain in front, as they do so exchanging whispered words with one another.

Through the hazy atmosphere their figures show weird-like – all the more from their grotesque gesticulations. Even if scrutinised closely, and in clearest light, they would present this appearance; for although in human shape, and wearing the garb of men, their faces more resemble those of demons. They are human countenances, nevertheless, but en-mascaradas.

Nothing more is needed to tell who, and what they are, with their purpose in thus approaching Don Gregorio’s house. They are burglars, designing to break into it.

It needs not the removal of their masks to identify them as the four conspirators left plotting in the rancho of Rafael Rocas.

They are now en route for putting their scheme into execution.

It would look as if Don Gregorio were never to get his gold to Panama – much less have it transported to Spain.

And his daughter! What of her, with Francisco de Lara drawing nigh as one of the nocturnal ravagers? His grand-daughter, too, Faustino Calderon being another?

One cognisant of the existing relations, and spectator of what is passing now – seeing the craped robbers as they steal on towards the house – would suppose it in danger of being doubly despoiled, and that its owner is to suffer desolation, not only in fortune, but in that far dearer to him – his family.

The burglars are approaching from the front, up the avenue, though not on it. They keep along its edge among the manzanita bushes. These, with the fog, afford sufficient screen to prevent their being observed from the house – even though sentinels were set upon its azotea. But there appears to be none; no eye to see, no voice to give warning, not even the bark of a watch, dog to wake those unconsciously slumbering within.

As already said, there is something strange in this. On a large grazing estate it is rare for the Molossian to be silent. More usually his sonorous voice is heard throughout the night, or at brief intervals.

Though anything but desirous to hear the barking of dogs, the burglars are themselves puzzled at the universal silence, so long continued. For before entering the enclosure they have been lying concealed in a thicket outside, their horses tied to trees, where they have now left them, and during all the time not a sound had reached their ears; no voice either of man or animal! They are now within sight of the house, its massive front looming large and dark through the mist – still no stir outside, and within the stillness of death itself!

Along with astonishment, a sense of awe is felt by one of the four criminals – Calderon, who has still some lingering reluctance as to the deed about to be done – or it may be but fear. The other three are too strong in courage, and too hardened in crime, for scruples of any kind.

Arriving at the end of the avenue, and within a short distance of the dwelling, they stop for a final consultation, still under cover of the manzanitas.

All silent as ever; no one stirring; no light from any window; the shutters closed behind the rejas– the great puerta as well!

“Now, about getting inside,” says De Lara; “what will be our best way?”

“In my opinion,” answers Diaz, “we’ll do best by climbing up to the azotea, and over it into the patio.”