“Dieu puissant, notre père,Qui commandez aux flots,Écoutez la prièreDes pauvres matelots.”
“Dieu puissant, notre père,Qui commandez aux flots,Écoutez la prièreDes pauvres matelots.”
“Dieu puissant, notre père,Qui commandez aux flots,Écoutez la prièreDes pauvres matelots.”
“Dieu puissant, notre père,
Qui commandez aux flots,
Écoutez la prière
Des pauvres matelots.”
It came back to him now, with the translation she had also taught him to say. He found peace and comfort in it, as if Teresa herself were bidding him to hold fast to his courage:
“God all powerful, our Father,Thou Who commandest the sea,Listen to the prayerOf the poor mariners.”
“God all powerful, our Father,Thou Who commandest the sea,Listen to the prayerOf the poor mariners.”
“God all powerful, our Father,Thou Who commandest the sea,Listen to the prayerOf the poor mariners.”
“God all powerful, our Father,
Thou Who commandest the sea,
Listen to the prayer
Of the poor mariners.”
The first significant sound to catch his listening ear was the excited bleating of the goats tethered almost over his head. Nothing else than the return of Palacio could make them so suddenly vocal. A delay while he found his lantern, and the weary messenger came stumbling through the cellar, shouting to ask if Ricardo was alive and well. It was hard to find out what news he brought. There was no word in writing from Señor Ramon Bazán, and Palacio’s long narrative was poured out in Spanish so tumultuous that it meant very little to his guest.
It had something to do with a pile of wood and a mule and amuchacho. This much was picked out of the jumble. In Palacio’s croaking accents was also a violent distrust of the manners, morals, and motives of the aged Señor Bazán. Having simmered down, he made it comprehensible that Ricardo was to make ready to go at once,pronto, into Cartagena by night. Means had been provided. Much distraught, Palacio toddled to his hut to find and offer a patched tarpaulin cape and a new peaked straw hat woven by himself. He had already washed and mended Cary’s tattered shirt and trousers.
Lack of a razor contributed to the general effect of a Robinson Crusoe as the fugitive emerged from his earthy abode. It was, indeed, a venture in the darkness.Quien sabe?The riddle of Señor Bazán’s intentions was still unsolved.
“Here goes,” said Richard Cary, looking about him in the starlight. “I’ll soon find out whether I am putting my head in a trap or not. Where do we go from here?Donde?”
Palacio whistled. A gray mule came sidling into the lantern’s glow. Leading it by the bridle was the Indian lad whom Cary recalled seeing in thepatioof Uncle Ramon. There was no saddle. A sack was tied across the mule’s back.
“What kind of foolishness is this?” objected the passenger. “I see myself parading through Cartagena on the quarterdeck of a flop-eared mule.Oiga!The Colombian infantry could never miss a target like that.”
The Indian lad caught the drift of this tirade and grinned a reassurance. Palacio volubly insisted that it wasmuy bueno, so far as the mule was concerned. Again he chattered about the mysterious pile of wood. He had labored with it himself. He lifted imaginary sticks and groaned with both hands clapped to his back. Richard Cary subsided. He was in no position to quibble over details.
His companions hoisted him astride the mule. It was a very strong mule or its legs would have bent. Palacio limped as far as the garden patch. Another journey down the hill and back again was too much for him. He embraced his guest, his splendid son, and fervently commended him to God and Nuestra Señora de La Popa. If he weathered the stormy gale of circumstances, Richard Cary pledged himself somehow to repay this humble recluse with the heart of gold.
The sure-footed mule picked its way down the broken path, the lithe Indian lad chirruping in its ear. Beyond the foot of the hill, where a road swung inland from the harbor, the lad turned aside. At the edge of the jungle was hidden a ponderous, two-wheeled cart. It was heaped high with cordwood. Stakes at the sides prevented it from spilling. Themuchachonudged Cary to dismount. The mule was backed into the shafts and a brass-bound harness slung on its back.
“I suspected a nigger in the woodpile,” reflected the dubious Cary, “and now I know it. Just where do I fit into this load of wood? Hi, boy! What about it?Qué es esto?”
The lad motioned him to examine for himself. A false bottom had been laid in the body of the cart. Between the floor that rested upon the axle and the upper platform of boards was a space perhaps a foot and a half deep. Into this the bulk of Richard Cary was expected to insert itself. He thanked his stars that illness had reduced his flesh. It was the utter helplessness of being flattened in there, underneath the pile of wood, that made him flinch. It was too much like being nailed in a coffin. To be discovered and hauled out by the heels would be a fate too absurd to contemplate.
However, if there was a beggar alive who could not be a chooser, it was this same Richard Cary. He had to admire the ingenuity of the contrivance. A belated countryman hauling a load of firewood to the city in the cool of the night would pass unnoticed, whereas a curtained carriage might invite scrutiny. The stratagem was worthy of the wizened little man of thepatio, with the grimace of a clown and the eye of an inquisitor.
Very unhappy, Richard Cary inched himself in beneath the load of wood, flat on his back. The Indian lad, who had a wit of his own, hung over the rear of the cart two bags stuffed with fodder for the mule. These concealed the protruding feet of the melancholy stowaway. It was one way to enter Cartagena, but hurtful to the pride of an adventurer who had waged one hand-to-hand conflict after another in escaping from these same walls. There were precedents among other bold men, however, as far back in history as the wooden horse of Troy.
The springless cart bumped and shook him infernally. He swore at the mule, in muffled accents, and even more earnestly at the crafty Señor Bazán. He could not be blamed for a petulant humor. After an hour or a week or a year, over streets that seemed to be paved with boulders, the load of wood turned into an alley and halted. Themuchachowas in no haste to extricate his passenger. First the wood had to be thrown off and the false bottom knocked apart. The lad was unequal to the task of hauling his human cargo out by the legs.
Released, at length, from the ignominious cart, Richard Cary was a prey to renewed qualms. The rear wall of Señor Bazán’s house was darkly uncommunicative. It told nothing whatever. Presently, however, a door opened on a crack. The Indian lad hissed, “Rapido.” TheAmericanowas to remove himself from the alley. He obeyed asrapidoas the cramps in his legs permitted. His senses were set on a hair-trigger for whatever emergency might leap at him.
The door opened far enough to admit him. He brushed through, into a shadowy hall, and collided with the shrunken figure of Señor Bazán who yelped dismay and retreated as if afraid of being trodden upon like a bug. The uneasy visitor tottered after him, having a fancy for quarters more spacious than this dim, confined hall. It was like a pursuit during which Señor Bazán scurried into a large room which to Richard Cary’s unaccustomed vision seemed ablaze with lights. He stood and goggled like an owl.
Many shelves of books, a desk littered with papers and more books, heavy furniture of mahogany and stamped leather—this was evidently a library in which the aged uncle of Teresa spent much of his time.
He, too, blinked bewilderment. The ragged scarecrow of a Cary, with the stubbled beard, the blanched color, and the drawn features, was tragically unlike the ruddy young giant in the crisp white uniform with the gold shoulder bars who had towered beside the galleon bell in the moonlitpatio. The contrast was deeper than this. Then he had been easy and smiling, the massive embodiment of good-nature. Now his jaw was set, the haggard eyes somberly alert, and his whole demeanor that of a man on guard against an ambuscade. Still absorbed in studying him, Señor Bazán said not a word, but dragged a chair forward and thrust it behind the visitor.
Cary could not have stood on his feet much longer. He dropped into the chair. As a gesture of good-will the old gentleman patted his shoulder and silently vanished to reappear with a tray of cold chicken, salad, bread and cheese, and a bottle of port. Then he cocked his head like a bird and said in English:
“Make yourself easy, my dear young friend. It has been the devil to pay for you since I had the pleasure of meeting you in my house. I have no soldiers hiding behind the curtains, and I have not informed the department of police. There is a hot bath and a soft bed for you, and my poor company to-morrow.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it that I am in safe water,” sighed Richard Cary, his scowl fading. “Comfort like this is worth any trouble that may break later. There was no reason why I should feel sure of a friendly welcome, sir. I am an outlaw, as you know. It was taking a blind chance.”
“ ‘Ver las orejas del lobo!’ ‘To see the ears of the wolf,’ ” gleefully quoted the old gentleman. “So this is the wolf’s den? First I must ask pardon for talking only Spanish when you called with Teresa. It was rude, a shabby trick. There is no better English scholar in Colombia than Ramon Bazán. That girl is so full of mischief that I thought she might lead you on to make fun of her venerable uncle. It would have amused me to listen. Where did I learn my English so well? It means nothing to Teresa—these things happened before she was born; but for several years I was the minister for my country in Washington and later in London. A withered old back-number now, with one foot in the grave, but Ramon Bazán was almost the president of Colombia. A revolution exploded under him. That was many years ago.”
A breast of chicken and a glass of port were not too diverting to prevent Richard Cary from paying keen attention. He surmised that Señor Bazán was eager to make a favorable impression, exerting himself to dispel the idea that he was a senile object of curiosity. He desired to awaken respect as well as gratitude. This might be laid to an old man’s childish vanity. At any rate, he had ceased to be merely grotesque.
There was no malice on the wrinkled, mobile features of the little old man in the flapping linen clothes. Furtive he was by nature, the beady black eyes glancing this way and that, the bald scalp twitching, but, for the present, at least, there was no harm in him. This was Richard Cary’s intuition. He also guessed that Señor Bazán was anxious to ingratiate himself. If there was a motive behind it, this could be left to divulge itself. The situation hinted of aspects unforeseen.
“You can sleep calmly to-night, Señor Cary,” said the host, with his twisted grin, “but many people in Cartagena would stay wide awake if they knew you were so near.”
“Am I as notorious as all that, sir? Of course I want to hear the news—”
“As they say, you stood this city on its head,” shrilly chuckled Ramon Bazán. “Revolutions have begun with less disturbance in some of our hot little republics of the Caribbean. Rumors flew about until your exploits were frightful. The children of Cartagena have never been so obedient to their parents. All they have to be told is thatEl Tigre Amarillo Grande, the Great Yellow Tiger, will catch them if they are naughty. It was this way—your dead body was not found, although you were on the edge of death when you escaped from the prison. You could not have fled far. This was why you were not looked for at La Popa. Therefore you were no man, but a wicked spirit from hell. The common people are very foolish and ignorant.”
“I never meant to upset the town when I came ashore that night,” said Cary, smiling in his turn. “You are good enough to shelter me and you ought to know the facts. It was just one thing after another. A gang of roughs tried to wipe me out. In self-defense I stretched two or three of them. My hunch was that Colonel Fajardo had put up the job. If I stayed in jail, he was bound to get me. And my ship was ready to sail. My duty was to join her. So I walked out of the prison, but was too late to get aboard theTarragona. My head went wrong with fever. I don’t know how I climbed La Popa. Well, that’s the nubbin of the story.”
“Five of thebravonéand three soldiers of the prison,” grinned Señor Bazán, ticking them off on his fingers. “Am I not a valiant old man to sit alone in the same house withEl Tigre Amarillo Grande?”
“Not while a word in the telephone yonder would cook my goose,” grimly answered the prisoner of fortune. “Please tell me one thing. Did I kill any of those poor devils at the prison? I didn’t want to. They got in my way and I had to treat ’em rough.”
“By the mercy of God, the corporal whose neck you wrung had a little breath left in him. The two other soldiers are also alive. The fivebravonéwho were serenading the ladies that night? Two were found very dead. Another whose shoulder felt the iron bar died after four days, I am happy to say. That iron bar? My dear young man, crowds of people still gather to look at the window from whichEl Tigrepulled the iron bar like a straw in his hands.”
Richard Cary blushed. He was never a braggart nor had he aspired to a reputation like this. “Then I am a bigger fool than I thought I was, to come into Cartagena,” said he.
“An amusing fool,” replied Señor Bazán, with a whimsical twinkle. “How you expect to get out again is too much for my feeble old wits. Not in a Colombian sailing boat of any kind. Every sailor of Cartagena crosses himself when he hears the name ofEl Tigre Amarillo Grande. The muleteers and men of the river are carrying it back into the mountains. It will soon spread as far away as Bogotá.”
“Then why in the name of common sense did you fetch me in from La Popa?” was the blunt question.
“How could I refuse, Señor Cary, when you appealed to my hospitality, you a friend of my niece, the Señorita Fernandez?”
This answer was palpably evasive. Here was a riddle which only time and the crotchety impulses of Ramon Bazán could disclose. The puzzled young man was in no mind to confide that his love for Teresa had urged him to this blind adventure. Cross-currents were already visible. The uncle of Teresa had some design of his own in harboring the sailor refugee. The situation was cleared of immediate peril, however, and Richard Cary concluded that he was not to be betrayed. The rasping voice of Ramon Bazán awoke him from a reverie.
“You suspected Colonel Fajardo of plotting to kill you? Why?”
“Jealousy,” was the admission. “And I was warned that he had a bad record.”
“Jealousy, Señor Cary?” twittered the old gentleman, highly diverted. “And the woman was that spitfire of a Teresa! I had my suspicions, but it is not politic to wag the tongue too much in Cartagena. As it turned out, this Colonel Fajardo convicted himself.”
“The deuce he did,” cried Richard Cary. “Then my conscience is clear from start to finish. What do you mean? How did he convict himself?”
“He fled next day—disappeared like smoke. Afraid because you were not dead? Perhaps. Afraid of a plot he had hatched while half-drunk? The fact is that he was seen for the last time on the wharf before theTarragonasailed. Yes, he ran away somewhere, and so confessed himself a guilty man.”
“He was that kind,” said Cary. “The blackguard invited me to sit and drink with him in a café a little while before his gunmen attacked me. So he lost his nerve and decided to make himself scarce. How did he get away?”
“Possibly in theTarragona. There was some talk that he might have bribed one of the crew to hide him for the short trip to Porto Colombia or Santa Marta. But he has not been seen in those ports. I have inquired of friends. He is very well known on this coast as a colonel of the army before he was appointedComandanteof the Port. There it is! Colonel Fajardo has most thoroughly disappeared. I regret you did not hit him with the terrible iron bar.”
“I shall always regret it,” said Richard Cary. “Doesn’t that make it more hopeful for me to climb out of this infernal scrape, Señor Bazán?”
“Not very much. You are charged with murder, assault, breaking prison, and the good God knows what else! And you areEl Tigre Amarillo Grande! The Fruit Company’s agent has shown no interest in your behalf. That would be most useful.”
“Captain Sterry may have turned in a bad report in New York, sir. He was biased—there was a personal difference—a grudge of his. He signed on another second mate, I presume, and I was thrown in the discard.”
“Then you will have no employment as an officer, even if you are lucky enough to get away from Cartagena, Señor Cary?”
“It sounds ridiculous to look that far ahead,” lazily answered the prisoner who found it hard to stay awake. “At present I seem to be cast for the part ofEl Tigre, and it doesn’t appeal to me at all.”
Señor Bazán scolded himself for exhausting a guest already weak and in distress of mind. He took the young man by the arm and tried to steady him as they crossed thepatioand entered a bedroom. The bath was near at hand.
“Pajamas to-morrow, Ricardo,” said the host. “The woman in my kitchen is sewing them together. She will also make some white clothes. There are none big enough in the shops. If I visit a tailor he will pass it around as a joke that Ramon Bazán must haveEl Tigre Amarilloin his house. Bolt your door, if it pleases you. The window has strong iron bars and nobody in Cartagena can pull them out to molest you. There are worse friends to have than old Ramon Bazán. That Teresa has called me a funny old guy to my face. You mustn’t believe all she tells you.”
The old gentleman went fluttering off in his hurried fashion as if shadows were forever chasing him. Richard Cary was awake for a long time. Sounds in the street disturbed him. Once he fancied he heard the distant voices of men singing and the melodious tinkle of a guitar. Again it was the pit-pat-pat of feet on the pavement outside the window. When sleep came to him, his dreams were unhappy.
CHAPTER XI
A different man in fresh white pajamas and straw slippers, Richard Cary idled in a shady corner of thepatio. A razor had reaped the heavy stubble clean. Not in the least resembling the Yellow Tiger that gobbled naughty children, he looked amiable enough to purr. His status in this household was even more perplexing than at his arrival. Señor Bazán seemed to be afraid of his disfavor. Afraid? It should have been the other way about. It was for the helpless fugitive to exert himself, by every means in his power, to win and hold the regard of the eccentric old gentleman who held his life in the hollow of his hand.
Every precaution was taken to guard the secret of his presence in this house. The outer doors were kept locked. The only servants were the Indian lad and a fat black woman in the kitchen. These two mortally feared the wrath of Señor Bazán, and were close-mouthed by habit. He had taught them the doctrine of assiduously minding their own business. Moreover, it was a thing far more perilous to risk the vengeance ofEl Tigre Amarilloshould they drop even a whisper outside the house. How calm and harmless he seemed, but imagine him in one of those rages! It was common report that no bullet could slay him.
Señor Bazán endeavored to display his very best behavior. The flighty fits of temper were restrained and he was thoughtful of the small courtesies. As Teresa had said, he was a very old man, brittle and easily tired. At times the wheezing spells almost choked him. Quite often he dozed off with a book in his lap. Otherwise he was diabolically wide awake.
More like himself every day, Richard Cary knew that inaction would soon fret him beyond endurance. In the New Hampshire farmhouse at home he could sit and look at the fire through long lazy spells, but this senseless confinement was very different. He was living and waiting for the arrival of theTarragona. After that? Ramon Bazán insisted that it was impossible to flee this hostile coast, nor did he offer the smallest hint of willingness to coöperate in any attempt. Why, then, had Richard Cary been fetched into Cartagena? It was a question that pursued itself in a tedious circle.
With all the leisure in the world to mull it over, Cary found solace in the briar pipe with the amber bit which was the sole possession left him. Through his tempestuous escapades it had stayed in a trousers pocket. A pipe with a charmed life, he thought, and a precious reminder of Teresa Fernandez and their last glimpse of each other.
Now he laid it on the stone flagging beside his canvas chair, and the little brown monkey came frisking over from the trellis. It snatched the pipe in a tiny black paw and was about to stick it in his mouth when Cary interfered. He laughed at the indignant little beast which squeaked profane opinions of a man who would deny a petted monkey a morning pipe. The puckered countenance, the spiteful grimace, the gusty temper, were absurdly like Señor Bazán when things displeased him. At one moment the Spanish gentleman of culture and manners, in the next he might be a chattering, scolding tyrant with no manners whatever.
Crack-brained? So Teresa had expressed herself, but her relations with her uncle appeared to be uncertain, an intermittent feud, and she was not apt to give the devil his due. As a rule, Richard Cary’s verdicts were slowly formulated and uncolored by prejudice. In this instance he felt more and more convinced that there was some unseen method in the madness of Señor Ramon Bazán. He had enticedEl Tigre Amarillo Grandeinto a comfortable cage and proposed to keep him there.
Meanwhile the wizened keeper of the tiger was frequently leaving the house on some affairs of his own. He went jogging off in a hired carriage and was not seen again for hours. He brought back American magazines and tobacco, phonograph records, delicacies from the market, anything to amuse the restless Ricardo, who chafed under the increasing burden of obligation. Nothing was said to explain why Señor Bazán should spend so much time away from his house. Secretiveness enwrapped him. He moved like an industrious conspirator.
On the day before theTarragonawas due in port, Richard Cary took occasion to say:
“You have been a wonderfully kind friend to me, Señor Bazán, and I don’t deserve it. Now that I am getting fit to take care of myself, I must plan to get away somehow. I have been waiting for the arrival of the ship, to see the Señorita Fernandez again—”
Uncle Ramon bounced from his chair and wildly waved his hands as he cried:
“It was that girl all the time! The devil fly away with her! But I must let you see her or there will be another commotion with an iron bar. All right, Ricardo. Teresa is sure to come to my house to ask if anything was heard about you after the steamer sailed away with her. How can I keep you from seeing that girl? You have an infatuation.”
“I shall take no chances,” was the dogged reply. “She might be kept on board. I’ll write her a letter and you will send it down to the ship or carry it yourself.”
This ripped the temper of Señor Bazán to shreds. He slapped his bald pate and his false teeth clicked as he vociferated:
“Writing letters is a trick of———— idiots. It would make me as big a fool as you are to let a letter go out of my house, a letter you had written to a sweetheart. What happens to me if Cartagena finds out I am hiding you here? Bah! That girl has turned your brain into a rotten egg.”
Taken aback by this tantrum, Cary was strongly inclined to twist the old gentleman’s neck. It was not really essential, however, to write a letter. Soothingly he suggested:
“Then you will promise to let her know that she must come to the house while she is in port. Without fail? She will guess that something is in the wind.”
“Yes, I will do that much,” grumbled Uncle Ramon. “I have to keep you quiet. I will drive down to the ship and bring Teresa back with me. What if the chief steward or somebody forbids her to go ashore?”
“She will come anyhow, unless I am all wrong about her,” said Cary.
“God knows what is in the heart of a girl like that,” spitefully retorted her uncle.
“One thing more, Señor Bazán. The chief engineer of the ship, Mr. McClement, is a friend of mine. I wish to get word to him, too. He can be trusted absolutely. If you will slip a word to Teresa, she will arrange it so that he can drop in for a chat after dark. McClement is a man who will help you find some way to get me off your hands. And I am anxious to let him know that I am alive and didn’t desert the ship.”
“Why not invite the whole damned crew of theTarragonato parade to my house with a band of music?” shouted the disgusted uncle. “Forget this pest of a chief engineer. It is enough to let that girl into the house. How do I know what mischief it will make? She is the kind that talks in her sleep.”
Richard Cary felt wretchedly ashamed of his own futility. Sulkily he surrendered. Teresa could later confide in the chief engineer, but it was a sore blow to be deprived of his canny wisdom and aid in this extremity. The Yellow Tiger had ceased to purr. He had not been rescued, but kidnaped. He did not propose to spend much more of his life shut up in this madhouse.
He was pacing up and down next day, counting the hours. The clothes made by the handy black woman in the kitchen, white shirt and trousers, were by no means an atrocious fit. He was quite spick-and-span, a young man waiting for his sweetheart. It was late in the afternoon when the wind brought to the open courtyard the distant, vibrant blasts of a steamer’s whistle. It was theTarragonablowing for the wharf. He could have told that whistle from a hundred other ships. Never would he forget it, not after hearing her blow the three long blasts of departure when he had tottered up the ramp to the round watch-tower on the city wall.
Earlier in the day, Ramon Bazán had vanished on one of his shrouded errands, promising to go to the wharf as soon as the steamer should be reported. Cary grew more and more impatient. Soon he looked to see Teresa come flying in, slender, graceful, ardent to respond to his fond greeting. Then she would turn her attention to the wicked old uncle who was making a jail of his house and holding her Ricardo against his will. It would be a lively scene.
A carriage was heard to stop in front of the house. The young man dared not show himself, but retreated to his room, as caution had taught him to do. He was chagrined at being found in such a plight. He was like a stranded hulk. But if Teresa still loved him, nothing was impossible to attempt and to achieve.
Uncle Ramon Bazán came teetering in alone, very much put out and wheezing maledictions. Richard Cary advanced from the threshold of his room, grievously disappointed, but expecting to hear that Teresa had been delayed until evening. Her uncle made no effort to break the news gently.
“My trip to theTarragonawas for nothing. I lost my breath climbing on board that ship and there was no Teresa at all.”
“She was not in the ship?” blurted Cary. “What’s the answer to that? What did the chief steward say?”
“That pig of a Swiss said she had left the ship in New York. He didn’t know why. A good stewardess, he called her, when she was not chasing herself about something else.”
“And no word to explain why she wanted to quit or where she went?” implored the lover.
“Not one word, Ricardo,” said Ramon, his bald head cocked sagaciously. “These infernal girls! They can make a Yellow Tiger look like a sick house-cat. But why should I laugh? There were such girls when Ramon Bazán was a gaycaballero—Good God, how long ago it was—and he was never afraid to see the ears of the wolf if the prize was an embrace and a kiss. Teresa, though, she was never a girl to be a fool with the men. Not a coquette, I will say that much for the jade. She was fond of you, Ricardo. My old eyes told me that.”
Richard Cary stood massive and composed. The uncle’s tirade was the sound of empty words. They buzzed without biting. He could not believe that Teresa was faithless or forgetful, fleeting though the romance had been. Sadly mystified, he was not one to be dragged adrift by an ill wind. His convictions were stanch. Such was his native temperament. Because Teresa had found some reason for leaving the ship in New York, it did not mean that she had forsaken him. He would find her some day and then it could be explained.
“I am badly disappointed, sir,” he said to her uncle. The boyish smile was wistful as he added: “I couldn’t see beyond to-day. Never mind. Teresa Fernandez is wise enough to steer her own course. Now, my dear Señor Bazán, I am finished with Cartagena. I’m head over heels in debt to you for all your kindness, but I must be on my way. I never fell in a hole that I couldn’t pull myself out of somehow. If you will help me, I shall be more grateful than ever.”
It was not mere bravado. The time had come to force the hand of the benevolent old despot. The reply to this ultimatum was a sardonic chuckle. The mirth increased until it ended in spasms of coughing. Cary pounded the brittle Uncle Ramon on the back and almost broke him in two. It was exasperating to listen to him. He wiped his eyes, adjusted his teeth, and motioned the young man into the library. There the exhausted Señor Bazán curled up in a chair like a goblin and began to elucidate himself as follows:
“To laugh at a broken-hearted lover is abominable, Ricardo. I reproach myself and implore you to forgive a funny old guy. It is selfish of me to feel so pleased, but I hope to make you understand. That girl was in the way. To me she was an obstacle. I could do nothing with you until her ship came in. And then I was afraid of her entangling you against me. With a man and girl, everything must be talked over together. ‘Will I do this?’ ‘Should I do that?’ ‘What does she say?’ I tell you, dear Ricardo, the women spoil more bold men than they ever make heroes of. For the present we are happily rid of Teresa. You will be fool enough to follow her later, but that is none of the funeral of Ramon Bazán.”
Richard Cary thrust his grieved disappointment into the background. Here was promise of reading the riddle of his detention. The old man had never been so ablaze with excitement as now. He caught his breath and volubly continued:
“It filled my mind when I first saw you, Ricardo—you were the man I had been looking for—the man I had to have. And then I lost you, the worst luck that ever was. When that lame fellow, Palacio, came down from La Popa with your letter, I tell you I rejoiced myself. You were crazy to find that Teresa, I could see it between the words, but it was the best of fortune for Ramon Bazán. Since you have been in my house, Ricardo, I have watched you, to measure you up, and I was right as could be, on that very first night. You are the man I want. Not so many bats in mycabezaas the saucy Teresa has told me to my face! When you know what I want you for, you will not sigh and look sad and talk about bursting out of Cartagena. You will be glad of the day when you came to live with Ramon Bazán.”
“Show me any road out and I will swamp you with my blessings,” exclaimed Cary, immensely diverted. “I knew you had something up your sleeve, but there I stuck. Now, for the Lord’s sake, please get down to brass tacks. Then I can tell you whether I’ll take it or leave it.”
“Come over to my desk,” cried Señor Bazán, as agile as the little brown monkey. “Now sit down and listen. You do that very well. It is a virtue worth its weight in pure gold. I have observed it in you. Have you read much about Spanish treasure? Have the legends fascinated you?”
Richard Cary jumped from his chair. The words had wrenched him out of his solid composure. All he could say was, like a deep-voiced echo: “Spanish treasure? Has it fascinated me? How did you happen to hit the mark like that?”
This quick vehemence startled Señor Bazán. It was unexpected. This new Richard Cary, aroused and masterful, was, indeed, like having a great yellow tiger in the house.
“Ah, ha, Ricardo, you smell the trail? You have dreamed of finding Spanish treasure? This is better than I hoped for. It might be a captain that sailed with El Draque as you stand there with eyes on fire.”
“With Drake?” exclaimed Richard Cary, his arms folded across his mighty chest. “Aye, Señor Bazán, there was treasure for the men that sailed these seas with Frankie Drake. Here at Cartagena, though it was like pulling teeth to make the fat Spanish merchants give up their gold.”
Señor Bazán was a trifle dazed. This amazing young man whom he had handled so carefully, with such solicitude to gain his good-will and gratitude, was fairly running away with him. He did not have to be coaxed or persuaded. This was already obvious.
“Dead stuff?” laughed Cary. “You have it in the books on your shelves. But I enjoy talking about it—how Drake and his seamen used their long pikes in carrying thebarricadasin the streets after they made a breach in the wall. It was merry work while it lasted. Six hundred Englishmen to take the strongest town in the West Indies! There was a swarm of Indian bowmen with poisoned arrows that played the mischief with them. The town had to yield after Master Carlisle, the lieutenant-general, slew the chief ensign-bearer of the Spaniards with his own hand. They fought as pretty a duel with swords as ever a man saw. And all for what? After Drake and his men took their pleasure in sacking and spoiling the town and setting fire to a great part of it, the ransom they obtained was no more than a hundred and ten thousand ducats. A beggarly adventure that laid a hundred and fifty lads on their backs with wounds and fever.”
Señor Bazán sucked in his breath with a greedy sound. He was squirming in his chair. Here was a topic he could never tire of. His heart’s desire was revealed.
Richard Cary pleasantly rambled on, yarning of Spanish treasure like a sociable Elizabethan mariner in a waterside taproom. He was carried away by his own enthusiasm. The way was cleared for the cherished secret of Ramon Bazán. Ricardo was in a mood to respond and sympathize. He would not scoff at an old man’s dearest ambition that had long possessed him, body and soul, that had vivified old age and decrepitude with the magic of youth’s illusions.
Señor Bazán was careful to lock the library door before seating himself at the desk. From a drawer he withdrew a folded document much crumpled and soiled. His fingers fumbled with it. He was pitifully agitated. Cary stood leaning over the desk. He foresaw the nature of the document. Ramon Bazán delayed unfolding it. The habit of secrecy was not easily broken. He preferred first to explain what was more or less known to the picaresque race of modern treasure-seekers. It happened to be new to Richard Cary’s ears. He drank it in with gusto, while humming in his brain was an old sea chantey:
“Why, I’ve seen less lucky fellows pay for liquor with doubloons,And for ’baccy with ozellas, gold mohurs, and ducatoons!Bring home! Heave and rally, my very famous men!”
“Why, I’ve seen less lucky fellows pay for liquor with doubloons,And for ’baccy with ozellas, gold mohurs, and ducatoons!Bring home! Heave and rally, my very famous men!”
“Why, I’ve seen less lucky fellows pay for liquor with doubloons,And for ’baccy with ozellas, gold mohurs, and ducatoons!Bring home! Heave and rally, my very famous men!”
“Why, I’ve seen less lucky fellows pay for liquor with doubloons,
And for ’baccy with ozellas, gold mohurs, and ducatoons!
Bring home! Heave and rally, my very famous men!”
Still clutching his precious document, old Ramon Bazán chose Lima for the beginning of his long-winded narrative. During the last days of Spanish rule on the west coast, this capital of Peru had been the lordliest city of the vast domains won by theconquistadoresand ruled by the Viceroys. Founded by Francisco Pizarro, it was for centuries the seat of government in South America. The Viceregal court was maintained in magnificent state, and the Archbishop of Lima was the most powerful prelate of the continent.
Here the religious orders were centered and to Lima the Inquisition was removed from Cartagena. Of the incredible amount of gold and silver taken from the mines of the Incas, much remained in Lima to pile up fortunes for the grandees and officials, or to be fashioned into massive adornments for the palaces, residences, churches, and for the great cathedral which stands to-day to proclaim the grandeur that was Spain’s. To Cartagena its walls, to Lima its cathedral, runs the saying.
When Bolivar the Liberator had succeeded in driving the Spanish out of Venezuela and had also set up the free republic of Colombia, the ruling classes of Peru took alarm, which increased to panic as soon as it was known that the revolutionary forces were organizing to march south and assault Lima itself. There was great running to and fro among the wealthy Spanish merchants, the holders of political offices under the Viceroy, and the gilded aristocracy which had ruffled it with riches won by the swords of their two-fisted ancestors. It was feared that the rebels of Bolivar and San Martin would loot the city and confiscate the treasure, both public and private, which consisted of bullion, plate, jewels, and coined gold.
The people of Lima, hoping to send their private fortunes safe home to Spain before the plundering invaders should make a clean sweep, put their valuables on board all manner of sailing vessels which chanced to be in harbor. A fugitive fleet of merchantmen steered away from the coast of Peru, the holds filled with gold and silver, the cabins crammed with officials of the Church and State and other residents of rank and station. In the same manner was sent to sea the treasure of the great cathedral of Lima, all its jeweled chalices, monstrances, and vestments, the weighty gold candlesticks and shrines, the vast store of precious furniture and ornaments which had made this one of the richest religious edifices in the world.
There had not been so much dazzling booty afloat since the galleon fleets were in their heydey. Gone, however, were the dauntless buccaneers and gentlemen adventurers who had singed the beard of the King of Spain in the wake of Francis Drake. The best of them had sailed and fought and plundered for glory as well as gain, for revenge as much as for doubloons. Their successors as sea rovers were pirates of low degree, wretches of a sordid commercialism who preyed on honest merchant skippers of all flags and had little taste for fighting at close quarters. The older race of sea rogues had been wolves; these later pirates were jackals.
Many a one of these gentry got wind of the fabulous treasure which had been sent afloat from Lima and there is no doubt that much of it failed to reach Spain. While in some instances these fleeing merchantmen were boarded and scuttled by pirate craft, in others the lust of gold was too strong for the seamen to whom the rare cargoes had been entrusted. They rose and took the treasure away from their hapless passengers whose bodies fed the fishes.
Among these treacherous mariners, and the most conspicuous of them, was one Captain Thompson, of the British trading brigMary Dear. He received on board in the harbor of Lima as much as six million dollars’ worth of gold and silver. The black-hearted Captain Thompson led his crew in killing the Spanish owners once the brig was out at sea. Instead of sailing south around Cape Horn, they steered northward in the Pacific and made a landing on lonely Cocos Island.
There the booty was carried ashore and buried until such time as these villains could safely plan distribution and escape. Wisely preferring to stay at sea, Captain Thompson joined the crew of a well-known pirate, Benito Bonito, who also had bloodied his hands with this Spanish treasure. He had captured a rich galleon off the coast of Peru and two other vessels bearing riches sent from Lima. On Cocos Island, at the advice of Captain Thompson, he buried some of his treasure, in a sandstone cave in the face of a cliff. Then he laid kegs of powder upon a ledge close by and blew great fragments of the cliff to cover the cave. In another excavation he placed gold ingots, seven hundred and thirty-three of them. They were ten inches long and four inches wide and three inches thick. With them were twoscore gold-hilted swords inlaid with jewels.
The records of the British Admiralty show that Benito Bonito’s ship was captured byH.M.S. Espièglewhich was cruising in the Pacific. Rather than be hanged in chains, this affluent pirate gallantly blew out his brains. At this time Captain Thompson was no longer sailing in company with him and so saved his own wicked skin. One rumor had it that he was garroted in Havana, under another name, with eleven of his old crew of the brigMary Dear. Other curious stories indicated that he flitted in obscurity from port to port, in mortal terror of Spanish vengeance and never daring to disclose the secret of Cocos Island. . .
CHAPTER XII
Such was the narrative as old Ramon Bazán poured it forth with various impassioned digressions which included cursing the souls of Captain Thompson and Benito Bonito. Excitement made him pepper it with Spanish phrases that had to be translated. The effort sorely taxed his vitality. As Richard Cary said to himself, it was like a boiling kettle. The lid had blown off.
Artfully the climax had been withheld. With the gloating affection of a miser in a melodrama, Señor Bazán spread his creased, soiled document upon the desk. He guarded it with both hands as if Cary might snatch it and bolt for the street. A chart, as the young man had anticipated—a ragged island roughly sketched—the depths of water marked in fathoms—shore elevations shown by fuzzy scratches like caterpillars—sundry crosses and arrows and notations in figures. Here and there the penmanship was almost illegible. Time had faded the ink. Dirt had smudged the sheet of yellowed paper ripped out of some old canvas-backed log-book which might have belonged in the doomedMary Dear. Ramon Bazán poised a skinny finger over a symbol inked between two hills and piped exultantly:
“Six million dollars in gold and silver and jewels, Ricardo. And here is the cave where Benito Bonito hid the ingots.”
Cary picked up a reading-glass and studied the sheet of paper with the eye of a professional navigator. The chart was the handiwork of a seaman, this he speedily concluded. The compass bearings were properly marked, the anchorage for a vessel noted with particular care, and a channel between the reefs indicated by heavier lines of a pen. The rest of the chart was cryptic, impossible to make head or tail of without prolonged examination. It was interesting but not convincing to Richard Cary who had heard of similar treasure charts. Seafaring men gossiped about them. They turned up every now and again, in the possession of credulous dreamers who swore them to be authentic.
There were excellent reasons, however, for avoiding skepticism in discussing this prodigious marvel with Señor Bazán. Here was Richard Cary’s chance to put the walls of Cartagena behind him, his one tangible hope of salvation. And he was not a man to hang back from seeking Spanish treasure as his next gamble with destiny.