Part 24

It was a moan evidently wrung by overpowering agony from a brave man’s reluctant lips. José looked. Not two paces from him lay a wounded cavalier, his splendid dress all torn and blood-stained, his face ghastly, his hand upon his breast, as if to stay the streams of blood that were bearing life away.

A moment more and José, strong enough now in his heart’s tenderness and pity, was kneeling beside his enemy, Don Francisco Solis. Raising him gently in his arms, he tore his own tunic to bind his wound, and put the wine-cup to his lips from which he himself had drunk so lately.

In vain. At every breath the blood welled faster. The hand of Death was on the proud young cavalier. Yet not all in vain. He tried to speak. “Call some of my people,” he murmured. “Varco—Rodriguez—Martin—what has become of them all?”

“I believe the ship is in the hands of pirates,” José said. “The soldiers, no doubt, have been slain or made prisoners. Anything I can do for you, I will.”

“Who are you?”

“One who bears you good-will. You are sorely wounded, I fear.”

“I am slain. With this blood my life flows out. Call me a priest.”

“That I know not how to do. Put your trust in the mercy of God—in the blessed Saviour who died for you.”

Don Francisco feebly raised his hand, seeking something suspended round his neck. José found it for him, and put it to his lips. It was a small gold cross, with a costly jewel in the centre, beneath which was inserted a relic of inestimable price, a fragment of “the true cross.” “Oh, Señor Don Francisco!” said José earnestly, “look with your heart to Christ. He can pardon your sins. He can save you, and take you this day home to Himself. Think of Him.”

But it was a thought of earth that filled the heart of the dying man at that moment. “Will you show me Christian charity for the love of God?” he murmured.

“For the love of God—I surely will.”

“Then bring—or send—this cross to my beloved wife, Doña Victoria Solis, at Cuzco.—But what is this?” he faltered, making an effort to look up. “Your tongue Spanish, your face brown—who are you, in Heaven’s name?”

“One who will do your errand faithfully, Don Francisco Solis de Toledo—though he grieves that it is so sad a one. Is there any message you desire to send with the cross—to Coyllur?”

“Tell her—ah, my breath is failing—tell her I did my duty—like an honourable and valiant noble of Castile—and that I truly loved her—thought of her to the last. Although—Tell her—”

No more was to be told. Already the mists of the great darkness were gathering over the eyes of Don Francisco. Still he tried to murmur something, which José’s utmost efforts failed to catch. But he held the cross before him, that his last conscious look might rest upon the symbol of divine love and forgiveness. And thus, with his head pillowed on the breast of his enemy, and the hand he had disdained to fight ministering tenderly to his last earthly needs, the haughty spirit of Don Francisco Solis passed away.

José, scarce willing to believe that all was over, still held him in his arms, when a tall, strongly-built man, not without a rough stateliness and dignity of manner, came up the companion-ladder, stood near the two figures, the dead and the living, and looked thoughtfully at them. His hair and beard were black, and his complexion well sunburnt. His dress was plain,—a buff leather jerkin, evidently the worse for the recent fight; but a sword with a jewelled hilt was stuck in his belt;—it had no sheath, and was still bloody.

“My poor fellow,” he said to José, in imperfect Spanish, “your master is dead.”

“The señor commandante was not my master,” José answered, looking up. “He was my enemy.”

“Your enemy!” the other repeated in surprise. “In that case you have proved yourself a Christian, and a good one. You are one of the two prisoners whom we found in the hold?”

“Yes, señor.”

“You are free now. We Englishmen set the captives free, and deliver the oppressed, wherever we go.”

“_Englishmen!_ Are you indeed Englishmen? Then I thank God that I have lived to see this day.”

“I am glad you have such a good opinion of us. And I hope we shall give you no reason to change it. We are ready to welcome you on board our good ship yonder, the _Sea Snake_, of London. Your fellow-captive is there already.”

He turned, apparently to bid one of his men conduct José to the English ship. But in the moment that he did so, something met his eye that changed the current of his thoughts. It was the black hull of the galley, the only ship in sight, which was now no longer lessening to a speck on the horizon, but very rapidly growing larger.

Brief orders in a foreign tongue were issued to those around; and José soon saw the strange uncouth figures swarming like bees up the ladders and from every part of the _Trionfo_, back to their own ship, each bearing his burden.

He could not in the least comprehend what was going forward; the whole scene in which he moved was a bewildering mystery to him. One thing alone he realized: yonder was the galley _San Cristofero_, and Walter Grey, a captive Englishman, sat chained to one of its oars.

He gently laid down his lifeless burden, and springing forward, threw himself in the way of the personage who had addressed him, just as he was about to leave the deck of the _Trionfo_. “Señor and captain,” he said, “in yonder galley there is an Englishman—a slave.”

The English captain thundered some explanation in his own tongue, and laying his hand on his sword, looked at the galley as if the fire in his eyes would alone suffice to destroy it. But he had not an instant to lose. Pointing to José, he spoke three words to a young man who stood beside him, and was on his own quarter-deck ere their echo had died away.

The young sailor gave José to understand by signs that he had been told to conduct him to the English ship. José gazed sadly on the dead face of his enemy, then closed his eyes, and taking off his own yacollo, laid it decently and reverently over him. That done, he followed his guide from the deck of the _Trionfo_ to that of the _Sea Snake_—then down a companion-ladder, to a small, dimly-lighted cabin. The Englishman being apparently under an impression, not altogether unfounded, that the Spaniards starved their prisoners, quickly set before him a huge platter of boiled beef, a mountain of biscuit, and a great leathern jack of strong ale. That done, he disappeared in a moment, leaving José very thankful for what seemed a marvellous providential deliverance, but much perplexed by the whole affair.

It was a most joyful surprise to hear the voice of Fray Fernando out of the gloom. “I am glad you have come, José.”

The monk was lying on a mattress which had been laid for him in a corner of the cabin; but so imperfect was the light admitted by the one small window of thick horn, that José had not perceived him until then. He explained: “Between the unaccustomed sunshine and the feebleness of my long unused limbs I contrived to slip, and hurt my ankle. It will not signify. They laid me here very kindly, and they have given me everything I needed.”

“Can you comprehend what has befallen us, patre?”

“I have learned somewhat from the padre of the English, who paid me a brief visit here—‘Sir Thomas,’ they call him. He seems to be a good, humane man.”

“I suppose we are in the hands of English pirates—buccaneers?” said José.

“That certainly cannot be doubted. They call their ship a merchant vessel, and avow that they have come to the Spanish Main to trade for sandal-wood. Of course their trade is in itself contraband, even if it were not merely a cloak to cover piracy. The _Trionfo_, laden with gold and silver, and separated from the Plate fleet by the recent storm, was only too tempting a prize. They bore down upon us, all sails crowded, determined to fight.”

“But, patre, the _Trionfo_ is five times the size of this little ship.”

“True; but size is one thing, and strength another. I have heard it said ere this that our ships are built for carrying treasure, theirs for winning it by force of arms. You are aware the _Trionfo_ was always accounted unwieldy, and not over well appointed. Moreover, the damage she received in the gale was scarce repaired as thoroughly as might be. The English guns did great execution upon her, her huge bulk exposing her the more; while the small craft of the pirates, bristling with fortifications from stem to stern, took little harm from all our firing. The _San Cristofero_ came near to help us, and indeed gave the enemy volley after volley, but not, it seems, to much purpose. We had several shots between wind and water, and at last our main-mast was cut away. It was feared the ship would sink, with all on board; so the captain and others prayed the commandante to lower his flag. He treated the proposal as an insult, and swore to slay the first man who should name surrender in his hearing. But, shortly afterwards, a mortal wound laid him low. Almost at the same moment the buccaneers threw out their grappling-irons, and prepared to board our ship. Then the captain and two or three of the officers hoisted a flag of truce. The buccaneers only wanted plunder—our great ship, if they had it, could serve them nothing—so it was not difficult to come to terms. The English call the capitulation an honourable one for us—but God help Captain Manuel Sergaz, and the officers who took part with him, when they get to Spain!—if ever they reach it, which the present state of the ship renders, I fear, very doubtful. They will probably make once more for our friendly island, that they may repair damages and refit for the voyage.”

“Patre,” said José, “Don Francisco Solis died in my arms.” He paused, overcome by emotion of many kinds; nor could he regain sufficient composure to pursue the subject. Presently he added, “At all events, we are free. Let us thank God for that.”

“Amen!”

“Patre, I saw the captain of the English. He spoke to me. He is not like what I expected: not blue-eyed and fair-haired, like Walter Grey.”

“The English priest tells me he is a brave man, and a good Christian. Though how the latter can be consistent with his buccaneering exploits, I confess I scarcely understand. His name is Captain George Noble, and he is the son of a wealthy merchant of London.”

Here their voices were drowned by a shrill, horrible, deafening cry—such a cry as José, at least, had never heard before. He gazed at Fray Fernando in consternation.

“That must be the _chamado_, the cry of the galley-slaves when they advance to the attack,” said the monk.

José was greatly excited. “Patre, forgive me,” he exclaimed. “Needs must that I go on deck and see what is happening there. I will bring you tidings.”

XLII.

Joyful Meetings.

“O give thanks unto the Lord, for he is good: for his mercy endureth for ever. Let the redeemed of the Lord say so, whom he hath redeemed from the hand of the enemy.”

Ps. cvii. 1, 2.

The commander of the _San Cristofero_, while he seemed to be leaving the _Trionfo_ to her fate, had been only making use of a stratagem. He sheered off from the English ship, and rowed to a considerable distance, fully intending to return so soon as the mariners, engaged in boarding the great galleon, should have left their own vessel deserted and defenceless. Then he hoped, with some help from the survivors of the _Trionfo_, to sink or take her without difficulty. But the cowardice (as he esteemed it) of those who commanded the galleon, in capitulating to the English, somewhat disconcerted his plans. On seeing the white flag put up, however, he at once ordered the slaves to row back to the scene of the conflict. This was done with the rapidity and directness which gave the galleys, in their independence of the action of the wind, such an advantage over sailing-vessels. Then he issued orders for an immediate onslaught. But he did not find the English as utterly unprepared as he expected. Moreover, the _Trionfo_ failed to co-operate with her ally. Already she had moved away; and either honour, prudence, or most likely the absolute necessities of her own situation, prevented her return to help the _San Cristofero_. So it was possible that, ere the end of that day’s conflict, the commander of the galley might have occasion to recall the Spanish proverb about those who “go out for wool, and come home shorn.”

By the time that José, not without difficulty, climbed the ladder and stood on the deck, the English had already driven back their assailants, and pursued them on board the galley—roused to tenfold fury by their captain’s hint that an Englishman was chained to one of its oars. Eagerly did José gaze at the _San Cristofero_, but to his unpractised eye it presented nothing save hideous and bewildering confusion. Those uncouth figures, roughly clad, simply armed, swarmed all over it, with strong cutlasses in their hands, hewing, smiting, struggling, in fierce conflict with the stately, well-appointed Spanish soldiers.

But anon something happened that even José understood full well. The first care of the English, on boarding the galley, had been to supply the slaves with the means of freeing themselves from their fetters. Now the work was accomplished, and with one fierce yell the gaunt figures arose, each from his place, and sprang upon their hated tyrants like blood-hounds on their prey. The vengeance of years was in every blow they struck. José distinctly saw the quatrero—the captain of Walter’s oar—seize the commissary, and after a moment’s desperate struggle, whirl him round and fling him over the galley’s side into the seething depths beneath. Then he saw the young sailor who had been his own guide on board the English ship stand for one moment face to face with Walter Grey—then put his arm round him, guard him through the _mêlée_, and lead him to the spot where the captain was.

But what followed utterly baffled José’s comprehension. It was not until afterwards that he learned that the soldiers of the _San Cristofero_, now attacked at once by two terrible enemies, feared their own slaves more than the English, and were glad to yield to the latter, and to be taken on board their vessel as prisoners of war. That done, the liberated slaves, who were now the masters of the galley, returned once more to their oars and rowed away, free to go whithersoever they pleased, provided only they came not within the shadow of the yellow flag of Spain.

But little did José care whither they went,—in that rapturous moment when he grasped once more the hand of Walter Grey, and knew that his friend was a free man now and for ever. He had thought it impossible to be further surprised at anything, that day of surprises. But he was certainly astonished to see the English captain take Walter Grey in his great blood-stained arms, kiss him mouth to mouth, and then, throwing off his cap, and raising his eyes to heaven, thank God solemnly before them all. The rough mariners who stood around seemed to share his emotion: they also bared their heads and added a reverent “Amen” to the thanksgiving. Then a few anxious words, spoken hurriedly by Walter Grey, won a brief but apparently satisfactory answer from the captain. Then the young sailor, José’s guide, came forward also and embraced his rescued countryman. And at last the strange proceedings concluded with a ringing, vociferous English cheer which made José’s heart leap to his lips.

Before its echo had died away he was going back to the cabin to tell the patre all, when Walter Grey intercepted him, embraced him affectionately, and taking his hand, led him to the captain, to whom he spoke a few words in his native tongue.

The captain immediately stretched out his own right hand to the Indian. “Don José,” he said, in his imperfect Spanish, “Master Walter Grey, who is my dear friend and kinsman, tells me that you have been a true brother to him in the time of his adversity; and that, but for you, he would not be here alive this day. I owe you more thanks than I can speak in a breath. Come and sup with me. Our worthy chaplain is fluent in your tongue, and will find words better than I can for what I wish to say to you.”

About an hour afterwards a select party assembled in the state-cabin of the _Sea Snake_. It consisted of Captain George Noble; two or three gentlemen-volunteers on board his ship, including his own younger brother and José’s guide, James Noble; the chaplain, Sir Thomas Hartfield; Walter Grey, dressed now like an English gentleman; Fray Fernando; and, lastly, José. The commander of the _San Cristofero_ had been courteously invited, but had excused himself, to the comfort of all.

The viands were indifferent; but the wine, which was part of the spoil of the _Trionfo_, made amends, and was duly appreciated by most of the party. But whatever else the little festival lacked, in one thing it was favourably distinguished from many more pretentious entertainments—every man who took his seat at the board had a truly happy and thankful heart. Even although the attack of the _San Cristofero_ had prevented their rifling the _Trionfo_ as thoroughly as they would otherwise have done, gold and silver enough had been won that day to make the fortunes both of the owners and of the crew of the _Sea Snake_. If it was not strictly true of the latter, that “the youngest cabin-boy amongst them might be a captain for riches,” the glowing hyperbole was little more than a natural and pardonable exaggeration. Perhaps only those who have greatly dared and greatly suffered can taste the full joy of such success, more than crowning their utmost hopes.

Yet this was the least joy of that joyful day. When the meal was over, the captain filled a cup of wine, and, addressing Fray Fernando and José in the best Spanish he could muster, said, very simply, “Señores and true brothers, I desire to pledge you this day in grateful friendship. First, however, I would fain let you know what I and others owe to your kindness. I have not much Spanish, as you perceive; but our good chaplain, who has the tongue of the learned, shall speak for me.”

“Nay,” said Walter Grey, with eager emotion, “let me speak. I know all.”

“Tell your own tale, if you will, my boy,” said the captain, looking at him affectionately. “Mine you cannot tell, for as yet you know it not.”

“And mine,” Walter acquiesced, “our dear friends know already.”

Here the chaplain, a quiet, good-looking man in a cassock, took up the word, addressing himself in very fair Castilian to Fray Fernando and to José:—“Señor Walter Grey, as doubtless you are already aware, is the only son of his mother, and she is a widow. You also know, probably, in what manner he left his home, and why.”

“That,” Walter again interposed, and in English, “I have not shrunk from telling these my friends, humbling and painful as was the confession. Yet,” he added, with crimsoned cheek, “for the sake of others who are here present, I repeat it now. Allured by vain dreams of gold and glory, I selfishly and wickedly forgot all that I should most have remembered—my mother, my duty, my God.”

“That is but one side of the story, and not too fairly put either,” said the captain. “Sir Thomas, obey orders, and speak out without fear or favour. Let these, our Spanish friends, know that it was not altogether through Master Walter’s own demerit that he proved a runagate.”

Sir Thomas resumed his interrupted discourse in Spanish:—“The captain desires me to inform you that he considers himself the person most to blame for the fact of Señor Walter’s flight, which took place from his father’s house in London.”

“_You_ to blame, Cousin George! No—a thousand times, no!” Walter cried; but there was a look in the bronzed face of the sea-captain that warned him to be silent, and to hear the rest.

“The captain says,” continued the patient narrator, “that although he was well aware of his young kinsman’s passion for the seaman’s life, he yet took no pains either to win or to keep his friendship and confidence. On the contrary, he treated him with scorn, as a child, a book-worm, a landlubber; though all the time in his heart he envied his superior bearing. He rather made-believe to despise him, lest he should be despised by him. At last they had an open quarrel; and a very foolish, childish quarrel it looks now.”

“So it was, on my part,” was Walter’s commentary.

“Worse on mine,” said the captain. Then, in his eagerness, quite forgetful of the effect of the confusion of tongues, he finally discarded the chaplain’s mediation, and spoke in his own language and his own person:—“Cousin Walter, I mocked and taunted you, and that bitterly. I was sorry a moment afterwards, as I tell you now. I need tell no man whether I was sorry when I knew you were gone—driven from us, likely enough, by those angry words. I laid the sin from that moment at my own door. And your letter, which you wrote to your mother from the _English Merchantman_, only made matters worse with me. Had I not been as blind as a mole, I could have guessed what was likely to happen, and might have hindered it. But I said nothing to any man; and a few days after, we weighed anchor, and off with us to the Turkish seas. A man is apt to forget things, knocking about the world, as I have done from my childhood. Yet, should I reach the age of the patriarchs that lived before the Flood, never—never shall I forget my last home-coming. The _English Merchantman_ touched London Quay a matter of three days before us. She brought home that tale about you, left on the deck of the Spanish ship—whether living or dead, no man knew for certain. If you had seen my father’s face when he told it to me! Woman’s tears are bad enough—and neither my mother nor Lilias spared theirs—but man’s grief is worse to see. And my father blamed himself; though, indeed, _he_ was blameless in the matter. All made their minds up at once that you were dead. But, for my part, I never thought so. And by-and-by I learned what made me certain you were not. My mother went to yours, to comfort her in her sore anguish. When she came back to us, these were her words: ‘My sister lives, because she hopes and prays still.’ Then I took my resolution. Straightway I arose, and went to my father, and told him everything. ‘Father,’ I said, ‘I drove Walter away. Therefore I should peril goods and life to end this horrible suspense, and bring back—himself, if it may be; if not, certain tidings of him. Do not withhold me. It is borne in upon me that I should do this thing.’ But he shook his head, and with deep anguish told me, what he hoped the sorrowing mother knew not yet—the frightful claim of the Inquisition. His best hope was your death. As for your rescue, no wilder dream could enter the imagination of man. ‘Still,’ I pleaded, ‘in any wise let me go. Wild dreams come true sometimes. At all events, my heart burns within me. I must needs fight the Spaniards—and avenge him, if I cannot deliver him; or I will die.’ Then he said,—Walter, you know how good, how generous he is. And you also, my friends,”—glancing round the table—“you know him well. This was the outcome of all: I went to Kent, Walter, and I saw your mother face to face.” Here, for a moment, George Noble’s voice trembled; and the blunt, simple frankness of his manner was almost swept away by a rising tide of emotion. “No; I cannot tell you what she said to me. But this I will say,” he added reverently. “When a woman’s tender heart is bowed to the will of God, He puts a strength and calmness there of which we men could not dream unless we saw it; and we are better men all our lives for having seen it once.