The Flag of Distress: A Story of the South Sea

“I suppose, Doña Carmen, you are very happy at the prospect of returning to Spain?”

“No, indeed,” answers Don Gregorio’s daughter. “On the contrary, it makes me rather melancholy. I love dear California, and could live in it all my life. Couldn’t you?”

“Under certain circumstances, I could.”

“But you like the country, don’t you?”

“I do, now. In ten days from this time, I shall no longer care for it – not three straws.”

“Why do you say that, Don Eduardo? There’s an enigma in your words. Please explain them?”

While asking the question, her grey-blue eyes gaze into his, with an expression of searching eagerness – almost anxiety.

“Shall I tell you why, señorita!”

“I have asked you, señor.”

“Well, then, I like California now, because it contains the fairest object on earth – to me the dearest – the woman I love. In ten days or less, by her own showing, she will be away from it; why should I care for it then? Now, Doña Carmen, I’ve given you the key to what you’ve called an enigma.”

“Not quite. Perhaps you will pardon a woman’s curiosity, if I ask the name of the lady who thus controls your likes and dislikes.”

Crozier hesitates, a red spot flushing out upon his cheek. He is about to pronounce a name – perhaps make a speech, the most important he has ever made in his life – because laden with his life’s happiness, or leading to the reverse. What if it should be coldly received?

But no; he cannot be mistaken. Her question, so quaintly, yet so impressively put – surely courts the answer he intends giving? And he gives it without further reflection – her own name, not an added word.

“Carmen Montijo.”

“Eduardo,” she asks, after a pause, dropping the Don, “are you in earnest? Can I take this as true? Do not deceive me – in honour do not! To you – and I truly tell you – I have surrendered all my heart. Say that I have yours!”

“I have said it, Carmen,” he too adopting the familiar language of love. “Have I not?”

“Sincerely?”

“Look in my eyes for the answer.”

She obeys; and drawing closer, tiny gaze into one another’s eyes; the flashes from the blue crossing and commingling with those from the brown. Neither could mistake the meaning of the glance, for it is the true light of love, pure as passionate.

Not another word passes between them. The confession, with its dreaded crisis, is passed; and, with hearts quivering in sweet content, they turn their thoughts to the future, full of pleasant promise.

Near by are two other hearts, quite as happy as theirs; though after a scene less sentimental, and a dialogue that, to a stranger overhearing it, might appear to be in jest. For all, in real earnest, and so ending – as may be inferred from the young Welshman’s final speech, with the reply of his Andalusian sweetheart:

“Iñez, you’re the dearest girl I’ve met in all my cruisings. Now, don’t let us beat about any longer, but take in sail, and bring the ship to an anchor. Will you be mine, and marry me?”

“I will.”

No need to stay longer there – no object in continuing to gaze over the ocean.

The horses seem instinctively to understand this; and, turning together, set their heads for home.

Chapter Twenty.

Pot Valiant

The bright Californian sun is declining towards the crest of the Coast Range, when two horsemen, coming from the Pacific side, commence ascending the ridge.

As the sultry hours have passed, and a chill breeze blows from the outside ocean, they have thrust their heads through the central slits of their cloaks – these being mangas– leaving the circular skirts to droop down below their knees – while draping back, cavalry fashion, over the hips of their horses. The colours of these garments – one scarlet, the other sky-blue – enable us to identify the wearers as Don Francisco de Lara and Don Faustino Calderon; for in truth it is they, returning from the pelea de gallos at Punta Pedro.

They have seen Diaz, and arranged everything about the duel. Faustino has finally determined upon fight. Instigated by his more courageous confederate, and with further pressing on the part of Diaz – a sort of Californian bravo – his courage has been at length screwed up to the necessary pitch; and kept there by the potent spirit of Catalonian brandy, found freely circulating around the cock-pit.

A flask of the Catalan he has brought away with him, and at intervals takes a pull from it, as he rides along the road. Under its influence he becomes pot valiant; and swears, if he can but again set eyes upon the English guardia-marina, he will affront him in such fashion as to leave him no loophole of escape from being the challenger. Carrai! he will do as De Lara has recommended: cuff the young officer, kick him, spit in his face, anything to provoke the gringo to a fight – that yellow-haired cub without bigots or beard. And if the cur won’t fight, then he shall apologise – get down upon his knees, acknowledge him, Faustino Calderon, the better man, and for ever after surrender all claim to the smiles, as to the hand, of Iñez Alvarez!

With such swaggering talk he entertains his companion, as the two are returning to town.

De Lara, less noisy, is nevertheless also excited. The fiery alcohol has affected him too. Not to strengthen his courage; for of this he has already enough; but to remove the weight from off his soul, which, after the scene at Don Gregorio’s, had been pressing heavily upon it. Six hours have since elapsed, and for the first three he had been brooding over his humiliation, his spirit prostrate in the dust. But the Catalan has again raised it to a pitch of exultation; especially when he reflects upon the prospect of the sure and speedy vengeance he is determined to take.

It does not occur to him to doubt of success. With thorough reliance on his skill as a swordsman, he feels sure of it. Though also a good shot, he prefers the steel for his weapon; like most men of the southern Latinic race, who believe Northerners to be very bunglers at sword-play, though admitting their superiority in the handling of the pistol. As things stand, unlike his comrade Calderon, he will have the choice of weapons. His intended antagonist was the first to demand the card, and must needs be challenger.

As the two ride on, they talk alternately, both giving vent to their spleen – the man of courage, as the coward. If not so loud, or boastingly, as his companion, De Lara expresses himself with a more spiteful and earnest determination; repeating much of what he has already said at an earlier hour, but with added emphasis. Once he sees the English officer at his rapier’s point, he will show him no mercy, but run him through, without the slightest compunction. In vain may his adversary cry “Quarter.” There can be none conceded, after what has that day passed between them.

“Maldita! it shall be a duel to the death!” he exclaims, after having given way to a series of threats, the words pronounced with an empressement that tells him to be truly, terribly in earnest.

They have been carrying on this excited dialogue, as their horses climbed the slope from the Pacific side, its steepness hindering them from going at their usual gait – a gallop. On rising the ridge’s crest, and catching sight of San Francisco, with its newly painted white walls, and shining tin roofs, reflected red in the rays of the setting sun, De Lara, suddenly remembering the pressure upon him as to time, strikes the spur sharp against his horse’s ribs, and puts the animal to speed. The other imitating his example, they dash on towards Dolores.

They have no intention to make stop at the mission; but, on reaching it, they draw up; obedient to the hail of a man seen standing in the door of a little tavern, or tinacal, frequented by the lower class of native Californians.

A rough, swarthy-skinned fellow, in a garb that proclaims his calling to have connection with the sea, though not that of a sailor. He may be a shore-boatman – perhaps a piscador– though, judging by his general appearance, and the uncanny cast of his countenance, he might well pass for a pirate.

Stepping a few paces out from the tinacal, he salutes the two horsemen, who have halted in the middle of the road to await his approach. Despite his coarse, brutal aspect, and common habiliments, he is evidently on terms of familiarity with both – the style of his salutation showing it. It is with De Lara, however, his business lies, as signified by his saying:

“I want a word with you, Don Francisco.”

“What is it, Rocas?” asks the Creole. “Anything about seal-skins?” laying a significant emphasis on the last word.

“Carramba! No. Something of more importance than that.”

“Money, then?”

“Money.”

“Do you wish our speech to be private?”

“Just now, yes. Perhaps, in time, Don Faustino – ”

“Oh!” interrupts the ganadero, “don’t let me stand in the way. I’ll ride slowly on; you can overtake me, Don Francisco.”

“Do,” says De Lara, at the same time stooping down in his saddle, and continuing the conversation with Rocas, in tone so low as to prevent their speech being overheard by other queer-looking customers who have just stepped out of the tinacal, and stand loitering at its door.

Whatever Rocas may have said, it appears to make a vivid impression on the gambler. His eyes kindle up with a strange light, in which surprise is succeeded by an expression of cupidity; while his manner proclaims that the revelation made to him is not only important, as he has been forewarned, but also pleasing.