Mayflower (Flor de mayo): A Tale of the Valencian Seashore

The teamster several times had looked in at the door. "What do you old hens think this wagon is, your private coach?" "What's the matter with you, codfish? What are you paid for?" roared the gentle tia Picores. But on seeing that her comrades were drawing out their "purses," she extended her brown arm over the table majestically. "Put those bags back where they belong! This is all mine, all mine! I'm celebrating to-day. We've put some sense into these girls' heads!" And lifting her skirt and petticoat, she unhooked her own bag from a belt she wore next to her skin. From it came a pair of scissors she used in opening fish with heavy scales; then a knife that was rusty with grime; finally a handful of coppers which she threw down on the table. She sat for some moments counting the sticky money over and over again. Then leaving a pile of coins on the bare marble, she went out of the shop to join her companions, who were already in the cart.

Rosario, carrying her empty baskets, was out on the sidewalk with Dolores. The two girls were looking at each other and did not know what to say.

"Come along with us, Rosario," tia Picores suggested. "We'll be a bit crowded, but we can get you home."

The girl refused, however. "Good-by, Rosario," said Dolores, smiling graciously. "You know, we are friends now." And she climbed in after her aunt. The wagon creaked under these two solid additions to its burden, but finally drove off with a music of squeaking joints and loose wheels. Rosario stood looking after it as if she were awakening from a dream. Could it all be true? Had she really made friends again with that hateful thing?

CHAPTER VI

THE SMUGGLERS

It was deep night; but the beacon on the Cabo de San Antonio, winking with a blinding glare like the eye of a Cyclops, broke the foam curling under the Garbosa's bow into spangles of colored radiance and sent a seething, restless, dancing pathway of fire out over the troubled waters. The adventurers were sailing close in shore before a faint land breeze. To starboard lowered the gigantic battlements of the Point, precipitous, weather-beaten, blackened by storm and sea. Inland against the starlit sky the somber Mongó reared its lofty head.

It had taken a whole day to cross the Gulf of Valencia; but now beyond the Cape the fair road to Algiers was opening, and the Garbosa would soon be out on the deep sea. Astern at the tiller, his eye studying the black outline of the promontory and checking up his bearings on the murky glass face of an old compass of tio Mariano's, sat the Rector, anxiously consulting Tonet, the experienced hand on board, the only member of the crew who had been "across the way."

"Easy as could be. The Cape, and then Southeast, Southeast, without swerving. Set her right, and she'll get there by herself, if this wind holds!"

The Rector gave a pull at the tiller with both hands. The Garbosa, groaning like an invalid turning over in bed, swung around to the course. The gentle swell that had been roiling her slightly from abeam she now caught full under the bow, and she began to pitch, setting the foam aboil. The light now came from dead astern, dousing its white sweep in the rippling wake of the vessel.

"And now for a bit of sleep!" Tonet stretched out on a coil of line at the foot of the mast and pulled a piece of canvas over him. His brother would steer till midnight, when it would be his turn till dawn.

The Rector was now the only one awake on board the Garbosa. The thrashing of the water forward was not loud enough to drown the snores from the crew sleeping almost at his feet. For the first time in his life, Pascualo was uneasy. He could draw a seine in a full gale. He had never thought once of danger in the worst of weather. But now, in his loneliness, he was filled with all manner of forebodings. How was this venture going to turn out? What a responsibility to be in charge of one's own enterprise! Would the old hulk hold together if a storm struck her? Supposing they were caught on the way back with a full load! And he sat on, listening to the agonized moans that came from the Garbosa's joints, as she took the seas, or looking up at the throats of the giant bellying canvas which, as it swayed to and fro, seemed to be scraping the sky with the point of the mast.

But the night wore on uneventfully, and the dawn came, with a flock of red clouds, and as hot as a mid-summer's morning. The sail now kept flapping like the wing of a great bird in lazy flight. The wind was coming in barely perceptible gusts that tickled the surface of the burnished, prostrate sea, as blue as a Venetian mirror. The mainland was completely down. Away off to port some pink blotches, hardly distinguishable from the mist of sunrise, vaguely dimmed the horizon line. "That's Ibiza off there!" Tonet called to his companions. Slowly the Garbosa crept along over the tranquil, circular immensity, beyond whose rim black lines could occasionally be seen – the smoke of distant steamers. A bare ripple under the vessel's bows marked her virtual immobility. The sail hung lifeless from the mast, sweeping back over the deck at times as a capricious zephyr headed the course. Looking down over the sides, the eye plunged deep into the blue waters, where the sky, the clouds and the boat were mirrored in bottomless mystery. Schools of fish darted by underneath, shining like bits of tin. Dolphins were playing about on the surface close at hand, showing their absurd muzzles and their black sides sprinkled with diamond dust. Flying fish, the butterflies of the sea, came up, flitted along for a distance, and then sank again into the depths. Strange beings of fantastic shapes and indescribable colors, some gayly striped like tigers, others in mournful black, some huge and chubby, others small and wiry, some with cavernous mouths and tiny bellies, others with enormous bodies and ridiculous little snouts, swarmed around the old boat, as though the Garbosa were one of those mythological craft that used to lead processionals of marine divinities.

Tonet and the two sailors were taking advantage of the calm to fish with hand lines. The "cat" was busy forward with the midday meal. The Rector was pacing the narrow deck astern, scanning the horizon and swearing for wind. The Garbosa was eating her way slowly along, but to all appearances she might have been nailed to the surface of that placid sea. Now, in the distance, a schooner was visible, caught in the calm, her sails sagging, east-bound, for Malta or Suez, probably. Great steamers occasionally slipped past along the horizon line, their funnels smoking, their decks almost level with the water from the loads of Russian wheat they were carrying from the Black Sea to the Straits.

And the sun rose high in the heavens. The waters shone with a dazzling glare as though boiling from an infinite conflagration. The decks of the Garbosa grew hot, and her old timbers cracked stridently as they shrank. Captain and crew ate dinner under the shade of the sail, scooping with their spoons in the same spot, drinking deep draughts from the wine jug to cool their parched throats, their shirts open in front, sweating in streams, panting from the lifeless sultry calm, enviously watching the gulls that sailed by just above the water, as though afraid of the stifling muggy air on high. After their meal, the men walked about on deck for a time, lazily, and with heavy eyes, drunk with sunlight rather than with wine; then they went below, one after the other, throwing themselves flat on boards that were wet with bilge-water, and sagged under the slightest weight. So the afternoon, and another night went by.

At dawn the wind freshened, and the Garbosa, like an old war-horse touched with the spur, leapt forward, careering and dancing over the ruffled waters. About noon clouds of smoke began to rise along the horizon ahead, and gradually from the girdling sash of green sky, thick steel masts with battletops, the towers of forts, it seemed, came into view, and under them, floating castles painted white, spotted black with thousands of men, going this way and that through their own smoke, now forming in squares, now stringing out along the whole horizon – a flock of Leviathans, churning the water with invisible fins.

Algiers could not be far away! That was the French Mediterranean squadron, out for practice. God, what big boats people were making nowadays! The smallest of those monsters, the white cruiser, with all those flags and black balls, that kept going in and out among the other ships, signaling and directing the evolutions, would only have to graze the Garbosa to reduce her to kindling wood! And those black pipes sticking out of the turrets! One sneeze from those snouts, and it would be all day with the Rector's outfit and part of to-morrow! The smugglers studied the fleet with the uneasy respect a pickpocket has for a squad of policemen marching by.

About three o'clock, a dark irregularity, something like the arched back of a whale, rose on the horizon ahead! Land! And Tonet, who remembered having seen it before, called it the Cabo de la Mala Dona, the farthest outpost of the coast. Algiers was more to port! The breeze was freshening every moment. The swelling lateen sail, as the boat heeled, described a saucy curve on the tilted mast The prow went merrily up and down, throwing a lively spray from the chop. The Garbosa, old horse, was smelling her oats, and bolting along the last lap to the stable, though every bone in her strained!

They were heading East-Southeast now; and by evening-fall, on the flanks of the Mala Dona, indistinct still in the haze to starboard, could nevertheless be seen the rolling tops of hills, and white blotches that meant villages. Then, as the boat continued its rapid flight, these faded from view, but the coast itself was up, ahead. The Garbosa hugged the shore. With night, the saw-toothed crest of a ridge of mountains, climbed up against the sky; and the wind veered to southward, blowing off the land, warm, and fragrant with the perfume of an enchanted country. Low in the west hung the new moon, a real Oriental crescent, fine drawn with curving points – just as you saw it embroidered on the standards of the Prophet, or shining from the weathervanes of Mahometan minarets! That was what you called being in Africa! The beat of the surf was audible from the Garbosa's decks, and even calls from Moors ashore there in the fields. Clusters of lights could be made out along the coast – towns off there! Then, the sky above the end of the mountain chain to the Eastward began to grow ruddy; the sea broke inland in a capricious curve; and soon many, many lights began to glow. Algiers!

In three hours they were in the roadstead. Now there were lights, of varied grouping and intensity, everywhere, hundreds of them, winding along in a serpentine course to mark a seashore boulevard. The Garbosa, luffing slightly, shot round a promontory, and the city itself, in all the splendor of a Levantine port, was before them. Cristo, never mind flor de mayo and alguilla! It was worth the trip to see just that! And folks bragged about the harbor at the Grao! The humble fishermen stood there mouths agape; with the exception of Tonet, of course, who had seen many better things in his trip around the world! The water of the great bay was absolutely calm. A red and green beacon marked the entrance to the basin. The city climbed a hill in the background, the houses shining white even in the dark, from the millions of lights that suggested a festival. What a waste of gas! Long snaky stripes of color came out over the surface of the water, flecked here with the harbor lights of a merchant vessel, there with the distinguishing marks of a man-o'-war. Off in this direction was the European city – the brightest section, the restaurants and bazaars all lighted up, while the black ant-like forms of people, and the canvas-tops of swiftly moving vehicles, could be seen on the streets. And what a strange mixture of sounds! Music from the cafés, trumpet calls from the barracks, talking and shouting from the boulevards, cries from boatmen on the water – the blended murmurings of a cosmopolitan city of trade, cheating all day long for the money it wastes in pleasure after sundown.

The Rector could not indulge in the ecstasies of wonderment too long. His mind went back to business. The men of the crew were gathering in the sail preparatory to lying to. Faithful to tio Mariano's instructions, Pascualo took a piece of tarred cable, set fire to it, and began to describe circles above his head, in series of threes, marked off by hiding the torch behind a piece of canvas which the "cat" held up in front of it. The signal was repeated many many times, the Rector meanwhile gazing steadily at the darkest part of the water-front. Tonet and the others stood around watching the operations curiously. Finally a red lantern gleamed on shore. The "market" had understood the message. They would soon be off with the cargo.

The Rector explained the fine points of all this signaling. It wasn't wise to take on a load inside the basin. Tio Mariano knew, from experience, that detectives were always on the watch there, ready to telegraph the name and description of any boat likely to be smuggling. These spies got a percentage on the profits of the confiscation. It was better to load up outside, and at night. By morning they would be off again, with absolutely no one the wiser. Then they could make Valencia without any trouble at all. For, who the devil would ever guess, at home, what they had on board? And the good-natured fisherman laughed at his own shrewdness, though, inside, he rather admired the wily uncle who had given him all this good advice.

And the Rector waited, his eyes anxiously fixed on the water in the direction from which the red light had shone. Tonet and the two sailors were sitting on the bow, their legs dangling over the water. They were hungrily studying the brilliantly lighted town. Rosario's husband had been stationed at Algiers once, and he had all sorts of stories to tell about his gay escapades about the city. He could even point the places out from the lights in front of them. They could actually hear the music from one of the cafés, where he had had such a time, such a time! The "cat" opened his mouth from ear to ear, and his eyes gleamed excitedly. He could almost see the wonderful dancing girl the great man was describing. That long straight avenue there, leading from the pier – all arches, and a light under each one, so that it looked like the nave of a church with candles – was the Boulevard de la République, where the really swell places were. Only officers from the navy went there – absinthe, mostly – with rich Moors – you ought to see the big turbans they wore – and Jew merchants, with silk tunics, dirty usually, but of fine colors. The streets leading off it also had arches and pretty shops. Over there was the Plaza del Caballo where the principal mosque was – a big white building – and a lot of those Moor lunatics went there, all washed and barefoot, to pay respects to that fake of a Mahomet. You could even see the little tower of the place from the boat. Well, at certain times of the day, a fellow in a turban got up there and waved his arms and shouted like a crazy man. And madames, all along, well dressed, and waddling in little steps like ducks, with a mersí for every compliment you dropped them! And soldiers, with date-palm hats, and trousers big enough for a whole family to get inside them; and lots of fine fellows from every country, who had gone there to get away from the police! A drinking place every two doors, with tables out on the sidewalks, and absinthe in big glassfuls!

Tonet had seen it all himself, and described everything with gestures or grimaces that vividly pictured each episode and kept his companions laughing noisily. And up there was the Moorish city. They remembered that alley just off the market at the Grao where you brushed the wall on each side with your elbows? Well, that was a mile wide compared to the holes those Moors crawled through, always uphill, the eaves coming almost together overhead, and a stream of slop running down over the steps in the pavement. You needed to have plenty of liquor aboard and your nostrils plugged before you walked in front of the shops up there, rotten filthy dens where those dark-skinned devils squatted smoking in the doorways, muttering God knows what in that lingo of theirs. But you could live like a king with those people, yes, sir, and for very little, provided of course you didn't mind seeing people eat with their fingers after rubbing them in the dirt! You got a whole meal for a couple of cents, a pair of red painted eggs like you saw at home at Easter, and tea in cups the size of egg-shells, – and you could go to sleep if you wanted to, on the couch of some Moorish café there, to the sound of a flute and the banging of tambourines.

And then the women! Little Moor girls, their cheeks all painted up, their finger-nails stained blue, and queer tattooing on their breasts and backs; and then black ones who worked as masseuses in the baths; and the ladies, finally, with veils over their faces till all you could see was their nose and one eye, stumbling along in big fluffy trousers, wearing gold-cloth vests under their shawls, their arms like the show-window of a jewelry store, and all sorts of medals, coins, and half-moons, on their bosoms. "And what eyes! You never saw anything like it, boys! And the shapes they have. I remember once I ran into a big black one – rich, I guess – in a street in the upper part of town. Well, you know how I am – I simply couldn't help it! I just gave her a little pinch from behind. Well, sir, that woman squealed like a sick rat, and now from this direction and now from that a lot of big ugly devils came running with clubs the size of your arm. There was a fellow with me, and we took out our knives and held the gang off till the zouaves came. They put us in the coop for a couple of days, and then the consul got us out. You see," Tonet concluded, looking at his feet with an expression of weariness, "in those days I was rather wild!" But his companions were much impressed with the superiority of a man who had done all that. And they liked the story of the black girl best of all.

The Rector, who was still astern, gave a sudden cry. Some one from shore was coming aboard. And in fact a red light could be seen drawing nearer, and a curious chugging was audible, as if a dog were splashing his way toward the boat. It was the launch from the "market." A fine looking young man with a blond mustache and wearing a blue coat climbed up on deck. In the lingua franca of the African ports, a mixture of Italian, French, Greek and Catalan, he explained just what the situation was. He had received the letter of mosiú Mariano of Valencia, and had been expecting them the night before. He had understood their signal and brought the goods right off; for, even if the French usually winked at such things, it was just as well not to waste any time in getting through.

"All ready, boys," the Rector shouted to his men. "Load her on!"

The launch was piled high with bales, till barely a foot of smokestack was visible over the top. But one by one the heavy bundles began to come aboard, sewed up in waterproof burlap and exhaling a teasing fragrance. The two craft were lashed together so that the transfer was not difficult. As the packages vanished through the hatches of the Garbosa, the old boat got lower and lower in the water, groaning and creaking, meanwhile, like a long-suffering donkey complaining of its load.

The blond Algerian kept looking the vessel over, and his astonishment grew apace. Were they going to put to sea in a trap like that, loaded way down to the water line? The Rector replied with several knocks on his own strong breast to evidence an assurance that he really did not feel. Put it all on, put it all on! The way he figured, with the help of God and the Holy Christ of the Grao, every last bale would be on the shore at the Cabañal within forty-eight hours. The hold was soon full up. The remaining bundles were stowed on the old creaking deck, lashed down and propped with planks so as not to wash overboard. "Well, good luck, captain!" said the young man from the launch, and he shook the Rector's hand warmly.

The vessels were pushed apart, and the launch ran off. The Garbosa spread her sail again, and catching the wind, came around. The lights of Algiers began now to come from the left, and soon they were fading visibly in the distance. Once under way again, the Rector felt a gripe at his heart. Heaven help them, and not send a storm! Fine weather now! But still it was a miracle the old sieve got along at all. Amidships the deck was almost level with the water, and the boat seemed down by the head, and did not take the sea well. Though there was scarcely any chop, the waves came over, forward, as though a storm were running. Tonet, however, with nothing in particular to lose on the venture, made fun of the old-tub – a torpedo-boat he called her, she sat so low in the water!

At dawn the Mala Dona was just visible, as an indistinct silhouette, over the stern, and an hour later they were fairly to sea. Out on the Mediterranean once more, the Rector could hardly believe the cargo he had taken aboard so rapidly during the night could be real. But there the bales were! You could see them! The men, quite played out from the hard work of loading, were sleeping on them. Besides the old Garbosa was crawling along like a mud-turtle from such a burden! But Pascualo liked the look of the weather. A smooth sea and a good breeze! If things held like that, the ramshackle old girl might last to Valencia – but no farther. It wasn't exactly fear. The Rector realized now the imprudence of starting an important venture in a rig like that. His poor old father had made fun of the sea, as he had; but that had not prevented him from being tossed out on the beach one day like a chunk of rotting garbage! But all that day and the following night the breeze continued fair and the sea calm.

But the morning dawned with a sky that was overcast, and the wind came hard in streaks and squalls that were gradually piling up a sea. The Cabo de San Antonio had just come into view, with the mists curling round it. Behind, the peak of the Mongó alone was visible, for the base of the mountain was cloaked in cloud. The Garbosa was running with an alarming list to starboard, its bulging sail almost dipping into the water, as the vessel raced along. The frown of the weather was not at all to the liking of the captain, who, if he wanted to get his load ashore, would not be able to run in till nightfall anyhow.

Suddenly the Rector jumped to his feet and let the tiller go. Futro! There was no doubt about it. A sail had heaved in view out of the mists around the Cape. He knew that craft well. It was the cutter from Valencia on watch off the point. Some one had squealed at the Cabañal! The real object of the Garbosa had been not fishing, but something else! Tonet had also recognized the boat, and he looked at his brother anxiously.

There was still time! Out to sea with her! The Garbosa swung round a little, heading Northeast, away from the Cape. The maneuver was all in her favor, as she now got the wind fairly over the stern quarter, and was eating into the sea like anything, taking every wave aboard over the bow. The cutter was surely after them, for she too came about and followed. A better and a lighter boat with more speed in her! But the Rector saw that the distance between them was considerable. He had a good start. He would run, run, run, damn it, clear to Marseilles if necessary – provided, that is, the old band-box didn't sink, cargo, crew, and all.

At noon the Garbosa had held her own. By that time they must surely have been as far up as Valencia. Suddenly the cutter changed her course, and turned shoreward, abandoning the chase. The sly devils! The Rector understood what they were up to. The weather had an ugly look. The cutter preferred to loaf along the coast, sure that sooner or later the Garbosa would try to get back home and land her booty.

"We'll go them one better," the Rector exclaimed, drawing a deep breath of relief. "We've got to find a place to crawl into, boys! We can't stay another night at sea in a mess of a boat like this. Off for the Columbretas! There's always a place there for an honest free-trader!"

At nine o'clock that night, taking her course from a lighthouse, and groaning and cracking as she bucked into a nasty sea, the Garbosa shot into the Big Columbreta, an extinct volcanic crater, caved in, on one side, leaving a half-circle of steep, wave-eaten cliffs, within which the water is calm, unless the storm happens to be coming from the East. This island, uninhabited save by the keepers of the lighthouse, has not a trace of beach. The abrupt, precipitous walls of lava are too bare to feed a tree, so hot is the sun in summer, so heavy is the air with salt. At their base are piles of pebbles that the storm-surf has rolled on high, with a mixture of flotsam and jetsam and dead fish. Scattered around the larger islet lie the Little Columbretas, – the Foradada, piercing the surface of the water like the arch of a submarine temple, and a cluster of barren rocks, bald, sheer-faced, unapproachable, like the fingers of some prehistoric colossus buried there in the depths.

The Garbosa came to anchor in the pool. No one seemed to notice her presence. The lighthouse people were accustomed to these visits of mysterious craft, which, for that matter, came to this solitary archipelago just because they did not want to be noticed. The sailors could see the lights in the buildings on shore and hear voices even, but they paid no more attention to them than to the gulls that darted rapidly by overhead on the blasts of the gale, wailing like infants in agony. Outside, and on the windward shore of the island, the sea was snarling angrily. As the waves rolled by the promontory they sent great smooth undulations back into the calm of the bay.

As soon as it was light, Pascualo went ashore, and up over a winding trail he found, he climbed the cliffs, to study the looks of things between the islet and the mainland, which still lay invisible in the storm. Not a sail in sight! But that did not reassure the Rector. The Columbretas were notorious as a refuge for smugglers in bad weather. He was sure his pursuers would follow him there. At the same time he was afraid to put to sea again in that leaky boat. Not afraid to die, but how about that load of tobacco, and the money he had put into it! Yes, but stay there, and have the government get it? Not much! To sea, then, even if the whole thing went to the bottom for the sharks to smoke! No coast guard was ever going to brag about getting rich on him!

After the meal at noon time, the Garbosa spread her sail, and left the sheltered anchorage as mysteriously as she had come. She said not even good-by to the lighthouse people who came out on the platform in front of the beacon to see her off. Diós, what a wind! First a slap here and then a slap there! The Garbosa almost stood on her stern end as she was lifted by the first wave, outside; but she staggered free and shoved her nose into the green of the trough that followed, as though she were headed for the depths through one of those gigantic eddies that blinked like treacherous eyes of the abyss. Then, crash! The next comber came full aboard, the water churning into a white roar or atomized in spray, and sweeping aft in cascades over the bales of tobacco, while the crew, soaked to the skin, held on for dear life. Tonet grew pale, and clenched his teeth. He didn't mind bad weather in the right boat; but it was fool business leaving shelter in that God-forsaken punt. But the Rector, pot-bellied numskull that he was, would not listen to reason! The driveling idiot seemed to grow fat on getting people into trouble! And in fact, Pascualo's moon-face was glowing in the excitement of this battle with the sea. At every buffet of the waves he smiled, a purple flush suffusing his features, as though he were rising from a holiday meal. His arms seemed part and parcel of the heavy tiller, and his legs might just as well have been nailed to the deck. As the old Garbosa leapt and lunged, shrieking in every seam from stem to stern as though in panic-stricken agony, the Rector's spherical corpulence scarcely moved at all.

"What's the matter with you fellows?" And he would laugh with the loud bellow with which he applauded funny stories ashore – as soon as he saw the point in them. "Scared? Diós, why don't you wait till we get a breeze? Hardly enough air out this afternoon to catch your breath! Here she comes, here she comes! Brrrmm! Never touched the old girl! If that fellow had gotten us, good-night and good-morning! Anyhow, in the other world every day is Sunday, the parson says! Die young, and the lobsters eat you; die old, and it's the worms! What's the difference! Me for a short life and a gay one! And if need be, we can swim for it. Hey there, here she comes! Brrrrum! Tra, la, la! Missed again!.."

And the Rector talked on, expounding the sailor's philosophy of life he had learned offshore under tio Borrasca. But no one listened, except the "cat," who was on his first voyage, and stood clinging, palish-green with fright, to the mast, but with eyes and ears, nevertheless, for everything.

Night fell. The Garbosa was hanging on under a close-reefed sail, driving head foremost into the pitchy dark. The lanterns had not been lighted, for the risk of being seen was worse, almost, than the danger of a collision. About nine o'clock, the Rector gave a frantic pull at the rudder. A light had appeared in the mist, close by off the port bow. It was a boat beating down in the opposite direction. Pascualo could not make out the lines of the craft as she sped past; but he knew it was the cutter, which had tired of loafing off the Cabañal, and was boldly running for the Columbretas to catch the smugglers in their refuge before the storm cleared. For the first time since leaving the pool that afternoon, the Rector let go the tiller for a second. "This, for a pleasant night!" laughed he, making a coarse but expressive gesture of contempt towards his vanishing enemy.

At one o'clock another light came up ahead. Rosario! Rosario! That's the beacon on the Church! Square off the Cabañal! And just the time to make a landing! But would the folks at home be on hand?

The Rector headed inshore, but then his astonishing good humor gave way to a thoughtful mood. He knew what that coast was like. If he tried to lie to in that blow, it would be all over in two hours. They would smash up, either on the Breakwater or on the bars in front of Nazaret. To run offshore was out of the question. The Garbosa was getting loggier and loggier every moment. The water was already way up in the hold. She would break to pieces in the sea before morning. There was no other way out of it. Ashore she must go, and trust to luck! Driving as much before the breakers as before the gale, the vessel held straight on toward the beach still shrouded in gloom. Suddenly another light! And it flashed three times, and went out. Then, three times again! Tonet joined the Rector in a cry of joy. Tio Mariano was on watch ashore. It was the signal agreed upon. He had scratched three matches under cover of a shawl, which kept the light from being seen except from the sea.

It looked like madness, but the Rector had the reef cut out of the sail. The Garbosa spurted like a race-horse, showing her keel, as she lunged through the waves, now forward and now astern. The boom of the surf ahead could now be heard above the howl of the gale. Finally, from the top of a comber, the beach came into view, the black profiles of the houses standing out against the sky. Then a sharp, snapping, crunching crash! The boat stopped short, grinding and groaning as though her timbers were being torn asunder. The wind caught the sail and the mast went overboard. A huge breaker burst over the stern, washing the men off their feet, and loosening the bales from their fastenings. The Garbosa had struck bottom, but only a few yards from dry land. Out through the surf a swarm of dark figures streamed, splashing into the water and rushing at the boat. Men climbed up on board, and without saying a word to the Rector and his crew, who stood there still speechless from the shock, they began to pick up the bundles and pass them on from hand to hand.

"Tio, tio!" the Rector called, finally recovering his wits, and leaping into the water, which hardly passed his belt.

"Here I am," came the answer from the dark. "But shut up, for God's sake, and get to work!"

And it was a strange weird spectacle, indeed. Darkness, everywhere, and a sea bellowing in the gloom, the reeds and shore-grass bent low under the gale, the breakers tumbling in as though bent on swallowing up the land, while a legion of dark-skinned men, with their clothes off, tugged at great bales in the hold of the vessel that was rapidly going to pieces, or fished them out from the foaming waters and dragged them up on the beach, where they disappeared mysteriously, while, in the intervals between gusts of wind, the sound of creaking wagon wheels could be heard.

Tio Mariano was walking about from one point to another in his long-legged boots, calling off sharp, imperious orders, and flourishing a revolver in his hand. There was no danger from the revenue men. The guards had all been "greased," and were watching to give the alarm if their chief arrived. The gun was for those silent workmen handling the bales, a light-fingered crew, faithful disciples of the doctrine that to steal from a thief is a virtue. But none of them would sneak anything away in the confusion! By God, the first man who tried any tricks would get something!