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 defenseless. 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 honor, 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 Jose, 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 Jose gaze at the San Cristofero, but to his unpracticed 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 Jose 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 bloodhounds on their prey. The vengeance of years was in every blow they struck. Jose 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 Gray—then put his arm round him, guard him through the melee, and lead him to the spot where the captain was.
But what followed utterly baffled Jose's comprehension. It was not until afterward 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 Jose care whither they went,—in that rapturous moment when he grasped once more the hand of Walter Gray, and knew that his friend was a free man now and forever. 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 Gray 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 Gray, won a brief but apparently satisfactory answer from the captain. Then the young sailor, Jose'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 Jose'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 Gray 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 Jose," he said, in his imperfect Spanish, “Master Walter Gray, 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 afterward 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 Jose's guide, James Noble; the chaplain, Sir Thomas Hartfield; Walter Gray, dressed now like an English gentleman; Fray Fernando; and, lastly, Jose. 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 favorably 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 Jose 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 Gray, 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 Jose:-" Señor Walter Gray, 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 favor. 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, Jest 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 afterward, 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.
“At last, I laid my hand in hers, and I said, Mother, if he lives, I will bring him back to you, God helping me.' How I came to promise that, without fear or faltering, dead against all human probability of fulfillment, to this hour I know not. The words seemed put into my mouth; I could not but speak them. I knew she knew the worst; and whether or not my rash promise gave her any comfort, I could scarcely tell. But you all know, comrades, a promise is a promise. If a man cannot redeem it, he can die in the effort; and death wipes all scores out. So I sold my share in the Royal Tudor; and it brought me a goodly sum, for God had prospered us. We bought the Sea Snake, then almost ready for the Spanish Main. My father helped largely therein; and, moreover, invested a share for my brother James, who must needs go out with me. These gentlemen, my friends, have shares also. We were chartered for the Pacific, to get sandal-wood.”
“Ay, sandal-wood, to be sure! and nothing else!" It was young James Noble who spoke, glancing round the board with a significant smile.
“Hold thy tongue, lad" said Captain Noble. "Nothing else that matters now,—especially in the presence of these honorable gentlemen;" and he looked at Fray Fernando and Jose.
“Who, as our captain seems to have forgotten, do not understand a word he has been saying for the last ten minutes," said the chaplain.
“Indeed, I did forget," said Captain George Noble, looking disconcerted. "Prithee, Sir Thomas, ask them to pardon me. Say to them what I would say in their own tongue, if I could. We owe it to their Christian charity that Cousin Walter was kept alive until deliverance came to him. But for them, he tells us, he would have sunk long ago under his bitter and cruel bondage. Thanks, first to God, from whom all goodness comes; then to these, His servants—' This our brother was dead, and is alive again; was lost, and is found.”
Sir Thomas Hartfield interpreted what was said to Fray Fernando and Jose. But the hearty clasping of hands and drinking of healths that followed, with true British cheering, needed no interpreter.
One word more in Spanish was addressed to the strangers, and this time it was Walter Gray who spoke. "I have told Cousin George, and all our friends here present, that you are truly one with us in faith and hope. You will come with us to England? And as surely as friends, homes, welcomes await us there, so surely all these are yours as much as they are ours.”
With glistening eye and quivering lip Fray Fernando thanked him, and accepted his offer, for himself and for Jose.