by Bret Harte
CHAPTER XI.
THE CAPTAIN FOLLOWS HIS SHIP.
When Padre Esteban had finished reading the document he laid it down andfixed his eyes on the young man. Hurlstone met his look with a glance ofimpatient disdain.
"What have you to say to this?" asked the ecclesiastic, a littleimpressed by his manner.
"That as far as it concerns myself it is a farrago of absurdity. If Iwere the person described there, why should I have sought you withwhat you call a lie of 'sentimental passion,' when I could have claimedprotection openly with my SISTER PATRIOT," he added, with a bitterlaugh.
"Because you did not know THEN the sympathy of the people nor thedecision of the Council," said the priest.
"But I know it NOW, and I refuse to accept it."
"You refuse--to--to accept it?" echoed the priest.
"I do." He walked towards the door. "Before I go, let me thank you forthe few hours' rest and security that you have given to one who may be acursed man, yet is no impostor. But I do not blame you for doubting onewho talks like a desperate man, yet lacks the courage of desperation.Good-by!"
"Where are you going?"
"What matters? There is a safer protection and security to be found thaneven that offered by the Council of Todos Santos."
His eyes were averted, but not before the priest had seen them glazeagain with the same gloomy absorption that had horrified him in thechurch the evening before. Father Esteban stepped forward and placed hissoft hand on Hurlstone's shoulder.
"Look at me. Don't turn your face aside, but hear me; for I believe yourstory."
Without raising his eyes, the young man lifted Father Esteban's handfrom his shoulder, pressed it lightly, and put it quietly aside.
"I thank you," he said, "for keeping at least that unstained memory ofme. But it matters little now. Good-by!"
He had his hand upon the door, but the priest again withheld him.
"When I tell you I believe your story, it is only to tell you more. Ibelieve that God has directed your wayward, wandering feet here toHis house, that you may lay down the burden of your weak and sufferingmanhood before His altar, and become once more a child of His. I standhere to offer you, not a refuge of a day or a night, but for alltime; not a hiding-place from man or woman, but from yourself, myson--yourself, your weak and mortal self, more fatal to you than all.I stand here to open for you not only the door of this humble cell, butthat of His yonder blessed mansion. You shall share my life with me; youshall be one of my disciples; you shall help me strive for other soulsas I have striven for yours; the protection of the Church, which isall-powerful, shall be around you if you wish to be known; you shallhide yourself in its mysteries if you wish to be forgotten. You shall bemy child, my companion, my friend; all that my age can give you shallbe yours while I live, and it shall be your place one day to take up myunfinished work when it falls from these palsied hands forever."
"You are mistaken," said the young man coldly. "I came to you forhuman aid, and thank you for what you have granted me: I have not beenpresumptuous enough to ask more, nor to believe myself a fitting subjectfor conversion. I am weak, but not weak enough to take advantage of themistaken kindness of either the temporal Council of Todos Santos or itsspiritual head." He opened the door leading into the garden. "Forget andforgive me, Father Esteban, and let me say farewell."
"Stop!" said the ecclesiastic, raising himself to his full height andstepping before Hurlstone. "Then if you will not hear me in the name ofyour Father who lives, in the name of your father who is dead I commandyou to stay! I stand here to-day in the place of that man I neverknew--to hold back his son from madness and crime. Think of me as of himwhom you loved, and grant to an old man who might have had a son as oldas you the right of throwing a father's protecting arm around you."
There was a moment's silence.
"What do you want me to do?" said Hurlstone, suddenly lifting his nowmoist and glistening eyes upon the old man.
"Give me your word of honor that for twenty-four hours you will remainas you are--pledging yourself to nothing--only promising to commit noact, take no step, without consulting me. You will not be sought here,nor yet need you keep yourself a prisoner in these gloomy walls--exceptthat, by exposing yourself to the people now, you might be compromisedto some course that you are not ready to take."
"I promise," said Hurlstone.
He turned and held out both his hands; but Father Esteban anticipatedhim with a paternal gesture of uplifted and opened arms, and for aninstant the young man's forehead was bowed on the priest's shoulder.
Father Esteban gently raised the young man's head.
"You will take a pasear in the garden until the Angelus rings, my son,while the air is sweet and wholesome, and think this over. Remember thatyou may accept the hospitality of the Council without sin of deception.You were not in sympathy with either the captors of the Excelsior ortheir defeated party; for you would have flown from both. You, of allyour party now in Todos Santos, are most in sympathy with us. You haveno cause to love your own people; you have abandoned them for us. Go, myson; and meditate upon my words. I will fetch you from yonder slope intime for the evening refection."
Hurlstone bowed his head and turned his irresolute feet towards theupper extremity of the garden, indicated by the priest, which seemed tooffer more seclusion and security than the avenue of pear-trees. He wasdazed and benumbed. The old dogged impulses of self-destruction--revivedby the priest's reproaches, but checked by the vision of his dead andforgotten father, which the priest's words had called up--gave way, inturn, to his former despair. With it came a craving for peace and restso insidious that in some vague fear of yielding to it he quickened hispace, as if to increase his distance from the church and its apostle. Hewas almost out of breath when he reached the summit, and turned to lookback upon the Mission buildings and the straggling street of the pueblo,which now for the first time he saw skirted the wall of the garden inits descent towards the sea. He had not known the full extent of TodosSantos before; when he swam ashore he had landed under a crumblingoutwork of the fort; he gazed now with curious interest over the hamletthat might have been his home. He looked over the red-tiled roofs, andfurther on to the shining bay, shut in by the impenetrable rampart offog. He might have found rest and oblivion here but for the intrusion ofthose fellow-passengers to share his exile and make it intolerable.How he hated and loathed them all! Yet the next moment he found himselfscrutinizing the street and plaza below him for a glimpse of hiscountrywomen, whom he knew were still in the town or vainly endeavoringto locate their habitation among the red-tiled roofs. And that frank,clear-eyed girl--Miss Keene!--she who had seemed to vaguely pityhim--she was somewhere here too--selected by the irony of fate to be hisconfederate! He could not help thinking of her beauty and kindness now,with a vague curiosity that was half an uneasiness. It had not struckhim before, but if he were to accept the ridiculous attitude forced uponhim by Todos Santos, its absurdity, as well as its responsibility, wouldbecome less odious by sharing it with another. Perhaps it might beto HER advantage--and if so, would he be justified in exposing itsabsurdity? He would have to see her first--and if he did, how would heexplain his real position? A returning wave of bitterness threw him backinto his old despair.
The twilight had slowly gathered over the view as he gazed--or, rathera luminous concentration above the pueblo and bay had left the outercircle of fog denser and darker. Emboldened by the apparent desertion ofthe Embarcadero, he began to retrace his steps down the slope, keepingclose to the wall so as to avoid passing before the church again, or acloser contact with the gardener among the vines. In this way he reachedthe path he had skirted the night before, and stopped almost underthe shadow of the Alcalde's house. It was here he had rested andhidden,--here he had tasted the first sweets of isolation and oblivionin the dreamy garden,--here he had looked forward to peace with thepassing of the ship,--and now? The sound of voices and laughtersuddenly grated upon his ear. He had heard those voices before.
Theirdistinctness startled him until he became aware that he was standingbefore a broken, half-rotting door that permitted a glimpse of thecourtyard of the neighboring house. He glided quickly past it withoutpausing, but in that glimpse beheld Mrs. Brimmer and Miss Chubb halfreclining in the corridor--in the attitude he had often seen them on thedeck of the ship--talking and laughing with a group of Mexican gallants.A feeling of inconceivable loathing and aversion took possession ofhim. Was it to THIS he was returning after his despairing search foroblivion? Their empty, idle laughter seemed to ring mockingly in hisears as he hurried on, scarce knowing whither, until he paused beforethe broken cactus hedge and crumbling wall that faced the Embarcadero.A glance over the hedge showed him that the strip of beach was deserted.He looked up the narrow street; it was empty. A few rapid strides acrossit gained him the shadow of the sea-wall of the Presidio, unchecked andunhindered. The ebbing tide had left a foot or two of narrow shinglebetween the sea and the wall. He crept along this until, a hundred yardsdistant, the sea-wall reentered inland around a bastion at the entranceof a moat half filled at high tide by the waters of the bay, but now aditch of shallow pools, sand, and debris. He leaned against the bastion,and looked over the softly darkening water.
How quiet it looked, and, under that vaporous veil, how profound andinscrutable! How easy to slip into its all-embracing arms, and sink intoits yielding bosom, leaving behind no stain, trace, or record! Asurer oblivion than the Church, which could not absolve memory, grantforgetfulness, nor even hide the ghastly footprints of its occupants.Here was obliteration. But was he sure of that? He thought of the bodyof the murdered Peruvian, laid out at the feet of the Council by thissame fickle and uncertain sea; he thought of his own distorted facesubjected to the cold curiosity of these aliens or the contemptuous pityof his countrymen. But that could be avoided. It was easy for him--agood swimmer--to reach a point far enough out in the channel for theebbing tides to carry him past that barrier of fog into the open andobliterating ocean. And then, at least, it might seem as if he hadattempted to ESCAPE--indeed, if he cared, he might be able to keepafloat until he was picked up by some passing vessel, bound to a distantland! The self-delusion pleased him, and seemed to add the clinchingargument to his resolution. It was not suicide; it was escape--certainlyno more than escape--he intended! And this miserable sophism ofself-apology, the last flashes of expiring conscience, helped to lightup his pale, determined face with satisfaction. He began coolly todivest himself of his coat.
What was that?--the sound of some dislodged stones splashing in oneof the pools further up! He glanced hurriedly round the wall of thebastion. A figure crouching against the side of the ditch, as ifconcealing itself from observation on the glacis above, was slowlyapproaching the sea. Suddenly, when within a hundred yards of Hurlstone,it turned, crossed the ditch, rapidly mounted its crumbling sides,and disappeared over the crest. But in that hurried glimpse he hadrecognized Captain Bunker!
The sudden and mysterious apparition of this man produced on Hurlstonean effect that the most violent opposition could not have created.Without a thought of the terrible purpose it had interrupted, andobeying some stronger instinct that had seized him, he dashed down intothe ditch and up to the crest again after Captain Bunker. But he hadcompletely disappeared. A little lagoon, making in from the bay, onwhich a small fishing-boat was riding, and a solitary fisherman mendinghis nets on the muddy shore a few feet from it, were all that was to beseen.
He was turning back, when he saw the object of his search creeping fromsome reeds, on all fours, with a stealthy, panther-like movement towardsthe unconscious fisherman. Before Hurlstone could utter a cry, Bunkerhad sprung upon the unfortunate man, thrown him to the earth, rapidlyrolled him over and over, enwrapping him hand and foot in his ownnet, and involving him hopelessly in its meshes. Tossing the helplessvictim--who was apparently too stupefied to call out--to one side,he was rushing towards the boat when, with a single bound, Hurlstonereached his side and laid his hand upon his shoulder.
"Captain Bunker, for God's sake! what are you doing?"
Captain Bunker turned slowly and without apparent concern towards hiscaptor. Hurlstone fell back before the vacant, lack-lustre eyes thatwere fixed upon him.
"Captain Bunker's my name," said the madman, in a whisper. "LemuelBunker, of Nantucket! Hush! don't waken him," pointing to the prostratefisherman; "I've put him to sleep. I'm Captain Bunker--old drunkenBunker--who stole one ship from her owners, and disgraced himself, andnow is going to steal another--ha, ha! Let me go."
"Captain Bunker," said Hurlstone, recovering himself in time to preventthe maniac from dashing into the water. "Look at me. Don't you know me?"
"Yes, yes; you're one of old Bunker's dogs kicked overboard by Perkins.I'm one of Perkins' dogs gone mad, and locked up by Perkins! Ha, ha! ButI got out! Hush! SHE let me out. SHE thought I was going to see the boysat San Antonio. But I'm going off to see the old barque out there in thefog. I'm going to chuck Perkins overboard and the two mates. Let me go."
He struggled violently. Hurlstone, fearful of quitting his hold torelease the fisherman, whom Captain Bunker no longer noticed, and notdaring to increase the Captain's fury by openly calling to him, beckonedthe pinioned man to make an effort. But, paralyzed by fear, the wretchedcaptive remained immovable, staring at the struggling men. With thestrength of desperation Hurlstone at last forced the Captain down uponhis knees.
"Listen, Captain! We'll go together--you understand. I'll help you--butwe must get a larger boat first--you know."
"But they won't give it," said Captain Bunker mysteriously. "Didn't youhear the Council--the owners--the underwriters say: 'He lost his ship,he's ruined and disgraced, for rum, all for rum!' And we want rum, youknow, and it's all over there, in the Excelsior's locker!"
"Yes, yes," said Hurlstone soothingly; "but there's more in the biggerboat. Come with me. We'll let the man loose, and we'll make him show ushis bigger boat."
It was an unfortunate suggestion; for the Captain, who had listened withan insane chuckle, and allowed himself to be taken lightly by thehand, again caught sight of the prostrate fisherman. A yell broke fromhim--his former frenzy returned. With a cry of "Treachery! all hands ondeck!" he threw off Hurlstone and rushed into the water.
"Help!" cried the young man, springing after him, "It is madness. Hewill kill himself!"
The water was shallow, they were both wading, they both reached the boatat the same time; but the Captain had scrambled into the stern-sheets,and cast loose the painter, as Hurlstone once more threw his arms abouthim.
"Hear me, Captain. I'll go with you. Listen! I know the way through thefog. You understand: I'll pilot you!" He was desperate, but no longerfrom despair of himself, but of another; he was reckless, but only tosave a madman from the fate that but a moment before he had chosen forhimself.
Captain Bunker seemed to soften. "Get in for'ard," he said, in a lowervoice. Hurlstone released his grasp, but still clinging to the boat,which had now drifted into deeper water, made his way to the bow. He wasclimbing over the thwarts when a horrified cry from the fisherman ashoreand a jarring laugh in his ear caused him to look up. But not in time tosave himself! The treacherous maniac had suddenly launched a blow froman oar at the unsuspecting man as he was rising to his knees. Itmissed his head, but fell upon his arm and shoulder, precipitating himviolently into the sea.
Stunned by the shock, he sank at first like lead to the bottom. When herose again, with his returning consciousness, he could see that CaptainBunker had already hoisted sail, and, with the assistance of his oars,was rapidly increasing his distance from the shore. With his returningdesperation he turned to strike out after him, but groaned as his onearm sank powerless to his side. A few strokes showed him the madnessof the attempt; a few more convinced him that he himself could barelyreturn to the shore. A sudden torpor had taken possession of him--he wassinking!
With this thought, a struggle for life began; and this man who had justnow sought death so eagerly--with n
o feeling of inconsistency, withno physical fear of dissolution, with only a vague, blind, doggeddetermination to live for some unknown purpose--a determination as vagueand dogged as his former ideas of self-destruction--summoned all hisenergies to reach the shore. He struck out wildly, desperately; once ortwice he thought he felt his feet touch the bottom, only to find himselfpowerlessly dragged back towards the sea. With a final superhuman efforthe gained at last a foothold on the muddy strand, and, half scrambling,half crawling, sank exhaustedly beside the fisherman's net. But thefisherman was gone! He attempted again to rise to his feet, but astrange dizziness attacked him. The darkening landscape, with itscontracting wall of fog; the gloomy flat; the still, pale sea, as yetunruffled by the faint land breeze that was slowly wafting the escapingboat into the shadowy offing--all swam round him! Through the roaringin his ears he thought he heard drumbeats, and the fanfare of a trumpet,and voices. The next moment he had lost all consciousness.
When he came to, he was lying in the guard-room of the Presidio. Amongthe group of people who surrounded him he recognized the gaunt featuresof the Commander, the sympathetic eyes of Father Esteban, and thefisherman who had disappeared. When he rose on his elbow, and attemptedto lift himself feebly, the fisherman, with a cry of gratitude, threwhimself on his knees, and kissed his helpless hand.
"He lives, he lives! your Excellencies! Saints be praised, he lives! Thehero--the brave Americano--the noble caballero who delivered me from themadman."
"Who are you? and whence come you?" demanded the Commander of Hurlstone,with grave austerity.
Hurlstone hesitated; the priest leaned forward with a half anxious, halfwarning gesture. There was a sudden rustle in the passage; the crowdgave way as Miss Keene, followed by Mrs. Markham, entered. The younggirl's eyes caught those of the prostrate man. With an impulsive cry sheran towards him.
"Mr. Hurlstone!"
"Hurlstone," echoed the group, pressing nearer the astonished man.
The Comandante lifted his hand gravely with a gesture of silence, andthen slowly removed his plumed hat. Every head was instantly uncovered.
"Long live our brave and noble ally, Don Diego! Long live the beautifulDona Leonor!"
A faint shade of sadness passed over the priest's face. He glanced fromHurlstone to Miss Keene.
"Then you have consented?" he whispered.
Hurlstone cast a rapid glance at Eleanor Keene.
"I consent!"
PART II. FREED.
