Читать книгу Four Bells: A Tale of the Caribbean - Ralph D. Paine - Страница 12

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A wisp of an elderly man appeared in the moonlit patio, with no more sound than the rustle of a dry leaf. He seemed to move with an habitual air of stealth. Bent and meager, his linen clothes flapped on him. He peered this way and that. The little brown monkey came dancing down from the trellis and perched, chattering, upon his shoulder. He stood fanning himself with a dingy straw hat. He was short of breath, wheezing audibly. No matter how trifling his errands, it was to be conjectured that he always flitted to and fro in a hurried, secretive manner.

Teresa moved out of the shadows. He jumped back, easily startled. His niece called out some affectionate Spanish phrase and dutifully advanced to embrace him. Señor Ramon Bazán pecked at her cheek, cackled a welcome, and wriggled clear. He was fascinated by the formidable size of the stranger who hovered between the galleon bell and the oleander tree. It was a phenomenon that provoked excited curiosity.

Uncle Ramon Bazán sputtered questions. Teresa proudly presented the second officer of the Tarragona who felt baffled because he could talk no Spanish. This failed to check the wordy welcome of the uncle of Teresa. He was impressed and amused. On tiptoe he patted Cary’s mighty shoulder and measured his height. It was like a terrier making friends with a Saint Bernard.

“He says you are as big as the hill of La Popa,” swiftly interpreted Teresa. “You do his poor house an honor. Everything in it is yours. You have made a delicious hit with him, Ricardo. He does not like many people.”

Cary bowed and conveyed his thanks. Uncle Ramon chuckled like the squeak of a rusty hinge. He had made a joke, explained Teresa. Why offer the house to this Señor Cary when he could easily carry it off on his back if he felt so disposed? They found chairs near the fountain. The Indian muchacho brought glasses of iced lemonade. Cary smoked his pipe and idly listened. To hear Teresa’s voice, flowing, musical, talking in the language of her native Cartagena, was a new delight.

Presently the wee brown monkey clambered to his knee and sat there. The wrinkled visage bore an odd resemblance to that of Señor Ramon Bazán. Richard Cary knocked the ashes from his briar pipe and laid it on the bench beside him. The monkey noted the procedure, with a grave scrutiny. Then it picked up the pipe, carefully rapped the bowl against Cary’s knee, and inserted the stem between its teeth. Cary courteously offered his match-box and tobacco-pouch. Uncle Ramon’s shrill mirth was so violent that a coughing fit was nearly the death of him. Teresa was gleeful because to win the monkey’s favor was a signal distinction. In her uncle’s sight, it was the final seal of approval.

Soon it was time to go back to the ship. The host escorted them to the street and sent the Indian lad in quest of a carriage. He warmly urged Richard Cary to make the house his home whenever he was in port. It was expressed with gusto. They left him in the doorway, a bizarre figure, the monkey tucked under one arm.

“Never have I seen my uncle like this,” said Teresa as they drove away. “He hates ’most everybody. You are his big pet, Ricardo. Any favor you ask, he will tumble over himself to do it.”

“I was sorry I couldn’t have a chat with him, he seemed so cordial. A comical old chap.”

“Pooh, he can talk English when he wants to. He lived in Washington one time, for the government at Bogotá. He is funny. To-night it was a trick, his talking only Spanish. Maybe you would say something about him to me, eh? He was sizing you up. He is just as sly as that little monkey. But I must not speak so horrid of my uncle. He is a very old man—cracked—some bats in the cabeza. How old do you think he is?”

“I couldn’t get a slant on him in the moonlight,” answered Cary. “He is pretty well warped and dried up, but he seems to have a kick in him.”

“Nobody knows how old that Ramon Bazán is, Ricardo. He looked just like this when I was a little, little girl.”

Cary absently filled his briar pipe. Teresa snatched it from him and objected:

“That monkey was trying to smoke it just like a man. Dirty beast! Here, you take a cigarette from me and I will scrub that pipe with boiling water.”

One other thing troubled her. That story of the galleon bell. Did Ricardo think she was stupid to believe all that stuff? It sounded true in the patio, in the moonlight of Cartagena, but would he laugh at her when he was at sea again in the Tarragona with that wise amigo of his, the chief engineer? Listen! It was no more wonderful than the marble pulpit in the cathedral, all carved with the images of the saints. It was well known to everybody that the Pope had commanded the best artists of Spain to carve that pulpit for a gift to the faithful people of Cartagena. The Pope had blessed it before the ship sailed from Cadiz. Oh, very long ago!

The ship was close to the Spanish Main when the English buccaneers had captured her. They were very angry to find the cases of marble that were all carved with the blessed images of the Catholic saints. So they threw the cases overboard when they plundered the ship. All this heavy marble! It did not sink at all, but floated on the waves. A long time these cases of marble floated until, one day, they washed right up on the beach of Cartagena.

The bishop called all the people to see the holy miracle and there was a procession to the cathedral with incense and banners and hymns. And there is the marble pulpit to-day, and the priests saying Mass under the canopy.

Richard Cary gravely agreed that such a miracle could not be doubted, even by a heretic. And he did not have to be persuaded to believe in the marvelous powers of the galleon’s bell to toll a warning of disaster. This comforted the heart of Teresa Fernandez, so shrewd and yet so credulous. She was radiantly happy in these golden moments with the man she loved.

He left her at the ship’s gangway. The chief officer was on watch. Dour and taciturn, he was human enough to say:

“You didn’t have to hurry back, Mr. Cary. A pity to cut it short on a night like this. The old man is ashore.”

“That is very thoughtful of you, but the stewardess had to come back and report for duty.”

“An uncommonly pretty young woman,” was the gruff comment, “and as good as she looks, from all accounts. I can’t blame you for taking notice. Don’t lose your head, though. Going to sea is a dog’s life for a man that’s fool enough to get married.”

“Exactly what I used to say,” replied Cary, “but a man has been known to change his mind.”

He drifted along the promenade deck and chatted with a passenger or two. This failed to interest him. In the lee of the cargo sheds, where the ship was moored, the air was hot and heavy. He went to his room and tried to read. A cabin steward came in with the briar pipe, sent by Teresa who had thoroughly cleaned and boiled it. He lighted the pipe and went on deck again, roaming to and fro alone.

It occurred to him to walk into Cartagena, as far as the nearest shops, and buy some picture postcards to send to his mother in New Hampshire. He had noticed them in the windows, attractively colored, giving impressions really vivid of the charm and antiquity of the place. They would be treasured at home, probably passed around at a meeting of the missionary society or the Ladies’ Aid.

It was an excuse to work off his restless humor. An absurd anticlimax, in a way, to be tied to the routine of a fruit steamer, to be separated from one’s sweetheart because, in the role of a stewardess, she had to wait upon a lot of fussy, pampered women. Richard Cary swore under his breath. Dreams of adventure? The sense of tingling expectancy? Bonds not easy to break constrained him, habits of discipline and environment. He was torn two ways. It was a conflict between the two Richard Carys.

After finding the postal cards and mailing them, he walked through one quaint, shadowed street after another. Certain buildings he felt drawn to find, the House of the Holy Inquisition, the towered cathedral, which was so bold a landmark from seaward, the cloistered convents whose nuns had fled inland whenever the topsails of the buccaneers had gleamed off the Boca Grande or the Boca Chica.

He was passing a café when he noticed, with a casual glance, a military officer seated just inside the iron grillwork of a long window. The officer waved a hand and called out a courteous invitation. Cary recognized him as Colonel Fajardo, the Comandante of the Port. This was rather surprising. Affability was unexpected. Richard Cary was intrigued. The chief engineer had taken pains to warn him against this gentleman as both truculent and dangerous where a woman was involved. Apparently Colonel Fajardo wished to dispel such an impression. He pointed at the tiny cognac glass in front of him and suavely suggested:

“Will you give me the pleasure? You are enjoying the lovely night, and alone? How unfortunate!”

“Thank you. I can tarry a few minutes,” replied Cary. He entered the door and took a chair facing the Colombian colonel. The café was more than respectable. It was what one might have called a resort of fashion. A perfectly safe place in which to sit with Colonel Fajardo and sip a tiny glass of cognac. He was sober enough, reflected Cary. Haggard and a little the worse for wear, but not in the least quarrelsome. Jimmy, the bartender of the Tarragona, must have been unduly excited. No prospect of melodrama in such a situation as this.

Nonsense, to imagine plots of revenge and murder just because a man was a South American and had a few drinks in him! It was true enough that Colonel Fajardo looked the part. To incur his dislike and then encounter him in a dark street might possibly be unhealthy. Apparently, however, he had thought discretion the better part of valor. It was off with the old love and on with the new.

“You will stay in the Tarragona?” inquired the colonel, with an air of friendly solicitude. “You are fond of the ship and the trip to Colombian ports?”

“Yes, thank you. It is a pleasant change after the North Atlantic. I hope to stay in the ship, if only to see Cartagena again.”

“Ah, ha, there is no other reason, Mr. Cary? Pardon me, I do not intend to be personal,” murmured Colonel Fajardo. He laughed, without mirth. The leathery cheek was flushed. Richard Cary ignored the implication. He was not one to invite trouble. Let the other man show his hand.

Colonel Fajardo smothered a yawn. It had been a fatiguing day. Cary found little to say. At his leisure he finished the glass of cognac. Colonel Fajardo declined another. He had an engagement to wait for a friend. Cary therefore bade him good-night. A courtly bow from the waist, a graceful phrase, and the colonel sat himself down again.

Rather fortunate, reflected Richard Cary as he resumed his promenade through the streets of Cartagena. He would have to meet this man on shipboard every voyage. It might have been disagreeable, also awkward, a personal row with the Comandante of the Port.

Into a sleeping square hemmed in by houses rambled Richard Cary and came to the massive church of San Pedro Clavér whose bells had jangled in the squat tower through long centuries. At its altar the Spanish conquerors had knelt in ornate armor before invading the fetid jungles and daring the unknown mountains to seek the fabled El Dorado.

Crossing the square and halting to gaze at the church, Cary happened to notice, from the tail of his eye, several men loitering on a corner underneath a balcony. The shadows somewhat obscured them. He thought nothing of it. One thrummed a guitar. They were singing some plaintive, long-drawn love song with many minor chords.

The second mate of the Tarragona glanced at his watch. He ought to be retracing his course, in the direction of the waterfront. He walked along one side of the square. The group of serenaders beneath the balcony strolled in the same direction. They were still singing. It was agreeable to listen to them.

Richard Cary turned into a street which was no more than a gash between shuttered walls of stone. No lights were visible. The musicians, care-free and idle, drifted into the same street and followed along behind him. They were in no haste. The night was still young. Cary felt like loitering until they finished a song whose refrain carried a cadence sweet and wistful.

They walked a little faster. The guitar and the harmonious voices were silenced. Richard Cary quickened his own gait and swung into a long, easy stride. Presently it caught his attention that the musicians had also increased their pace. He was not drawing away from them. This was a trifle odd. The Colombians of Cartagena were not apt to walk as fast as this. They seldom exerted themselves.

As a rule, this stalwart American mariner was contemptuously careless of danger nor borrowed trouble of any sort. He was likely to be unsuspicious. Now, however, he turned to glance over his shoulder at these unusually energetic Colombians. His ear noted that they were not shod with leather. Their footfalls made a quick, soft pit-pat on the stone pavement. It was like the tread of furtive animals.

They crossed a thin, white shaft of moonlight where a house had crumbled and fallen. It was discernible that they were young men, quick and slender, wearing white shirts, but no coats. A moment later Cary saw them divide, two flitting across the street.

He looked ahead of him. The street was like a dark ravine. It had taken a slight bend. He could see one lighted window, perhaps a hundred feet distant, a long, yellow rectangle laced with iron bars.

He was unarmed. The bamboo cane was merely ornamental. Instinct told him that he stood in peril of his life. These bravos of Cartagena were not intent on robbery. They were of the breed of the mediæval night-hawks of the cloak and sword, the gente de capa y espada, the rufflers who did murder for hire.

Long of limb and deep-lunged, Richard Cary might have run away from them and saved his skin. There was no pith in these thugs of the Cartagena slums to overtake him in a stern chase. He flung the thought aside. By God, no Devon man had ever turned his back when outnumbered in these same narrow, frowning streets. Five to one? They paid him a handsome compliment.

He suddenly whirled about to face the pursuers. He stood massive and alert, head thrust forward, like a bull about to charge. The two bravos who had crossed the street came gliding back to take him in the rear. The three whom he faced deployed to encircle him. They moved rapidly, in silence.

He dreaded to hear a pistol shot. They were not as clumsy as that, to make a noise and alarm the street unless it had to be done that way. Richard Cary was ashamed to cry out for help. It was like striking his flag. He drew in his breath. His strong teeth were set tight together. His fists were clenched. They swung at his sides. They were like terrible mallets.

He moved, slowly, until his back touched the wall of the overhanging house. He was at bay. The bravos approached him like cats. They entertained a profound respect for him. The most reckless one of them plucked a knife from his shirt. He led the attack. A quick thrust or two and the thing would be done. It would be like sticking a steer for beef.

Colonel Fajardo was waiting at the Café Dos Hermanos for the word that the business had been dispatched. He had the money ready in his pocket. It would not do to fail. Madre de Dios, no! Not when a man like that one gave the order. He knew too much about these five bad young men of Cartagena. He had them by the scruff of their necks, as you might say.

In spite of this, there was a reluctance to close in with the huge figure of the yellow-haired Americano who stood so silent, so unafraid, with his back against the wall. He was mysterious, terrifying. However, there could be no delay. It was a ticklish undertaking at best, to kill him in an open street, in the middle of the evening. Earlier they had trailed the open carriage in which he rode with the woman from the ship, but it had been impossible to arrange anything.

The leader of the bravos lunged forward, one arm upraised. He stooped low, to thrust up. The Americano had no pistol. He would have fired it by now. Before that upraised arm could drive home the knife, it was gripped between the elbow and shoulder. Richard Cary’s hand had been as swift as the dart of a snake. Here was better luck than he had dared expect. His other hand clamped itself on the bravo’s forearm.

Before the rest of them could rush in to cut him down, he leaped away from the wall, dragging his struggling captive by the arm. The fellow was scrawny, no great weight for Richard Cary to do with as he pleased. He planted his legs apart, tightened the grip of his two hands and swung the body of the helpless bravo by the arm as a handle. Sheer over his head he swung him, in a circle as he might have whirled a bludgeon.

As he swung this extraordinary weapon he ran forward, with an agility amazing, dumbfounding. It cleared the path. The four ruffians scattered. They were crying out to each other. One dropped upon his knees. Another flung himself flat. A third was not quick enough. The revolving body of the bravo, extended straight, seemingly rigid, struck him with a peculiar thud. He reeled and limped into the shadows.

With a laugh, Richard Cary released his grip. The bravo, converted into a missile, went hurtling into the middle of the street with a dreadful momentum. He flew as if propelled from a catapult. His body smote the cobblestones. It sprawled without motion.

Snatching at this brief respite, Richard Cary turned and ran. It was not a retreat. He was running for that lighted window with the rusty iron bars set in the ancient mortar. The four bravos rallied. They were mindful of the menace of Colonel Fajardo’s wrath, as well as of the fat price he had promised them. They sprinted to overtake the fleeing Americano, wary to avoid such a blunder as had cracked the skull of their leader.

Richard Cary was too quick for them. He plunged against the iron bars of the window. A glance showed him an empty room. There was no help there. He had not hoped to find it. This was his own joyous battle, to be waged alone. At random he laid hold of an iron bar of the grating. Both ends of it were embedded in mortar which had become cracked and rotten. He braced a knee against the stone window ledge. His broad back heaved. The great shoulders strained. The veins purpled his temples. Suddenly his back straightened. The bar came away in his hands, bending, ripping out of the sockets in the mortar. It had been the work of a moment.

Now he had a weapon to his liking. Again he laughed. The bravos disliked the sound of that laugh. It made them tremble. By the light from the window they could see the iron bar in the hands of the colossal Americano. One of them jerked out a pistol and fired. The bullet clipped a lock of Cary’s yellow hair.

Before the rascal could pull trigger again, the iron bar smote him a slanting blow on the neck. He crumpled upon the cobblestones. His neck was beyond mending. There were three of them left. Two took to their heels. Behind them the iron bar beat the air like a flail. They moaned prayers to San Pedro Clavér, to the Blessed Virgin herself. They were murderers grown suddenly religious.

One of them stumbled. Death fanned him with its breath. He tried to wheel, knife in hand. Over him loomed the dread figure of the giant with the charmed life. The bravo was of a mind to clasp his hands and wail for mercy. The iron bar fell. It crashed against his shoulder and crushed it like putty. He rolled over, kicking and making queer noises in his throat.

Richard Cary halted in his tracks. One lone bravo was in sight, fleeing for the slums which had spewed him forth. He ran with the staccato pit-pat-pat of feet that spurned the cobblestones. Never in his life had he run with such speed. A bullet could not have overtaken him.

Four of the gang had been disposed of. Where was the fifth? Richard Cary was puzzled. He turned to search the street behind him. As he moved, a shadow moved with him. It was the shadow of the fifth bravo. He had recovered his wits, this cool and vigilant one who had a flair for dexterous assassination. Instead of exposing himself to a blow from that bone-crushing iron bar, he had hugged the nearest wall, awaiting an opportunity, keeping himself at Richard Cary’s back, shifting whenever he did. He hunted like a ferret.

From a trousers pocket he withdrew a bit of rubber hose filled with bird shot, flexible and heavy. He slipped his hand through a loop of cord. The weapon hung from his wrist. In the other hand was a knife with a thin blade.

Unable to fathom the disappearance of the fifth bravo, Cary delayed an instant longer. The iron bar was poised in his two hands. Just behind him moved a shadow. Suddenly he seemed to sense its presence. He stiffened and turned his head. It was a fraction of a second too late. A blow on the head stunned him. His eyes were filled with fire. His strength left him. He toppled forward with a groan. The iron bar clanged on the pavement.

As he fell, a knife was driven between his shoulder blades. He felt it sear like a red coal. A tremor passed through his mighty frame. Then he stretched prone and inanimate, an arm twisted under his head.

The only sound in the dark, narrow street was the pit-pat-pat of a man running away.