The Flag of Distress: A Story of the South Sea. Reid Mayne
matter. There is on it now, and in it – the ship I mean – somebody who, if I mistake not, has very much interested somebody else – a certain Andalusian lady, by name Iñez Alvarez.”
“Your words will answer as well for a Biscayan lady – by name Carmen Montijo.”
“Suppose I admit it, and say yes? Well; I will. There is one in yonder ship who has very much interested me. Nay, more; I admire – ay, love him! You see I’m not ashamed to confess what the world affects to consider a weakness. We of the Celtic race don’t keep secrets as you of the further South; half Moors, as you are. For all, sobrina, you haven’t kept yours; though you tried heard enough. I saw from the first you were smitten with that young English officer, who has hair the exact colour of a carrot!”
“It isn’t anything of the kind. His hair is of a much more becoming hue than that of the other English officer, who’s taken your fancy, tia.”
“Nothing to compare with it. Look at this. There’s a curl; one of the handsomest that ever grew on the head of man! Dark and glossy, as the coat of the fur-seal. Beautiful! I could kiss it over, and over again!”
While speaking, she does so.
“And look at this!” cries the other, also drawing forth a lock of hair, and displaying it in the sunlight, “See how it shines – like tissue of gold! Far prettier than that you’ve got, and better worth kissing.”
Saying which she imitates the example set her, by raising the tress to her lips, and repeatedly kissing it.
“So, so, my innocent!” exclaims Carmen, “you’ve been stealing too?”
“As yourself!”
“And, I suppose, you’ve given him a love-lock in exchange?”
“Have you?”
“I have. To you, Iñez, I make no secret of it. Come, now! Be equally candid with me. Have you done so?”
“I’ve done the same as yourself.”
“And has your heart gone with the gift? Tell the truth, sobrina.”
“Ask your own, tia; and take its answer for mine.”
“Enough, then; we understand each other, and shall keep the secret to ourselves. Now let’s talk of other things; go back to what we began with – about leaving California. You’re glad we’re going?”
“Indeed, yes. And I wonder you’re not the same. Dear old Spain, the finest country on earth! And Cadiz the finest city.”
“Ah! about that we two differ. Give me California for a country, and San Francisco for a home; though it’s not much of a city yet. It will, ere long; and I should like to stay in it. But that’s not to be, and there’s an end of the matter. Father has determined on leaving. Indeed, he has already sold out; so that this house and the lands around it are no longer ours. As the lawyers have the deed of transfer, and the purchase money has been paid, we’re only here on sufferance, and must soon yield possession. Then, we’re to take ship for Panama, go across the Isthmus and over the Atlantic Ocean; once more to renew the Old-world life, with all its stupid ceremonies. How I shall miss the free wild ways of California – its rural sports – with their quaint originality and picturesqueness! I’m sure I shall die of ennui, soon after reaching Spain. Your Cadiz will kill me.”
“But, Carmen; surely you can’t be happy here – now that everything is so changed? Why, we can scarce walk out in safety, or take a promenade through the streets of the town, crowded with those rude fellows in red-shirts, who’ve come to dig for gold – Anglo-Saxons, as they call themselves.”
“What! You speaking against Anglo-Saxons! And with that tress treasured in your bosom – so close to your heart!”
“Oh! he is different. He’s not Saxon, but Welsh – and that’s Celtic, the same as you Biscayans. Besides, he isn’t to be ranked with that rabble, even though he were of the same race. The Señor Cadwallader is a born hidalgo.”
“Admitting him to be, I think you do wrong to these red-shirted gentry, in calling them a rabble. Rough as they may appear, they have gentle hearts under their coarse homespun coats. Many of them are true bred-and-born gentlemen; and, what’s better, behave as such. I’ve never received insult from them – not even disrespect – though I’ve been among them scores of times. Father wrongs them too: for it is partly their presence here that’s causing him to quit California – as also many others of our old families. Still, as we reside in the country, at a safe distance from town, we might enjoy immunity from meeting los barbaros, as our people are pleased contemptuously to style them. For my part, I love dear old California, and will greatly regret leaving it. Only to think; I shall never more behold the gallant vaquero, mounted on his magnificent steed, careering across the plain, and launching his lazo over the horns of a fierce wild bull, ready to gore him if he but miss his aim. Ah! it’s one of the finest sights in the world – so exciting in this dull prosaic age. It recalls the heroic days and deeds of the Great Conde, the Campeador, and Cid. Yes, Iñez; only in this modern transatlantic land – out here, on the shores of the South Sea – do there still exist customs and manners to remind one of the old knight-errantry and times of the troubadours.”
“What an enthusiast you are! But apropos of your knights-errant, yonder are two of them, if I mistake not, making this way. Now, fancy yourself on the donjon of an ancient Moorish castle, salute, and receive them accordingly. Ha, ha, ha!”
The clear ringing laugh of the Andalusian is not echoed by the Biscayan. Instead, a shadow falls over her face, as her eyes become fixed upon two mounted figures just distinguishable in the distance.
“True types of your Californian chivalry!” adds Iñez ironically.
“True types of Californian villainy!” rejoins Carmen, in serious earnest.
Chapter Twelve.
A Couple of Californian “Caballeros.”
The horsemen, so oddly commented upon, have just emerged from the suburbs of San Francisco, taking the road which leads southward along shore.
Both are garbed in grand style, in the national costume of that country, which, in point of picturesqueness is not exceeded by any other in the world.
They wear the wide trousers (calzoneras), along the outer seams lashed with gold lace, and beset with filigree buttons; the snow-white drawers (calzoncillas) here and there puffing out; below, botas and spurs – the last with rowels several inches in diameter, that glitter like great stars behind their heels. They have tight-fitting jackets of velveteen, closed in front, and over the bosom elaborately embroidered; scarfs of China crape round their waists, the ends dangling adown the left hip, terminating in a fringe of gold cord; on their heads sombreros with broad brim, and band of bullion – the toquilla. In addition, each has over his shoulders a manga– the most magnificent of outside garments, with a drape graceful as a Roman toga. That of one is scarlet-coloured, the other sky-blue. Nor are their horses less grandly bedecked. Saddles of stamped leather, scintillating with silver studs – their cloths elaborately embroidered; bridles of plaited horse-hair, jointed with tags and tassels; bits of the Mamaluke pattern, with check-pieces and curbs powerful enough to break the jaw at a jerk.
The steeds thus splendidly caparisoned are worthy of it. Though small, they are of perfect shape – pure blood of Arabian sires, transmitted through dams of Andalusia. They are descended from the stock transported to the New World by the Conquistadores; and the progenitor of one or other may have carried Alvarado or Sandoval – perhaps Cortez himself.
The riders are both men of swarthy complexion, with traits that tell of the Latinic race. Their features are Spanish; in one a little more pronounced than the other. He who wears the sky-coloured cloak has all the appearance of being Mexican born. The blood in his veins giving the brown tinge to his skin, is not Moorish, but more likely from the aborigines of California. For all this, he is not a true mestizo; only one among whose remote ancestry an Indian woman may have