The Flag of Distress: A Story of the South Sea. Reid Mayne
clearing the entrance-gate, and again upon the outside road, he turns face toward the dwelling whose hospitality has been so insultingly denied him. He sees nought there to soothe, but something which still further afflicts him. Four horses are filing out through the front gate, conducted by grooms. They are saddled, bridled, ready for being mounted. To his practised eye, their caparison tells that they are intended only for a short excursion, not a journey. And though their saddles are in shape nearly alike, he knows that two of them are to be mounted by men, the other two to carry ladies.
“The señoritas are going out for a ride – a paseo de campo– accompanied by their English guests,” observes Calderon.
Simultaneously, as instinctively, de Lara arrives at this conclusion. Both now know why they were not received; a knowledge which, instead of tranquillising their chafed spirits, but maddens them the more. The thought of their sweethearts being escorted by these detested rivals, riding along wild unfrequented paths, through trees overshadowing, away from the presence of spying domestics, or the interference of protecting relatives, beyond the eyes and ears of every one – the thought that Carmen Montijo and Iñez Alvarez are setting out on an excursion of this kind, is to Francisco de Lara and Faustino Calderon bitter as deadliest poison.
And reflection embitters it the more. The excursionists will have every opportunity of wandering at will. They will become separated; and there can be no doubt as to how the partition will be made; the older of the two officers will pair off with Doña Carmen, the younger with Doña Iñez. Thus, they will ride unmolested, unobserved; converse without fear of being overheard; clasp hands without danger of being seen – perhaps exchange kisses! Oh, the dire, desperate jealousy! Even the dull brain and cold heart of Calderon are fired by these reflections. They sting him to the quick. But not as De Lara; for not as De Lara does he love.
After gazing for a while at the house – at the horses and grooms – at the preparations that are being made for mounting – noting their magnificent style – with a last glance such as Satan gave when expelled from Paradise, the Creole drives the spur deep into his horse’s ribs, and dashes off down the hill the Californian after.
At its bottom they again come to a halt, being now out of sight of the house. Facing toward his companion, De Lara says:
“We’re in for a fight, Faustino; both of us.”
“Not both. I don’t think I’m called upon to challenge that youngster. He’s but a boy.”
“He’s been man enough to insult you; and, if I mistake not, you’ll find him man enough to meet you.”
“I don’t see that he did insult me.”
“Indeed; you don’t? Sticking your horse, as if it were a pig, and sending him off in a stampede that well nigh dismounted you; all before the face of your lady-love – right under her eyes! You don’t deem that an insult, eh?”
“But you must remember I gave him provocation. At your bidding, I all but rode over him. Looking at it in that light, he’s in a sense excusable for what he did. Besides, he only meant it as a joke. Didn’t you see, when it was all over, how he laughed at it?”
“Not at it, but at you. So did your sweetheart, amigo. As we reined up under the walls, I could see her long lashes drooping down, the eyes looking disdain at you, with her pretty lips pouting in very scorn. You’re evidently out of her good graces, and you’ll have to do something ere you can reinstate yourself.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I am sure of it. Never surer of anything in my life.”
“But what would you have me to do?”
“You ought to know without asking me. Call out the cub, and kill him – if you can. What I design doing with my gentleman.”
“Ah! you’re a dead shot; and that makes all the difference. These Anglo-Saxons always use pistols; and if I challenge him, he’ll have the choice of weapons.”
“Quite true. With me it will be different. I took care to give the affront, and you should have done the same. Seeing you got the worst of it, you ought to have followed up your first dash at him by something besides – a slap across the cheek, or a cut with your whip.”
“I’m sorry now I didn’t give him one or the other.”
“Well, you may find an opportunity yet. For my quarrel, I don’t care a toss whether it be settled with swords or pistols. We Creoles of Louisiana are accustomed to the use of either weapon. Thanks to old Gardalet of the Rue Royale, I’ve got the trick of both; and am equally ready to send a half-ounce of lead, or twelve inches of steel, through the body of this Britisher. By the way, what’s his name?”
The speaker pulls out the card given him by the English officer, and glancing at it, answers his own question: “Edward Crozier, H.M.S. Crusader.”
“Ha! Mr Ned Crozier!” he exclaims, speaking in plain English, the sight of the card seemingly giving a fresh fillip to his spleen; “you’ve had your triumph to-day. ’Twill be mine to-morrow. And, if my fortune don’t fail me, there’ll be an empty seat at the mess-table of the ship Crusader.”
“You really intend fighting him?”
“Now, Don Faustino Calderon, why do you ask that question?”
“Because I think all might be arranged without – ”
“Without what? Speak out, man!”
“Why, without any spilling of blood.”
“You may arrange it that way, if you like. Your quarrel is a distinct one, and I’ve nothing to do with it – having my own hands full. Indeed, if they were empty, I’m not so sure I should be your second – talking as you do. However, that’s not the purpose now. In answer to your first question, I can only say what I’ve said before. I not only intend fighting this Crozier, but killing him. True, I may fail in my intention; if so, there’s an end of it, and of me. For, once on the ground, I don’t leave it a living man, if he do. One or both of us shall stay there, till we’re carried off – feet-foremost.”
“Carramba! your talk gives one the trembles. It’s not pleasant to think of such things, let alone doing them.”
“Think your own way, and welcome. To me it would be less pleasant to leave them undone; less now, than ever in my life. After what I’ve gone through, I don’t care much for character – in truth, not a straw. That’s all stuff and pretension. Money makes the man, and without it he’s nothing; though he were a saint. Respectability – bah! I don’t value it a claco. But there’s a reputation of another kind I do value, and intend to preserve. Because in my world it counts for something – has counted already.”
“What is that?”
“Courage. Losing it, I should lose everything. And in this very city of San Francisco, I’d be only a hound where I’m now a hunter; barked at by every cur, and kicked by every coward who choose to pick a quarrel with me.”
“There’s no danger of that, Don Francisco. All who have had dealings with you know better. There’s little fear of any one putting a slight upon you.”
“There would be, if I refused to fight this fellow. Then you’d see the difference. Why, Faustino Calderon. I couldn’t sit at our monté table, and keep the red-shirts from robbing us, if they didn’t know ’twould be a dangerous game to play. However, it isn’t their respect I value now, but that of one very different.”
“Of whom?”
“Again you ask an idle question; so idle, that I don’t believe you care a straw for Iñez Alvarez – or know what love is.”
“What has she to do with it?”
“She – nothing. That’s true enough. I don’t care aught for her, or what she might think of me. But I do care for Carmen Montijo; above all things I value her good opinion. At least, so far, that she sha’n’t think me either a fool or a coward. She may be fancying me the first;