Thursday, 11 July 2019

Thursday's Serial: "The Curse of Capistrano" by Johnston McCulley (in English) - VII


Chapter 25 - A League is Formed
                The song ceased; the laughter was stilled. They bunked their eyes and looked across the room. Señor Zorro stood just inside the door, having entered from the veranda without them knowing it. He wore his long cloak and his mask, and in one hand he held his accursed pistol, and its muzzle was pointed at the table.
                "So these are the manner of men who pursue Señor Zorro and hope to take him," he said. "Make not a move, else lead flies. Your weapons, I perceive, are in the corner. I could kill some of you and be gone before you could reach them."
                "'Tis he! 'Tis he!" a tipsy caballero was crying.
                "Your noise may be heard a mile away, señores. What a posse to go pursuing a man! Is this the way you attend to duty? Why have you stopped to make merry while Señor Zorro rides the highway?"
                "Give me my blade and let me stand before him!" one cried.
                "If I allo wed you to have blade, you would be unable to stand," the highwayman answered. "Think you there is one in this company who could fence with me now?"
                "There is one!" cried Don Alejandro, in a loud voice, springing to his feet. "I openly say that I have admired some of the things you have done, señor; but now you have entered my house and are abusing my guests, and I must call you to account!"
                "I have no quarrel with you, Don Alejandro, and you have none with me," Señor Zorro said. "I refuse to cross blades with you. And I am but telling these men some truths."
                "By the saints, I shall make you!"
                "A moment, Don Alejandro! Señores, this aged don would fight me, and that would mean a wound or death for him. Will you allow it?"
                "Don Alejandro must not fight our battles!" one of them cried..
                "Then see that he sits in his place, and all honor to him."
                Don Alejandro started forward, but two of the caballeros sprang before him and urged him to go back, saying that his honor was safe, since he offered combat. Raging, Don Alejandro complied.
                "A worthy bunch of young blades," Señor Zorro sneered. "You drink wine and make merry while injustice is all about you. Take your swords in hand and attack oppression! Live up to your noble names and your blue blood, señores! Drive the thieving politicians from the land! Protect the frailes whose work gave us these broad acres! Be men, not drunken fashion plates!"
                "By the saints!" one cried and sprang to his feet.
                "Back, or I fire! I have not come here to fight you in Don Alejandro's house. I respect him too much for that. I have come to tell you these truths concerning yourselves.
                "Your families can make or break a governor! Band yourselves together in a good cause, caballeros, and make some use of your lives. You would do it, were you not afraid. You seek adventure? Here is adventure a plenty, fighting injustice."
                "By the saints, it would be a lark!" cried one in answer.
                "Look upon it as a lark if it pleases you, yet you would be doing some good. Would the politicians dare stand against you, scions of the most powerful families? Band yourselves together and give yourselves a name. Make yourselves feared the length and breadth of the land."
                "It would be treason—"
                "It is not treason to down a tyrant, caballeros! Is it that you are afraid?"
                "By the saints—no!" they cried in chorus.
                "Then make your stand!"
                "You would lead us?" .
                "Si, señores!"
                "But stay! Are you of good blood?"
                "I am a caballero, of blood as good as any here," Señor Zorro told them.
                "Your name? Where resides your family?"
                "Those things must remain secrets for the present. I have given you my word."
                "Your face—"
                "Must remain masked for the time being, señores." They had lurched to their feet now, and were acclaiming him wildly.
                "Stay!" one cried. "This is an imposition upon Don Alejandro. He may not be in sympathy, and we are planning and plotting in his house—"
                "I am in sympathy, caballeros, and give you my support," Don Alejandro said.
                Their cheers filled the great room. None could stand against them if Don Alejandro Vega was with them. Not even the governor himself would dare oppose them. "It is a bargain!" they cried. "We shall call ourselves the Avengers! We shall ride El Camino Real and prove terrors to those who rob honest men and mistreat natives! We shall drive the thieving politicians out!"
                "And then you shall be caballeros in truth, knights protecting the weak," Señor Zorro said. "Never shall you repent this decision, señores! I lead, and I give you loyalty and expect as much. Also, I expect obedience to orders."
                "What shall we do?" they cried.
                "Let this remain a secret. In the morning return to Reina de Los Angeles and say you did not find Señor Zorro—say rather that you did not catch him, which will be the truth. Be ready to band yourselves together and ride. I shall send word when the time arrives."
                "In what manner?"
                "I know you all. I shall get word to one, and he can inform the others. It is agreed?"
                "Agreed!" they shouted.
                "Then I will leave you here and now. You are to remain in this room, and none is to try to follow me. It is a command. Buenos noches, caballeros!" He bowed before them, swung the door open, and darted through it and slammed it shut behind him.
                They could hear the clatter of a horse's hoofs on the driveway. And then they raised their wine mugs and drank to their new league for the suppression of swindlers and thieves and to Señor Zorro, the Curse of Capistrano, and to Don Alejandro Vega, somewhat sobered by the agreement they had made and what it meant. They sat down again and began speaking of wrongs that should be righted, each' of them knowing half a dozen.
                And Don Alejandro Vega sat in one corner, by himself, a grief-stricken man because his only son was asleep in the house and had not red blood enough to take a part in such an undertaking, when by all rights. he should be one of the leaders.
                As if to add to his misery, Don Diego at that moment came slowly into the room, rubbing his eyes and yawning and looking as if he had been disturbed.
                "It is impossible for a man to sleep in this house tonight," he said. "Give me a mug of wine, and I shall take my place with you. Why was the cheering?"
                "Señor Zorro has been here—" his father began.
                "The highwayman? Been here? By the saints! It is as much as a man can endure."
                "Sit down, my son," Don Alejandro urged. "Certain things have come to pass. There will be a chance now for you to show what sort of blood flows in your veins."
                Don Alejandro's manner was very determined.


Chapter 26 - An Understanding
                The remainder of the night was spent by the caballeros in loud boasts of what they, intended doing, and in making plans to be submitted to Señor Zorro for his approval; and, though they appeared to look upon this thing as a lark and a means to adventure, yet there was an undercurrent of seriousness in their manner. For they knew well the state of the times and realized that things were not as they should be, and in reality they were exponents of fairness to all; they had thought of these things often, but had made no move because they had not been banded together and had no leader, and each young caballero waited for another to start the thing. But now this Señor Zorro had struck at the psychological moment, and things could be done.
                Don Diego was informed of the state of affairs, and his father informed him, likewise, that he was to play a part and prove himself a man. Don Diego fumed considerably and declared that such a thing would cause his death, yet he would do it for his father's sake.
                Early in the morning the caballeros ate a meal that Don Alejandro caused to be prepared, and then they started back to Reina de Los Angeles, Don Diego riding with them at his father's order. Nothing was to be said about their plans. They were to get recruits from the remainder of the thirty who had set out in pursuit of Señor Zorro. Some would join them readily, they knew, while others were the governor's men pure and simple, and would have to be kept in the dark concerning the thing contemplated.
                They rode leisurely, for which Don Diego remarked that he was grateful. Bernardo was still following him on the mule, and was a little chagrined because Don Diego had not remained longer at his father's house. Bernardo knew something momentous was being planned, but could not guess what, of course, and wished that he was like other men, and could hear and speak.
                When they reached the plaza, they found that the other two parties already were there, saying that they had not come up with the highwayman. Some declared that they had seen him in the distance, and one that he had fired a pistol at him, at which the caballeros who had been at Don Alejandro's put their tongues in their cheeks and looked at one another in a peculiar manner.
                Don Diego left his companions and hurried to his house, where he donned fresh clothing and refreshed himself generally. He sent Bernardo about his business, which was to sit in the kitchen and await his master's call. And then he ordered his carriage around. That carriage was one of the most gorgeous along El Camino Real, and why Don Diego had purchased it had always been a mystery. There were some who said he did it to show his wealth, while others declared a manufacturer's agent had worried him so much that Don Diego had given him the order to be rid of him.
                Don Diego came from his house dressed in his best; but he did not get into the carriage. Again there was a tumult in the plaza, and into it rode Sergeant Pedro Gonzales and his troopers. The man Captain Ramón had sent after them had over-taken them easily, for they had been riding slowly and had not covered many miles.
                "Ha, Don Diego, my friend!" Gonzales cried. "Still living! in this turbulent world?"
                "From necessity," Don Diego replied. "Did you capture this Señor Zorro?"
                "The pretty bird escaped us, caballero. It appears that he turned toward San Gabriel that night, while we went chasing him toward Pala. Ah, well, 'tis nothing to make a small mistake. Our revenge shall be the greater when we find him."
                "What do you now, my sergeant?"
                "My men refresh themselves, and then we ride toward San Gabriel. It is said the highwayman is in that vicinity, though some thirty young men of blood failed to find him last night after he had caused the magistrado to be whipped. No doubt he hid himself in the brush and chuckled when the caballeros rode by."
                "May your horse have speed and your sword arm strength," Don Diego said and got into his carriage.
                Two magnificent horses were hitched to the carriage, and a native coachman in rich livery drove them. Don Diego stretched back on the cushions and half closed his eyes as the carriage started. The driver went across the plaza and turned into the highway and started toward the hacienda of Don Carlos Pulido.
                Sitting on his veranda, Don Carlos saw the gorgeous carriage approaching, and growled low down in his throat, and then got up and hurried into the house, to face his wife and daughter.
                "Señorita, Don Diego comes," he said. "I have spoken words regarding the young man, and I trust that you have given heed to them as a dutiful daughter should."
                Then he turned and went out to the veranda again, and the señorita rushed into her room and threw herself upon a couch to weep. The saints knew she wished that she could feel some love for Don Diego and take him for a husband, for it would help her father's fortunes, yet she felt that she could not.
                Why did not the man act the caballero? Why did he not exhibit a certain measure of common sense? Why did he not show that he was a young man bursting with health, instead of acting like an aged don with one foot in the grave?
                Don Diego got from the carriage and waved to the driver to continue to the stable yard. He greeted Don Carlos languidly, and Don Carlos was surprised to note that Don Diego had a guitar beneath one arm. He put the guitar down on the floor, removed his sombrero, and sighed.
                "I have been out to see my father," he said.
                "Ha! Don Alejandro is well, I hope?"
                "He is in excellent health, as usual. He has instructed me to persist in my suit for the Señorita Lolita's hand. If I do not win me a wife within a certain time, he says, he will give his fortune to the Franciscans when he passes away."
                "Indeed?"
                "He said it, and my father is not a man to waste his words. Don Carlos, I must win the señorita. I know of no other young woman who would be as acceptable to my father as a daughter-in-law."
                "A little wooing, Don Diego, I beg of you. Be not so matter-of-fact, I pray."
                "I have decided to woo as other men, though it no doubt will be much of a bore. How would you suggest that I start?"
                "It is difficult to give advice in such a case," Don Carlos replied, trying desperately to remember how he had done it when he had courted Doña Catalina. "A man really should be experienced, else be a man to whom such things come naturally."
                "I fear I am neither," Don Diego said, sighing again and raising tired eyes to Don Carlos's face.
                "It might be an excellent thing to regard the señorita as if you adored her. Say nothing about marriage at first, but speak rather of love. Try to talk in low, rich tones, and say those meaningless nothings in which a young woman can find a world of meaning. 'Tis a gentle art—saying one thing and meaning another."
                "I fear that it is beyond me," Don Diego said. "Yet I must try, of course. I may see the señorita now?"
                Don Carlos went to the doorway and called his wife and daughter, and the former smiled upon Don Diego in encouragement, and the latter smiled also, yet with fear and trembling. For she had given her heart to the unknown Señor Zorro, and could love no other man, and could not wed where she did not love, not even to save her father from poverty.
                Don Diego conducted the señorita to a bench at one end of the veranda, and started to talk of things in general, plucking at the strings of his guitar as he did so, while Don Carlos and his wife removed themselves to the other end of the veranda and hoped that things would go well.
                Señorita Lolita was glad that Don Diego did not speak of marriage as he had done before. Instead, he told of what had happened in the pueblo, of Fray Felipe's whipping, and of how Señor Zorro had punished the magistrado, and fought a dozen men, and made his escape. Despite his air of languor, Don Diego spoke in an interesting manner, and the señorita found herself liking him more than before.
                He told, too, of how he had gone to his father's hacienda, and of how the caballeros had spent the night there, drinking and making merry; but he said nothing of Señor Zorro's visit and the league that had been formed, having taken his oath not to do so.
                "My father threatens to disinherit me if I do not get my wife within a specified time," Don Diego said then. "Would you like to see me lose my father's estate, señorita?"
                "Certainly not," she replied. "There are many girls who would be proud to wed you, Don Diego."
                "But not you?"
                "Certainly, I would be proud. But can a girl help it if her heart does not speak? Would you wish a wife who did not I love you? Think of the long years you would have to spend beside her, and no love to make them endurable."
                "You do not think, then, that you ever could learn to love me, señorita?"
                Suddenly the girl faced him and spoke in lower tones, and earnestly.
                "You are a caballero of the blood, señor. I may trust you?"
                "To death, señorita."
                "Then I have something to tell you. And I ask that you let it remain your secret. It is an explanation in a way."
                "Proceed, señorita."
                "If my heart bade me do so, nothing would please me more than to become your wife, señor, for I know that it would mend my father's fortunes. But perhaps I am too honest to wed where I do not love. There is one great reason why I cannot love you."
                "There is some other man in your heart?"
                "You have guessed it, señor. My heart is filled with his image. You would not want me for wife in such case. My parents do not know. You must keep my secret. I swear by the saints that I have spoken the truth."
                "The man is worthy?"
                "I feel sure that he is, caballero. Did he prove to be otherwise, I should grieve my life away, yet I never could love another man. You understand now?"
                "I understand fully, señorita. May I express the hope that you will find him worthy and in time the man of your choice?"
                "I knew you would be the true caballero."
                "And if things should go amiss, and you need a friend, command me, señorita."
                "My father must not suspect at the present time. We must let him think that you still seek me, and I will pretend to be thinking more of you than before. And gradually you can cease your visits—"
                "I understand, señorita. Yet that leaves me in bad case. I have asked your father for permission to woo you, and if I go to wooing another girl now, I will have him about my ears in just anger. And if I do not woo another girl, I shall have my own father upbraiding me. It is a sorry state."
                "Perhaps it will not be for long, señor."
                "Ha! I have it! What does a man do when he is disappointed in love? He mopes, he pulls a long face, he refuses to partake of the actions and excitements of the times. Señorita, you have saved me in a way. I shall languish because you do not return my love. Then men will think they know the reason when I dream in the sun and meditate instead of riding and fighting like a fool. I shall be allowed to go my way in peace, and there shall be a romantic glamour cast about me. An excellent thought!"
                "Señor, you are incorrigible!" the Señorita Lolita exclaimed, laughing.
                Don Carlos and Dona Catalina heard that laugh, looked around, and then exchanged quick glances. Don Diego Vega was getting along famously with the señorita, they thought
                Then Don Diego continued the deception by playing his guitar and singing a verse of a song that had to do with bright eyes and love. Don Carlos and his wife glanced at each other again, this time in apprehension, and wished that he would stop, for the scion of the Vegas had many superiors as musician and vocalist, and they feared that he might lose what ground he had gained in the señorita's estimation.
                But if Lolita thought little of the caballero's singing, she said nothing to that effect, and she did not act displeased.; There was some more conversation, and just before the siesta hour Don Diego bade them buenos dias and rode away in his gorgeous carriage. From the turn in the driveway, he waved back at them.
               

Chapter 27 - Orders for Arrest
                Captain Ramon's courier, sent north with the letter for the governor, had dreams of gay times in San Francisco de Asis before returning to his presidio at Reina de Los Angeles. He knew a certain señorita there whose beauty caused his heart to burn.
So he rode like a fiend after leaving his comandante's office, changed mounts at San Fernando and at a hacienda along the way, and galloped into Santa Barbara a certain evening just at dusk, with the intention of changing horses again, getting meat and bread and wine at the presidio, and rushing on his way.
                And at Santa Barbara his hopes of basking in the señorita's smiles at San Francisco de Asis were cruelly shattered. For before the door of the presidio there was a gorgeous carriage that made Don Diego's appear like a carreta, and a score of horses were tethered there, and more troopers than were stationed at Santa Barbara regularly moved about the highway, laughing and jesting with one another.
                The governor was in Santa Barbara.
                His excellency had left San Francisco de Asis some days before on a trip of inspection, and intended to go as far south as San Diego de Alcala, strengthening his political fences, rewarding his friends, and awarding punishment to his enemies.
                He had reached Santa Barbara an hour before, and was listening to the report of the comandante there, after which he intended remaining during the night with a friend. His troopers were to be given quarters at the presidio, of course, and the journey was to continue on the morrow.
                Captain Ramón's courier had been told that the letter he carried was of the utmost importance, and so he hurried to the office of the comandante and entered it like a man of rank.
                "I come from Captain Ramón, comandante at Reina de Los Angeles, with a letter of importance for his excellency," he reported, standing stiffly at salute.
                The governor grunted and took the letter, and the comandante motioned for the courier to withdraw. His excellency read the letter with speed, and when he had finished there was an unholy gleam in his eyes, and he twirled his mustache with every evidence of keen satisfaction. And then he read the letter again and frowned.
                He liked the thought that he could crush Don Carlos Pulido more, but he disliked to think that Señor Zorro, the man who had affronted him, was still at liberty. He got up and paced the floor for a time, and then whirled upon the comandante.
                "I shall leave for the south at sunrise," he said. "My presence is urgently needed at Reina de Los Angeles. You will attend to things. Tell that courier he shall ride back with my escort. I go now to the house of my friend."
                And so, in the morning, the governor started south, his escort of twenty picked troopers surrounding him, the courier in their midst. He traveled swiftly, and on a certain day at mid-morning entered the plaza of Reina de Los Angeles unheralded. It was the same morning that Don Diego rode to the Pulido hacienda in his carriage, taking his guitar with him.
                The cavalcade stopped before the tavern, and the fat landlord almost suffered an apoplexy because he had not been warned of the governor's coming and was afraid he would enter the inn and find it in a dirty state.
                But the governor made no effort to leave his carriage and enter the tavern. He was glancing around the square, observing many things. He never felt secure concerning the men of rank in this pueblo; he felt that he did not have the proper grip on them.
                Now he watched carefully as news of his arrival was spread and certain caballeros hurried to the plaza to greet him and make him welcome. He noted those who appeared to be sincere, observed those who were in no particular haste to salute him, and noticed that several were absent.
                Business must receive his first attention, he told them, and he must hasten up to the presidio. After that he would gladly be the guest of any of them. He accepted an invitation and ordered his driver to proceed. He was remembering Captain Ramón's letter, and he had not seen Don Diego Vega in the plaza.
                Sergeant Gonzales and his men were away pursuing Señor Zorro, of course, and so Captain Ramón himself was awaiting his excellency at the presidio entrance, and saluted him gravely, and bowed low before him and ordered the commander of the escort to take charge of the place and police it, stationing guards in honor of the governor.
                He led his excellency to the private office, and the governor sat down.
                "What is the latest news?" he asked.
                "My men are on the trail, excellency. But, as I wrote, this pest of a Señor Zorro has friends—a legion of them, I take it My sergeant has reported that twice he found him with a band of followers."
                "They must be broken up, killed off!" the governor cried. "A man of that sort always can get followers, and yet more followers, until he will be so strong that he can cause us serious trouble. Has he committed any further atrocities?"
                "He has, excellency. Yesterday a fray from San Gabriel was whipped for swindling. Señor Zorro caught the witnesses against him on the highroad, and whipped them almost to death. And then he rode into the pueblo just at dusk and had the magistrado whipped.
                "My soldiers were away looking for him at the time. It appears that this Señor Zorro knows the movements of my force and always strikes where the troopers are not"
                "Then spies are giving him warnings?"
                "It appears so, excellency. Last night some thirty young caballeros rode after him but did not find track of the scoundrel. They returned this morning."
                "Was Don Diego Vega with them?"
                "He did not ride out with them, but he returned with them. It seems that they picked him up at his father's hacienda. You perhaps guessed that I meant the Vegas in my letter. I am convinced now, your excellency, that my suspicions in that quarter were unjust. This Señor Zorro even invaded Don Diego's house one night while Don Diego was away."
                "How is this?"
                "But Don Carlos Pulido and his family were there."
                "Ha! In Don Diego's house? What is the meaning of that?"
                "It is amusing," said Captain Ramón, laughing lightly. "I have heard that Don Alejandro ordered Don Diego to get him a wife. The young man is not the sort to woo women. He is lifeless."
                "I know the man. Proceed."
                "So he rides straightway to the hacienda of Don Carlos and asks permission to pay his addresses to Don Carlos's only daughter. Señor Zorro was abroad, and Don Diego, going to his own hacienda on business, asked Don Carlos to come to the pueblo with his family, where it would be safer, and occupy his house until he returned. The Pulidos could not refuse, of course. And Señor Zorro, it appears, followed them."
                "Ha! Go on."
                "It is laughable that Don Diego fetched them here to escape Señor Zorro's wrath, when, in reality, they are hand in glove with the highwayman. Remember, this Señor Zorro had been at the Pulido hacienda. We got word from a native, and almost caught him there. He had been eating a meal. He was hiding in a closet, and while I was alone there and my men searching the trails, he came from the closet, ran me through the shoulder from behind, and escaped."
                "The low scoundrel!" the governor exclaimed. "But do you think there will be a marriage between Don Diego and the Señorita Pulido?"
                "I imagine there need be no worry in that regard, excellency. I am of the opinion that Don Diego's father put a flea in his ear. He probably called Don Diego's attention to the fact that Don Carlos does not stand very high with your excellency, and that there are daughters of other men who do.
                "At any rate, the Pulidos returned to their hacienda after Don Diego's return. Don Diego called upon me here at the presidio and appeared to be anxious that I would not think him a man of treason."
                "I am glad to hear it! The Vegas are powerful. They never have been my warm friends, yet never have they raised hands against me, so I cannot complain. It is good sense to keep them friendly, if that be possible. But these Pulidos—"
                "Even the señorita appears to be giving aid to this highwayman," Captain Ramon said. "She boasted to me of what she called his courage. She sneered at the soldiers. Don Carlos Pulido and some of the frailes are protecting the man, giving him food and drink, hiding him, sending him news of the troopers' whereabouts. The Pulidos are hindering our efforts to capture the rogue. I would have taken steps, but I thought it best to inform you and await your decision."
                "There can be but one decision in such a case," said the; governor loftily. "No matter how good a man's blood may be, or what his rank, he cannot be allowed to commit treason without suffering the consequences. I had thought that Don Carlos had learned his lesson, but it appears that he has not. Are any of your men in the presidio?"
                "Some who are ill, excellency."
                "That courier of yours returned with my escort. Does he know the country well hereabouts?"
                "Certainly, excellency. He has been stationed here for some time."
                "Then he can act as guide. Send half my escort at once to the hacienda of Don Carlos Pulido. Have them arrest the don and fetch him to cárcel and incarcerate him there. That will be a blow to his high blood. I have had quite enough of these Pulidos."
                "And the haughty Doña, who sneered at me, and the proud señorita who scorned the troopers?"
                "Ha! It is a good thought. It will teach a lesson to all in this locality. Have them fetched to cárcel and incarcerated also," the governor said.


Chapter 28 - The Outrage
                Don Diego's carriage had just pulled up before his house when a squad of troopers went by it in a cloud of dust. He did not recognize any of them for men he had seen about the tavern.
                "Ha! There are new soldiers on the trail of Señor Zorro?" he asked a man standing near
                "They are a part of the escort of the governor, caballero."
                "The governor is here?"
                "He arrived but a short time ago, caballero, and has gone to the presidio."
                "I suppose they must have fresh news of this highwayman to send them riding furiously through dust and sun like that. He appears to be an elusive rascal. By the saints! Had I been here when the governor arrived, no doubt he would have put up at my house. Now some other caballero will have the honor of entertaining him. It is much to be regretted."
                And then Don Diego went into the house, and the man who had heard him speak did not know whether to doubt the sincerity of that last remark.
                Led by the courier, who knew the way, the squad of troopers galloped swiftly along the highroad, and presently turned up the trail toward Don Carlos's house. They went at this business as they would have gone about capturing a desperado. As they struck the driveway, they scattered to left and right, tearing up Doña Catalina's flower beds and sending chickens squawking out of the way, and so surrounded the house in almost an instant of time.
                Don Carlos had been sitting on the veranda in his accustomed place, half in a doze, and he did not notice the advance of the troopers until he heard the beating of their horses' hoofs. He got to his feet in alarm, wondering whether Señor Zorro was in the vicinity again and the soldiers after him.
                Three dismounted in a cloud of dust before the steps, and the sergeant who commanded them made his way forward, slapping the dust-from his. uniform.
                "You are Don Carlos Pulido?" he asked in a loud voice.
                "I have that honor, señor."
"I have orders to place you under military arrest."
                "Arrest!" Don Carlos cried. "Who gave you such orders?"
                "His excellency, the governor. He now is in Reina de Los Angeles, señor."
                "And the charge?"
                "Treason and aiding the enemies of the state."
                "Preposterous!" Don Carlos cried. "I am accused of treason when, though the victim of oppression, I have withheld my hand against those in power? What are the particulars of the charges?"
                "You will have to ask the magistrado that, señor. I know nothing of the matter except that I am to arrest you."
                "You wish me to accompany you?"
                "I demand it, señor."
                "I am a man of blood, a caballero—"
                "I have my orders."
                "So I cannot be trusted to appear at my place of trial? But perhaps the hearing is to be held immediately. So much the better, for all the. quicker can I clear myself. We go to the presidio?"
                "I go to the presidio when this work is done. You go to cárcel," the sergeant said.
                "To cárcel?" Don Carlos screeched. "You would dare? You would throw a caballero into the filthy jail? You would place him where they keep insubordinate natives and common .felons?"
                "I have my orders, señor. You will prepare to accompany us at once."
                "I must give my superintendent instructions regarding the management of the hacienda."
                "I'll go along with you, señor."
                Don Carlos's face flamed purple. His hands clenched as he regarded the sergeant.
                "Am I to be insulted with every word?" he cried. "Do you think I would run away like a criminal?"
                "I have my orders, señor," the sergeant said.
                "At least I may break this news to my wife and daughter without an outsider being at my shoulder?"
                "Your wife is Doña Catalina Pulido?"
                "Certainly."
                "I am ordered to arrest her also, señor."
                "Scum!" Don Carlos cried. "You would put hands on a lady? You would remove her from her house?"
                "It is my orders. She, too, is charged with treason and with aiding the enemies of the state."
                "By the saints! It is too much! I shall fight against you and your men as long as there is breath in my body!"
                "And that will not be for long, Don Carlos, if you attempt to give battle. I am but carrying out my orders."
                "My beloved wife placed under arrest like a native wench! And on such a charge! What are you to do with her, sergeant?"
                "She goes to cárcel."
                "My wife in that foul place? Is there no justice in the land? She is a tender lady of noble blood—"
                "Enough of this, señor. My orders are my orders, and I carry them out as instructed. I am a soldier and I obey."
                Now Doña Catalina came running to the veranda, for she had been listening to the conversation just inside the door. Her face was white, but there was a look of pride in it. She feared Don Carlos might make an attack on the soldier, and she feared he would be wounded or slain if he did, and knew that at least it could only double the charge held against him.
                "You have heard?" Don Carlos asked.
                "I have heard, my husband. It is but more persecution. I am too proud to argue the point with these common soldiers, who are but doing as they have been commanded. A Pulido can be a Pulido, my husband, even in a foul cárcel."
                "But the shame of it!" Don Carlos cried. "What does it all mean? Where will it end? And our daughter will be here alone with the servants. We have no relatives, no friends—"
                "Your daughter is Señorita Lolita Pulido?" the sergeant asked. "Then do not grieve, señor, for you will not be separated. I have an order for the arrest of your daughter, also."
                "The charge?"
                "The same, señor."
                "And you would take her—"
                "To cárcel."
                "An innocent, high-born, gentle girl?"
                "My orders, señor," said the sergeant.
                "May the saints blast the man who issued them!" Don Carlos cried. "They have taken my wealth and lands. They have heaped shame upon me and mine. But, thank the saints, they cannot break our pride!"
                And then Don Carlos's head went erect, and his eyes flashed, and he took his wife by the arm and turned about to enter the house, with the sergeant at his heels. He broke the news to the Señorita Lolita, who stood as if stricken dumb for an instant, and then burst into a torrent of tears. And then the pride of the Pulidos came to her, and she dried her eyes, and curled her pretty lips with scorn at the big sergeant, and pulled aside her skirts when he stepped near.
                Servants brought the carreta before the door, and Don Carlos and his wife and daughter got into it, and the journey of shame to the pueblo began.
                Their hearts might be bursting with grief, but not one of the Pulidos showed it. Their heads were held high, they looked straight ahead, they pretended not to hear the low taunts of the soldiers.
                They passed others, who were crowded off the road by the troopers, and who looked with wonder at those in the carreta, but they did not speak. Some watched in sorrow, and some grinned at their plight, according to whether those who passed were of the governor's party or of the honest folk who abhorred injustice.
                And so, finally, they came to the edge of Reina de Los Angeles, and there they met fresh insult. For his excellency had determined that the Pulidos should be humbled to the dust; and he had sent some of his troopers to spread news of what was being done, and to give coins to natives and peons if they would jeer the prisoners when they arrived. For the governor wished to teach a lesson that would prevent other noble families from turning against him, and wished it to appear that the Pulidos were hated by all classes alike.
                At the edge of the plaza they were met by the mob. There were cruel jeers and jests, some of which no innocent señorita should have heard. Don Carlos's face was red with wrath, and there were tears in Dona Catalina's eyes, and Señorita Lolita's lips were trembling, but they gave no other sign that they heard.
                The drive around the plaza to the cárcel was made slow purposely. At the door of the inn there was a throng of rascals who had been drinking wine at the expense of the governor, and these added to the din.
                One man threw mud, and it splashed on Don Carlos's breast, but he refused to notice it. He had one arm around his wife, the other around his daughter, as if to give them what protection he could, and he was looking straight ahead
                There were some men of blood who witnessed the scene, yet took no part in the tumult. Some of them were as old as Don Carlos, and this thing brought to their hearts fresh, yet passive, hatred of the governor.
                And some were young, with the blood running hot in their veins, and they looked upon the suffering face of Dona Catalina and imagined her their own mother, and upon the lovely face of the señorita and imagined her their sister or betrothed.
                And some of these men glanced at one another furtively, and though they did not speak they were wondering the same thing—whether Señor Zorro would hear of this, and whether he would send word around for the members of the new league to gather.
                The carreta stopped before the cárcel finally, the mob of jeering natives and peons surrounding it. The soldiers made some pretense of holding them back, and the sergeant dismounted and forced Don Carlos and his wife and daughter to step to the ground.
                Uncouth and intoxicated men jostled them as they walked up the steps to the door. More mud was thrown, and some of it spattered upon Dona Catalina's gown. But if the mob expected an outburst on the part of the aged caballero, it was disappointed. Don Carlos held his head high, ignoring those who were striving to torment him, and so led his ladies to the door.
                The sergeant beat against it with the heavy hilt of his sword. An aperture was opened, and in it appeared the evil, grinning face of the jailer.
                "What have we here?" he demanded.
                "Three prisoners charged with treason," the sergeant replied.
                The door was thrown open. There came a last burst of jeers from the mob, and then the prisoners were inside, and the door had been closed and bolted again.
                The jailer led the way along an evil-smelling hall and threw open another door.
                "In with you," he directed.
                The three prisoners were thrust inside, and this door was closed and barred. They blinked their eyes in the semi-gloom. Gradually they made out two windows, some benches, some human derelicts sprawled against the walls.
                They had not even been given the courtesy of a clean, private room. Don Carlos and his wife and daughter had been thrust in with the scum of the pueblo, with drunkards and thieves and dishonored women and insulting natives.
                They sat down on a bench in one corner of the room, as far from the others as possible. And then Doña Catalina and her daughter gave way to tears, and tears streamed down the face of the aged don as he tried to comfort them.
                "I would to the saints that Don Diego Vega were only my son-in-law now," the don breathed.
                His daughter pressed his arm.
                "Perhaps—my father—a friend will come," she whispered. "Perhaps the evil man who caused this suffering will be punished."
                For it seemed to the señorita that a vision of Señor Zorro had appeared before her; and she had great faith in the man to whom she had given her love.

Wednesday, 10 July 2019

Good Readings: "The Cat and Venus" by Aesop (translated into English)

           A Cat fell in love with a handsome young man, and entreated Venus to change her into the form of a woman. Venus consented to her request and transformed her into a beautiful damsel, so that the youth saw her and loved her, and took her home as his bride. While the two were reclining in their chamber, Venus wishing to discover if the Cat in her change of shape had also altered her habits of life, let down a mouse in the middle of the room. The Cat, quite forgetting her present condition, started up from the couch and pursued the mouse, wishing to eat it. Venus was much disappointed and again caused her to return to her former shape.

                          Nature exceeds nurture. 

Tuesday, 9 July 2019

Tuesday's Serial: "Captains Courageous, a story of the Grand Banks" by Rudyard Kipling (in English) - III


CHAPTER IV
                Harvey waked to find the "first half" at breakfast, the foc'sle door drawn to a crack, and every square inch of the schooner singing its own tune. The black bulk of the cook balanced behind the tiny galley over the glare of the stove, and the pots and pans in the pierced wooden board before it jarred and racketed to each plunge. Up and up the foc'sle climbed, yearning and surging and quivering, and then, with a clear, sickle-like swoop, came down into the seas. He could hear the flaring bows cut and squelch, and there was a pause ere the divided waters came down on the deck above, like a volley of buckshot. Followed the woolly sound of the cable in the hawse-hole; and a grunt and squeal of the windlass; a yaw, a punt, and a kick, and the We're Here gathered herself together to repeat the motions.
                "Now, ashore," he heard Long Jack saying, "ye've chores, an' ye must do thim in any weather. Here we're well clear of the fleet, an' we've no chores—an' that's a blessin'. Good night, all." He passed like a big snake from the table to his bunk, and began to smoke. Tom Platt followed his example; Uncle Salters, with Penn, fought his way up the ladder to stand his watch, and the cook set for the "second half."
It came out of its bunks as the others had entered theirs, with a shake and a yawn. It ate till it could eat no more; and then Manuel filled his pipe with some terrible tobacco, crotched himself between the pawl-post and a forward bunk, cocked his feet up on the table, and smiled tender and indolent smiles at the smoke. Dan lay at length in his bunk, wrestling with a gaudy, gilt-stopped accordion, whose tunes went up and down with the pitching of the We're Here. The cook, his shoulders against the locker where he kept the fried pies (Dan was fond of fried pies), peeled potatoes, with one eye on the stove in event of too much water finding its way down the pipe; and the general smell and smother were past all description.
                Harvey considered affairs, wondered that he was not deathly sick, and crawled into his bunk again, as the softest and safest place, while Dan struck up, "I don't want to play in your yard," as accurately as the wild jerks allowed.
"How long is this for?" Harvey asked of Manuel.
                "Till she get a little quiet, and we can row to trawl. Perhaps to-night. Perhaps two days more. You do not like? Eh, wha-at?"
"I should have been crazy sick a week ago, but it doesn't seem to upset me now—much."
"That is because we make you fisherman, these days. If I was you, when I come to Gloucester I would give two, three big candles for my good luck."
"Give who?"
"To be sure—the Virgin of our Church on the Hill. She is very good to fishermen all the time. That is why so few of us Portugee men ever are drowned."
"You're a Roman Catholic, then?"
                "I am a Madeira man. I am not a Porto Pico boy. Shall I be Baptist, then? Eh, wha-at? I always give candles—two, three more when I come to Gloucester. The good Virgin she never forgets me, Manuel."
                "I don't sense it that way," Tom Platt put in from his bunk, his scarred face lit up by the glare of a match as he sucked at his pipe. "It stands to reason the sea's the sea; and you'll get jest about what's goin', candles or kerosene, fer that matter."
                "'Tis a mighty good thing," said Long Jack, "to have a frind at coort, though. I'm o' Manuel's way o' thinkin'. About tin years back I was crew to a Sou' Boston market-boat. We was off Minot's Ledge wid a northeaster, butt first, atop of us, thicker'n burgoo. The ould man was dhrunk, his chin waggin' on the tiller, an' I sez to myself, 'If iver I stick my boat-huk into T-wharf again, I'll show the saints fwhat manner o' craft they saved me out av.' Now, I'm here, as ye can well see, an' the model of the dhirty ould Kathleen, that took me a month to make, I gave ut to the priest, an' he hung ut up forninst the altar. There's more sense in givin' a model that's by way o' bein' a work av art than any candle. Ye can buy candles at store, but a model shows the good saints ye've tuk trouble an' are grateful."
                "D'you believe that, Irish?" said Tom Platt, turning on his elbow.
                "Would I do ut if I did not, Ohio?"
                "Wa-al, Enoch Fuller he made a model o' the old Ohio, and she's to Calem museum now. Mighty pretty model, too, but I guess Enoch he never done it fer no sacrifice; an' the way I take it is—"
                There were the makings of an hour-long discussion of the kind that fishermen love, where the talk runs in shouting circles and no one proves anything at the end, had not Dan struck up this cheerful rhyme:

                                "Up jumped the mackerel with his stripe'd back.
Reef in the mainsail, and haul on the tack;
For it's windy weather—"

Here Long Jack joined in:

"And it's blowy weather;
When the winds begin to blow, pipe all hands together!"

Dan went on, with a cautious look at Tom Platt, holding the accordion low in the bunk:

"Up jumped the cod with his chuckle-head,
Went to the main-chains to heave at the lead;
For it's windy weather," etc.

Tom Platt seemed to be hunting for something. Dan crouched lower, but sang louder:

"Up jumped the flounder that swims to the ground.
Chuckle-head! Chuckle-head! Mind where ye sound!"

Tom Platt's huge rubber boot whirled across the foc'sle and caught Dan's uplifted arm. There was war between the man and the boy ever since Dan had discovered that the mere whistling of that tune would make him angry as he heaved the lead.
                "Thought I'd fetch yer," said Dan, returning the gift with precision. "Ef you don't like my music, git out your fiddle. I ain't goin' to lie here all day an' listen to you an' Long Jack arguin' 'baout candles. Fiddle, Tom Platt; or I'll learn Harve here the tune!"
                Tom Platt leaned down to a locker and brought up an old white fiddle. Manuel's eye glistened, and from somewhere behind the pawl-post he drew out a tiny, guitar-like thing with wire strings, which he called a machette.
                "'Tis a concert," said Long Jack, beaming through the smoke. "A reg'lar Boston concert."
                There was a burst of spray as the hatch opened, and Disko, in yellow oilskins, descended.
                "Ye're just in time, Disko. Fwhat's she doin' outside?"
                "Jest this!" He dropped on to the lockers with the push and heave of the We're Here.
                "We're singin' to kape our breakfasts down. Ye'll lead, av course, Disko," said Long Jack.
                "Guess there ain't more'n 'baout two old songs I know, an' ye've heerd them both."
                His excuses were cut short by Tom Platt launching into a most dolorous tune, like unto the moaning of winds and the creaking of masts. With his eyes fixed on the beams above, Disko began this ancient, ancient ditty, Tom Platt flourishing all round him to make the tune and words fit a little:
               
"There is a crack packet—crack packet o' fame,
She hails from Noo York, an' the Dreadnought's her name.
You may talk o' your fliers—Swallowtail and Black Ball—
But the Dreadnought's the packet that can beat them all.
"Now the Dreadnought she lies in the River Mersey,
Because of the tug-boat to take her to sea;
But when she's off soundings you shortly will know

(Chorus.)

She's the Liverpool packet—O Lord, let her go!

"Now the Dreadnought she's howlin' crost the Banks o' Newfoundland,
Where the water's all shallow and the bottom's all sand.
Sez all the little fishes that swim to and fro:

(Chorus.)

'She's the Liverpool packet—O Lord, let her go!'",

There were scores of verses, for he worked the Dreadnought every mile of the way between Liverpool and New York as conscientiously as though he were on her deck, and the accordion pumped and the fiddle squeaked beside him. Tom Platt followed with something about "the rough and tough McGinn, who would pilot the vessel in." Then they called on Harvey, who felt very flattered, to contribute to the entertainment; but all that he could remember were some pieces of "Skipper Ireson's Ride" that he had been taught at the camp-school in the Adirondacks. It seemed that they might be appropriate to the time and place, but he had no more than mentioned the title when Disko brought down one foot with a bang, and cried, "Don't go on, young feller. That's a mistaken jedgment—one o' the worst kind, too, becaze it's catchin' to the ear."
                "I orter ha' warned you," said Dan. "Thet allus fetches Dad."
                "What's wrong?" said Harvey, surprised and a little angry.
                "All you're goin' to say," said Disko. "All dead wrong from start to finish, an' Whittier he's to blame. I have no special call to right any Marblehead man, but 'tweren't no fault o' Ireson's. My father he told me the tale time an' again, an' this is the way 'twuz."
                "For the wan hundredth time," put in Long Jack under his breath
                "Ben Ireson he was skipper o' the Betty, young feller, comin' home frum the Banks—that was before the war of 1812, but jestice is jestice at all times. They fund the Active o' Portland, an' Gibbons o' that town he was her skipper; they fund her leakin' off Cape Cod Light. There was a terr'ble gale on, an' they was gettin' the Betty home 's fast as they could craowd her. Well, Ireson he said there warn't any sense to reskin' a boat in that sea; the men they wouldn't hev it; and he laid it before them to stay by the Active till the sea run daown a piece. They wouldn't hev that either, hangin' araound the Cape in any sech weather, leak or no leak. They jest up stays'l an' quit, nat'rally takin' Ireson with 'em. Folks to Marblehead was mad at him not runnin' the risk, and becaze nex' day, when the sea was ca'am (they never stopped to think o' that), some of the Active's folks was took off by a Truro man. They come into Marblehead with their own tale to tell, sayin' how Ireson had shamed his town, an' so forth an' so on, an' Ireson's men they was scared, seein' public feelin' agin' 'em, an' they went back on Ireson, an' swore he was respons'ble for the hull act. 'Tweren't the women neither that tarred and feathered him—Marblehead women don't act that way—'twas a passel o' men an' boys, an' they carted him araound town in an old dory till the bottom fell aout, and Ireson he told 'em they'd be sorry for it some day. Well, the facts come aout later, same's they usually do, too late to be any ways useful to an honest man; an' Whittier he come along an' picked up the slack eend of a lyin' tale, an' tarred and feathered Ben Ireson all over onct more after he was dead. 'Twas the only tune Whittier ever slipped up, an' 'tweren't fair. I whaled Dan good when he brought that piece back from school. You don't know no better, o' course; but I've give you the facts, hereafter an' evermore to be remembered. Ben Ireson weren't no sech kind o' man as Whittier makes aout; my father he knew him well, before an' after that business, an' you beware o' hasty jedgments, young feller. Next!"
                Harvey had never heard Disko talk so long, and collapsed with burning cheeks; but, as Dan said promptly, a boy could only learn what he was taught at school, and life was too short to keep track of every lie along the coast.
                Then Manuel touched the jangling, jarring little machette to a queer tune, and sang something in Portuguese about "Nina, innocente!" ending with a full-handed sweep that brought the song up with a jerk. Then Disko obliged with his second song, to an old-fashioned creaky tune, and all joined in the chorus. This is one stanza:

"Now Aprile is over and melted the snow,
And outer Noo Bedford we shortly must tow;
Yes, out o' Noo Bedford we shortly must clear,
We're the whalers that never see wheat in the ear."

Here the fiddle went very softly for a while by itself, and then:

"Wheat-in-the-ear, my true-love's posy blowin,
Wheat-in-the-ear, we're goin' off to sea;
Wheat-in-the-ear, I left you fit for sowin,
When I come back a loaf o' bread you'll be!"

That made Harvey almost weep, though he could not tell why. But it was much worse when the cook dropped the potatoes and held out his hands for the fiddle. Still leaning against the locker door, he struck into a tune that was like something very bad but sure to happen whatever you did. After a little he sang, in an unknown tongue, his big chin down on the fiddle-tail, his white eyeballs glaring in the lamplight. Harvey swung out of his bunk to hear better; and amid the straining of the timbers and the wash of the waters the tune crooned and moaned on, like lee surf in a blind fog, till it ended with a wail.
                "Jimmy Christmas! Thet gives me the blue creevles," said Dan. "What in thunder is it?"
                "The song of Fin McCoul," said the cook, "when he wass going to Norway." His English was not thick, but all clear-cut, as though it came from a phonograph.
                "Faith, I've been to Norway, but I didn't make that unwholesim noise. 'Tis like some of the old songs, though," said Long Jack, sighing.
                "Don't let's hev another 'thout somethin' between," said Dan; and the accordion struck up a rattling, catchy tune that ended:

"It's six an' twenty Sundays sence las' we saw the land,
With fifteen hunder quintal,
An' fifteen hunder quintal,
'Teen hunder toppin' quintal,
'Twix' old 'Queereau an' Grand!"

"Hold on!" roared Tom Platt. "D'ye want to nail the trip, Dan? That's Jonah sure, 'less you sing it after all our salt's wet."
                "No, 'tain't, is it, Dad? Not unless you sing the very las' verse. You can't learn me anything on Jonahs!"
                "What's that?" said Harvey. "What's a Jonah?"
                "A Jonah's anything that spoils the luck. Sometimes it's a man—sometimes it's a boy—or a bucket. I've known a splittin'-knife Jonah two trips till we was on to her," said Tom Platt. "There's all sorts o' Jonahs. Jim Bourke was one till he was drowned on Georges. I'd never ship with Jim Bourke, not if I was starvin'. There wuz a green dory on the Ezra Flood. Thet was a Jonah, too, the worst sort o' Jonah. Drowned four men, she did, an' used to shine fiery O, nights in the nest."
                "And you believe that?" said Harvey, remembering what Tom Platt had said about candles and models. "Haven't we all got to take what's served?"
                A mutter of dissent ran round the bunks. "Outboard, yes; inboard, things can happen," said Disko. "Don't you go makin' a mock of Jonahs, young feller."
                "Well, Harve ain't no Jonah. Day after we catched him," Dan cut in, "we had a toppin' good catch."
                The cook threw up his head and laughed suddenly—a queer, thin laugh. He was a most disconcerting nigger.
                "Murder!" said Long Jack. "Don't do that again, doctor. We ain't used to ut."
                "What's wrong?" said Dan. "Ain't he our mascot, and didn't they strike on good after we'd struck him?"
                "Oh! yess," said the cook. "I know that, but the catch iss not finish yet."
                "He ain't goin' to do us any harm," said Dan, hotly. "Where are ye hintin' an' edgin' to? He's all right."
                "No harm. No. But one day he will be your master, Danny."
                "That all?" said Dan, placidly. "He wun't—not by a jugful."
                "Master!" said the cook, pointing to Harvey. "Man!" and he pointed to Dan.
                "That's news. Haow soon?" said Dan, with a laugh.
                "In some years, and I shall see it. Master and man—man and master."
                "How in thunder d'ye work that out?" said Tom Platt.
                "In my head, where I can see."
                "Haow?" This from all the others at once.
                "I do not know, but so it will be." He dropped his head, and went on peeling the potatoes, and not another word could they get out of him.
                "Well," said Dan, "a heap o' things'll hev to come abaout 'fore Harve's any master o' mine; but I'm glad the doctor ain't choosen to mark him for a Jonah. Now, I mistrust Uncle Salters fer the Jonerest Jonah in the Fleet regardin' his own special luck. Dunno ef it's spreadin' same's smallpox. He ought to be on the Carrie Pitman. That boat's her own Jonah, sure—crews an' gear made no differ to her driftin'. Jiminy Christmas! She'll etch loose in a flat ca'am."
                "We're well clear o' the Fleet, anyway," said Disko. "Carrie Pitman an' all." There was a rapping on the deck.
                "Uncle Salters has catched his luck," said Dan as his father departed.
                "It's blown clear," Disko cried, and all the foc'sle tumbled up for a bit of fresh air. The fog had gone, but a sullen sea ran in great rollers behind it. The We're Here slid, as it were, into long, sunk avenues and ditches which felt quite sheltered and homelike if they would only stay still; but they changed without rest or mercy, and flung up the schooner to crown one peak of a thousand gray hills, while the wind hooted through her rigging as she zigzagged down the slopes. Far away a sea would burst into a sheet of foam, and the others would follow suit as at a signal, till Harvey's eyes swam with the vision of interlacing whites and grays. Four or five Mother Carey's chickens stormed round in circles, shrieking as they swept past the bows. A rain-squall or two strayed aimlessly over the hopeless waste, ran down 'wind and back again, and melted away.
                "Seems to me I saw somethin' flicker jest naow over yonder," said Uncle Salters, pointing to the northeast.
                "Can't be any of the fleet," said Disko, peering under his eyebrows, a hand on the foc'sle gangway as the solid bows hatcheted into the troughs. "Sea's oilin' over dretful fast. Danny, don't you want to skip up a piece an' see how aour trawl-buoy lays?"
                Danny, in his big boots, trotted rather than climbed up the main rigging (this consumed Harvey with envy), hitched himself around the reeling cross-trees, and let his eye rove till it caught the tiny black buoy-flag on the shoulder of a mile-away swell.
                "She's all right," he hailed. "Sail O! Dead to the no'th'ard, comin' down like smoke! Schooner she be, too."
                They waited yet another half-hour, the sky clearing in patches, with a flicker of sickly sun from time to time that made patches of olive-green water. Then a stump-foremast lifted, ducked, and disappeared, to be followed on the next wave by a high stern with old-fashioned wooden snail's-horn davits. The snails were red-tanned.
                "Frenchmen!" shouted Dan. "No, 'tain't, neither. Da-ad!"
                "That's no French," said Disko. "Salters, your blame luck holds tighter'n a screw in a keg-head."
                "I've eyes. It's Uncle Abishai."
                "You can't nowise tell fer sure."
                "The head-king of all Jonahs," groaned Tom Platt. "Oh, Salters, Salters, why wasn't you abed an' asleep?"
                "How could I tell?" said poor Salters, as the schooner swung up.
                She might have been the very Flying Dutchman, so foul, draggled, and unkempt was every rope and stick aboard. Her old-style quarterdeck was some or five feet high, and her rigging flew knotted and tangled like weed at a wharf-end. She was running before the wind—yawing frightfully—her staysail let down to act as a sort of extra foresail,—"scandalized," they call it,—and her foreboom guyed out over the side. Her bowsprit cocked up like an old-fashioned frigate's; her jib-boom had been fished and spliced and nailed and clamped beyond further repair; and as she hove herself forward, and sat down on her broad tail, she looked for all the world like a blouzy, frouzy, bad old woman sneering at a decent girl.
                "That's Abishai," said Salters. "Full o' gin an' Judique men, an' the judgments o' Providence layin' fer him an' never takin' good holt He's run in to bait, Miquelon way."
                "He'll run her under," said Long Jack. "That's no rig fer this weather."
                "Not he, 'r he'd'a done it long ago," Disko replied. "Looks 's if he cal'lated to run us under. Ain't she daown by the head more 'n natural, Tom Platt?"
                "Ef it's his style o' loadin' her she ain't safe," said the sailor slowly. "Ef she's spewed her oakum he'd better git to his pumps mighty quick."
                The creature threshed up, wore round with a clatter and raffle, and lay head to wind within ear-shot.
                A gray-beard wagged over the bulwark, and a thick voice yelled something Harvey could not understand. But Disko's face darkened. "He'd resk every stick he hez to carry bad news. Says we're in fer a shift o' wind. He's in fer worse. Abishai! Abi-shai!" He waved his arm up and down with the gesture of a man at the pumps, and pointed forward. The crew mocked him and laughed.
                "Jounce ye, an' strip ye an' trip ye!" yelled Uncle Abishai. "A livin' gale—a livin' gale. Yab! Cast up fer your last trip, all you Gloucester haddocks. You won't see Gloucester no more, no more!"
                "Crazy full—as usual," said Tom Platt. "Wish he hadn't spied us, though."
                She drifted out of hearing while the gray-head yelled something about a dance at the Bay of Bulls and a dead man in the foc'sle. Harvey shuddered. He had seen the sloven tilled decks and the savage-eyed crew.
                "An' that's a fine little floatin' hell fer her draught," said Long Jack. "I wondher what mischief he's been at ashore."
                "He's a trawler," Dan explained to Harvey, "an' he runs in fer bait all along the coast. Oh, no, not home, he don't go. He deals along the south an' east shore up yonder." He nodded in the direction of the pitiless Newfoundland beaches. "Dad won't never take me ashore there. They're a mighty tough crowd—an' Abishai's the toughest. You saw his boat? Well, she's nigh seventy year old, they say; the last o' the old Marblehead heel-tappers. They don't make them quarterdecks any more. Abishai don't use Marblehead, though. He ain't wanted there. He jes' drif's araound, in debt, trawlin' an' cussin' like you've heard. Bin a Jonah fer years an' years, he hez. 'Gits liquor frum the Feecamp boats fer makin' spells an' selling winds an' such truck. Crazy, I guess."
                "'Twon't be any use underrunnin' the trawl to-night," said Tom Platt, with quiet despair. "He come alongside special to cuss us. I'd give my wage an' share to see him at the gangway o' the old Ohio 'fore we quit floggin'. Jest abaout six dozen, an' Sam Mocatta layin' 'em on criss-cross!"
                The disheveled "heel-tapper" danced drunkenly down wind, and all eyes followed her. Suddenly the cook cried in his phonograph voice: "It wass his own death made him speak so! He iss fey—fey, I tell you! Look!" She sailed into a patch of watery sunshine three or four miles distant. The patch dulled and faded out, and even as the light passed so did the schooner. She dropped into a hollow and—was not.
                "Run under, by the Great Hook-Block!" shouted Disko, jumping aft. "Drunk or sober, we've got to help 'em. Heave short and break her out! Smart!"
                Harvey was thrown on the deck by the shock that followed the setting of the jib and foresail, for they hove short on the cable, and to save time, jerked the anchor bodily from the bottom, heaving in as they moved away. This is a bit of brute force seldom resorted to except in matters of life and death, and the little We're Here complained like a human. They ran down to where Abishai's craft had vanished; found two or three trawl-tubs, a gin-bottle, and a stove-in dory, but nothing more. "Let 'em go," said Disko, though no one had hinted at picking them up. "I wouldn't hev a match that belonged to Abishai aboard. Guess she run clear under. Must ha' been spewin' her oakum fer a week, an' they never thought to pump her. That's one more boat gone along o' leavin' port all hands drunk."
                "Glory be!" said Long Jack. "We'd ha' been obliged to help 'em if they was top o' water."
                "'Thinkin' o' that myself," said Tom Platt.
                "Fey! Fey!" said the cook, rolling his eyes. "He haas taken his own luck with him."
                "Ver' good thing, I think, to tell the Fleet when we see. Eh, wha-at?" said Manuel. "If you runna that way before the 'wind, and she work open her seams—" He threw out his hands with an indescribable gesture, while Penn sat down on the house and sobbed at the sheer horror and pity of it all. Harvey could not realize that he had seen death on the open waters, but he felt very sick. Then Dan went up the cross-trees, and Disko steered them back to within sight of their own trawl-buoys just before the fog blanketed the sea once again.
                "We go mighty quick hereabouts when we do go," was all he said to Harvey. "You think on that fer a spell, young feller. That was liquor."
                "After dinner it was calm enough to fish from the decks,—Penn and Uncle Salters were very zealous this time,—and the catch was large and large fish.
                "Abishai has shorely took his luck with him," said Salters. "The wind hain't backed ner riz ner nothin'. How abaout the trawl? I despise superstition, anyway."
                Tom Platt insisted that they had much better haul the thing and make a new berth. But the cook said: "The luck iss in two pieces. You will find it so when you look. I know." This so tickled Long Jack that he overbore Tom Platt and the two went out together.
                Underrunning a trawl means pulling it in on one side of the dory, picking off the fish, rebaiting the hooks, and passing them back to the sea again—something like pinning and unpinning linen on a wash-line. It is a lengthy business and rather dangerous, for the long, sagging line may twitch a boat under in a flash. But when they heard, "And naow to thee, O Capting," booming out of the fog, the crew of the We're Here took heart. The dory swirled alongside well loaded, Tom Platt yelling for Manuel to act as relief-boat.
                "The luck's cut square in two pieces," said Long Jack, forking in the fish, while Harvey stood open-mouthed at the skill with which the plunging dory was saved from destruction. "One half was jest punkins. Tom Platt wanted to haul her an' ha' done wid ut; but I said, "I'll back the doctor that has the second sight, an' the other half come up sagging full o' big uns. Hurry, Man'nle, an' bring's a tub o' bait. There's luck afloat to-night."
                The fish bit at the newly baited hooks from which their brethren had just been taken, and Tom Platt and Long Jack moved methodically up and down the length of the trawl, the boat's nose surging under the wet line of hooks, stripping the sea-cucumbers that they called pumpkins, slatting off the fresh-caught cod against the gunwale, rebaiting, and loading Manuel's dory till dusk.
                "I'll take no risks," said Disko then—"not with him floatin' around so near. Abishai won't sink fer a week. Heave in the dories an' we'll dress daown after supper."
                That was a mighty dressing-down, attended by three or four blowing grampuses. It lasted till nine o'clock, and Disko was thrice heard to chuckle as Harvey pitched the split fish into the hold.
                "Say, you're haulin' ahead dretful fast," said Dan, when they ground the knives after the men had turned in. "There's somethin' of a sea to-night, an' I hain't heard you make no remarks on it."
                "Too busy," Harvey replied, testing a blade's edge. "Come to think of it, she is a high-kicker."
                The little schooner was gambolling all around her anchor among the silver-tipped waves. Backing with a start of affected surprise at the sight of the strained cable, she pounced on it like a kitten, while the spray of her descent burst through the hawse-holes with the report of a gun. Shaking her head, she would say: "Well, I'm sorry I can't stay any longer with you. I'm going North," and would sidle off, halting suddenly with a dramatic rattle of her rigging. "As I was just going to observe," she would begin, as gravely as a drunken man addressing a lamp-post. The rest of the sentence (she acted her words in dumb-show, of course) was lost in a fit of the fidgets, when she behaved like a puppy chewing a string, a clumsy woman in a side-saddle, a hen with her head cut off, or a cow stung by a hornet, exactly as the whims of the sea took her.
                "See her sayin' her piece. She's Patrick Henry naow," said Dan.
                She swung sideways on a roller, and gesticulated with her jib-boom from port to starboard.
                "But-ez-fer me, give me liberty-er give me-death!"
                Wop! She sat down in the moon-path on the water, courtesying with a flourish of pride impressive enough had not the wheel-gear sniggered mockingly in its box.
                Harvey laughed aloud. "Why, it's just as if she was alive," he said.
                "She's as stiddy as a haouse an' as dry as a herrin'," said Dan enthusiastically, as he was slung across the deck in a batter of spray. "Fends 'em off an' fends 'em off, an' 'Don't ye come anigh me,' she sez. Look at her—jest look at her! Sakes! You should see one o' them toothpicks histin' up her anchor on her spike outer fifteen-fathom water."
                "What's a toothpick, Dan?"
                "Them new haddockers an' herrin'-boats. Fine's a yacht forward, with yacht sterns to 'em, an' spike bowsprits, an' a haouse that 'u'd take our hold. I've heard that Burgess himself he made the models fer three or four of 'em. Dad's sot agin 'em on account o' their pitchin' an' joltin', but there's heaps o' money in 'em. Dad can find fish, but he ain't no ways progressive—he don't go with the march o' the times. They're chock-full o' labour-savin' jigs an' sech all. 'Ever seed the Elector o' Gloucester? She's a daisy, ef she is a toothpick."
                "What do they cost, Dan?"
                "Hills o' dollars. Fifteen thousand, p'haps; more, mebbe. There's gold-leaf an' everything you kin think of." Then to himself, half under his breath, "Guess I'd call her Hattie S., too."

Saturday, 6 July 2019

Good Readings: Quotes of St. John of Cross (translated into Portuguese)

1. “Se está em mim aquele a quem minha alma ama, como não o encontro nem o sinto? É por estar ele escondido. Mas não te escondas também; assim podes encontrá-lo e senti-lo…”

2. “Não faça coisa alguma, nem diga palavra alguma que Cristo não faria ou não diria se encontrasse as mesmas circunstâncias.”

3. “Renuncie aos desejos e encontrará o que seu coração deseja.”

4. “Quem se queixa ou murmura não é cristão perfeito, nem mesmo um bom cristão.”

5. “Para se progredir, o que mais se necessita é saber calar diante de Deus…a linguagem que ele melhor ouve é a do silêncio de amor.”

6. “O demônio teme a alma unida a Deus como ao próprio Deus.”

7. “A pessoa que caminha para Deus e não afasta de si as preocupações, nem domina suas paixões, caminha como quem empurra um carro encosta a cima.”

8. “A constância de ânimo, com paz e tranquilidade, não só enriquece a pessoa, como a ajuda muito a julgar melhor as adversidades, dando-lhes a solução conveniente.”

9. “As criaturas são os vestígios das pegadas de Deus, pelas quais se reconhece sua grandeza, poder e sabedoria”.

10. “Deus quer mais de ti um mínimo de obediência e docilidade, do que todas as ações que realizas por ele.”

Friday, 5 July 2019

Friday's Sung Word: "Hino do Fluminense" by Lamartine Babo (in Portuguese)

Sou tricolor de coração
Sou do clube tantas vezes campeão
Fascina pela sua disciplina
O Fluminense me domina
Eu tenho amor ao tricolor.

Salve o querido pavilhão
Das três cores que traduzem tradição
A paz, a esperança e o vigor
Unido e forte pelo esporte
Eu sou é tricolor

Vence o Fluminense
Com o verde da esperança
Pois quem espera sempre alcança
Clube que orgulha o Brasil
Retumbante de glórias e vitórias mil.

Vence o Fluminense
Com o sangue do encarnado
Com amor e com vigor
Faz a torcida querida
Vibrar de emoção o tricampeão.

Vence o Fluminense usando a fidalguia
Branco é paz e harmonia
Brilha com o sol da manhã
Qual luz de um refletor.
Salve o Tricolor.

You can hear the Fluminense Anthem sung by Cid Choir and  Orchestra here.