Tom Cringle's Log

by Michael Scott

  “Oh! I am coming;” and, kicking all my romance to Old Nick, I descended, and we had a pleasant night of it, and some wine and some fun, and there an end; but I have often dreamed of that dark pool, and the scenes I witnessed there that day and night.

  * “Leave me room, countrymen—leave me room, my children.”

  † Equivalent to “Pull, you devils, pull.”

  CHAPTER XIII.

  THE PIRATE’S LEMAN.

  “When lovely woman stoops to folly,

  And finds too late that men betray,

  What charm can soothe her melancholy,

  What art can wash her guilt away?

  “The only art her guilt to cover,

  To hide her shame from every eye,

  To give repentance to her lover,

  And wring his bosom—is to die.”

  Vicar of Wakefield.

  “Ay Dios, si sera possible que he ya hallado lugar que pueda servir de escondida sepultura a la carga pesada deste cuerpo, que tan contra mi voluntad sostengo?”

  Don Quixote de la Mancha.

  THE NEXT morning, after breakfast, I proceeded to Santiago, and landed at the customhouse wharf, where I found everything bustle, dust, and heat. Several of the captains of the English vessels were there, who immediately made up to me, and reported how far advanced in their lading they were, and inquired when we were to give them convoy, the latest news from Kingston, &c. At length I saw our friend Ricardo Campana going along one of the neighbouring streets, and I immediately made sail in chase. He at once recognised me, gave me a cordial shake of the hand, and inquired how he could serve me. I produced two letters which I had brought for him, but which had been forgotten in the bustle of the preceding day; they were introductory, and, although sealed, I had some reason to conjecture that my friend, Mr Pepperpot Wagtail, had done me much more than justice. Campana, with great kindness, immediately invited me to his house. “We foreigners,” said he, “don’t keep your hours; I am just going home to breakfast.” It was past eleven in the forenoon. I was about excusing myself on the plea of having already breakfasted, when he silenced me. “Why, I guessed as much, Mr Lieutenant, but then you have not lunched; so you can call it lunch, you know, if it will ease your conscience.” There was no saying nay to all this civility, so we stumped along the burning streets, through a mile of houses, large massive buildings, but very different in externals from the gay domiciles of Kingston. Aaron Bang afterwards used to say that they looked more like prisons than dwelling-houses, and he was not in this very much out. Most of them were built of brick and plastered over, with large windows, in front of each of which, like the houses in the south of Spain, there was erected a large heavy wooden balcony, projecting far enough from the wall to allow a Spanish chair, such as I have already described, to be placed in it. The front of these verandahs was closed in with a row of heavy balustrades at the bottom, of a variety of shapes, and by clumsy carved woodwork above, which effectually prevented you from seeing into the interior. The whole had a Moorish air, and in the upper part of the town there was a Sabbath-like stillness prevailing, which was only broken now and then by the tinkle of a guitar from one of the aforesaid verandahs, or, by the rattling of a crazy volante—a sort of covered gig—drawn by a broken-kneed and broken-winded mule, with a kiln-dried old Spaniard or doña in it.

  The lower part of the town had been busy enough, and the stir and hum of it rendered the quietude of the upper part of it more striking.

  A shovel-hatted friar now suddenly accosted us.

  “Señor Campana—ese pobre familia de Cangrejo! Lastima! Lastima! Lastima!”

  “Cangrejo—Cangrejo!” muttered I; “why, it is the very name attached to the miniature.”

  Campana turned to the priest, and they conversed earnestly together for some moments, when he left him, and we again held on our way. I could not help asking what family that was, whose situation the “padre” seemed so feelingly to bemoan.

  “Never mind,” said he; “never mind; they were a proud family once, but that is all over now—come along.”

  “But,” said I, “I have a very peculiar cause of interest with regard to this family. You are aware, of course, of the trial and execution of the pirates in Kingston, the most conspicuous of whom was a young man called Federico Cangrejo, from whom—”

  “Mr Cringle,” said he, solemnly, “at a fitting time I will hear you regarding that matter; at present I entreat you will not press it.”

  Good manners would not allow me to push it farther, and we trudged along together, until we arrived at Don Ricardo Campana’s door. It was a large brick building, plastered over as already described, and whitewashed. There was a projecting stair in front, with a flight of steps to the right and left, with a parapet wall towards the street. There were two large windows, with the wooden verandah or lattice already described, on the first floor, and on the second a range of smaller windows of the same kind. What answered to our ground-floor was used as a warehouse and filled with dry goods, sugar, coffee, hides, and a vast variety of miscellaneous articles. We ascended the stairs and entered a lofty room, cool and dark, and paved with large diamond-shaped bricks, and every way desirable for a West India lounge, all to the furniture, which was meagre enough; three or four chairs, a wormeaten old leathern sofa, and a large clumsy hardwood table in the midst.

  There were several children playing about, little sallow devils—although, I daresay, they could all of them have been furnished with certificates of white parentage—upon whom one or two negro women were hovering in attendance beyond a large folding door that fronted the entrance.

  When we entered, the eldest of the children, a little girl of about eight years old, was sitting in the doorway, playing with a small blue toy that I could make nothing of, until, on a nearer inspection, I found it to be a live land-crab, which the little lady had manacled with a thread by the foot, the thread being fastened to a nail driven into a seam of the floor.

  As an article of food, I was already familiar with this creature; it was in every respect like a sea-crab, only smaller, the body being at the widest not above three inches across the back. It fed without any apparent fear, and while it pattered over the tiled floor with its hard claws, it would now and then stop and seize a crumb of bread in its forceps, and feed itself like a little monkey. By the time I had exchanged a few words with the little lady, the large door that opened into the hall on the right hand moved, and mine hostess made her appearance—a small woman, dressed in a black gown, very laxly fitted. She was the very converse of our old ship, she never missed stays, although I did cruelly.

  “This is my friend, Lieutenant Cringle,” said mine host.

  “A las pies de usted, señora,” responded your humble servant.

  “I am very glad to see you,” said the lady; “but breakfast is ready; welcome, sir, welcome.”

  The food was not amiss, the coffee decidedly good, and the chocolate, wherein, if you had planted a tea-spoon, it would have stood upright, was excellent. When we had done with substantials, dulce—that is, the fruit of the guava preserved, in small wooden boxes (like drums of figs), after being made into a kind of jam—was placed on the table, and mine host and his spouse had eaten a bushel of it a-piece, and drunk a gallon of that most heathenish beverage, cold clear water, before the repast was considered ended. After a hearty meal and a pint of claret I felt rather inclined to sit still, and expatiate for an hour or so, but Campana roused me, and asked whether or not I felt inclined to go and look at the town. I had no apology, and, although I would much rather have sat still, I rose to accompany him, when in walked Captain Transom and Mr Bang. They were also kindly received by Don Ricardo.

  “Glad of the honour of this visit,” said he in French, with a slight lift of the corner of his mouth; “I hope neither you nor your boat’s crew took any harm after the heat of yesterday.”

  Transom laughed.

  “Why, you did beat us very neatly, Don Ricardo. Pray, where got you that ca
noe? But a lady—Mrs Campana, I presume!—Have the goodness to introduce me.”

  The skipper was presented in due form, the lady receiving him without the least mauvaise honte, which, after all, I believe to be indigenous to our island. Aaron was next introduced, who, as he spoke no lingo, as I knows of, to borrow Timotheus Tailtackle’s phraseology, but English was rather posed in the interview.

  “I say, Tom, tell her I wish she may live a thousand years. Ah, so, that will do.”

  Madama made her congé, and hoped “El señor tomaria un asiento.”

  “Mucho, mucho,” sang out Bang, who meant by that that he was much obliged.

  At length Don Ricardo came to our aid. He had arranged a party into the country for next morning, and invited us all to come back to a tertulia in the evening, and to take beds in his house—he undertaking to provide bestias to carry us.

  We therefore strolled out, a good deal puzzled what to make of ourselves until the evening, when we fell in with one of the captains of the English ships then loading, who told us that there was a sort of hotel a little way down the street, where we might dine at two o’clock at the table d’hôte. It was as yet only twelve, so we stumbled into this said hotel to reconnoitre, and a sorry affair it was. The public room was fitted with rough wooden tables, at which Spaniards, Americans, and Englishmen sat and smoked, and drank sangaree, hot punch, or cold grog, as best suited them, and committed a vast variety of miscellaneous abominations during their potations. We were about giving up all thoughts of the place, and had turned to go to the door, when in popped our friend Don Ricardo. He saw we were somewhat abroad.

  “Gentlemen,” said he, “if I may ask, have you any engagement to dinner?”

  “No, we have none.”

  “Well, then, will you do me the honour of partaking of my family fare, at three o’clock? I did not venture to invite you before, because I knew you had other letters to deliver, and I wished to leave you masters of your own time.” We gladly accepted his kind offer; he had made his bow, and was cruising amongst the smokers and punch-drinkers, where the blue-coated masters of the English merchantmen and American skippers were bobbing and nobbing with the gingham-coated Dons—for the whole Spanish part of the community were figged out in Glasgow and Paisley ginghams—when the priest, who had attracted our attention in the morning, came up to him and drew him aside. They talked earnestly together, the clerigo, every now and then, indicating, by significant nods and glances towards us, that we formed the burden of his song, whatever that might be. Campana seemed exceedingly unwilling to communicate the message, which we guessed he had been entreated to carry to us, and made one or two attempts to shove the friar in propria persona towards us, that he might himself tell his own story. At length they advanced together to where we stood, when he addressed me.

  “You must pardon me, lieutenant; but as the proverb hath it, ‘strange countries, strange manners;’ my friend here, Padre Carera, brings a message from El Señor Picador Cangrejo, one of our magnates, that he will consider it an especial favour if you will call on him, either this forenoon or to-morrow.”

  “Why, who is this Cangrejo, Don Ricardo? If he be not the father of the poor fellow I mentioned, there must be some mystery about him.”

  “No mystery,” chimed in the monk, “no mystery, God help us; but mucha, mucha miseria, hijo mio; much misery, sir, and more impending, and none to help save only—” He did not finish the sentence; but, taking off his shovel-hat, and showing his finely-turned bald head, he looked up to heaven and crossed himself, the tears trickling down his wrinkled checks.

  “But,” continued he, “you will come, Mr Cringle?”

  “Certainly,” said I, “to-morrow I will call, if my friend Don Ricardo will be my guide.” This being fixed, we strolled about until dinner-time, friend Aaron making his remarks regarding the people and their domiciles with great naïveté.

  “Strange now, Tom, I had expected to see little else amongst the slave-population here than misery and starvation; whereas, so far as I can observe, they are all deucedly well cared for, and fat and contented; and from the inquiries I was making amongst the captains of the merchantmen—” (“Masters,” interjected Captain Transom, “Master of a merchantman, Captain of a man of-war—”) “Well, captains of merchantmen—masters, I mean—I find that the people whom they employ are generally free; and, further, that the slaves are not more than three to one free person, yet they export a great deal of produce, Captain Transom—must keep my eyes about me.” And so he did, as will be seen by-and-by. But the dinner-hour drew near, and we repaired to Don Ricardo’s, where we found a party of eight assembled, and our appearance was the signal for the repast being ordered in. It was laid out in the entrance-hall. The table was of massive mahogany, the chairs of the same material, with stuffed bottoms, covered with a dingy coloured morocco, which might have been red once. But devil a dish of any kind was on the snow-white tablecloth when we sat down; and our situations, or the places we were expected to fill at the board, were only indicated by a large knife and silver fork and spoon laid down for each person. The company consisted of Don Ricardo Campana, la Señora Campana, and a brother of hers, two dark young men who were Don Ricardo’s clerks, and three young women, ladies, or señoras, as I ought to have called them, who were sitting so far back into the shade at the dark end of the room when we entered, that I could not tell what they were. Our hostess was, although a little woman, a good-looking dark Spaniard, not very polished, but very kind; and, seeing that our friend Aaron was the most helpless amongst us, she took him under her especial care, and made many a civil speech to him, although her husband did not fail to advertise her, that he understood not one word of Spanish, that is, of all she was saying to him. However, he replied to her kindnesses by never-failing exclamation of “mucho, mucho,” and they appeared to be getting on extremely well. “Bring dinner,” quoth Don Ricardo— “trae la comida”—and four black female domestics entered; the first with a large dish of pillaffe, or fowls smothered in rice and onions; the second with a nondescript melange—flesh, fish, and fowl apparently—strongly flavoured with garlic; the third bore a dish of jerked beef, cut into long shreds, and swimming in sebo, or lard; and the fourth bore a large dish full of that indescribable thing known by those who read Don Quixote as an olla podrida. The sable handmaidens began to circulate round the table, and every one helped himself to the dish that he most fancied. At length they placed them on the board, and brought massive silver salvers, with snow-white bread, twisted into strands in the baking, like junks of a cable; and water-jars, and yams nicely roasted and wrapped in plantain-leaves. These were, in like manner, handed round and then deposited on the table, and the domestics vanished.

  We all got on cheerily enough, and both the captain and myself were finishing off with the olla podrida, with which, it so happened, we were familiar, and friend Bang, taking the time from us, took heart of grace, and straightway followed our example. There was a pause—rather an irksome one from its continuance, so much so, indeed, that knocking off from my more immediate business of gorging the aforesaid olla podrida, I looked up, and as it so happened, by accident, towards our friend Bang—and there he was, munching and screwing up his energies to swallow a large mouthful of the mixture, against which his stomach appeared to rebel. “Smollet’s feast after the manner of the ancients,” whispered Transom. At length he made a vigorous effort, and straightway sang out—”L’eau de vie, Don Ricardibus—some brandy, mon ami—for the love of all the respectable saints in the calendar.”

  Mine host laughed, but the females were most confoundedly posed. The younger ones ran for aromatic salts, while the lady of the house fetched some very peculiar distilled waters. She, in her kindness, filled a glass and helped Bang, but the instant he perceived the flavour he thrust it away.

  “Aniseed—damn aniseed—no, no—obliged—mucho, mucho—but brandy plaino, that is, simple of itself, if you please—that’s it—Lord love you, my dear madam—may you li
ve a thousand years though.”

  The pure brandy was administered, and once more the dark beauties reappeared, the first carrying a bottle of vin-de-grave, the second one of vinotinto, or claret, and the third one of l’eau de vie, for Aaron’s peculiar use. These were placed before the landlord, who helped himself to half a pint of claret, which he poured into a large tumbler, and then, putting a drop or two of water into it, tasted it, and sent it to his wife. In like manner he gave a smaller quantity to each of the other señoras, when the whole female part of the family drank our healths in a volley. But all this time the devil a thing drinkable was there before we males but goblets of pure cold water. Bang’s “mucho, mucho” even failed him, for he had only, in his modesty, got a thimbleful of brandy to qualify the olla podrida. However, in a twinkling a beautiful long-necked bottle of claret was planted at each of our right hands, and of course we lost no time in returning the unlooked for civility of the ladies. Until this moment I had not got a proper glimpse of the three Virgins of the Sun, who were seated at table with us. They were very pretty Moorish-looking girls, as like as peas—dark hair, black eyes, clear colourless olive complexion, and no stays; but young and elastic as their figures were, this was no disadvantage. They were all three dressed in black silk petticoats, over a sort of cambric chemise, with large frills hanging down at the bosom; but gown, properly so called, they had none, their arms being unencumbered with any clothing heavier than a shoulder strap. The eldest was a fine full young woman of about nineteen; the second was more tall and stately, but slighter; and the youngest was—oh, she was an angel of light!—such hair, such eyes, and such a mouth! then her neck and bosom—