by George Griffith.
Originally published in The Novel Magazine (C. Arthur Pearson, Ltd.) vol.2 #10 (Jan 1906).
Mr. George Griffith tried many professions before he settled down to that of a novelist. Among other things he is a great traveller. He has been round the world six and a half times, and on one occasion created a record by accomplishing the journey of 24,965 miles
in sixty-four and a half days.
Mr. Griffith selects "The Plague-Ship Tupisá" as his best story for the following reasons. "In the first place," he says, "I have no reason to believe that the story, as I heard it in the lonely little village away up in the Central Andes, was not really the life-tragedy of the man who told it to me. If I ever heard a true story, I think that was true; and moreover, with certain variations, easily to be accounted for by lapse of time and the possibility of slightly different versions, I heard the story confirmed at two or three places along the coast.
"In the second place, granted that it is true, I think that it contains very nearly all the elements of human tragedy. I have been on a plague-stricken ship on which there were fourteen deaths in four days, and so I can appreciate something of the horror of the situation, but, of course, in our case, the crowning element of 'love stronger than death'—and death in one of its most terrible forms—was wanting; and so also was the equally important element of duty stronger even than love itself.
"The Captain of the Tupisá—which, of course, was not the real name of the ship, for I promised not to tell it if I wrote the story—when he gave the order to fire, sacrificed everything that he had to hope for in this world; and the horror of his position would, of course, be immensely increased by the fact that his order sent the girl who was to have been his wife to certain death, in the midst of the most hideous surroundings; in short, I think it was an act of sacrifice that was little short of sublime both on his part and that of his bride that was to be."
The ride from Magdalena to San Pablo is one of the most wearisome on the journey from Pacasmayo, the coast town, into the Interior, as it is always called in Peru, that is to say, the eastern slopes of the Andes, where the fertile Montaña region stretches away in range after range of magnificently-wooded mountains, until the mountains become hills and the hills melt away into the boundless plains of the Amazonas.
First a slow, toilsome ascent of three or four thousand feet, then an even more toilsome descent into the next valley, out of which the next ridge towered up, cutting a clear edge against the sky. At last, however, San Pablo hove in sight—a cluster of white houses in the middle of a green patch, far away across an enormous valley and three-parts up the side of a great ridge about eleven thousand feet high, the last that had to be crossed before the giants of the Andes proper came in sight.
It looked a lovely spot from the distance, but when four hours' more riding brought me to it I found it as forlorn and shabby and smelly as all the interior towns of Peru are. It was just about the last place on earth in which I should have expected to stumble across as tragic a sea-yarn as I have heard in the course of somewhat extensive wanderings, and if my man, Patricio, had not had what he called una familia, by which he meant relations, there, I should have gone by another and less difficult route, and the story which is set out hereafter might never have been re-told in English.
I carried a "recommendation," or letter of introduction, to the cura, or parish priest, of San Pablo, which Patricio had secured for me from the Governor of the town at which we had slept the night but one before—Magdalena. This cost me an advance of two dollars, which went to entertain the familia, and Patricio did it in such style that the next day he was quite unfit to travel. And that is how I came to spend the day with the cura.
Now the cura of a pueblo, or township, in the interior of Peru is not, as a rule, the sort of person I should choose for a host. He is usually dirty, dissipated, and degraded, little better, indeed, than his Indian flock, a goodly portion of whose blood often flows in his veins. But this man was a gentleman, evidently a descendant of one of the old Spanish families which lorded it in Peru in the days of the Viceroys. He was of fair height and good carriage, with a grave, strong face, and, although he did not strike me as being much past middle age, the fringe round his tonsure was perfectly white.
As we sat out on the piazza smoking our ever-succeeding little brown cigarettes, in the delicious coolness of the early evening, we somehow got back into a previous conversation on the Chilian war.
"The Chilenos were guilty of some terrible cruelties during that war, I have been told," I said, after a little pause.
The remark was really a sort of feeler, for I knew there were many dark stories told about that bitter struggle, and perhaps this sad-faced, white-haired exile might know some.
"Yes, señor. That is true, but war is war, you know, and Spanish blood is hot. It is fire when it is pure, but it is molten lava when it is mixed with the Indian. Yes, truly there were many horrible things done. I was down yonder then," he went on, motioning with his hand towards the far-away coast across the dim ridges below.
"And therefore, perhaps, you saw some of them?" I said insinuatingly, as I refilled his glass. "You know, Señor Padre, I am a story-teller by trade, and—"
"And therefore," he said, with one of his grave, gentle smiles, "when you meet anyone on your travels who knows any stories, you like to hear them, eh? Well, yes, that is good. You know, we Spaniards are great story-tellers, and we would rather hear stories than read them. Yes, as I told you, I was down yonder in the war-time, and I saw some things and heard of others—things that you could write much about if you knew them. Let me think, now."
He looked out over the mountains, and up at the big, bright stars which seemed to hang in clusters down from the firmament, as they always do at considerable altitudes in very clear air. I thought I saw his face harden in the dim light, and his placid brow wrinkle into something like a frown.
"Señor, have you ever heard the story of the plague-ship that came from Panama?"
"Yes," I said, "I have heard something of the sort talked about more than once in the coast-ports, but I have never heard the real story, if there is one, as you seem to say."
"It is so," he replied gravely, looking once more at the western stars which shone over the Pacific, "and as you have nothing else to do just now but listen, I will tell it to you, if you please, and when you go back to England you can write it, and it will show the English people that even in poor, ruined, despised Peru, there are born men who know their duty, and can do it, no matter what the cost may be. Now, this is the story of the plague-ship:
"It was nearly the end of the war, and the Chilian fleet had captured or destroyed nearly all the poor little navy that Peru had, but there was one vessel which had so far escaped scot-free. She was the Huarura, a fast merchant steamer, which had been armed as a cruiser with good guns, both heavy and light, and, thanks to her speed and good handling, she had done not a little damage to the Chilian shipping and coast towns. She was commanded by a captain of the Peruvian navy, Ricardo Caldera, a man who was then about thirty.
"I must tell you, for the sake of the story, that his father's brother was a merchant in Valparaiso. His own home was in Lima, and before the war Ricardo had often visited his uncle. Now at his house, about three years before what I am going to tell you about happened, he had become acquainted with the daughter of another Chilian merchant, Señorita Carmen de Salta. To be short, she was very beautiful, and the two fell in love. Her parents were well pleased, for his blood was good and his family rich. Many Peruvians, you know, were still rich before the war.
"But Doña Carmen was still very young, and they insisted that there should be no talk of marriage until she had been to Paris to finish her education, as you know many sons and daughters of our good families here do. To this, of course, Caldera consented gladly, although the parting was sorrowful. She went, and then came the war, and Caldera saw the clouds of battle rise up between him and his hopes of happiness, for war is war between the South American peoples, you know, and the hatred that it leaves is bitter.
"Well, the war went on, as everyone knows, all to poor Peru's disadvantage, both on land and sea, until Caldera's ship remained the only one that still flew the Peruvian flag. One day, when she was cruising off the southern part of our coast-line, well away from the land, towards which she only approached at nightfall, she sighted a steamer chasing a sailing vessel. Caldera put on steam, and ranged up close to the steamer. The sailing ship hoisted Peruvian colours as he passed, and the steamer hoisted Chilian. That was enough for him. He opened fire as soon as he came within range, and so they fell to.
"The Chilian was a vessel something like his own, a passenger ship made into a cruiser, and in the end he sank her, but just as she was going down she fired a parting shot after the sailing vessel, which, by an unhappy mischance, tore a great hole in her stern, and caused her, too, to begin to sink. Almost the last shot before this had damaged the propeller of the Huarura, but she could still steam, though slowly, and Caldera went at once to the help of the sailing ship.
"He found that she was from Islay, and that she had over a hundred fugitives, mostly women and children, on board, who had fled from Islay when Chilians destroyed Mollendo, and were hoping to make their way to Panama. He took these, with the crew, out of the sinking ship on board the Huarura, and promised to carry them to Panama himself, since the Chilians held all the coast now, and, having no orders from the Government, he felt free to do what he thought best for his countrymen in distress.
"So, as there was no possibility for him to get the damage to his propeller made good nearer than Panama, he set out northwards at such speed as he could make with his rescued countrymen on board. This had happened early in the morning, and towards the middle of that afternoon he sighted the smoke of a steamer coming southward, keeping far out as he was for fear of the war vessels on the coast. He kept on in his course towards her, trusting to his guns in case she should be an enemy, since he had now no more speed left. When the strange vessel came within clear view, he saw that she was a small, old passenger steamer of the Chilian line, which he recognised as one called the Tupisá. But there was no flag flying on her, nor, as they came closer, was any attempt made to hoist one.
"He thought this strange, but he saw something stranger still as he came closer, for then from the bridge, through his glasses, he could see that there were people fighting on her decks, some forward and some aft, and he saw that someone in the forward part on the upper deck was trying to hoist a flag, and others were trying to prevent him; but he could see no signs of guns, and so he steered close in, and then he saw a man and young girl with revolvers in their hands, keeping back a small throng of men, while another man fastened on the flag and dragged it up.
"As soon as the wind took it, it opened out, for it was not tied up as flags usually are—but that, of course, I need not tell you—and when it opened out he saw that it was yellow. It was the flag of Plague, and as it went up the men made a rush forward at it, crying horribly, as if to pull it down again, and the girl and man fired two or three times each, and drove them back.
"And then the other man, when he had pulled up the flag, ran into the wheel-house, and presently dragged out a big blackboard and held it up on the rail. Caldera turned his glasses on it, and saw the dreadful word "Viruela." (Smallpox) in big, white letters on it. Then the two ships came very near together. The girl after she had fired away all the shots from her revolver, turned round towards the Huarura, and spread out her arms and screamed:
"'Viruela! Viruela! We are plague-stricken, nearly all of us. Keep away! Some hope to escape and would board you. Keep away!'
"Then, agonised as the voice was, Caldera, stricken with wonder and horror, recognised it. He turned his glasses on the girl, and recognised her, too. It was Carmen, his own Carmen, his promised wife, there on the plague-ship! How she came there, of course he knew not, but she was there, and that was true enough and horrible enough for him.
"Then she saw him standing on the bridge of the Huarura, and screamed out again:
"'Ricardo! Ricardo caro! Keep away from us. Do not try to rescue any. The viruela came on board at Guayaquil. The ship is a pest-house. Keep away!. If you cannot, then sink us, for we must die.'
"Now, señor, you will easily see that no man could well have been placed in a more dreadful position than poor Caldera was by these words. He was a gentleman with pure Castilian blood in his veins, and he was also a patriotic son of Peru. He loved this heroic girl as only a Spaniard can love, and he saw her now, in this awful situation, for the first time for three years. He would have given his life, nay, his soul, to save her, but he had a hundred women and children, dear to others, and his own gallant crew to guard. If the ships touched, the stricken ones would leap on board, bringing horrible disease and death with them. Nay, if even a boat passed from one to the other, the infection would come with it.
"He had seen, too, that the Tupisá, slow as she was, was faster a little, a very little, than his own half-crippled ship, and that if he sought to escape her she must sooner or later overtake him. What hope was there, then, for those under his care, save in the last, awful resort to the guns?
"Still, even now, he could not bring himself to give the word to fire. Instead, he altered the course of the Huarura, and steamed away, shouting back to Carmen:
"'Throw yourself overboard, Carmen, mia, you and those who are still clean, and we will save you. You others, keep off, or, by the holy Saints, I will fire! I would save you if I could, but I have women and children here, and I dare not.'
"Seeing that the Huarura was trying to get away, those who had taken the Tupisá changed her course and steamed after her. Then Caldera gave the order, and the guns, large and small, swung round, and the muzzles went down. Again he and his officers shouted their warning, and, to show that they were in earnest, a shot was fired across the Tupisá, but too high to do any harm.
"Still she came on, slowly gaining on the Huarura. Carmen had fled up on to the bridge, where two or three men, and among them the one who had put out the blackboard, were keeping back the crowd with revolvers, but they could not steer the ship from the wheel-house, because the mutineers had broken the connection, and were steering with the after-wheel.
"At last, when the Tupisá was getting very close, those on the bridge had fired all their cartridges away, and so they, too, began to shout to Caldera to fire because of what he had said about the women and children. They were brave men, you see, señor, men who would rather die themselves than bring death on the innocent. And Carmen cried out, too, praying her lover, by the love he bore her, and by all things holy, to forget his love and do his duty.
"And while she was crying out thus there was a rush from the deck to the bridge—a rush of men with faces horrible to behold. There was a fierce fight, a fight with living death for a while, and then Caldera, his heart torn with agony and his brain reeling with despair, saw one of those deaths in human shape seize Carmen and clap his hand over her mouth.
"The same moment the word 'Fire' left his lips. The great guns roared out, and a shell burst right under the bridge of the Tupisá, blowing it and all on it to fragments. Another pierced her side and tore a great hole down to the water-line, and at the same time the shot and bullets from the smaller guns fell like a hail-storm on her decks, striking down the already stricken men and women alike—horrible work, señor, but what else could be done?"
"Nothing, I suppose," I said, speaking for the first time since the cura had begun.
"It was a hideous situation, but, after all, Captain Caldera did his duty. Of course, the Tupisá went down?"
"I am glad you think that, señor," he said very softly. "I am glad you think that. Yes, the Tupisá sank, and every soul with her. . . . That is all."
"You have told me a strange and terrible story, Señor Padre," I said, "and I will tell it again on the other side of the world for the sake of the heroes who did their duty, and of that brave girl who did hers so well."
I should have stopped there, but I said:
"But if you will pardon my curiosity, Señor Padre, you have told the story as only an eye-witness could have told it. May I ask if that is true?"
"Yes, señor, that is true," he said, rising from his seat and holding out his hand. "I was one of those on board the Huarura. Now, buenos noches! We have sat late, and you have far to ride to-morrow."
Then I saw the mistake that I had made, and said "Good-night" and went to bed.
* * * *
Three months afterwards I was sitting with my friend Major Harris on the verandah of the English Club at Callao, telling him of the cura and his story.
"Yes," he said, when I had done, "that is quite true. Señorita de Salta went on board the Tupisá at Panama. She was on her way home from Paris. That was found out after the war from the agent's passenger list. When the war was over, Caldera resigned his commission and entered the Church. I heard afterwards that he devoted himself to teaching the Indians in the Interior, and, from what you tell me, I have no doubt that you heard the story from his own lips."