The Padre's Volcano

by Henry M. Rideout

The Padre's Volcano

By HENRY M. RIDEOUT

“D'YE see that peak?” asked Captain Pratt, poking his old brass telescope shoreward.

Nostra Señora de Buen Viaje, our battered lady of ninety tons, ran N. 65 E., skirting the coast of Mindanao. Off her quarter ran a white curve of sand-beach, along which a few nipa huts peered out from an ambush of drooping greenery, the newer bits of thatch shining here and there like gold. Behind them, over a tall grove of cocoanut-palms, the earliest flying-foxes veered in their sunset flights. Far behind the grove, in turn, rose a range of sharp, sullen hills of cloudy green, above whose edge circular fronds, on trunks invisible in the distance, showed like bombs of foliage bursting in mid-air. And above and behind them all, the land gathered itself mightily, and in two long, graceful hollow curves ran high to the shattered pinnacle of the volcano—a dark, scowling, Malay version of Fuji-yama.

“Is she active?”

The little captain wagged his mutton-chop whiskers, fiercely amazed. “Be George, ye might say she was up an' about. I see 'er blow 'er bloomin' 'ead off!”

“That must-have been exciting,” the listener returned.

“'Twasn't.”

Captain Pratt looked pensively, with unwinking blue eyes, at the fiery disk of the setting sun.

“Drawin' on time for chow,” he concluded; then stepping briskly forward to the verge of the poop, he called:

“Boy! Two gin-and-bitters!”

A little Tagalog, squatting over a tin basin on the deck, looked up with wide eyes, one brown fist clutched full of boiled rice, like a snowball.

“Seegy, seegy!” roared the captain. “Dirty hombre, d'ye 'ear? Ye black son of a gun, don't ye set there starin' at me!”

When at last we had given the solemn pledge, “Here's fun!” the captain sat down in the other bamboo chair.

“'Twas a tejious interference with shippin',” he remarked. “But one thing come of it, I didn't ever expect to be doin'.

“I was takin' on copra at Pacatlog when she e-rupted; an' the Seenoria comin' back to Manila, o' course it was told that she'd been the only ship to lay there at the time. So I comes into the 'ead office, an' fust off, young Fosdyck ups and says:

“'Cap'n, there's a letter for you 'ere from the true church. Are ye takin' orders?'

“'I ain't takin' no more orders,' I says to 'im, 'from windy youngsters to bring 'em back no more free bananas or papaia,' I says.

“'I'm not rottin' you,' says Fosdyck. 'It's a letter from the Jessyits, very particular.'

“'Oh, you be blowed,' I says. But just then, sure enough, out comes the Old Man 'imself from his private coop, an' says: 'Letter for you, Captain'—an' 'ands it over. An' my word, 'twas that big an' square, with figger'eads an' scrollwork. An' inside it says 'Captain Gregory Pratt (dear-sir) bein' informed that your schooner was the only vessel at Pacatlog durin' the recent'—but, rot! I can't mind the wordin' of it now, ye know. But it was all in the King's English, an' the substance was that some Padre Francisco or Tomasso or Bartolomeo wanted to talk the volcano over with me up at the Observat'ry'. Well, I don't know just what to do.

“'You'd better go,' says the Old Man.

“'Well, I can't just exactly tell,' says I. 'I know where the Observat'ry' is, lyin' out in the 'arbor,' I says, 'but when I get ashore the bloomin' thing jumps back somewheres away amongst the 'ouses.'

“'Get 'im a carromata,' the Old Man tells 'em. So the boy calls one, an' I brushes me 'air an' steps out an' boards it.

“'Observatorio,' I says,

“No move does Mr. Cochero make.

“'Observatorio Jessyitico,' I orders.

“Me Little Brown Brother 'e just stares at me like a sleep-walker.

“'Observatorio telescopio!' I says. 'Telescopio Jessyitico, allee same wantchee looksee moon, makee look-see stars. Poco mas!' I says to 'im.

“If 'e'd been a Chino or a Jap I'd 'a' been all proper, but I've never learnt their lingo over 'ere. Well, young Fosdyck 'as to come out an' direct 'im, an' e lays on to the pony cruel 'ard, an' off we goes.

“By an' by the carromata sheers in through a gateway, an' 'eaves to before one o' these old ancient dobe buildin's that look as if they was 'avin' leprosy an' spotted fever. Out I 'ops, while me bold cochero climbs over into me seat an' curls up sound asleep. Inside there was a courtyard o' sorts, ye know, an' a little brown padre in a black robe an' beads, 'e meets me, am' bows an' grins, an' seems to talk English.

“'Well, what d'ye want o' me?' I says.

“'E spreads 'is fat 'ands out, so. 'It is or the señor to say what 'e wishes of us,' says 'e.

“'Oh, is it?' I tells 'im. 'Well, all the señor wants is to transact business, an' get back, be-'anged, aboard ship afore' the cook vamooses off to a cock-fight ashore, an' no tiffin,' I says. 'I'm Captain Gregory Pratt o' the Nostar Seenoria, schooner, an' I came be reason o' this letter.'

“'Ah, el Capitan,' 'e says, an' grins, 'Please to come up-stairs.'

“So we go up topside. An' there I sit down an' wait in a little room all rigged up with books, an' a globe o' the world on the table, with England it, d'ye mind, in green—where I wish I was now, too, be-'anged.

“After they'd kept me waitin' long enough, in came two padres all in black, as slow an' solemn as if they was goin' to confess me sins for me. One was a little fat man with a red nose ah' blue eyes; but the other was the longest, thinnest, melancholiest black Spaniard ever was strung together,

'Buenos dios, señor,' the Don says, an' inclines 'is long 'ead, an' gives me a speech beginnin' somewhere 'round 'mucho gusto' and endin' at 'profundamente.'

“'No intendy,' I says. 'Business is off. 'Oo wrote the letter for ye, then? If I'd 'a' known this, I'd 'a' brought me first officer; it's all the bloomin' goo-goo's fit for, is to talk Spanish.'

“The little red man's eyes they twinkled proper.

“'Faith, Captain Pratt,' says 'e, 'me own name is Reilly, an' 'tis a kind av an English I'll be spakin' for ye.'

“'Oho,' says I, 'the kind they speak across Saint George's Channel, an' that's handy sometimes, Father Reilly. What does his holiness there want o' me?'

“'Ye see, Captain,' 'e says, 'the Padre is at the hid av our sheismic deparrtmint, an' that's as much as to be sayin' that he's in charge av all the volcannyers an' earthquak's in the Arrchypilago.'

“'My respects to a chap with that billet,' I says. 'An' tell 'im, Father, as a seafarin' man I wish 'e'd keep the bowels of his Archypelago a damned sight quieter.'

“My word, that Irish padre laughed! 'E leaned back till 'e made a lap with 'is black skirts, an' pounded 'is fat knees and shook. An' when 'e could find breath, 'e ups an' tells the Spaniard. And then if you could 'ave seen that long ghost fall to pieces laughin'!

“'Sure, the Padre thinks ye misundherstood me,' says Father Reilly at last. 'He has no control over the ilimints; he only makes raypoorts in the inthrest av sci'nce,' 'e says. 'An' he'll be obliged to ye, Captain, for an account o' what happened to the Pacatlog volcannyer. 'Tis a spicial pint o' the Padre's,' 'e says to me.

“'Why, she blew 'er 'ead off,' I tells 'im.

“'Faith, is that all?' says Father Reilly', lookin' disappointed like.

“'’Twas enough,' I says. 'Seemed to satisfy every one down there. 'Twas well received in the immedjit neighbor'ood.'

“'Ah, now, Captain, ye can tell us longer than that,' savs 'e. 'Whativer did ve see an' do, an' you lyin' there in perr'l av a cattychism av nature?' 'e says.

“'What did I do?'I answers 'im. 'Now, why didn't ye ask me that afore? Thought 'twas the volcano ye were anxious about— What did I do? That's simple to tell.'”

Captain Pratt paused, staring at the ominous peak as if to refresh his memory.

“I got into Pacatlog,” I tells the two padres, “I got in there Wednesday the tenth, at daylight, in the mornin', an' tied up alongside the pantalan. An' the agent comes down an' we 'as a row because 'e 'asn't 'is boys ready to 'andle cargo. So I tells me own crew to begin, an' pacifies 'em into it with a few pieces o' stingaree over the back; an' be the time we gets out sixty bags o' Saigon rice, along comes the agent's cargodores an' takes 'old. Then we discharges all our rice, an' begins to load copra. Work was goin' smart enough, when all to once, mind ye, the pantalan begins to shake like a mess o' jackstraws, an' fifty foot of it settled.

“The coolies was for knockin' off then an' there.

“'Go on, ye hombres o' Satan!' I notifies 'em. 'D'ye think we're to stop for a triflin' earthquake or two?'

“Then I looked aloft and seen smoke a-smotherin' up out o' that there mound, an' knowed it wasn't no earthquake. An' all of a sudden the land an' all gives a 'eave like a cross sea, an' a rumble like—like a thousand-ton wagon gallopin' over a ten-mile bridge. An' then—bum-bum-bully-bum-bow-row-shooroo-bang! She blew 'er 'ead off.

“An' all was up in the air, an' it come on dark.

“'Oo's switched off the blessed sun?' I thinks furst. An' then through the smut an' red cinders droppin' I could see the crew down on their knees prayin' amongst the copra bags.

“I runs down into me cabin and fetches me gun—a 44-caliper it was, mind ye, too—an' up topside again.

“'Ye Phillipyne sons o' guns,' I says, 'get back to loadin' cargo, or I'll let a bigger hole through ye than yonder mountain can,' I says. An' in a lull o' the thunderin', I fired twice amongst the copra.

“One be one, they took it up, staggerin' with the bags an' pitchin' 'em on deck. Then comes the noise o' the agent runnin' down the pantalan like a bloomin' ghost, an'——

“'Shove off, shove off, cap'n!' 'e yells. 'The town's destroyed! We're lost!'

“'Young man,' I says, shoutin' back to where 'is voice come from in the dark, 'we're not a bloomin' gig-boat to be shoved. We'll drift out o' 'ere, be-'anged, on the 1.45 p.m. ebb-tide, God sendin' us wind to catch,' I says. 'You'll take charge o' loadin', too, while I gets me papers made out proper,' I notifies 'im.

“So I takes Nam Sing, the cook, 'oo was the only man aboard to keep 'is 'ead, if it did 'ave a pig-tail 'angin' to it. An' followin' orders 'e shuffles out with all the candle-lamps lighted to the pantalan, so they could see. Then I takes out a Chinese lantern an' me blackthorn stick in one 'and, an' me pistol in the other.

“'Now,' says I to the agent, 'oo was knockin' of 'is knees, 'you take this blackthorn an' rap any goo-goo over the 'ead as doesn't work.' So I left 'em there stowin' be candle-light, an' makes off up the pantalan to the customs 'ouse.

“It was night all the way, an' red coals fallin' like the shake-down of a furnace.

“There be me Chinee lantern I sees under your blue-barred ins'lar flag with the yellow chicken in the jack, the customs man on 'is knees, likewise prayin'.

“'Git up,' I tells 'im. 'This is no time for prayer. For twenty years ye've lived, an' gambled, an' cock-fought, an' drank, an' committed bigamy, etcetera,' I says, 'under the shadder o' this mountain. An' now she acts, ye're troublin' a busy 'Eaven for the fust time,' I says. 'She's active, an' it's for you to be,' I says. 'Look into this 44-caliper muzzle,' I says. 'The Seenoria's clearin' an' wants 'er papers.'

“'’E yowls miserable, gets up, sees the pistol starin' at 'im under the lantern, an' falls to scribblin'.'

“Meantime, lookin' out o' winder, I sees a red brook run down a side street like melten—molted—tomayters! A cripple nigger is 'obblin' before it. It overtakes 'im, an' flows round 'im, an' the smoke flies up round 'is shin-bones, an' down 'e disappears in it, 'owlin'.

“I grabs the papers off the customs man, an' says, 'Run for the landin'—pantalan, seegy!' Then I makes off for the church; inside it was all tall shakin' candle-light, an' a crowd o' black padres prayin'.'

“'Make an end o' this!' I yells at 'em, 'an' ring yer bloomin' bell afore the villagers gets burnt alive. Send 'em to the pantalan!' I says.

“Back I puts for the ship. An' there be Nam Sing's candles, they'd stowed all but twenty bags o' copra. There was some good in that agent, after all, for 'e'd stretched six hombres on the plankin', an' the rest worked. We pitched 'em all aboard, bags an' men.

“'Stand by to cast off!' I orders 'em. Both ends o' me ship, bow an' stern, was burnin' fire. Nam Sing dodges round slushin' 'em out with buckets.

“Then the villagers begins comin' thicker an' faster. My word, they seemed to be thousands all on the run in the dark.

“'Cast off!' I orders.

“There on the end o' the jetty ye could 'ear 'em crowdin' an' screechin'.

“I grabs me trumpet, knowin' some of 'em spoke English.

“'Get into your cascos an' bancas an' lurchers!' I says. 'Paddle out, follow me lights and catch me 'awsers astern, an' under God I'll tow ye to Carigao.'

“An' all this time the night black with ashes afore noon, an' them scramblin' an' yellin' an' tumblin' into bancas, an' red coals droppin' on deck, an' a cobweb o' tow-ropes over the stern, an' them thick as ants paddlin' to catch up. An' the volcano! All we could 'ear was bum-bum-bow-row-bang! an' up shoots flame an' 'ot rocks like balloons. Be-'anged, if they 'ad such a firework at the Crystal Palace, they'd think their bloomin' fortunes was made!”

Captain Pratt, leaning far back, contemplated the dog-vane in an ecstasy of remembrance. At last his mind reverted to the Jesuit Observatory.

“'Well,' Father Reilly says to me, 'what ivintually happened?'

“'We drifted out,' I told 'im, 'an' nigh fouled a coral reef, an' afterward caught a breeze, an' towed the whole shebang to Carigao, an' took the copra, too, an' ship's papers proper to show.'

“The Irishman sits there thinkin' an' twiddlin' 'is beads a while.

“'Faith, now,' says 'e, 'ye've tould us what ye did, an' a cridit the same is to yoursilf. Captain,' 'e says. 'But I'm thinkin' what the Padre wants is more av a scientifical description av the phaynomenum,' 'e says.

“'Description is it?'I tells 'im. 'We was there on the owners' business. D'ye think I'd took along an easel an' a bucket o' paints an' a white umbrella?—I was spreadin' canvas, not daubin' it. But be-'anged, if ye'd 'a' instructed me be telegraph, I could 'a' painted all that dirty rumpus with just the coal-tar an' the red lead,' I says.

“Father Reilly gives me a queer look, an' then begins talkin' to the old Spaniard. 'Twas a long speech. At the end, the Don crosses over to a desk, opens a book, begins to write, an' then asks a question.

“'’Tis an inscription of a gift he's writin' for ye,' says Reilly. 'What's the corrict name av yer ship, now. Captain?'

“'Nostar Seenoria dee Bon V'yage' I tells 'im.

“The Don makes a remark an' bows to me. The Irishman interprets:

“'The Padre says, “Our Lady of Good Voyages, 'tis an auspicious tithle.”'

“And the other one give me a scientifical kind of a book, in Spanish, all about the notorious old volcanoes that 'ad blown their 'eads off back to 1492. An' Reilly says:

“'’Tis a valuable contribution, the Padre bids me say, ye've made to the sci'nce av the subject.'

“An' then I came away——”

Captain Pratt leaped from the bamboo chair, his arm rigid, his mustache bristling; even the Filipino steersman was electrified.

“Let 'er go sixty-five!” he roared. The wheel spun swiftly.

Deep in thought again, the captain stood looking astern to where the sullen mountain thrust its shattered peak through a ring of woolly vapor. Over the summit glowed the last sunlight, as an ambiguous smile might play upon a cruel face.

“I've wondered,” said he slowly, “whether that Irish padre didn't wink at me, d'ye know, now?”