CHAPTER I.
GAY OLD BOLIVAR.
I was tremendously jaded, weary of knocking about the world in the vain hope that a succession of strange sights, and rubbing elbows with queer people, might cause me to forget some very unpleasant events in my past; but which obstinately persisted in clinging to me with a zeal I could not appreciate. So it chanced that in my earnest endeavor to run away from the phantom that seemed to pursue me, I managed to double on my trail and actually overtook it.
It was in Bolivar, one of those semi-tropical cities on the great gulf to the South of our American republic. Of course, Bolivar was not the real name, but it will answer the purpose just as well, especially since a narration of the remarkable events that came under my observation there might stir up a hornet’s nest in the gay little republic, should the bare truth be set forth.
Somehow I quite fancied the place.
There was a bustle in the air rather unusual in Latin-American capitals, as though the good people had imbibed some Yankee ambition from their near contact with the States.
Particularly was this the case at this festal season ofthe year when, in common with most Spanish-speaking people, the citizens of Bolivar entered with heart and soul into the festival of flowers.
There must always be an attraction in a great concourse of merrymaking people absolutely given over to enjoyment; and as I witnessed this mad festival for the first time, I allowed myself to enter into its riotous fun—anything to blot out the memory of the canker worm that had so long held possession in my heart.
Flowers were everywhere—people in all manner of vehicles, gayly decorated, pelted the pedestrians, and were themselves overwhelmed with an avalanche of roses.
Mischievous damsels, lurking in every conceivable balcony or second-story window took great delight in dropping handfuls of rice upon those who passed beneath. Merry laughter sounded on all sides, and it was hard for me to imagine that this gay city was really Bolivar, the mysterious capital, queen of the romantic Gulf, where half the dark conspiracies that startled the Spanish-American republics were hatched; home of revolutionists exiled for the time being from their native shores, and as wicked a place for its size in all probability as might be found upon the entire terrestrial ball.
And when night came the fun waxed more furious than ever—there is always an inspiration about the gloaming to these citizens of semi-tropical marts—the heat of the day gives place to a delicious, cool air that steals in mayhap over the sparkling blue waters of a glorious bay, bringing the odor of sweet incense as of fragment spices—sounds lose their harsh clang and become strangely mellowed; wonderful fireflies flash their electric lanterns abroad, music steals upon the senses from over many a garden wall, where languorous swains thrum upon mandolin or guitar and sing sentimental serenades to dark-eyed maidens.
All these and more greeted eye and ear in the gay capital when the day of frolic was spent, and night drew her dark mantle about the scene.
I wondered at myself for not having long since wearied of the racket, and taken my last look—some unusual nervous tension appeared to have possession of me, and I could not shake it off; looking back, with the knowledge gained by experience, I am fain to believe it must have been a mysterious case of “coming events casting their shadow before.”
At any rate, I continued to roam aimlessly about the streets where the crowds gathered most densely, where the colored lanterns hung in bewildering profusion, and the fun waxed furious. I even laughed heartily at some ridiculous exhibition on the part of young students dressed in wonderful costumes—the whole town had given itself up to mad enjoyment for the time being, and why should not I forget?
To-morrow would be time enough to remember.
Such an impression did the tinkling music, the merry songs, the laughter and cries of the crowd make upon me that it would long haunt my memory as one of the few nights when the miserable past could be utterly forgotten.
And yet I had never been so near the phantom as during those hours.
While I looked and allowed myself to drift with the idle crowd, content to be an atom in the swirling torrent, I suddenly set eyes on a face that gave me the first genuine thrill of pleasure known for many a long, weary day. My languor was gone, as one might cast aside a useless mantle, and eagerly I began to buffet and push a passage through the crowd in the direction of the man who clung to the equestrian statue of the Liberator and surveyed the wonderful scene with marked interest.
More than one black scowl followed my rather rude passage; perhaps, in my eagerness to advance I was not as polite as these good people would like; and they had no especial love for a Yankee at any time.
All the while I kept my eyes riveted upon the man who occupied the exalted perch, and finally, panting from my exertions, I was in a position to pull at his coat.
He looked down curiously.
“Hello!”
There was nothing of recognition in the exclamation—it was rather in the shape of an interrogative, such as might be expected from a man whose attention has been so unceremoniously attracted.
“Robbins—old fellow—awful glad to see you.”
Again he said, “Hello!” but this time with just-awakened interest, bending his head to peer down at me, and finally dropping to the ground, where he could look into my face.
As he suddenly recognized me he gave a shout that sprang straight from the heart, and immediately seized upon my extended hand, squeezing it until I was almost fain to wince under the pressure.
“Morgan Kenneth, and alive! This is the land of enchantment, sure enough. I can scarce believe my eyes. You, that I believed had found a grave under the wild waves in that hurricane at Samoa! God bless you, my boy! I’m delighted to see you again. If it had been my own brother I don’t believe I’d have grieved more. And you’re really alive?”
I tried to convince him, as well as I was able, by begging him to have a little mercy on my poor digits, so he linked arms with me, in order, as I believed, to hold me close to him, for Mate Robbins, like all sailors, had a grain of superstition in his composition, and secretly feared, as he afterward confessed, that I might vanishfrom his presence if he failed to keep a tight hold upon me.
We stood there and talked, utterly unmindful of the surging, noisy crowd, wholly given over to the pursuit of pleasure.
When last I saw Milo Robbins, he was clinging to the wreck of the good shipPathfinder, going to pieces upon the Samoan shore, with the hurricane howling like a pack of fiends from Tophet. Men of war were wrecked in that awful tempest, and scores of valiant bluejackets found a grave beneath the waves, or were later cast upon the shore.
I remember as though it were but yesterday how one British war vessel managed to get up steam and crawl slowly out to sea and safety, and how the brave Yankee bluejackets on the other doomed warships, being dragged mercilessly to their awful fate, gave the fortunate English vessel a roaring cheer as she went by—it was a specimen of pluck such as might proceed from no other people.
How I escaped the threatening doom would make a story in itself, and has no place here. I recovered my senses in the hut of a Samoan chief, where I had lain some days, and it was two weeks ere I felt able to go abroad.
Meanwhile Robbins had sailed away on a ship that chanced to be short-handed, and during the years that had elapsed we had believed each other dead.
It seemed a strange and very inappropriate place to exchange such confidences, bringing to mind, as they did, the terrible scenes of storm and disaster; but for the time I utterly ignored the music and laughter, and was once again clinging to that frail bit of wreck, the sport and plaything of the crashing waves, while around me great warships were breaking to pieces on that cruel shore.
How my heart warmed toward this big manly fellow.Secretly I swore in my soul he should not get away from me again, since his coming had brought the first glimpse of sunshine I had known for many a long day.
I noticed that the sturdy mate of the ill-fatedPathfindereyed me curiously from time to time, nor could I wonder at it.
Time had made many changes in me since last we met, and I had much to tell him when the opportunity offered, that would almost shake his credulity, so like Aladdin’s tale or the story of Fortunatus would it appear.
Robbins still followed the sea, and his arrival at Bolivar on the night of the “festa” was in the nature of an accident—a lucky one I deemed it, since it brought me once again in contact with a valiant, honest spirit I had always greatly admired in the past.
The romance that once infested the ocean is not yet wholly dead; some miserable Lascars in his crew had conspired together, secretly overwhelmed the faithful sailors, and made prisoners of them, put the mate—the captain was killed in themêléeadrift in a jollyboat and sailed away to perdition, for the vessel was never heard of again.
Robbins’ luck still pursued him, for he was picked up some days later by an English tramp steamer bound for the gulf ports in search of a cargo of bananas and cocoanuts. So he landed in Bolivar without a picayune in his pocket beyond the few dollars loaned him by the English captain of the tramp. I could have shouted when I heard this; he belonged to me, this valorous son of Neptune, and I was pleased to believe my fortune had, indeed, taken a turn for the better; the sea that had snatched him away at Samoa now restored him to me at Bolivar.
Time surely brings its compensations; but there aresome things that can never be remedied on earth—at least, I believed so then.
I could picture his honest joy when, later on, I found time to relate my marvelous story of the great spoils that had fallen into my hands, which had brought me happiness for a time and then the blackest misery known on earth—that of being deserted.
How his eyes would shine when I pointed out the trim little steam yacht in the bay and told him that was to be his charge for all time to come.
The thought was so full of pleasure that I yearned for daylight in order to overwhelm him with this surprise; faculties awoke to life that had lain dormant very, very long, and I was surprised to find that I could actually derive pleasure from anticipation.
It must have been all of two hours we stood there by the statue, with the rollicking citizens holding high carnival around us, as though determined to outdo all previous experiences. Our talk was wholly of the past, for I meant to keep my good news until I could point out the gay little craft from my window in the hotel and ask Robbins how he would like to cruise around the universe in her as master, knocking at the door of every celebrated seaport as we went along and drowning dull care in the life of luxurious ease to be found only on board such a trim vessel.
It was hard to restrain myself, but I took a singular pleasure in thinking what a treat I had in store for the morning.
So when Robbins spoke of looking for a new berth on the following day I begged him to leave it with me, as I thought I knew of an opening, and though he must have been more or less mystified by my chuckles and hints, he readily agreed to do so.
“Do they keep this up all night?” he asked, finally, asa fresh outburst occurred and pandemonium reigned for the time being.
“I really don’t know, but it looks that way. Have you seen enough of the nonsense? If so, let’s adjourn to my hotel, where we may find a little quiet and get some sleep. I have more to tell you in the morning—something you might not believe in the midst of all the riot and romance.”
“Wait, shipmate. There’s a little native girl over yonder who’s been gazing at us this ten minutes past. I think she wants to say something and is afraid.”
As he spoke he smiled in his benign way; rough sailor that he was, Mate Robbins certainly had a face that won confidence, and when he thus allowed his bronzed features to relax, his expression was so inviting that the child hesitated no longer, but darted forward.
Of course, I supposed she was only a beggar, better garbed than the general run of them in Bolivar, and so confident did I feel with regard to this thing that I put my hand instinctively into the pocket where I was accustomed to keeping copper coins, to be used on such occasions.
There I paused, for the child, looking up in Robbins’ still smiling face, said quickly:
“You Amer-i-cano, señor?”
Robbins nodded. He was not the man to deny his country, no matter what trouble might be in ambush.
“You read Amer-i-cano?” asked the waif, still more impressively, her bright, black eyes all the while fixed on his own.
“Passably well,” with a double nod.
“It is for you, then,” she said, suddenly thrusting a paper into his hands, and uttering more words in Spanish, among which I detected thanks to her patron saintthat she had found such a thing as an American in the hot old town of Bolivar.