The Adventures of Captain Horn

CHAPTER XXXI. WAITING

For several weeks after their arrival, the members of the little party had but one common object, — to see and enjoy the wonders and beauties of Paris, — and in their sight-seeing they nearly always went together, sometimes taking Cheditafa and Mok with them. But as time went on, their different dispositions began to assert themselves, and in their daily pursuits they gradually drifted apart.

Mrs. Cliff was not a cultivated woman, but she had a good, common-sense appreciation of art in its various forms. She would tramp with untiring step through the galleries of the Louvre, but when she had seen a gallery, she did not care to visit it again. She went to the theatre and the opera because she wanted to see how they acted and sang in France, but she did not wish to go often to a place where she could not understand a word that was spoken.

Ralph was now under the charge of a tutor, Professor Barré by name, who took a great interest in this American boy, whose travels and experiences had given him a precocity which the professor had never met with in any of his other scholars. Ralph would have much preferred to study Paris instead of books, and the professor, who was able to give a great deal of time to his pupil, did not altogether ignore this natural instinct of a youthful heart. In consequence, the two became very good friends, and Ralph was the best-satisfied member of the party.

It was in regard to social affairs that the lives of Edna and Mrs. Cliff diverged most frequently. Through the influence of Mrs. Sylvester, a handsome woman with a vivacious intelligence which would have made her conspicuous in any society, Edna found that social engagements, not only in diplomatic circles and in those of the American colony, but, to some extent, in Parisian society, were coming upon her much more rapidly than she had expected. The secretary’s wife was proud of her countrywoman, and glad to bring her forward in social functions. Into this new life Edna entered as if it had been a gallery she had not yet visited, or a museum which she saw for the first time. She studied it, and enjoyed the study.

But only in a limited degree did Mrs. Cliff enjoy society in Paris. To be sure, it was only in a limited degree that she had been asked to do it. Even with a well-filled purse and all the advantages of Paris at her command, she was nothing more than a plain and highly respectable woman from a country town in Maine. More than this silks and velvets could not make her, and more than this she did not wish to be. As Edna’s friend and companion, she had been kindly received at the legation, but after attending two or three large gatherings, she concluded that she would wait until her return to Plainton before she entered upon any further social exercises. But she was not at all dissatisfied or homesick. She preferred Plainton to all places in the world, but that little town should not see her again until she could exhibit her Californian blankets to her friends, and tell them where she got the money to buy them.

“Blankets!” she said to herself. “I am afraid they will hardly notice them when they see the other things I shall take back there.”

With society, especially such society as she could not enjoy, Mrs. Cliff could easily dispense. So long as the shops of Paris were open to her, the delights of these wonderful marts satisfied the utmost cravings of her heart; and as she had a fine mind for bargaining, and plenty of time on her hands, she was gradually accumulating a well-chosen stock of furnishings and adornments, not only for her present house in Plainton, but for the large and handsome addition to it which she intended to build on an adjoining lot. These schemes for establishing herself in Plainton, as a wealthy citizen, did not depend on the success of Captain Horn’s present expedition. What Mrs. Cliff already possessed was a fortune sufficient for the life she desired to lead in her native town. What she was waiting for was the privilege of going back and making that fortune known. As to the increase of her fortune she had but small belief. If it should come, she might change her plans, but the claims of the native Peruvians should not be forgotten. Even if the present period of secrecy should be terminated by the news of the non-success of Captain Horn, she intended to include, among her expenses, a periodical remittance to some charitable association in Peru for the benefit of the natives.

The Christmas holidays passed, January was half gone, and Edna had received no news from Captain Horn. She had hoped that before leaving South. America and beginning his long voyage across the Atlantic, he would touch at some port from which he might send her a letter, which, coming by steamer, would reach her before she could expect the arrival of the brig. But no letter had come. She had arranged with a commercial agency to telegraph to her the moment the Miranda should arrive in any French port, but no message had come, and no matter what else she was doing, it seemed to Edna as if she were always expecting such a message. Sometimes she thought that this long delay must mean disaster, and at such times she immediately set to work to reason out the matter. From Acapulco to Cape Horn, up through the South Atlantic and the North Atlantic to France, was a long voyage for a sailing-vessel, and to the time necessary for this she must add days, and perhaps weeks, of labor at the caves, besides all sorts of delays on the voyage. Like Ralph, she had an unbounded faith in the captain. He might not bring her one bar of gold, he might meet with all sorts of disasters, but, whenever her mind was in a healthy condition, she expected him to come to France, as he had said he would.

She now began to feel that she was losing a great deal of time. Paris was all very well, but it was not everything. When news should come to her, it might be necessary for her to go to America. She could not tell what would be necessary, and she might have to leave Europe with nothing but Paris to remember. There was no good objection to travel on the Continent, for, if the Miranda should arrive while she was not in Paris, she would not be so far away that a telegram could not quickly bring her back. So she listened to Mrs. Cliff and her own desires, and the party journeyed to Italy, by the way of Geneva and Bern.

Ralph was delighted with the change, for Professor Barré, his tutor, had consented to go with them, and, during these happy days in Italy, he was the preceptor of the whole party. They went to but few places that he had not visited before, and they saw but little that he could not talk about to their advantage. But, no matter what they did, every day Edna expected a message, and every day, except Sunday, she went to the banker’s to look over the maritime news in the newspapers, and she so arranged her affairs that she could start for France at an hour’s notice.

But although Edna had greatly enjoyed the Italian journey, it came to an end at last, and it was with feelings of satisfaction that she settled down again in Paris. Here she was in the centre of things, ready for news, ready for arrivals, ready to go anywhere or do anything that might be necessary, and, more than that, there was a delightful consciousness that she had seen something of Switzerland and Italy, and without having missed a telegram by being away.

The party did not return to the Hotel Boileau. Edna now had a much better idea of the Continental menage than she had brought with her from America, and she believed that she had not been living up to the standard that Captain Horn had desired. She wished in every way to conform to his requests, and one of these had been that she should consider the money he had sent her as income, and not as property. It was hard for her to fulfil this injunction, for her mind was as practical as that of Mrs. Cliff, and she could not help considering the future, and the probability of never receiving an addition to the funds she now had on deposit in London and Paris. But her loyalty to the man who had put her into possession of that money was superior to her feelings of prudence and thrift. When he came to Paris, he should find her living as he wanted her to live. It was not necessary to spend all she had, but, whether he came back poor or rich, he should see that she had believed in him and in his success.

The feeling of possible disaster had almost left her. The fears that had come to her had caused her to reason upon the matter, and the more she reasoned, the better she convinced herself that a long period of waiting without news was to be expected in the case of an adventure such as that in which Captain Horn was engaged. There was, perhaps, another reason for her present state of mind — a reason which she did not recognize: she had become accustomed to waiting.

It was at a grand hotel that the party now established themselves, the space, the plate-glass, the gilt, and the general splendor of which made Ralph exclaim in wonder and admiration.

“You would better look out, Edna,” said he, “or it will not be long before we find ourselves living over in the Latin Quarter, and taking our meals at a restaurant where you pay a sou for the use of the napkins.”

Edna’s disposition demanded that her mode of life should not be ostentatious, but she conformed in many ways to the style of her hotel. There were returns of hospitality. There was a liveried coachman when they drove. There was a general freshening of wardrobes, and even Cheditafa and Mok had new clothes, designed by an artist to suit their positions.

If Captain Horn should come to Paris, he should not find that she had doubted his success, or him.

After the return from Italy, Mrs. Cliff began to chafe and worry under her restrictions. She had obtained from Europe all she wanted at present, and there was so much, in Plainton she was missing. Oh, if she could only go there and avow her financial condition! She lay awake at night, thinking of the opportunities that were slipping from her. From the letters that Willy Croup wrote her, she knew that people were coming to the front in Plainton who ought to be on the back seats, and that she, who could occupy, if she chose, the best place, was thought of only as a poor widow who was companion to a lady who was travelling. It made her grind her teeth to think of the way that Miss Shott was talking of her, and it was not long before she made up her mind that she ought to speak to Edna on the subject, and she did so.

“Go home!” exclaimed the latter. “Why, Mrs. Cliff, that would be impossible just now. You could not go to Plainton without letting people know where you got your money.”

“Of course I couldn’t,” said Mrs. Cliff, “and I wouldn’t. There have been times when I have yearned so much for my home that I thought it might be possible for me to go there and say that the Valparaiso affair had turned out splendidly, and that was how I got my money. But I couldn’t do it. I could not stand up before my minister and offer to refurnish the parsonage parlor, with such a lie as that on my lips. But there is no use in keeping back the real truth any longer. It is more than eight months since Captain Horn started out for that treasure, and it is perfectly reasonable to suppose either that he has got it; or that he never will get it, and in either one of these cases it will not do any injury to anybody if we let people know about the money we have, and where it came from.”

“But it may do very great injury,” said Edna. “Captain Horn may have been able to take away only a part of it, and may now be engaged in getting the rest. There are many things which may have happened, and if we should now speak of that treasure, it might ruin all his plans.”

“If he has half of it,” said Mrs. Cliff, “he ought to be satisfied with that, and not keep us here on pins and needles until he gets the rest. Of course, I do not want to say anything that would pain you, Edna, and I won’t do it, but people can’t help thinking, and I think that we have waited as long as our consciences have any right to ask us to wait.”

“I know what you mean,” replied Edna, “but it does not give me pain. I do not believe that Captain Horn has perished, and I certainly expect soon to hear from him.”

“You have been expecting that a long time,” said the other.

“Yes, and I shall expect it for a good while yet. I have made up my mind that I shall not give up my belief that Captain Horn is alive, and will come or write to us, until we have positive news of his death, or until one year has passed since he left Acapulco. Considering what he has done for us, Mrs. Cliff, I think it very little for us to wait one year before we betray the trust he has placed in us, and, merely for the sake of carrying out our own plans a little sooner, utterly ruin the plans he has made, and which he intends as much for our benefit as for his own.”

Mrs. Cliff said no more, but she thought that was all very well for Edna, who was enjoying herself in a way that suited her, but it was very different for her.

In her heart of hearts, Mrs. Cliff now believed they would never see Captain Horn again. “For if he were alive,” she said to herself, “he would certainly have contrived in some way or other to send some sort of a message. With the whole world covered with post routes and telegraph-wires, it would be simply impossible for Captain Horn and those two sailors to keep absolutely silent and unheard of for such a long time — unless,” she continued, hesitating even in her thoughts, “they don’t want to be heard from.” But the good lady would not allow her mind to dwell on that proposition; it was too dreadful!

And so Edna waited and waited, hoping day by day for good news from Captain Horn; and so Mrs. Cliff waited and waited, hoping for news from Captain Horn — good news, if possible, but in any case something certain and definite, something that would make them know what sort of life they were to lead in this world, and make them free to go and live it.

CHAPTER XXXII. A MARINER’S WITS TAKE A LITTLE FLIGHT

When Captain Horn, in the brig Miranda, with the American sailors Burke and Shirley, and the four negroes, left Acapulco on the 16th of September, he might have been said to have sailed “in ballast,” as the only cargo he carried was a large number of coffee-bags. He had cleared for Rio Janeiro, at which port he intended to touch and take on board a small cargo of coffee, deeming it better to arrive in France with something more than the auriferous mineral matter with which he hoped to replace a large portion of discarded ballast. The unusual cargo of empty coffee-bags was looked upon by the customs officials as a bit of Yankee thrift, it being likely enough that the captain could obtain coffee-bags in Mexico much cheaper than in Rio Janeiro.

The voyage to the Peruvian coast was a slow one, the Miranda proving to be anything but a clipper, and the winds were seldom in her favor. But at last she rounded Aguja Point, and the captain shaped his course toward the coast and the Rackbirds’ cove, the exact position of which was now dotted on his chart.

A little after noon on a quiet October day, they drew near enough to land to recognize the coast-line and the various landmarks of the locality. The negroes were filled with surprise, and afterwards with fright, for they had had no idea that they were going near the scene of their former horrible captivity. From time to time, they had debated among themselves the intentions of Captain Horn in regard to them, and now the idea seized them that perhaps he was going to leave them where he had found them. But, through Maka, who at first was as much frightened as the rest, the captain succeeded in assuring them that he was merely going to stop as near as possible to the cave where he had stayed so long, to get some of his property which it had been impossible to take away when the rest of the party left. Maka had great confidence in the captain’s word, and he was able to infuse a good deal of this into the minds of the three other negroes.

Captain Horn had been in considerable doubt in regard to the best method of shipping the treasure; should he be so fortunate as to find it as he had left it. The cove was a quiet harbor in which the small boats could easily ply between the vessel and the shore, but, in this case, the gold must be carried by tedious journeys along the beach. On the other hand, if the brig lay too near the entrance to the caves, the treasure-laden boats must be launched through the surf, and, in case of high seas, this operation might be hazardous; consequently, he determined to anchor in the Rackbirds’ cove and submit to the delay and inconvenience of the land transportation of the gold.

When the captain and Shirley went ashore in a boat, nothing was seen to indicate that any one had visited the spot since the last cargo of guano had been shipped. This was a relief, but when the captain had wandered through the place, and even examined the storehouse of the Rackbirds, he found, to his regret, that it was too late for him to visit the caves that day. This was the occasion of a night of wakefulness and unreasonable anxiety — unreasonable, as the captain assured himself over and over again, but still impossible to dissipate. No man who has spent weeks in pursuit of a royal treasure, in a vessel that at times seemed hardly to creep, could fail to be anxious and excited when he is compelled to pause within a few miles of that treasure.

But early in the morning the captain started for the caves. He took with him Shirley and Maka, leaving the brig in charge of Burke. The captain placed great confidence in Shirley, who was a quiet, steady man. In fact, he trusted every one on the ship, for there was nothing else to do. If any of them should prove false to him, he hoped to be able to defend himself against them, and it would be more than foolish to trouble his mind with apprehensions until there should be some reason for them. But there was a danger to be considered, quite different from the criminal cupidity which might be provoked by companionship with the heap of gold, and this was the spirit of angry disappointment which might be looked for should no heap of gold be found. At the moment of such possible disappointment, the captain wanted to have with him a man not given to suspicions and resentments.

In fact, the captain thought, as the little party strode along the beach, that if he should find the mound empty, — and he could not drive from his mind that once he had found it uncovered, — he wished to have with him some one who would back him up a little in case he should lower his lantern into a goldless void.

As they walked up the plateau in the path worn principally by his own feet, and the captain beheld the great stone face against the wall of rock, his mind became quieter. He slackened his pace, and even began to concoct some suitable remarks to make to Shirley in case of evil fortune.

Shirley looked about him with great interest. He had left the place before the great stone face had been revealed by the burning of the vines, and he would have been glad to stop for a minute and examine it. But although Captain Horn had convinced himself that he was in no hurry, he could not allow delay. Lighting a lantern, they went through the passageway and entered the great cave of the lake, leaving Maka rummaging around with eager delight through the rocky apartments where he had once been a member of a domestic household.

When they reached the mound, the captain handed his lantern to Shirley, telling him to hold it high, and quickly clambered to the top.

“Good!” he exclaimed. “The lid is just as I left it. Come up!”

In a moment Shirley was at his side, and the captain with his pocket-knife began to pick out the oakum which he had packed around the edges of the lid, for otherwise it would have been impossible for him to move it. Then he stood up and raised the lid, putting it to one side.

“Give me the lantern!” he shouted, and, stooping, lie lowered it and looked in. The gold in the mound was exactly as he had left it.

“Hurrah!” he cried. “Now you take a look!” And he handed the lantern to his companion.

Shirley crawled a little nearer the opening and looked into it, then lowered the lantern and put his head down so that it almost disappeared. He remained in this position for nearly a minute, and the captain gazed at him with a beaming face. His whole system, relieved from the straining bonds of doubt and fear and hope, was basking in a flood of ecstatic content.

Suddenly Shirley began to swear. He was not a profane man, and seldom swore, but now the oaths rolled from him in a manner that startled the captain.

“Get up,” said he. “Haven’t you seen enough?”

Shirley raised his head, but still kept his eyes on the treasure beneath him, and swore worse than before. The captain was shocked.

“What is the matter with you?” said he. “Give me the lantern. I don’t see anything to swear at.”

Shirley did not hand him the lantern, but the captain took it from him, and then he saw that the man was very pale.

“Look out!” he cried. “You’ll slip down and break your bones.”

In fact, Shirley’s strength seemed to have forsaken him, and he was on the point of either slipping down the side of the mound or tumbling into the open cavity. The captain put down the lantern and moved quickly to his side, and, with some difficulty, managed to get him safely to the ground. He seated him with his back against the mound, and then, while he was unscrewing the top of a whiskey flask, Shirley began to swear again in a most violent and rapid way.

“He has gone mad,” thought the captain. “The sight of all that gold has crazed him.”

“Stop that,” he said to the other, “and take a drink.”

Shirley broke off a string of oaths in the middle, and took a pull at the flask. This was of service to him, for he sat quiet for a minute or two, during which time the captain brought down the lantern. Looking up at him, Shirley said in a weak voice:

“Captain, is what I saw all so?”

“Yes,” was the reply, “it’s all so.”

“Then,” said the other, “help me out of this. I want to get out into common air.”

The captain raised Shirley to his feet, and, with the lantern in one hand, he assisted him to walk. But it was not easy. The man appeared to take no interest in his movements, and staggered and leaned upon the captain as if he were drunk.

As soon as they came out of the utter darkness and had reached the lighter part of the cave, the captain let Shirley sit down, and went for Maka.

“The first mate has been taken sick,” said he to the negro, “and you must come help me get him out into the open air.”

When the negro saw Shirley in a state of semi-collapse, he began to tremble from head to foot, but he obeyed orders, and, with a great deal of trouble, the two got the sailor outside of the caves and gave him another drink of whiskey.

Maka had his own ideas about this affair. There was no use telling him Mr. Shirley was sick — at least, that he was afflicted by any common ailment. He and his fellows knew very well that there were devils back in the blackness of that cave, and if the captain did not mind them, it was because they were taking care of the property, whatever it was, that he kept back here, and for which he had now returned. With what that property was, and how it happened to be there, the mind of the negro did not concern itself. Of course, it must be valuable, or the captain would not have come to get it, but that was his business. He had taken the first mate into that darkness, and the sight of the devils had nearly killed him, and now the negro’s mind was filled with but one idea, and that was that the captain might take him in there and make him see devils.

After a time Shirley felt very much better, and able to walk.

“Now, captain,” said he, “I am all right, but I tell you what we must do: I’ll go to the ship, and I’ll take charge of her, and I’ll do whatever has got to be done on shore. Yes, and, what’s more, I’ll help do the carrying part of the business, — it would be mean to sneak out of that, — and I’ll shoulder any sort of a load that’s put out on the sand in the daylight. But, captain, I don’t want to do anything to make me look into that hole. I can’t stand it, and that is the long and short of it. I am sorry that Maka saw me in such a plight — it’s bad for discipline; but it can’t be helped.”

“Never mind,” cried the captain, whose high spirits would have overlooked almost anything at that moment. “Come, let us go back and have our breakfast. That will set you up, and I won’t ask you to go into the caves again, if you don’t want to.”

“Don’t let’s talk about it,” said Shirley, setting off. “I’d rather get my mind down to marlin-spikes and bilge-water.”

As the captain walked back to the cove, he said to himself:

“I expect it struck Shirley harder than it did the rest of us because he knew what he was looking at, and the first time we saw it we were not sure it was gold, as it might have been brass. But Shirley knew, for he had already had a lot of those bars, and had turned them into money. By George! I don’t wonder that a poor fellow who had struggled for life with a small bag of that gold was knocked over when he saw a wagon-load of it.”

Maka, closely following the others, had listened with eagerness to what had been said, and had been struck with additional horror when he heard Shirley request that he might not again be asked to look into that hole. Suddenly the captain and Shirley were startled by a deep groan behind them, and, turning, saw the negro sitting upon the sand, his knees drawn up to his face, and groaning grievously.

“What’s the matter?” cried the captain.

“I sick,” said Maka. “Sick same as Mr. Shirley.”

“Get up and come along,” said the captain, laughing. He saw that something was really ailing the black fellow, for he trembled from head to foot, and his face had the hue of a black horse recently clipped. But he thought it best not to treat the matter seriously. “Come along,” said he. “I am not going to give you any whiskey.” And then, struck by a sudden thought, he asked, “Are you afraid that you have got to go into that cave?”

“Yes, sir,” said Maka, who had risen to his feet. “It make me pretty near die dead to think that.”

“Well, don’t die any more,” said the captain. “You sha’n’t go anywhere that you have not been before.”

The pupils of Maka’s eyes, which had been turned up nearly out of sight, were now lowered. “All right, cap’n,” said he. “I lot better now.”

This little incident was not unpleasant to the captain. If the negroes were afraid to go into the blackness of the caves, it would make fewer complications in this matter.