THE CAPTAIN WRITES A LETTER
On the afternoon of the next day, the Miranda, having taken in water, set
sail, and began her long voyage to Rio Janeiro, and thence to France.
Now that his labors were over, and the treasure of the Incas safely
stored in the hold of the brig, where it was ignominiously acting as
ballast, Captain Horn seated himself comfortably in the shade of a sail
and lighted his pipe. He was tired of working, tired of thinking, tired
of planning--tired in mind, body, and even soul; and the thought that
his work was done, and that he was actually sailing away with his great
prize, came to him like a breeze from the sea after a burning day. He
was not as happy as he should have been. He knew that he was too tired
to be as happy as his circumstances demanded, but after a while he would
attend better to that business. Now he was content to smoke his pipe,
and wait, and listen to the distant music from all the different kinds
of enjoyment which, in thought, were marching toward him. It was true he
was only beginning his long voyage to the land where he hoped to turn
his gold into available property. It was true that he might be murdered
that night, or some other night, and that when the brig, with its
golden cargo, reached port, he might not be in command of her. It was
true that a hundred things might happen to prevent the advancing
enjoyments from ever reaching him. But ill-omened chances threaten
everything that man is doing, or ever can do, and he would not let the
thought of them disturb him now.
Everybody on board the Miranda was glad to rest and be happy, according
to his methods and his powers of anticipation. As to any present
advantage from their success, there was none. The stones and sand they
had thrown out had ballasted the brig quite as well as did the gold they
now carried. This trite reflection forced itself upon the mind of Burke.
"Captain," said he, "don't you think it would be a good idea to touch
somewhere and lay in a store of fancy groceries and saloon-cabin grog? If
we can afford to be as jolly as we please, I don't see why we shouldn't
begin now."
But the captain shook his head. "It would be a dangerous thing," he said,
"to put into any port on the west coast of South America with our present
cargo on board. We can't make it look like ballast, as I expected we
could, for all that bagging gives it a big bulk, and if the custom-house
officers came on board, it would not do any good to tell them we are
sailing in ballast, if they happened to want to look below."
"Well, that may be so," said Burke. "But what I'd like would be to meet a
first-class, double-quick steamer, and buy her, put our treasure on
board, and then clap on all steam for France."
"All right," said the captain, "but we'll talk about that when we meet a
steamer for sale."
After a week had passed, and he had begun to feel the advantages of rest
and relief from anxiety, Captain Horn regretted nothing so much as that
the _Miranda_ was not a steamer, ploughing her swift way over the seas.
It must be a long, long time before he could reach those whom he supposed
and hoped were waiting for him in France. It had already been a long,
long time since they had heard from him. He did not fear that they would
suffer because he did not come. He had left them money enough to prevent
anything of that sort. He did not know whether or not they were longing
to hear from him, but he did know that he wanted them to hear from him.
He must yet sail about three thousand miles in the Pacific Ocean, and
then about two thousand more in the Atlantic, before he reached Rio
Janeiro, the port for which he had cleared. From there it would be nearly
five thousand miles to France, and he did not dare to calculate how long
it would take the brig to reach her final destination.
This course of thought determined him to send a letter, which would reach
Paris long before he could arrive there. If they should know that he was
on his way home, all might be well, or, at least, better than if they
knew nothing about him. It might be a hazardous thing to touch at a port
on this coast, but he believed that, if he managed matters properly, he
might get a letter ashore without making it necessary for any meddlesome
custom-house officers to come aboard and ask questions. Accordingly, he
decided to stop at Valparaiso. He thought it likely that if he did not
meet a vessel going into port which would lay to and take his letter, he
might find some merchantman, anchored in the roadstead, to which he
could send a boat, and on which he was sure to find some one who would
willingly post his letter.
He wrote a long letter to Edna--a straightforward, business-like
missive, as his letters had always been, in which, in language which she
could understand, but would carry no intelligible idea to any
unauthorized person who might open the letter, he gave her an account of
what he had done, and which was calculated to relieve all apprehensions,
should it be yet a long time before he reached her. He promised to write
again whenever there was an opportunity of sending her a letter, and
wrote in such a friendly and encouraging manner that he felt sure there
would be no reason for any disappointment or anxiety regarding him and
the treasure.
Burke and Shirley were a little surprised when they found that the
captain had determined to stop at Valparaiso, a plan so decidedly opposed
to what he had before said on the subject. But when they found it was for
the purpose of sending a letter to his wife, and that he intended, if
possible, barely to touch and go, they said nothing more, nor did Burke
make any further allusions to improvement in their store of provisions.
When, at last, the captain found himself off Valparaiso, it was on a
dark, cloudy evening and nothing could be done until the next morning,
and they dropped anchor to wait until dawn.
As soon as it was light, the captain saw that a British steamer was
anchored about a mile from the _Miranda_, and he immediately sent a boat,
with Shirley and two of the negroes, to ask the officer on duty to post
his letter when he sent on shore. In a little more than an hour Shirley
returned, with the report that the first mate of the steamer knew Captain
Horn and would gladly take charge of his letter.
The boat was quickly hauled to the davits, and all hands were called to
weigh anchor and set sail. But all hands did not respond to the call. One
of the negroes, a big, good-natured fellow, who, on account of his
unpronounceable African name, had been dubbed "Inkspot," was not to be
found. This was a very depressing thing, under the circumstances, and it,
almost counterbalanced the pleasure the captain felt in having started a
letter on its way to his party in France.
It seemed strange that Inkspot should have deserted the vessel, for it
was a long way to the shore, and, besides, what possible reason could he
have for leaving his fellow-Africans and taking up his lot among absolute
strangers? The crew had all worked together so earnestly and faithfully
that the captain had come to believe in them and trust them to an extent
to which he had never before trusted seamen.
The officers held a consultation as to what was to be done, and they very
quickly arrived at a decision. To remain at anchor, to send a boat on
shore to look for the missing negro, would be dangerous and useless.
Inquiries about the deserter would provoke inquiries about the brig, and
if Inkspot really wished to run away from the vessel, it would take a
long time to find him and bring him back. The right course was quite
plain to every one. Having finished the business which brought them
there, they must up anchor and sail away as soon as possible. As for the
loss of the man, they must bear that as well as they could. Whether he
had been drowned, eaten by a shark, or had safely reached the shore, he
was certainly lost to them.
At the best, their crew had been small enough, but six men had sailed a
brig, and six men could do it again.
So the anchor was weighed, the sails were set, and before a northeast
wind the _Miranda_ went out to sea as gayly as the nature of her build
permitted, which is not saying much. It was a good wind, however, and
when the log had been thrown, the captain remarked that the brig was
making better time than she had made since they left Acapulco.