THE VISITOR
"I wonder what mischief the old man is chawing on?" It was the forward
deck of the _Sea Eagle_, and the speaker, Old Pete, the sailor, of
unsavory memory. "He's been as savage as a bear with a sore head two
days past, and that means he's brewing some sort of devilment."
"Maybe he's watching to trail some craft going out with a rich cargo,"
said Jack Cales, of likewise deleterious recollection, who was seated on
the forward hatch, opposite the ancient mariner who was himself resting
on a coil of rope.
"I dunno about that," said Pete, puffing meditatively on his black,
stunted pipe; "according to my notion it's something ashore. Old Hunch
was aboard airly this mornin', and that greaser is a sure sign of
trouble. Reminds me of a croaking black raven. I'd like to wring his wry
neck for him. He ain't fit to associate with respectable pirates like
us."
"I don't see why the cap'n sets such store by him, anyhow," protested
Jack Cales.
"It's an unhung gang of bloody cutthroats the old man's got ashore,"
remarked Old Pete. "I wouldn't want any trafficking with them."
There was something amusing in this feud between the rascals on ship and
ashore, something like the rivalry between the navy and army.
"Shut your jaw," said Cales peremptorily; "here comes the cap'n now."
To the earlier readers of "The Frontier Boys," he is a familiar figure
but he is well worth introducing to those who are meeting him for the
first time. Captain William Broome, familiarly known as Bill, or the old
man, was a remarkable person. There was a strange softness in Captain
Broome's tread, like that of the padded panther, as he came forward
along the main deck. He appeared like a man always ready to get a death
hold upon a nearby enemy, both wary and using unceasing watchfulness.
This was evident in the crouching gait of his powerful figure. His arms
had the loose forward swing of a gorilla's, indicative of enormous
strength.
"That man a pirate!" you exclaim at the first glance. One who carried
the blackest name along the coasts of the two American continents as a
wrecker and smuggler; who in the days before the Civil War had brought
cargoes of slaves from Africa, and who had enjoyed more marvelous
escapes than any man in the history of piracy, with the exception of
Black Jack Morgan? "Impossible!" you say. "Why, that man is nothing but
an old farmer," you cry in disappointment. "He ought to be peddling
vegetables in a market!" But just wait.
True enough, Skipper Broome had come from a long line of New England
farmers, hard, close-fisted, close-mouthed men. Young Broome had broken
away from the farm, and followed his bent for seafaring, but to the end
of his rope, and his days, he kept his farmer-like appearance, and he
affected many of the traits of the yeoman, which he found to be, on more
than one occasion, a most useful disguise.
Let's take a look at him, as he comes along the deck of the _Sea Eagle_.
The heavy winter cap, which he wore in season and out of season, pulled
well down on his grizzled head, gave him a most Reuben-like appearance.
Corduroy pants are thrust into heavy cowhide boots. The deadly gray
eyes, no softer than granite, have become red-rimmed from spasms of fury
and rendered hard by many scenes of coldly-calculated cruelty.
"Yaw two gents enjying the balmy air for'ard, on your bloomin' pleasure
yacht?" inquired Captain William Broome, who had a turn for broad
sarcasm.
"Jus' smokin' a few peaceful pipes, sir," replied Pete, who was allowed
a certain amount of leeway with his master, as he had been with him in
the African trade, and as boys in New England, they had lived on nearby
farms.
"This ain't no time for peaceful meditation," said the captain; "you git
aft and keep a sharp eye abeam, and if you see any boat creepin' through
the fog, even if it's an innercent looking fishin' boat, you report it
to the mate."
"Aye, aye, sir," replied Pete as he stowed his pipe in his capacious
pocket, and maneuvering a safe distance from the captain's foot, went on
his mission. Then Broome spit carefully around on the deck.
"Here, Cales, you loafer, clean this yere deck up," he growled.
Thus, having made himself pleasant to all hands, he went forward and,
leaning heavily on the rail, looked shoreward as if expecting a
messenger of some kind. It was impossible to tell the exact position of
the _Sea Eagle_ in the immense bay of San Francisco. One thing was
certain, that it was not near the shore where the castle stood on the
cliff, for the current and the depth of water made it impossible to
anchor. However, it was near some shore, for the sound of the surf could
be heard distinctly. Five minutes passed and then the captain raised
himself up with a grunt of satisfaction. A long trim boat had slipped
quietly from the enveloping fog into the quiet circle of the sea around
the yacht.
The oars were not muffled but they made as little noise as though they
were. It was rowed by four men, quite evidently foreigners; brown men,
two with rings in their ears, and the others were splendidly built
fellows, who rowed as easily as they breathed. These latter were
Hawaiians, who are as native to the sea and its ways as the cowboys to
their own western plains. They were part of the mixed crew which the old
pirate had got together for reasons of his own. The said reasons being
that such a crew could not very well combine to mutiny or to rob him of
his ill-gotten wealth.
In the stern of the ship's cutter was an entirely different looking man
from the kind with whom Captain Broome was generally associated. If the
man had been a priest or a parson his presence in such company would
have been no more surprising. He had the appearance of a well-dressed
gentleman, probably a professional man of some kind. His features were
good and his dress impeccable.
Against the chill fog he wore a dark overcoat, with silk facings, and a
black derby hat. At his feet, on the bottom of the boat, was a long
black leather bag, somewhat like those which physicians carry. Yet he
was not a doctor, for it was generally the enemies of Captain Broome who
needed the services of a physician.
The boat glided gently by the perforated platform of the gangway and was
held firmly by the oarsmen, while the stranger stepped with a quick,
precise step from the small boat. The captain was on hand and greeted
him with a certain awkward courtesy, for politeness was not in his line.
"Glad to see yer, Mr. Reynolds," he said, giving him a grip from his
horny hand; "hope you didn't get damp from the fog, crossin'."
"It's nothing, Captain," replied the man-crisply, an amused sneer hidden
under his mustache; "fog is my element. It agrees perfectly with my
delicate health."
"I'm relieved to hear it," remarked Captain Broome gently. "Come up to
my cabin, sir, and I'll give you a drink of something that will clear
the fog for you."
The professional gentleman, from the city, followed his sinister host up
the gangway and into his cabin, while the boat pushed away from the side
of the yacht, bowed softly to the gentle swell of the sea. It was like a
carriage that is waiting for the return trip. The two Hawaiians were
laughing and joking in characteristic good humor, which is entirely
different from the boisterous jollity of the darkies.
They were having sport by laughing at their passenger. His neatness of
demeanor and style of dress seemed to furnish them with much amusement.
With their quickness for giving nicknames, they called him, "Mr.
Blackbag," and the captain was known to them as Roaring Bull. They were
very apt, as all Hawaiians are, to see the defects of character and weak
points of those white people who came under their observation.
Meanwhile the captain and his guest sat in the latter's cabin,
discussing matters that will soon concern us gravely. This cabin, as
perhaps the reader remembers, was a good sized room. A large table of
cherry wood was against one side, with a few maps and books on it. A
broad bunk was curtained off with red draperies. There was a scarred sea
chest against the opposite wall, fastened by a heavy padlock. On this
the captain was firmly seated.
To complete the description I may say that the room was paneled in
white, and contrary to what you might expect, the cabin was absolutely
neat. Broome's visitor had turned the swivel chair halfway from the
desk, and was directly facing the hard-faced captain, who had taken off
his heavy cap, showing his bald and polished dome of thought that glowed
red under the light of the big, swinging, brass lamp. The shuttered
window was closed against the dim daylight outside. This was a secret
conclave and with good reason. Upon the table at Mr. Reynold's elbow the
black satchel was opened. Its contents at first glance were not
startling. But wait!