THE MAN FROM THE RIVER PLATE
As we drew alongside the German, it became evident that we were
objects of much interest to her people. I had a good view of the
third-class quarters; she had a deck-load of dagoes under her awnings
that would have frightened a Chicago bootlegger.
We started up the ladder; and I thought it probable that some of the
spectators would either fall overboard or break their necks, so
urgently did they crane across the rails.
“They are anxious to see the gallant rescuer,” said Ensleigh.
I knew my dago better. They were anxious to see Nanette’s pretty legs.
On the deck, I turned and looked across to where Funchal climbed the
hill. The sunlight was dazzling. I could trace the steep cobbled
street, from point to point, down which one may slide in a wicker
toboggan; see the square, too, with its powder-blue trees, and imagine
the morning gathering at the tables outside the Golden Gate. Away over
the bows I looked, and saw the flower-draped cliffs below Reid’s,
where, on the lower terrace, over cocktails, Nanette would, I
surmised, be the sole topic of conversation.
The lady in question, supremely indifferent to the somewhat marked
curiosity of the passengers, was walking aft with Jack, doubtless in
quest of the much-desired lager. Jack, his legs encased in sodden
flannels, was ridiculously happy because Nanette hung on his arm.
“Leave them alone,” said Ensleigh. “God knows he’s earned it.”
We found our way to the smoke-room and ordered drinks. They were good
and cheap. They served to wipe out one more of the old scores I had
against our Teutonic friends (_nées_ enemies). It was a distinctly
mongrel company. Germans predominated, with a big sprinkling of those
nondescripts and none-such usually invoiced as Argentines but
sometimes mistaken for Greeks.
One man, who sat alone, puzzled me. He was handsome, in a way. He wore
his wavy hair rather long and was dressed in a perfectly cut and
immaculately white drill suit. With the aid of a black-rimmed monocle
attached to a thick ribbon, he read what looked like an official
document.
“By Jove!” Ensleigh exclaimed.
Glancing aside, I saw that he, too, was staring at this romantic
individual.
“Looks like John Barrymore,” said I.
“I know,” Ensleigh replied. “But he didn’t wear his hair like that the
last time I saw him--coming out of the Salient with what was left of
the Irish Guards. By Jove!”
He jumped up and crossed the room. I followed.
“O’Shea!” he cried.
The man addressed dropped his monocle and stood up; then:
“Ensleigh!” he exclaimed, and held out his hand. “Can it be Ensleigh!”
“Ensleigh it is!” was the reply; “and I want you to meet”--drawing me
forward--“Mr. Decies. Decies, this is Major Edmond O’Shea.”
The Major readjusted his monocle and looked me over briefly, as if to
determine whether he wanted to know me or not. I found myself looking
into a pair of the coldest gray eyes that had ever examined my hidden
motives.
But, to tell the truth, I was more than a little flurried. For, as
Ensleigh spoke, the fact had dawned upon me that I stood in the
presence not only of an Irishman of ancient family, nor merely in that
of a distinguished British officer, but in the presence of a mess-room
tradition; a thing infinitely more wonderful and holy. This was “The
O’Shea”--a synonym for all that’s fine under the Colours from
Whitehall to Khatmandu.
He dropped his monocle and grasped my hand warmly.
“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Decies,” he said. We formed a trio, and
there were some inevitable reminiscences--and more drinks; then:
“What, in the name of wonder, are you doing on this ship?” Ensleigh
asked.
O’Shea shrugged his shoulders. He had some queerly Gallic mannerisms.
In fact, if one had not known better, one must have written him off as
an incurable poseur.
“Peace-time soldiering is a dull business,” he replied. “I take on odd
jobs to keep me out of mischief.”
He rang for the steward and ordered drinks in what I believe was
unexceptionable German. Following some aimless chatter:
“Are you for Bremen?” asked Ensleigh.
“I don’t know,” said O’Shea surprisingly. He twirled his glass and
stared around the smoke-room. “I may come ashore here.”
“You _may_!” I exclaimed and glanced at the clock. “You have twenty
minutes to decide!”
“Two would be sufficient,” he assured me. “I travel light!”
He smiled--and, in the smile, I met for the first time the real
O’Shea. The cold gray eyes were cold no longer; they smiled,
too--whimsically, lovably. The cloak of inscrutability was dropped,
just for a moment, and the clean, brave soul of the man peeped out. A
vague dislike vanished as morning mist, and I knew that men would
follow Edmond O’Shea into the thickest and the hottest, if he needed
them; women, too, perhaps. A man like that is a man born to suffer.
But suddenly I understood why the Guards had worshipped him.
“There goes the first shore signal,” said Ensleigh. “We had better
rescue Nanette from the lager.”
We found her on deck with Jack and another man who had tacked himself
on to the party. He was a poisonously handsome none-such, and his
heavy-lidded dark eyes were literally devouring the girl’s dainty
beauty. He had come across Jack in London; and now Jack was the most
unhappy man in Madeira. Every time roguish blue eyes met lustful brown
eyes, he visibly shuddered.
The dark gentleman was presented.
“Ensleigh, Decies--meet Senhor Gabriel da Cunha.”
We met him--reluctantly.
“This,” said Ensleigh, “is Mr. Jack Kelton--Major Edmond O’Shea.
Doubtless, Senhor da Cunha, you have met already?”
“No,” murmured O’Shea, bowing coldly. “One does not meet everybody on
board.”
“Nanette!” I called.
She had stepped to the rail with Da Cunha. She turned.
“Yes?”
“I want you to know Major Edmond O’Shea.”
She came forward and I introduced them formally. Nanette gave one
quick, startled look at O’Shea--and O’Shea, noting her unusual attire,
smiled. Nanette dropped her lashes, said something meaningless, and
ran back to Da Cunha.
I heard Jack grind his teeth. When he joined the pair at the rail I
stood at his elbow.
“We must be saying good-bye, Mr. da Cunha,” he began, but:
“Not good-bye at all!” Da Cunha exclaimed, turning and resting one
hand on Nanette’s shoulder. “I am undecided until this morning, but
now--it is settled! Here, in Madeira”--he indicated distant hills--“I
have a bungalow, so charming. Do you know--” he included us all in the
conversation--“that in Funchal is what they call a ‘blind spot’ in
radio? Yes. But in my bungalow, high up, I have the most perfect set
in the island; and one night--to-night, maybe--” he glanced aside at
Nanette--“we shall dance to your Savoy band!”
“You are going ashore, then?”
“But certainly! It is settled. Is it not?”
The question was addressed to Nanette, and:
“I should just _hate_ to lose you so soon,” she replied. “Let’s go and
see if your things are in the boat.”
Side by side with the radiantly smiling Da Cunha, she hurried forward.
She glanced at Jack, at me, at Ensleigh. O’Shea was watching her, but
she avoided his gaze. He turned and went in at the saloon entrance.
The last gong sounded. Jack had suddenly disappeared. I stared at
Ensleigh. He whistled softly.
“Nanette has been bitten at last,” he remarked.
“Yes,” I said, “I think she has.”
Da Cunha’s baggage was loaded into Reid’s launch and we all got
aboard. We were surrounded by a babbling gang in boats who held up
Madeira lace and cane chairs and shawls and bedspreads, desperately
inviting bids from the passengers. It was distracting, so that I
scarcely noticed a steward coming down the ladder, carrying a suitcase
and a valise. Jack sat right astern, his hands plunged in the pockets
of his sodden flannels. Then, suddenly, I realized that someone was
beside me.
I turned--and met the cold gray eyes of O’Shea!
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “Your decision was a sudden one!”
“Yes,” he replied, “it was--very.”
“Hullo, O’Shea!” cried Ensleigh. “This is fine!”
Nanette bent toward Da Cunha, talking animatedly.