"THE BOHEMIAN."
Come, lads, and send the capstan round,
Oh, Rio! Rio!
Our good old barkey's outward bound,
Oh, Rio! Rio!
So, shipmates, all look sharp and spry,
To Poll and Nancy say good-bye,
And tell them, if they pipe their eye,
We're bound for Rio Grande.
The old man drank his grog and swore,
Oh, Rio! Rio!
He'd stay no longer slack ashore,
Oh, Rio! Rio!
"Come, tumble up, my lads," sez he,
"An' weigh the anchor speedily,
In twenty days the Cross we'll see,
We're bound for Rio Grande."
"What do you think of her?" asked Philip, with justifiable pride.
"She's as near perfection as can be," replied Jack, enthusiastically;
"no two opinions about that, old fellow."
_The Bohemian_ was a superbly modelled craft, and well deserved their
admiration as she lay in Yarmouth Harbour, Isle of Wight. Schooner
rigged fore and aft, she was close on two hundred tons yacht
measurement, and one of the smartest vessels of her kind in British
waters. Putting aside her speed when the screw was spinning, she was
renowned for her sailing capabilities. With all sails set, and a fair
wind, she could smoke through the water at the rate of fifteen knots an
hour. Thanks to her owner's wandering proclivities, she was well known
in every civilised port, and a good many savage anchorages had also
seen her graceful form glide into their smooth waters.
Some said that her engines were too powerful for her frame; and,
indeed, when all her furnaces were going, the boat quivered from stem
to stern at every rise and fall of the cranks. Philip, however, rarely
used the full power of her screw, as it was quite unnecessary; but when
she did fire up to the extent of her furnace accommodation, her speed
was something wonderful. Sometimes the baronet used the screw, more
often the sails; and, with her white wings spread like summer clouds,
_The Bohemian_, leaning to leeward rode the surges like a Venus of
the foam. Taper masts, splendid spars, cotton-white cloths, she looked
a thing of beauty as she swirled through the sea in a smother of foam.
She was the pride of Philip's heart, and whether becalmed in the
doldrums or seething through troubled waters in the heel of the trade,
was well worthy of her owner's admiration.
Jack was scarcely less enthusiastic. He knew more of the land than of
the sea, and this was the first time he had ever had the opportunity of
inspecting a crack yacht. It was impossible not to admire her
milk-white decks, her well-polished brasses, and the general spruceness
of her whole appearance. Philip attended thoroughly well to her wants,
and despite her frequent voyagings in stormy seas, she always looked as
though she had just left dry dock. When the screw thrashed the water
into silver froth, and the black smoke poured from the wide funnel,
_The Bohemian_ knew what was expected of her, and put her heart into
her work. In such a craft it was impossible that a voyage could be
otherwise than pleasant, and Jack looked forward to having a thoroughly
jolly run to Yucatan with his old schoolfellows.
As has before been stated, they were at Yarmouth. Not that
land-and-water Norfolk puddle, but the quaint little seaport in the
Isle of Wight. It was famous enough in the old days, and in the reign
of our second Charles, the governor of the island made it his
head-quarters. Now his old residence is turned into an hotel, and in
comparison with Cowes and Ryde, this once populous town is a mere
village. With its narrow streets, and antique houses, and indolent
townsfolk, it has an old-world air, and is still affected by some
yachtsmen at the time when the Solent is full of graceful boats. Philip
was very fond of this out-of-the-way seaport, and generally left _The
Bohemian_ in its harbour when he wished to run up to town.
After that famous dinner, the four friends separated in order to
prepare for the voyage. As they had only one clear day in which to do
all things, there was little time to be lost. Peter started for
Barnstaple by the early train, in order to arrange his affairs, and, to
save time, Philip agreed to pick him up at Plymouth. The special
correspondent went straight to his chief, and told him of his desire to
start for Cholacaca at once; so, as it seemed pretty certain that the
difference between Don Hypolito and the Government would culminate in a
civil war, Tim duly received his orders. Now he was flying round town
collecting needful articles for his campaign, and was expected down by
the early train.
On his part, Jack had absolutely nothing to do in London. He already
possessed all necessaries, and had neither the money nor the
inclination to buy things he did not want. Indeed, leaving the bulk of
his belongings in Tlatonac, he had arrived in England with but a single
portmanteau, which had been left at the station. Philip carried the
homeless wanderer to his club, and put him up for the night, and next
day they took themselves and the solitary portmanteau down to Yarmouth,
where they soon made themselves comfortable on board the yacht. All
things being thus arranged, they only waited Tim's arrival to leave for
Plymouth, from whence, after taking Peter on board, _The Bohemian_
could bear away westward in the track of Columbus.
With all his indolence Philip was no dilettante yachtsman, to leave
everything to his sailing master, and thoroughly believed in looking
after things himself. After displaying the beauties of his boat to
Jack, he busied himself with seeing about stores, and making sure that
all was in order for the voyage. While the baronet was thus engaged,
Jack wandered over the yacht in a musing sort of fashion, thinking not
so much of the scene around him as of Dolores and of the possible
events now happening at Tlatonac.
He had good reason to mistrust Don Hypolito knowing as he did how
treacherous and cruel was the nature of that would-be dictator. Half
Indian, half Spanish, this Mestizo possessed the worst traits of both
races, and, once his passions were aroused, would stop at nothing to
accomplish his desire. It was true that it was principally on account
of the opal that he desired to marry Doña Dolores; but he was also in
love with her beauty, and adored her in a sensual, brutish fashion,
which made Jack grind his teeth and clench his hands at the very
thought. Yet he was undeniably a clever man, and skilled in diplomatic
intrigue; therefore it might be that his revolt against the established
Government of Cholacaca would end in his assuming the dictatorship. In
such an event, he would certainly force Dolores to become his wife; and
against his power the Englishman would be able to do nothing. Still, as
he had now the aid of his three friends, Duval hoped, if it came to the
worst, to escape with Dolores and the opal in Philip's yacht. Once on
the open sea, and they could laugh at Xuarez and his threats. The
engines of _The Bohemian_ were not meant for show.
What Jack feared was that Don Hypolito might have resorted to strong
measures, and carried off Dolores with him to Acauhtzin. Hitherto there
had been no suspicion that he intended to revolt; so, lulled by a sense
of false security, Dolores might have permitted herself to be
kidnapped, in which case Jack hardly knew what to do. Still, it might
be that nothing had happened save the withdrawal of Xuarez to
Acauhtzin, and Duval fervently hoped that he and his friends might
arrive at Tlatonac before the out-break of hostilities. Provided he
started fair with Xuarez in the game, Jack hoped to come off
winner--Dolores, the opal, and the Republic, being the stakes.
"If we start to-morrow, it will not be long before we reach Chalacaca,"
thought Jack, as he leaned over the taffrail looking absently at the
dull-hued water. "Once there, and I will be able to protect Dolores. If
the worst comes, there is always Philip's yacht, and as to marriage, I
am sure Maraquando would rather see his niece married to me than to
that Xuarez half-bred."
"In a brown study, Jack?" said Cassim's voice, behind him. "I won't
give a penny for your thoughts, for they are worth more."
"How do you know that?"
"Because you are thinking of Doña Dolores."
"It's a true bill," replied Jack, with an ingenuous blush. "I was
hoping she had not been carried off to Acauhtzin by that scoundrel
Xuarez."
"Oh, your friend Don Hypolito! Not a bit of it. If all you say is
correct, he is in too serious a position, at present, to hamper himself
with a woman. Don't worry, fond lover. _The Bohemian_ will take us
to Central America in less than no time, and if there's going to be a
row, we'll be there to see its genesis."
"I hope and trust so," said Duval, gloomily; "but I'm not so hopeful as
you are."
"I hopeful! My dear lad, I'm the most pessimistic person in existence;
but at this moment I look at things from a common-sense point of view.
If Xuarez intends business, he has withdrawn to Acauhtzin to make his
plans. To do so, he requires time. If he had kidnapped Doña Dolores,
things would be brought to a head before his plans were ripe. Therefore
he has not kidnapped her. Q.E.D. So come ashore, and don't talk
nonsense."
"Have you finished your business?" asked Jack, following Sir Philip
into his boat.
"Yes, everything is right. As soon as Tim arrives, we shall start for
Plymouth, to pick up Peter. I wish Tim would come down to-night; but I
suppose even a special correspondent must have time to collect his
traps."
"What is your reason for going ashore?"
"In the first place, I wish to send a wire to my lawyer, as to my
destination; and, in the second, I desire to stretch my legs. Let us
have as much dry land as we can get. It will be nothing but sea for the
next week or so."
"Have you been long ashore, this time?" asked Duval, as they went up to
the telegraph-office.
"Only five or six days. I came from the Guinea coast, I tell you, to
keep this appointment. I didn't then know it would result in a Central
American expedition."
"I hope you are not regretting your determination?"
"My dear Jack, I am delighted. I have not yet seen a war, so it will be
something new. Now then, Messrs. Bradshaw and Co.," he added, poising
his pen over the telegraph form, "I had better tell you where I am to
be found. How do you spell Tlatonac, Jack?"
"T-l-a-t-o-n-a-c," spelt Jack, slowly; "but why don't you write your
lawyer a letter, instead of sending an unsatisfactory telegram."
"I have nothing to write about," replied Philip, signing his name with
a flourish; "all they need know is where I am in case of my possible
death, so as to make things right for the next-of-kin. They have no
letters to forward. I always carry plenty of money, so I never bother
my head about them, beyond giving my bare address."
"Don't they object to such unbusiness-like habits?"
"They did at first, but finding objections of no use, have quite given
up such preachings. Don't trouble any more about them, but let us take
a walk. 'You take a walk, but you drink tea,' saith Samuel Johnson."
"I don't see the connection," said Jack, soberly.
"Neither do I; but what matters. 'Dulce est desipere in loco.' There is
a bit of dictionary Latin for your delectation."
"Peter said you were a misanthrope, Philip; but I don't think so
myself."
"Peter is a ---- collector of butterflies," retorted Philip, gaily. "I
_was_ a misanthrope; man delighted me not, nor woman neither; but now I
have met the friends of my youth, I feel much better. The friends we
make in life are never as dear as those we make at school. Since
leaving Bedford I have made none. I have lived for my yacht and in my
yacht. Now that I have you, and Tim, and Peter, I feel that I am
rapidly losing the character for Timonism. Like Mr. Bunthorne, I am a
reformed character."
"Who is Mr. Bunthorne? a friend of yours?"
"Jack, Jack! you are a sad barbarian. It is a character in one of
Gilbert and Sullivan's operas. But you have lived so long among savages
that you don't know him; in fact, I don't believe you know who Gilbert
and Sullivan are."
"Oh yes, I do. I'm not so ignorant as all that."
"There is balm in Gilead then," said Cassim, satirically. "Jack, when
you marry Dolores, and realise the opal, you must return to
civilisation. I can't let the friend of my youth dwell among the tombs
any longer."
"I am very happy among the tombs."
"I know you are. You would be happy anywhere," rejoined Philip,
enviously. "Would I were as easily contented. Tell me how to be happy,
Jack."
"Get married," returned Jack, promptly.
"Married!" echoed Cassim, as though the idea were a new revelation;
"that is a serious question, Jack, which needs serious discussion. Let
us sit down on this soft turf, my friend, and you shall give your
opinions regarding matrimony. You don't know anything about it as yet;
but that is a mere detail."
By this time, owing to their rapid walking, they had left Yarmouth far
behind, and having turned off the high-road, were now strolling across
a field yellow with gorse. In a few minutes they arrived at a land-slip
where the earth fell suddenly down to the beach. The brow of this was
covered with soft grass, starred with primroses, and Philip threw
himself down thereon with a sigh of content. Jack more soberly seated
himself by the side of his friend, and for a few moments they remained
silent, gazing at the scene. Below was the rent and torn earth, on
either side a scanty fringe of trees, and in front the blue sea
stretching far away towards the dim line of the Hampshire coast. A
gentle wind was blowing, the perfume of the wild flowers came
delicately on its wings, and they could hear the waves lapping on the
beach below, while occasionally a bird piped in the near boughs. It was
very cool, pastoral and pleasant, grateful enough to Jack's eyes, weary
of the burning skies, and the gorgeous efflorescence of the tropics. Ah
me! how often we sigh for green and misty England in the lands of the
sun.
"'There is no land like England,'" quoted Jack, absently smelling a
pale primrose. "Ah! there is no doubt it is the most delightful country
in the whole world. I have been all over the planet, so I ought to
know."
"And yet you propose to leave the land you profess to love," said
Philip, rolling himself over so as to catch his friend's eye. "Jack,
you are inconsistent."
"I must earn my bread and butter. Everyone isn't born like you, with a
silver spoon in his mouth. If I can't find employment in England, I
must go abroad. Besides, there is always Dolores."
"Of course," assented Philip, gravely, "there is always Dolores. Is she
pretty, Jack?"
"Pretty!" echoed Duval, with huge disdain; "if there is one adjective
that does _not_ describe Dolores it is 'pretty.' She's an angel."
"Such a vague description. Fra Angelica, Burne Jones, Gustave Doré, all
paint angels differently."
"Oh, I don't mind being more minute, if you care to listen. But I do
not wish to bore you with my love affairs."
"I like to be bored with love affairs--when they are those of Jack
Duval."
Jack smiled thankfully. He was eager to talk of Dolores to Philip; but
being somewhat sensitive to ridicule, hesitated as to whether he should
do so. As a rule, a man's friends do not care about listening to a
lover's ravings. Women are the most sympathetic in such a case; but as
Jack had no female friend in whom to confide, he had either to hold his
tongue or tell Philip. Philip, he thought, would not care for
descriptions of the beloved one, so he kept silent; but now that he had
been warmly requested to be as explicit as he pleased, he eagerly
hastened to unbosom himself. At that moment, Jack thought Philip an
angel of sympathy.
"Dolores," he began slowly, fixing his eyes seaward, "is rather tall,
with a charming figure. Her hair is purple black, her face oval, and
her complexion inclined to be darkish. She has teeth like pearls, and a
mouth like Cupid's bow. Her eyes--well, her eyes," said Jack,
enthusiastically, "are like those velvety dark pansies when the dew
lies on them."
"That's the first original epithet you've used, Jack. Teeth of pearl,
and Cupid's bow for a mouth are old similes. Dew on pansies is
distinctly good."
"Oh, if you are going to laugh----" began Jack, angrily, when Cassim
hastened to disclaim any such discourtesy.
"I'm not laughing, my dear lad. I am only complimenting you on your
ingenuity. I know exactly what kind of a woman Dolores is. She is like
De Musset's Marquise--half fiend, half angel."
"I never heard of her," interrupted Duval, bluntly, as he produced a
gold oval from his pocket; "but, to save further description, look at
this picture. It was done for me by a Spanish fellow at Tlatonac."
Philip surveyed the portrait in the locket long and earnestly.
"Has Dolores a temper, Jack?"
"Rather!" replied Jack, laconically; "but what do you think of her?"
"She has an exquisite face, and, judging from her mouth, a fiery
temper. I don't wonder you are in love with her, Jack. I hope she'll
make you a good wife."
"You seem rather doubtful on that point," said Jack, half annoyed, as
he restored the locket to his waistcoat pocket.
"No; but to tell you the truth, I'm doubtful of the advisability of
mixed marriages in the matter of race. It may be all very well for the
offspring, who, as a rule, are clever; but the husband and wife, having
different trainings, do not as a rule hit it off. Race-nature again, my
friend."
"Oh, as to that," rejoined Jack, equably, "I have lived so long in
Mexico and South America that I am half Spanish in my habits, and so
can suit myself to Dolores. Besides, when we are married, we will stay
in Spanish America; it will be more advisable than coming to England."
"Yes; I agree with you there," said Philip, lazily; "in fact, I think
the indolent Creole life of South America would suit me also. I also
must find an Indian-Spanish spouse. And that reminds me, Jack, that we
sat down to discuss my marriage prospects, whereas we've done nothing
but talk about yours."
"Well, suppose you marry Doña Eulalia?"
"What, have you found me a spouse already?" cried Cassim, sitting up,
with a ringing laugh. "And who, is Doña Eulalia?"
"The cousin of Dolores, and the daughter of Don Miguel."
"Is she as beautiful as her cousin? But there, I needn't ask that. Of
course, in your eyes, no one is so perfect as Dolores. Well, I will
consider the matter when I see Eulalia. It is too important a step to
take without due consideration."
"What nonsense you talk, Philip."
"Why shouldn't I talk nonsense? Between you and me, Jack, I grow weary
at times of very sensible people. We won't discuss how that remark
applies to you. Tell me how many more members there are of the
Maraquando family."
"Only a son, Don Rafael."
"And what does the young hidalgo?"
"He is in the Cholacacan navy. A very jolly young fellow of
twenty-five. We are great friends. Then there is a Doña Serafina."
"Another beauty?"
"According to her own idea, very much so," replied Jack, dryly. "She is
the old man's sister, and acts as duenna to Dolores and Eulalia."
"Ah, an old maid. Good! We will marry her to Peter, and they can
collect butterflies together."
"Oh, Doña Serafina would marry anyone; but why to Peter?"
"I don't know. Peter looks as if he needed a wife; so, as he won't
choose one for himself, I must do so for him. Oh," yawned Philip,
rising reluctantly to his feet, "what a pleasant talk we have had. I
suppose it's time we returned to the boat? Come, John, I'll race you to
the road."
Nothing loth, Jack accepted the challenge at once, and, though Philip
ran like a deer, succeeded in beating him easily.
"Whew!" gasped Cassim, leaning breathless against a fence which verged
on the high-road. "You're one too many for me, Jack. I thought I was a
good runner, but you can beat me."
"You're out of training. Too much flesh. Too soft muscles."
"Well, I'll soon right all that at Cholacaca, when we run from the
enemy. Constant life on a yacht isn't a good thing to develop a
fellow's running powers."
They jumped lightly over the fence, and walked soberly towards Yarmouth
in the gathering dusk. The sun was setting, and there was a glory over
sea and land somewhat tempered by the twilight. The friends strolled
comfortably along, still talking. Indeed, since their meeting they had
done little else but talk, more especially Philip, who was not like the
same man. His reserve seemed to have melted away like dew before the
sun of Duval's geniality, and he was more like the merry boy of old
than the haughty, distrustful man of the present. The reason of this
lay in the fact that he felt he could thoroughly trust Jack, and it was
a great comfort to him that there was at least one man in the world to
whom he could open his heart unreservedly. Secretly, he was much
astonished at the pleasure he found in this friendship, and by no means
displeased, for while in Jack's company the world seemed a goodly place
in which to dwell. Yet Duval was decidedly a commonplace young man,
smart enough at his business, yet by no means distinguished for
intellectuality; withal, so warm-hearted and simple-natured, that
Philip surrendered himself entirely to the influence of this pleasant
friendship.
"You are doing me no end of good, Jack," he said as they walked through
the town. "Before you came, I was gradually becoming a fossil; now I am
renewing my youth."
"I am very glad to hear it," replied Jack simply. "But indeed, Philip,
so far as I can see, you seem to be as jolly as a sandboy."
"I wasn't a week ago. It's the sunshine of your happy geniality, Jack.
I will stay with you until the cure is complete. Then I will see you
safely married to Dolores; present you with the opal stone, as a dowry,
and then----"
"And then!" repeated Jack, as his friend paused.
"Then I will take up the old discontented life again."
"I won't let you do that," said Duval, slipping his arm within that of
Philip's. "No. I will cure you, as you say, and then you will marry
Eulalia."
"Humph! That's doubtful."
"I'm not so sure about that, _mi amigo_. Meanwhile, I'm hungry, so
let us go on board and have dinner."
"Oh, bathos," laughed Philip, but offered no opposition to so sensible
a suggestion.
They sat up late that night talking of many things, but principally
about Dolores and Tlatonac. Jack gave his friend a vivid description of
the Cholacacan capital, and of the life therein, all of which was
highly appreciated by Philip. The baronet's taste in existence, as in
literature, leaned towards the dreamy and fantastical, so the
languorous life of Spanish America in sleepy towns, amid the
dilapidated pomp of former splendours, appealed greatly to the
imaginative side of his nature. Hitherto his visits to these
out-of-the-way places had been limited to a few days ashore, while his
yacht was anchored in the harbour; but this time he determined to take
Jack for his guide, and live the life of these strange people. It was a
dream of the Orient in a new world. The Arabian Nights in the west.
Next morning they were up early in order to greet Tim, who duly arrived
in a state of great excitement. He was delighted to be once more on the
war-path, especially as he was to go through the campaign in the
company of his old school-fellows. The business of putting his luggage
on board took but little time, as Tim did not believe in special
correspondents travelling with much impedimenta.
"You could have brought more luggage, if you had liked," said Philip,
when they inspected Tim's modest kit.
"More! Haven't I got all I want," retorted Tim, indignantly. "What
would I be stuffing up the boat with rags for. A tooth-brush and a
clean collar is all I require."
"Hardly, if this is going to be a lengthy campaign," replied Philip,
dryly. "I expect, before the end of the voyage, you'll be wearing
Peter's clothes."
Peter was so small, and Tim so large, that the idea struck the latter
as wonderfully ludicrous, and he sat down to laugh which he continued
to do until the screw began to beat the water. Then he went on deck to
superintend the departure.
In due time they arrived at Plymouth without accident, where they found
Peter waiting with as much luggage as a bride would take on her
honeymoon. It proved to be mostly articles for capturing butterflies,
and cases for preserving them much to the disgust of Philip, who hated
his yacht to be overloaded with such _débris_. With that painful
candour which prevailed between them, he told Peter that he would only
take half; but the meek doctor waxed indignant, and refused to go
without all these, what he called, "necessaries." So, in the end,
Philip had to give in.
Then _The Bohemian_ turned her prow westward, and dipping her nose in
the salt brine, followed in the track of Columbus.