CHANCE IN PERNAMBUCO
While Hicks tossed about in his fever dreams, and Hemming shook his
command into form, away on the coast, in the city of Pernambuco,
unusual things were shaping. From the south, coastwise from Bahia,
came Bertram St. Ives O'Rourke. This was chance, pure and simple,
for he had no idea of Hemming's whereabouts. From New York, on the
mail-steamer, came a man called Cuddlehead, and took up his abode in
a narrow hotel near the waterfront. He arrived in the city only an
hour behind O'Rourke. He was artfully attired in yachting garb, and
had been king-passenger on the boat, where his English accent had
been greatly admired, and his predilection for card-playing had been
bountifully rewarded. In fact, when he went ashore with his meagre
baggage, he left behind at least one mourning maiden heart and three
empty pockets.
O'Rourke, upon landing, had his box and three leather bags carried
across the square to the ship-chandler's. He would look about before
engaging a room, and see if the place contained enough local colour
to pay for a stop-over. He fell, straightway, into easy and polite
conversation with the owner of the store. From the busy pavement and
dirty square outside arose odours that were not altogether foreign to
his cosmopolitan nose. Three men greeted one another, and did
business in English and Portuguese, speaking of the cane crop, the
rate of exchange, the price of Newfoundland "fish," and of gales met
with at sea. Bullock-carts creaked past in the aching sunlight, the
mild-eyed beasts staggering with lowered heads. Soldiers in
uncomfortable uniforms lounged about. Cripples exhibited their ugly
misfortunes, and beggars made noisy supplication.
O'Rourke decided that there was enough local colour to keep him, and,
turning from the open door, contemplated the interior of the
establishment. The place was dim and cool, and at the far back of it
another door stood open, on a narrow cross-street. Cases of liquor,
tobacco, tea, coffee, and condensed milk were piled high against the
wall. Baskets of sweet potatoes and hens' eggs stood about. Upon
shelves behind the counter samples of rope, canvas, and cotton cloth
were exhibited. Highly coloured posters, advertising Scotch whiskey,
brightened the gloom. The back part of the shop was furnished with a
bar and two long tables. At one of the tables sat about a dozen men,
each with a glass before him, and all laughing, talking, swearing,
and yet keeping their eyes attentively fixed on one of their number,
who shook a dice-box.
O'Rourke, who had by this time made his name known to the
ship-chandler, was given a general introduction to the dice-throwers.
He called for a lime-squash, and took a seat at the table between a
dissipated-looking individual whom all addressed by the title of
"Major," and a master-mariner from the North. There were several of
these shellback skippers at table, and O'Rourke spotted them easily
enough, though, to the uninitiated, they had nothing in common but
their weather-beaten faces. Their manners were of various degrees,
running from the height of civility around to nothing at all. There
was the first officer of a Liverpool "tramp" with his elbows on the
board, his gin-and-bitters slopped about, and his voice high in
argument. Next him sat a mariner from one of the Fundy ports,
nodding and starting, and trying to bury in whiskey remembrance of
his damaged cargo and unseaworthy ship. Nearer sat a Devonshire man
in the Newfoundland trade, drinking his sweetened claret with all the
graces of a curate, and talking with the polish and conviction of a
retired banker. O'Rourke glanced up and down the table, and detected
one more sailor--a quiet young man clad in white duck, with "Royal
Naval Reserve" marked upon him for the knowing to see. These four
men (each one so unlike the other three in clothes, appearance, and
behaviour) all wore the light of wide waters in their eyes, the peace
bred of long night-watches on their tanned brows, and the right to
command on chin and jaw. O'Rourke felt his heart warm toward them,
for he, too, had kept vigil beside the ghostly mizzen, and read the
compass by the uncertain torch of the lightning.
The other occupants of the table were residents of the country--two
English planters, the major, a commission-merchant, a native cavalry
officer, and several operators of the South American Cable Company.
The major remarked upon the rotten state of the country to O'Rourke,
in a confidential whisper, as he shook the dice in the leather
cylinder. O'Rourke replied, politely, that he wasn't an authority.
"But I am, sir," blustered the major. "Dear heaven, man, I'd like to
know who has been American consul in this hole for the last seven
years, only to get chucked out last May by a low plebeian politician."
The speaker's eyes were fierce, though watery, and his face was red
as the sun through smoke. He drained his glass, and glared at
O'Rourke.
"Couldn't say. Never was here before," replied O'Rourke. He counted
his neighbour's throw aloud, for the benefit of the table.
"Three aces, a six, and a five."
He was about to recover two of the dice from a shallow puddle on the
table, and replace them in the box, when he felt a hand on his arm.
"I was American consul," hissed the major, "and, by hell, I'm still
sober enough to count my own dice, and pick 'em up, too."
O'Rourke smiled, unruffled. "You don't mean you are sober enough,
major--you mean you are not quite too drunk," he said. The others
paused in their talk, and laughed. The major opened his eyes a
trifle wider and dropped his under jaw. He looked the young stranger
up and down.
"Well, I hope you are ashamed of yourself," he said, at last.
"I am sorry I was rude, sir," explained O'Rourke, "but I hate to be
grabbed by the arm that way. I must have a nerve there that connects
with my temper."
A tipsy smile spread over the ex-consul's face.
"Shake hands, my boy," he cried. They shook hands. The others
craned their necks to see.
"You've come just in time to cheer me up, for I've been lonely since
Hemming went into the bush," exclaimed the major.
"Hemming! Do you mean Herbert Hemming?" asked O'Rourke, eagerly.
"That's who I mean," replied the major, and pushed the dice-box
toward him. O'Rourke made nothing better than a pair, and had to pay
for thirteen drinks. If you crave a lime-squash of an afternoon, the
above method is not always the cheapest way of acquiring it. As the
dice-box went the rounds again, and the attention of the company
returned to generalities, the newcomer asked more particulars of
Hemming's whereabouts.
"He started into the bush more than a week ago, to find some new kind
of adventure and study the interior, he said," explained the major,
"but my own opinion is that he went to see old Tetson in his place up
the Plado. Sly boy, Hemming! Whenever we spoke of that crazy
Tetson, and his daughter, and his money, he pretended not to take any
stock in them. But I'll eat my hat--and it's the only one I have--if
he isn't there at this minute, flashing that precious gig-lamp of his
at the young lady."
O'Rourke had read stories about this eccentric millionaire in the
newspapers some years before.
"Hemming is safe, wherever he lands," he said. "He's a woman-hater."
A look of half-whimsical disgust flashed across the old man's
perspiring face. He leaned close to O'Rourke.
"Bah--you make me sick," he cried, "with your silly commonplaces.
Woman-hater--bah--any fool, any schoolboy can say that. Call a man
an ice-riding pinapede, and you'll display the virtue of originality,
at least. At first I suspected you of brains."
O'Rourke was embarrassed. How could he explain that, in using the
term woman-hater, he had meant to suit his conversation to the
intellect of his hearer. It was commonplace, without doubt, and
meant nothing at all.
"Do you think, Mr. O'Rourke," continued the other, "that simply
because I'm stranded in this hole, on my beam-ends (to use the
language of our worthy table-mates), that my brain is past being
offended? You are wrong, then, my boy, just as sure as my name is
Farrington. Hemming would never have called a man a woman-hater.
Why, here am I, sir, sitting as I have sat every day for years,
getting drunk, and with never a word to a woman, white or black, for
about as long as you have used a razor. But I don't hate women---not
I. I'd give my life, such as it is, any minute, for the first woman
who would look at me without curling her lip--that is, the first
well-bred white woman. Ask Hemming what he thinks, and he will tell
you that, in spite of the men, women are still the finest creatures
God ever invented. No doubt he seems indifferent now, but that's
because he has loved some girl very much, and has been hurt by her."
"You are right, major, and I gladly confess I used a dashed stupid
expression--so now, if you don't mind, please shut up about it,"
replied O'Rourke. To his surprise Farrington smiled, nodded in a
knowing way, and lapsed into silence.
While one of the mariners was relating a fearsome experience of his
own on a wrecked schooner, Mr. Cuddlehead entered the place and
seated himself at the unoccupied table. He sipped his peg, and
studied the men at the other table with shifting glances. He thought
they looked easy, and a vastly satisfied expression came to his
unhealthy, old-young face. Though well groomed and well clothed, Mr.
Cuddlehead's deportment suggested, however vaguely, a feeling on his
part of personal insecurity. He glanced apprehensively whenever a
voice was raised high in argument. He started in his chair when the
man who served the refreshments came unexpectedly to his table to
deposit a match-holder.
To O'Rourke, who had an eye for things beyond the dice, Mr.
Cuddlehead's face hinted at some strange ways of life, and
undesirable traits of character. In the loose mouth he saw signs of
a once colossal impudence; in the bloated cheeks, dissipation and the
wrecking existence of one who feasts to-day and starves to-morrow; in
the eyes cruelty and cunning; in the chin and forehead a low sort of
courage.
Gradually the crowd at the long table thinned. First of all the
cavalry officer arose, flicked imaginary dust off the front of his
baggy trousers, and jangled out into the reddening sunlight. The
planters followed, after hearty farewells. They had long rides ahead
of them to occupy the cool of the evening, and perhaps would not
leave their isolated bungalows again inside a fortnight. Next the
operators announced their intentions of deserting the giddy scene.
"Come along, major, you and Joyce promised to feed with us to-night,"
said one of them, "and if your friend there, Mr. O'Rourke, will
overlook the informality of so sudden an invitation," he continued,
"we'll be delighted to have him, too."
"Great heavens, Darlington," exclaimed the major, "you are still as
long-winded as when you first came out," and, before O'Rourke could
accept the invitation for himself, he concluded, "of course O'Rourke
will honour you, my boy."
"Thank you, very much, it's awfully good of you chaps," stammered
O'Rourke, disconcerted by the major's offhand manner.
Darlington smiled reassuringly. "Don't let this old cock rattle
you," he said, and patted Major Farrington affectionately on the
shoulder.
After dinner that night, in the palatial dining-room of the house
occupied by the staff of the South American Cable Company, O'Rourke
learned something of the major's past life. It was a sad and
unedifying story. The major had been trained at West Point, and led
his class in scholarship and drill, and had risen, with more than one
distinction, to the rank of major. But all the while he had made his
fight against drink, as well as the usual handicaps in the game of
life. He had married a woman with wealth and position superior to
his own, who had admired him for his soldierly qualities and fine
appearance, and who, later, had been the first to desert him. Then
followed the foreign consular appointments, the bitter and
ever-increasing debaucheries, and at last the forced retirement from
his country's service. Now he lived on a small allowance, sent him
weekly, by his family. O'Rourke began to understand the old man's
fretful and disconcerting moods.
At a late hour the superintendent of the staff ushered O'Rourke to a
big, cool room on the second floor.
"Make this your home," he said, "and we'll let you in on the same
footing as ourselves. Hemming occupied this room last. There is his
bed; there is his hammock; and, by Jove, there are his slippers. You
can have your traps brought up in the morning."
Thus did Bertram St. Ives O'Rourke become an inmate of an imposing
mansion in Pernambuco, with moderate charges to pay and good company
to enliven his hours.