We sighted land at seven in the morning, and as the ship made in toward
the shore I ran to the bow and stood alone peering over the rail. Before
me lay the scene set for my coming adventures, and as the ship threaded
the coral reefs, my excitement ran so high that my throat choked, and
my eyes suddenly dimmed with tears. It seemed too good to be real. It
seemed impossible that it could be true; that at last I should be about
to act the life I had so long only rehearsed and pretended. But the
pretence had changed to something living and actual. In front of me,
under a flashing sun, I saw the palm-fringed harbor of my dreams, a
white village of thatched mud houses, a row of ugly huts above which
drooped limply the flags of foreign consuls, and, far beyond, a deep
blue range of mountains, forbidding and mysterious, rising out of a
steaming swamp into a burning sky, and on the harbor’s only pier,
in blue drill uniforms and gay red caps, a group of dark-skinned,
swaggering soldiers. This hot, volcano-looking land was the one I had
come to free from its fetters. These swarthy barefooted brigands were
the men with whom I was to fight.
My trunk had been packed and strapped since sunrise, and before the
ship reached the pier, I had said “good-by” to everyone on board and was
waiting impatiently at the gang-way. I was the only passenger to leave,
and no cargo was unloaded nor taken on. She was waiting only for the
agent of the company to confer with Captain Leeds, and while these men
were conversing on the bridge, and the hawser was being drawn on board,
the custom-house officers, much to my disquiet, began to search my
trunk. I had nothing with me which was dutiable, but my grandfather’s
presentation sword was hidden in the trunk and its presence there and
prospective use would be difficult to explain. It was accordingly with
a feeling of satisfaction that I noticed on a building on the end of the
pier the sign of our consulate and the American flag, and that a young
man, evidently an American, was hurrying from it toward the ship. But
as it turned out I had no need of his services, for I had concealed the
sword so cleverly by burying each end of it in one of my long cavalry
boots, that the official failed to find it.
I had locked my trunk again and was waving final farewells to those on
the Panama, when the young man from the consulate began suddenly to race
down the pier, shouting as he came.
The gang-way had been drawn up, and the steamer was under way, churning
the water as she swung slowly seaward, but she was still within easy
speaking distance of the pierhead.
The young man rushed through the crowd, jostling the native Indians and
negro soldiers, and shrieked at the departing vessel.
“Stop!” he screamed, “stop! stop her!”
He recognized Captain Leeds on the bridge, and, running along the
pierhead until he was just below it, waved wildly at him.
“Where’s my freight?” he cried. “My freight! You haven’t put off my
freight.”
Captain Leeds folded his arms comfortably upon the rail, and regarded
the young man calmly and with an expression of amusement.
“Where are my sewing-machines?” the young man demanded. “Where are the
sewing-machines invoiced me by this steamer?”
“Sewing-machines, Mr. Aiken?” the Captain answered. “I left your
sewing-machines in New Orleans.”
“You what?” shrieked the young man. “You left them?”
“I left them sitting on the company’s levee,” the Captain continued,
calmly. “The revenue officers have ‘em by now, Mr. Aiken. Some parties
said they weren’t sewing-machines at all. They said you were acting for
Laguerre.”
The ship was slowly drawing away. The young man stretched out one arm as
though to detain her, and danced frantically along the stringhead.
“How dare you!” he cried. “I’m a commission merchant. I deal in whatever
I please--and I’m the American Consul!”
The Captain laughed, and with a wave of his hand in farewell backed away
from the rail.
“That may be,” he shouted, “but this line isn’t carrying freight for
General Laguerre, nor for you, neither.” He returned and made a speaking
trumpet of his hands. “Tell him from me,” he shouted, mockingly, “that
if he wants his sewing-machines he’d better go North and steal ‘em. Same
as he stole our Nancy Miller.”
The young man shook both his fists in helpless anger.
“You damned banana trader,” he shrieked, “you’ll lose your license for
this. I’ll fix you for this. I’ll dirty your card for you, you pirate!”
The Captain flung himself far over the rail. He did not need a speaking
trumpet now--his voice would have carried above the tumult of a
hurricane.
“You’ll what?” he roared. “You’ll dirty my card, you thieving
filibuster? Do you know what I’ll do to you? I’ll have your tin
sign taken away from you, before I touch this port again. You’ll
see--you--you--” he ended impotently for lack of epithets, but continued
in eloquent pantomime to wave his arms.
With an oath the young man recognized defeat, and shrugged his
shoulders.
“Oh, you go to the devil,” he shouted, and turned away. He saw me
observing him, and as I was the only person present who looked as though
he understood English, he grinned at me sheepishly, and nodded.
“I don’t care for him,” he said. “He can’t frighten me.”