A narrow strip of haze above the western horizon obscures the coastline
and dims the burning rays of the setting sun. The blood-red ball, just
visible above that indefinite line where ocean, sky and land might
meet, burnishes the lazy leaden waves of the sea, oily and sluggish as
if affected by the oppressive heat. Purples and blues, reds and greens
vie with each other in a seeming desire to extinguish the burnt orange
which fades but slowly and reluctantly. Everywhere reigns the deep
dusky yellow heat, with an utter absence of either sound or motion.
It is as if a thick sheet of glass had been interposed between the
observer and the rest of creation, with nothing tangible, nothing real
except the one all-prevailing sensation of oppressive heat.
The P. & O. liner gliding through the fiery molten bronze seems as
if it were “a painted ship on a painted sea”; its motion barely
perceptible, like that of a phantom ship, the wake in its path but a
feeble streak in the dull coloring, and the funnels reluctantly and
faintly releasing a timid cone of hazy smudge.
Dimly outlined against the Northeast the slowly receding line of
grayish ochre marks the mute sentinels of Arabia; to the West a heavy
bank of sienna-edged clouds veils the shore of Dana Kill and the
African hill desert.
On the aft deck are grouped in nondescript neglect a few men in the
uniforms of British East India troops. A stolid, swarthy Sikh and some
lean Bengals with their patient, gentle eyes, clad in filthy though
picturesque garments, huddle in the shade of dirty awnings. Forward,
the solitary figure of the watch drowsily moves with halting nerveless
steps in the narrow confines of his little realm. All is pervaded by
quiet and repose, a sort of fatalistic waiting for the cooler evening.
A man reclining in a steamer chair on the hurricane deck is the
one human being on the upper structure of the vessel. He is a
slender sunburnt man past middle age with commanding features and a
close-cropped beard flecked with gray. He is well groomed in immaculate
white flannels. The half-hidden gray fathomless eyes, created to
observe and to remain discreet, the fine mouth closely compressed, the
long slender hands idly crossed on his knees, he sits seemingly as if
in a dream.
He strikes a close observer as one who could not easily be overlooked
in any gathering. His face would remain in the memory--a face of one
born to direct the thought and work of others, to lead and command. It
shows the marks of the inroads of time and care, the severe pallor of
weariness beneath the tan of exposure. His posture betrays the soldier
beaten in life’s battle.
A nearby cabin door is opened and a pleasant-faced young man in the
uniform of a ship’s officer steps toward the dreamer.
“How do you feel on this hot afternoon, Your Excellency?”
The dreamer turns with a smile and replies, “Very well indeed, but a
little lazy. Won’t you sit down a minute, doctor?”
“Thank you, Excellency.” Dr. Brown, the ship’s surgeon, with a little
nervous motion and a quiet apology, draws a camp-stool near and seats
himself facing the older man.
“I have completed the examination and analysis which my limited
equipment permits, Count. I have read up the case and I should like
to make my report. You know that my practice of late years has been
restricted to the traveling public, but I feel I am competent to
diagnose fairly accurately.”
“My dear doctor, I have the fullest confidence in your judgment,” with
a deprecating gesture.
“I should say that owing to your sojourn in that confounded India your
case has been considerably aggravated and has become more severe; it
is not now acute or at all serious, but requires careful attention.
Avoid excitement and do not undertake anything which will strain your
physical powers. I regret that I must be strict with you with regard to
your diet and habits. But when you arrive at Brindisi, go to Karlsbad,
and in a few weeks you’ll be well enough to take up the affairs of your
country.”
“Thank you, doctor. But to me time means the trust and perhaps the fate
of others. It is, therefore, more than a question of self. Doctor, how
long do you give me?”
The doctor flushed and looked pained. “Count, you must believe what I
have said. I will not hide from you that you are in a serious condition
but--once you get on land and out of this floating inferno, you’ll be
as well as ever, I think. Don’t attempt to do too much now and don’t
worry.”
“Thank you most sincerely, doctor. Well, I suppose even a diplomat can
live plainly and give up wine and tobacco.”
He bade the doctor a pleasant “au revoir” and sauntered toward the
ship’s side. In deep thought he leaned against the railing, gazing into
the now fiery sienna of the horizon. The smile on his lips faded, his
assumed indifference had left him. Deep lines of care contracted his
brow and the eyes looked troubled and sad.
A quick step and a cheerful voice called out heartily, “Good evening,
Excellency! Dreaming or thinking--or both?”
Heavily set, smooth-faced and jovial, Captain Pollard of the ship
walked toward him.
“My dear Captain, I am only too glad to have you break in on my dreams.
They were not the rosiest just now, even though the evening looks
beautiful enough to charm an anchorite.”
The Captain nodded his head. “That red sky is rather a promise of
another hot day for to-morrow, Count. In a few hours we’ll be in the
Red Sea, the furnace of creation. I am afraid to-morrow will be a
broiler. Look, Count, there to our left is the Ras Séan with the cloud
wreath on top of him. In an hour we shall be in ‘Bab El Mandeb,’ the
Gate of Dirge of the Arab. Gloomy premonition, I call that. We are
going fine and are ahead of our schedule.”
“All right, Mr. Malone, what is it?” This to the officer of the deck
who was rapidly approaching.
“The pilot is signalling from Tadshurra Bay, sir. Shall I slow down,
Captain?”
“Very well, sir, glad to get him promptly. What is the boat’s number?”
“Seven, sir.”
“Good, that is old Abdullah, a good sailor and a fine fellow. Report
when he gets aboard, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
The officer hurried away and shortly after the siren gave two short
blasts and the boat lost headway.
“May I join you for a bit, Count?” Captain Pollard took the stool
vacated by the doctor following the gesture of polite assent of the
Count.
“The doctor’s report left a bad taste in your mouth, eh? If you don’t
mind, I’d like to say a few words more on this same subject, your
Excellency.”
The Captain stuck his hands deeply into his coat pockets, looking
straight at the Count. “You are an old soldier and a gentleman who
knows the world, Count. Dr. Brown came to me this afternoon somewhat
worried. He doesn’t want to scare you needlessly but neither does he
intend you should get off the boat a sick man. He is probably a little
over-cautious. Now, just to please us all, let him look after you until
we land. There is nothing more trying after a residence in India than
the passage we have ahead of us for the next five or six days. Do as
Dr. Brown advises and when you get home send him a nice letter telling
him he was right. Is it a bargain?”
“My dear Captain, it certainly is; and I appreciate your interest very
much and won’t fail you and the good doctor.”
He had regained his smiling manner: “Captain, why are we men such
restless wanderers? You could settle down in your nice little cottage
at Bournemouth, draw your pension, trim your apple trees, read your old
friend Marryat, chat with Mrs. Pollard and curse the Liberal Party; and
I--I could write my memoirs, raise tulips and roses and blooded sheep,
sneer at the Radicals and Progressives, and criticize the weak policy
of the Hapsburgs! What fun we could have, Hein?”
“Your Excellency, I guess we both do what we believe to be our duty.
Neither of us is good at idling, I think, and our work is our life.
Some day I might do as you say--but I hope that day is a long way off,”
with a merry chuckle.
A crunching sound against the ship’s side and the pilot’s dingy pulled
by two powerful negroes had come alongside. With the pilot two other
figures were visible in the dim light. The nimble, old, beturbaned
Arab pilot, with broad red sash around his ample waist, swung himself
aboard, the two men following him.
On the upper deck the conversation which had lagged during this busy
interval was further interrupted by the approach of a steward in search
of the Captain.
“Two passengers boarded with the pilot, sir. One of them requests
permission to speak to you for a minute, Captain.”
“Has the purser seen him?”
“Yes, sir; but he asked for you; he says you know him.”
“Very well, send him up.”
The steward left and shortly after a heavily bearded, well-set-up,
broad-shouldered man, in rather shabby linen blouse and baggy trousers,
a pith helmet in hand, walked towards the Captain. In the rapidly
failing light the deeply tanned features with calm eyes and pleasant
smile were just visible. With hand outstretched he stepped up to the
group and in a hearty voice exclaimed: “How do you do, Captain Pollard!
I was most anxious to meet an old friend again and couldn’t wait. Don’t
you remember me, Captain? The clothes and beard make it hard, I guess.
I am John Morton.”
“Why, bless my soul, I wouldn’t have known you! My dear Mr. Morton, I
am delighted to see you!” He shook the visitor’s hand heartily.
“My, but you do look like a globe trotter--and one that has done some
trotting! It is good to shake hands with you once more and to have you
on the ‘Hindoostan.’”
“I am, indeed, glad to have the chance to get your boat, Captain.
From my last camp the bay was easier to make than the upper Nile, and
when I found at Aa-nin that you were expected to-night, I made a run
for the shore and was just in time for the pilot’s sloop. I haven’t
been near civilization in eighteen months, Captain! I have with me my
man, Donald, whom you may remember. He looks, if anything, even worse
for wear than I. May I see you again after the cleaning-up process,
Captain?”
“Certainly, my dear Mr. Morton. I shall be delighted if you will honor
me. I am as curious as an old magpie to hear what brought you here of
all spots in the world! Are you nicely placed aboard?”
“Yes; thank you.”
He made a movement to withdraw but Captain Pollard took him by the arm
and led him towards the Count.
“Your Excellency, will you permit me? This is Mr. Morton, an old
friend of mine, an American gentleman who is quite a traveler and
explorer--his Excellency Count Rondell.”
“Happy to make your acquaintance, Your Excellency; I trust you will
pardon my appearance.”
“Very glad to meet you, Mr. Morton. Don’t apologize. You look fit and
ready for good sport.”
The men shook hands. Morton stepped back: “Gentlemen, permit me to
retire. I trust I shall have the honor later, Your Excellency.”
“There goes one of the finest young men,” said the Captain, looking
after the rapidly retiring form, “a man in a million, Count.”
“He looks keen and strong; a bold man and true,” gently said the Count
with almost a sigh. “Sportsman?”
“I don’t quite know, Count. I think he went out to explore the Soudan
and the Blue Nile country, if I remember correctly. He comes of a very
fine family--a man of rare good judgment and the very man to have
around when trouble is brewing. Some time I will tell you how I met
him. If you’ll permit me, Count, I’ll now look up that pilot. We are
getting under way. Good evening, Excellency!”
“Au revoir, Captain. I shall have to interview the chief steward and
see if Dr. Brown will allow me another meal to-day.”
Now that he was once again alone, the Count forgot the evening meal,
forgot the steward and the man he just had met--he had weightier
matters on his mind. This man of the world, trained to think while
chatting and seemingly enjoying small talk--this old diplomat realized
that he had arrived at a parting of the ways. The oppressive heat of
earlier day had yielded somewhat to the gentle breeze rising from the
ever-nearing mountainous shore. A brilliant crimson band silhouetted
sharply the deep purple of Ras Séan, the bluish haze half hid the
frowning abrupt cliffs of Perim Island; the first twinkle of the
lighthouse shone like a firefly, coming and going in rhythmic flashes.
To the north the broad dome of Disohebel Menghéli rose high, the
towering guardian of the strait, the dread of the unwary skipper. Over
the ultramarine hills rose the red moon of the silent East, mysterious
and alluring, the light of the romantic night. Count Rondell, obeying
the promptings of weary limbs, sank into his seat and gazed as if
fascinated into the glory of the tropical eve.
The world was so beautiful and life so promising! Moments of the years
gone by passed in rapid succession through his mind; the days of youth
and hope--the years of ambition and fulfillment. The shadows of beloved
faces rose to disappear; the joy of deeds performed, the regret of acts
omitted. As in a panorama he saw his life over again and lived it once
more.
A flock of buzzards flying across the hazy light of the moon that
looked for all the world like a flattened giant orange, by a curious
disconnection of the phenomenon so well known to him, awoke him to the
present; to the warning he had received, to the call of a life which
was to end. A slight tremor passed over the frame of the man, who
seemed to have aged considerably within the last hour.
The training of decades, the inbred desire to suppress thoughts and
control the mind, supervened. He lightly passed his hand over the
smoothening brow, caressing the thick hair upon his temple and the
old gentle smile appeared again in his eyes. “Well, I have run a
long race--and on the homestretch I am beaten. _Vivat sequens!_” he
whispered to himself.
He rose and walked freely to the rail, contemplating the wondrous
evening, admiring the marvelous light effects in the now rapidly
darkening sky. He gazed at the minute wavelets springing from the sides
of the boat and spreading their gory crests endlessly toward the east,
ever widening and disappearing in purplish black shadows. The first
stars as if by magic had leaped upon the zenith, new born, blinking
mockingly to him.
A smile gentler than before illuminated the fine features. “God is
great, nature is full of wonders, and I shall not cry quits and sulk.
There is work before you, my boy, work and duty. And when that is done,
my beloved, I shall be glad to join you.”
With a deep sigh and a proud smile he wearily turned toward the line of
cabins from whence a light step now proceeded.
His valet came forward, cap in hand. “Your Excellency, dinner will be
ready in twenty minutes. Will you not come to your room, sir?”
“Very good, Jean; but I believe I shall not dress to-night. I am
fatigued and I expect no one else will. Just a little touching up and
a dark coat and scarf. I shall follow you.”
Musing, he turned once more to the waters which had lost their
mirror-like smoothness upon entering the narrow channel. Before him
rose the escarpment of Perim’s forts, with their twinkling lights; the
breeze carried to his ears the bugle call from the barracks, the one
discordant sound in the serene stillness of the fairy landscape.
“Gate to an ocean--England will hold it,” he muttered. “Passage to
power and trade--Albion will rule it. Other nations may strive and
plan, dream and scheme, but Albion takes and holds. I wonder if, when
my last call comes, I shall find a Briton guarding the Pearly Gates?
Well, I have done the best I could for my king and my country. I must
not grudge the men who have done theirs for their queen and land--and
with more glorious and happier results. The race is to the swift,
the laurel to the victor, glory to the lucky! L’homme propose, Dieu
dispose!”
He gave one more look round, turning in all directions, and then slowly
left the deck.
The moon had risen above the haze and shone a lustrous brightness. The
sky, a deep unfathomable marine, was dotted with countless blinking
stars; the shimmering sea was scales of silver; the hum of giant
machinery throbbed on the balmy air. It was a night so glorious that
one doubted if there could be anything but beauty and happiness on
earth.
And yet--how much misery and sorrow, pain and tears are mingled with
joy in life! The lure of the East, the mystery of dreamed-of Eden and
with it strife and labor! The nobility of creation, the pettiness of
life; the loveliness of nature, the emptiness of man’s efforts.
Five bells--the Vesper on shipboard.
The muffled call of the Muezzin from the nearby minaret of Perim town
drifted across the silvery stream.
And the bells, re-echoing from fore and aft, seemed to call out:
“All’s well, good night!”