CAPTAIN FLANAGAN MEETS A DUKE
The isle of Corsica, for all its fame in romance and history, is yet
singularly isolated and unknown. It is an island whose people have
stood still for a century, indolent, unobserving, thriftless. No
smoke, that ensign of progress, hangs over her towns, which are squalid
and unpicturesque, save they lie back among the mountains. But the
country itself is wildly and magnificently beautiful: great mountains
of granite as varied in colors as the palette of a painter, emerald
streams that plunge over porphyry and marble, splendid forests of pine
and birch and chestnut.
The password was, is, and ever will be, Napoleon. Speak that name and
the native's eye will fire and his patois will rattle forth and tingle
the ear like a snare-drum. Though he pays his tithe to France, he is
Italian; but unlike the Italian of Italy, his predilection is neither
for gardening, nor agriculture, nor horticulture. Nature gave him a
few chestnuts, and he considers that sufficient. For the most part he
subsists upon chestnut-bread, stringy mutton, sinister cheeses, and a
horrid sour wine. As a variety he will shoot small birds and in the
winter a wild pig or two; his toil extends no further, for his wife is
the day-laborer. Viewing him as he is to-day, it does not seem
possible that his ancestors came from Genoa la Superba.
Napoleon was born in Ajaccio, but the blood in his veins was Tuscan,
and his mind Florentine.
These days the world takes little or no interest in the island, save
for its wool, lumber and an inferior cork. Great ships pass it on the
north and south, on the east and west, but only cranky packets and
dismal freighters drop anchor in her ports.
The Gulf of Ajaccio lies at the southwest of the island and is
half-moon in shape, with reaches of white sands, red crags, and brush
covered dunes, and immediately back of these, an embracing range of
bald mountains.
A little before sunrise the yacht _Laura_ swam into the gulf. The
mountains, their bulks in shadowy gray, their undulating crests
threaded with yellow fire, cast their images upon the smooth tideless
silver-dulled waters. Forward a blur of white and red marked the town.
"Isn't it glorious?" said Laura, rubbing the dew from the teak rail.
"And oh! what a time we people waste in not getting up in the mornings
with the sun."
"I don't know," replied Fitzgerald. "Scenery and sleep; of the two I
prefer the latter. I have always been routed out at dawn and never
allowed to turn in till midnight. You can always find scenery, but
sleep is a coy thing."
"There's a drop of commercial blood in your veins somewhere, the blood
of the unromantic. But this morning?"
"Oh, sleep doesn't count at all this morning. The scenery is
everything."
And as he looked into her clear bright eyes he knew that before this
quest came to its end he was going to tell this enchanting girl that he
loved her "better than all the world"; and moreover, he intended to
tell it to her with the daring hope of winning her, money or no money.
Had not some poet written--some worldly wise poet who rather had the
hang of things--
"He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch
To win or lose it all."
Money wasn't everything; she herself had made that statement the first
night out. He had been afraid of Breitmann, but somehow that fear was
all gone now. Did she care, if ever so little?
He veered his gaze round and wondered where Breitmann was. Could the
man be asleep on a morn so vital as this? No, there he was, on the
very bowsprit itself. The crew was busy about him, some getting the
motor-boat in trim, others yanking away at pulleys, all the
preparations of landing. A sharp order rose now and then; a servant
passed, carrying Captain Flanagan's breakfast to the pilot-house. To
all this subdued turmoil Breitmann seemed apparently oblivious. What
mad dream was working in that brain? Did the poor devil believe in
himself; or did he have some ulterior purpose, unknown to any but
himself? Fitzgerald determined, once they touched land, never to let
him go beyond sight. It would not be human for him to surrender any
part of the treasure without making some kind of a fight for it,
cunning or desperate. If only the women-folk remained on board!
Breitmann gazed toward the town motionless. It was difficult for
Fitzgerald not to tell the great secret then and there; but his caution
whispered warningly. There was no knowing what effect it would have
upon the impulsive girl at his side. And besides, there might have
been a grain of selfishness in the repression. All is fair in love or
war; and it would not have been politic to make a hero out of Breitmann.
"You haven't said a word for five minutes," she declared. How boyish
he looked for a man of his experience!
"Silence is sometimes good for the soul," sententiously.
"Of what were you thinking?"
His heart struck hard against his breast. What an opening, what a
moment in which to declare himself! But he said: "Perhaps I was
thinking of breakfast. This getting up early always makes me ravenous.
The smell of the captain's coffee may have had something to do with it."
"You were thinking of nothing of the sort," she cried. "I know. It
was the treasure and this great-grandson of Napoleon. Sometimes I feel
I only dreamed these things. Why? Because, whoever started out on a
treasure quest without having thrilling adventures, shots in the dark,
footsteps outside the room, villains, and all the rest of the
paraphernalia? I never read nor heard of such a thing."
"Nor I. But there's land yonder," he said, without an answering smile.
"Then," in an awed whisper, "you believe something is going to happen
there?"
"One thing I am certain of, but I can not tell you just at this moment."
A bit of color came to her cheeks. As if, reading his eyes, she did
not know this thing he was so certain of! Should she let him tell her?
Not a real eddy in the current, unless it was his fear of money. If
only she could lose her money, temporarily! If only she had an ogre
for a parent, now! But she hadn't. He was so dear and so kind and so
proud of her that if she told him she was going to be married that
morning, his only questions would have been: At what time? Why, this
sort of romance was against all accepted rules. She was inordinately
happy.
"There is only one thing lacking; this great-grandson himself. He will
be yonder somewhere. For the man in the chimney was he or his agent."
"And aren't you afraid?"
"Of what?" proudly.
"It will not be a comedy. It is in the blood of these Napoleons that
nothing shall stand in the path of their desires, neither men's lives
nor woman's honor."
"I am not afraid. There is the sun at last What a picture! And the
shame of it! I am hungry!"
At half after six the yacht let go her anchor a few hundred yards from
the quay. Every one was astir by now; but at the breakfast table there
was one vacant chair--Breitmann's. M. Ferraud and Fitzgerald exchanged
significant glances. In fact, the Frenchman drank his coffee hurriedly
and excused himself. Breitmann was not on deck; neither was he in his
state-room. The door was open. M. Ferraud, without any unnecessary
qualms of conscience, went in. One glance at the trunk was sufficient.
The lock hung down, disclosing the secret hollow. For once the little
man's suavity forsook him, and he swore like a sailor, but softly. He
rushed again to the deck and sought Captain Flanagan, who was enjoying
a pipe forward.
"Captain, where is Mr. Breitmann?"
"Breitmann? Oh, he went ashore in one of the fruit-boats. Missed th'
motor."
"Did he take any luggage?"
"Baggage?" corrected Captain Flanagan. "Nothin' but his hat, sir.
Anythin' wrong?"
"Oh, no! We missed him at breakfast." M. Ferraud turned about,
painfully conscious that he had been careless.
Fitzgerald hove in sight. "Find him?"
"Ashore!" said M. Ferraud, with a violent gesture.
"Isn't it time to make known who he is?"
"Not yet. It would start too many complications. Besides, I doubt if
he has the true measurements."
"There was ample time for him to make a copy."
"Perhaps."
"Mr. Ferraud?"
"Well?"
"I've an idea, and I have had it for some time, that you wouldn't feel
horribly disappointed if our friend made away with the money."
M. Ferraud shrugged; then he laughed quietly.
"Well, neither would I," Fitzgerald added.
"My son, you are a man after my own heart. I was furious for the
moment to think that he had outwitted me the first move. I did not
want him to meet his confederates without my eyes on him. And there
you have it. It is not the money, which is morally his; it is his
friends, his lying, mocking friends."
"Are we fair to the admiral? He has set his heart on this thing."
"And shall we spoil his pleasure? Let him find it out later."
"Do you know Corsica?"
"As the palm of my hand."
"But the women?"
"They will never be in the danger zone. No blood will be spilled,
unless it be mine. He has no love for me, and I am his only friend,
save one."
"Suppose this persecution of Germany's was only a blind?"
"My admiration for you grows, Mr. Fitzgerald. But I have dug too
deeply into that end of it not to be certain that Germany has tossed
this bombshell into France without holding a string to it. Did you
know that Breitmann had once been hit by a spent bullet? Here,"
pointing to the side of his head. "He is always conscious of what he
does but not of the force that makes him do it. Do you understand me?
He is living in a dream, and I must wake him."
The adventurers were now ready to disembark. They took nothing but
rugs and hand-bags, for there would be no preening of fine feathers on
hotel verandas. With the exception of Hildegarde all were eager and
excited. Her breast was heavy with forebodings. Who and what was this
man Ferraud? One thing she knew; he was a menace to the man she loved,
aye, with every throb of her heart and every thought of her mind.
The admiral was like a boy starting out upon his first
fishing-excursion. To him there existed nothing else in the world
beyond a chest of money hidden somewhere in the pine forest of Aïtone.
He talked and laughed, pinched Laura's ears, shook Fitzgerald's
shoulder, prodded Coldfield, and fussed because the motor wasn't
sixty-horse power.
"Father," Laura asked suddenly, "where is Mr. Breitmann?"
"Oh, I told him last night to go ashore early, if he would, and arrange
for rooms at the Grand Hotel d'Ajaccio. He knows all about the place."
M. Ferraud turned an empty face toward Fitzgerald, who laughed. The
great-grandson of Napoleon, applying for hotel accommodations, as a
gentleman's gentleman, and within a few blocks of the house in which
the self-same historic forebear was born! It had its comic side.
"Are there any brigands?" inquired Mrs. Coldfield. She was beginning
to doubt this expedition.
"Brigands? Plenty," said the admiral, "but they are all hotel
proprietors these times, those that aren't conveniently buried. From
here we go to Carghese, where we spend the night, then on to Evisa, and
another night. The next morning we shall be on the ground. Isn't that
the itinerary, Fitzgerald?"
"Yes."
"And be sure to take an empty carriage to carry canned food and bottled
water," supplemented Cathewe. "The native food is frightful. The
first time I took the journey I was ignorant. Happily it was in the
autumn, when the chestnuts were ripe. Otherwise I should have starved."
"And you spent a winter or spring here, Hildegarde?" said Mrs.
Coldfield.
"It was lovely then." There was a dream in Hildegarde's eyes.
The hotel omnibus was out of service, and they rode up in carriages.
The season was over, and under ordinary circumstances the hotel would
have been closed. A certain royal family had not yet left, and this
fact made the arrangements possible. It was now very warm. Dust lay
everywhere, on the huge palms, on the withered plants, on the chairs
and railings, and swam palpable in the air. Breitmann was nowhere to
be found, but he had seen the manager of the hotel and secured rooms
facing the bay. Later, perhaps two hours after the arrival, he
appeared. In this short time he had completed his plans. As he viewed
them he could see no flaw.
Now it came about that Captain Flanagan, who had not left the ship once
during the journey, found his one foot aching for a touch and feel of
the land. So he and Holleran, the chief-engineer, came ashore a little
before noon and decided to have a bite of maccaroni under the shade of
the palms in the _Place des Palmiers_. A bottle of warm beer was
divided between them. The captain said Faugh! as he drank it.
"Try th' native wine, Capt'n," suggested the chief-engineer.
"I have a picture of Cap'n Flanagan drinkin' the misnamed vinegar. No
Dago's bare fut on the top o' mine, when I'm takin' a glass. An'
that's th' way they make ut. This Napoleyun wus a fine man. He pushed
'em round some."
"Sure, he had Irish blood in 'im, somewheres," Holleran assented. "But
I say," suddenly stretching his lean neck, "will ye look t' see who's
comin' along!"
Flanagan stared. "If ut ain't that son-of-a-gun ov a Picard, I'll eat
my hat!" The captain grew purple. "An' leavin' th' ship without
orders!"
"An' the togs!" murmured Holleran.
"Watch me!" said Flanagan, rising and squaring his peg.
Picard, arrayed in clean white flannels, white shoes, a panama set
rakishly on his handsome head, his fingers twirling a cane, came
head-on into the storm. The very jauntiness of his stride was as a red
rag to the captain. So then, a hand, heavy and charged with righteous
anger, descended upon Picard's shoulder.
"Right about face an' back to th' ship, fast as yer legs c'n make ut!"
Picard calmly shook off the hand, and, adding a vigorous push which
sent the captain staggering among the little iron-tables, proceeded
nonchalantly. Holleran leaped to his feet, but there was a glitter in
Picard's eye that did not promise well for any rough-and-tumble fight.
Picard's muscular shoulders moved off toward the vanishing point.
Holleran turned to the captain, and with the assistance of a waiter,
the two righted the old man.
"Do you speak English?" roared the old sailor.
"Yes, sir," respectfully.
"Who wus that?"
The waiter, in reverent tones, declared that the gentleman referred to
was well known in Ajaccio, that he had spent the previous winter there,
and that he was no less a person than the Duke of--But the waiter never
completed the sentence. The title was enough for the irascible
Flanagan.
"Th'--hell--he--is!" The captain subsided into the nearest chair,
bereft of future speech, which is a deal of emphasis to put on the
phrase. Picard, a duke, and only that morning his hands had been
yellow with the stains of the donkey-engine oil! And by and by the
question set alive his benumbed brain; what was a duke doing on the
yacht _Laura_? "Holleran, we go t' the commodore. The devil's t' pay.
What's a dook doin' on th' ship, and we expectin' to dig up gold in
yonder mountains? Look alive, man; they's villany afoot!"
Holleran's jaw sagged.