A VOYAGE TO MARSEILLES.
Between being a cabin boy with no responsibility beyond setting the
table straight and keeping the cabin clean, and being a supercargo with
a large and valuable cargo to look after, there is a wide step, as
Kit realized when the _North Cape_ lay once more at the wharf in
front of Martin’s Stores. Harry Leonard set off gayly for home before
the ship was fairly moored in her berth; but for his own part, with
nominally far more liberty, he could not think of going further away
than his employers’ office till all the cargo was out; and he could not
tell whether even then he should be able to take a long enough holiday
for a run out to Huntington.
“You see these things work both ways, Harry,” he said to the cabin boy
before the latter set off. “You complained in London about not being
able to go ashore, but I am just as badly off here, where I have so
much to do that I cannot leave the wharf for a week at any rate.”
“But you don’t complain about it, Kit,” Harry answered. “I don’t
believe you ever complain about anything.”
“Why should I complain about this,” Kit asked, “when it is my work that
keeps me and I am glad to have the work to do? What would the owners
think of the Captain if he said he could not sail on the day they
ordered, because he had some business of his own to attend to? No, I am
not complaining about it, but just telling you the fact. And I spoke of
it because I want you to take a little bundle up to Huntington for me,
and tell my folks that nothing but my work keeps me from going home at
once. I shall know in a few days whether I can get home this trip, and
of course I have written.”
There was no reason why the supercargo should explain to the cabin boy
that the “little bundle” he sent home was the result of many visits to
Peter Robinson’s, in Regent Street, and to another London place known
as “Louise’s,” in the same street; and that it contained some things
whose buying required as much care on his part as the stowing of a
cargo. It was not such a little bundle, either, nor so light; but Harry
took it cheerfully, and promised to deliver all of Kit’s messages.
Instead of Kit applying to the Captain now for information about the
ship’s movements, it was rather the other way. As supercargo it was his
business to know what the next cargo was to be, and where it was to be
taken. But for some days neither of them knew, and it was impossible to
learn, because the charterers did not yet know, themselves.
“I imagine from what I heard in the office to-day,” Kit said to the
Captain one evening, “that they are thinking of sending us next to
Marseilles.”
“Yes,” the Captain answered, “they are talking of it, I know. But
nothing is settled yet.”
“I hope they will,” Kit went on; “that would give us a fine voyage
into the Mediterranean and past Gibraltar. Marseilles must be a little
further than London, of course.”
“Yes, it is just about four thousand miles,” the Captain answered.
“It would be a good thing for you, for several reasons. The _North
Cape_ ought to go into dry-dock to be scraped and painted before
crossing the ocean again, for one thing, and that would give you
time to go home. For another thing, Marseilles is one of the most
interesting places in the world. But our firm won’t take those things
into consideration in making up their minds,” he added, laughing.
“What cargo should we probably take if we went to Marseilles, sir?” Kit
asked.
“Oil,” the Captain replied; “and as Marseilles is one of the great
olive-oil shipping ports, that would be carrying coals to Newcastle
with a vengeance, wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t quite understand, sir,” Kit answered.
“Well, you will soon see into it,” the Captain said, “if we go to
Marseilles. You see they make a great deal of olive-oil all along that
part of the Mediterranean coast. And it is shipped from Marseilles.
Olive-oil, you understand, is a very expensive product. We make a
great deal of cotton-seed oil in this country, and that is a very cheap
product. So they buy our cotton-seed oil, and we take it over to them.”
“But you don’t mean that they mix our cotton-seed oil with their
olive-oil, and sell it for pure oil, do you, sir?”
“I never saw them mix it,” the Captain said, laughing quietly to
himself. “But when you put this and that together, and considering that
they have no other use for cotton-seed oil over there, it certainly
looks very much like it, doesn’t it?
“However, I don’t think you need worry your mind about our share in
the transaction,” the Captain went on, seeing that Kit looked very
thoughtful over it. “If they pay us for carrying the oil, we have
nothing to do with the use they make of it. We might carry a cargo of
cotton to Manchester; and if some dishonest cloth-maker there mixes
a lot of it with his wool, that dishonesty cannot be laid on our
shoulders.”
“Captain, do you think there is a really honest man in the world?” Kit
asked.
“Yes, two,” the Captain laughed; “Christopher Silburn and Captain
Griffith.”
The uncertainty about their next destination could not last long,
for the cargo was nearly out; and on the same day that Kit was told
definitely that he was to go to Marseilles, the Captain induced his
charterers to let him have a week in dry-dock first for overhauling the
ship. The supercargo, however, could not arrange for more than four
days’ leave of absence, there being many things to see to; and that
would give him only two full days at home.
Going out by train this time, for greater speed, Kit reached Bridgeport
too late for the stage; but without hesitation he set off over the
hills on foot, glad of the chance to see so much of the country just as
the trees and grass were putting on their new spring suits; and when he
stepped without warning into the little house opposite the church, his
mother and Vieve were at the supper table.
“You gave me a great start when you came in, Kit,” Mrs. Silburn
declared after the first greetings were over. “You walk exactly as your
father did; my first thought was that he had come home. And upon my
word you are just his size. My, my, what a man you have grown! I have
no little Kit any more, but a big grown man.”
“Don’t speak of growing!” Kit retorted. “Where’s the little sister I
left at home? What have you done with her? This great big girl can’t be
Vieve, can she? And you are looking so much better, too, mother. I’m
afraid those little things I got you in London are about four sizes too
small.
“I wanted to get you some really good things in England,” he went on,
“but those letters you sent me from Bridgeport and Washington made
me more careful of my money. If that mysterious man in New Zealand
should really prove to be father, we would need all the money we could
possibly raise to bring him home comfortably. I don’t feel as if my
wages belonged to myself, exactly, till that thing is settled.”
“Oh, it was such a comfort, Kit, the way you managed those letters,”
his mother declared. “We did not know what to do at all. I don’t feel
so much now as if I had no one to depend upon.”
“Well, the Captain advised me,” Kit modestly answered. “He always knows
what ought to be done. You must not set your heart too much upon it,
but still there is a chance. Since one man escaped from the wreck of
the _Flower City_, why not another? It will take weeks and weeks,
perhaps months, to get an answer from the consul at Wellington; and
until it comes, we can do nothing but wait patiently.”
The next morning Kit settled himself in his father’s armchair by the
window, with a big volume in his hands.
“It’s a good thing father bought this set of cyclopædias,” he said,
“for I think it will give me just the information I want. Our next
voyage is to be to Marseilles (did I tell you last evening?), and I
want to find out something about the place. You’ve no idea what a help
it is in going to a new city to read everything you can find about it
beforehand. All the way over to London, when I had any spare time, I
read the Captain’s books about it and studied the maps, and by the time
I got there I knew a great deal about it.”
“Harry Leonard must have been a great help to you there,” Vieve
suggested slyly; “he says he showed you around so much.”
“Does he?” Kit laughed. “That’s just like Harry! He makes a very good
cabin boy, but he hasn’t quite got over his boasting habit yet. The
only visit he made to London was when I got leave for him one day and
took him for a trip on the underground railway. We took the wrong
train, too, by the way, and went about fifteen miles round to get a
mile across town. But let’s see about this place in France. M-a-r; here
we are--‘Marseilles, the third city of France, population about four
hundred and fifty thousand. Well situated in a valley on the shore of
the Mediterranean. Chief city of the Department of Bouches-du-Rhone.
Marseilles is one of the oldest cities in Europe, having been founded
about 600 B.C.’
“Think of that, mother! This place I am going to was founded six
hundred years before the time of our Saviour!
“‘The first settlement,’” he continued to read, “‘is usually ascribed
to the Phœnicians. Lazarus is said to have been one of the early
bishops of Marseilles, and a skull purporting to be his is still
preserved in a portion of the original church in which Lazarus
preached. Aside from this, the most remarkable building in Marseilles
is the church of Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde, which, standing on the
summit of a high hill, is church and fort combined, and is reached by
hydraulic elevators. Marseilles is the scene of the principal part
of Alexander Dumas’ remarkable story of the “Count of Monte Cristo.”
The Castle d’If, in which Monte Cristo was confined in a dungeon for
fourteen years, stands on a rocky islet in the harbor, and is still
in a good state of preservation. The chief articles of commerce are
olive-oil, figs, dates, almonds, and wine. Marseilles is one of the
principal ports of the Mediterranean, from thirty to fifty vessels
entering or leaving daily. The Peninsular and Oriental steamers call
here on their way to and from India and Australia.’
“I tell you there’s going to be something to see, in a place like
that!” Kit exclaimed, as he closed the book. “Six hundred years before
those things happened that we read about in the New Testament! A fellow
can hardly get that into his head. I hope I’ll have a chance to see
that church on the hill, that’s both church and fort. And Lazarus!
That’s going it a little strong, it seems to me; I don’t remember
reading anything in the Bible about Lazarus being a bishop. But I
should like to see that old church.”
“Oh, I wish they had ‘cabin girls’ on ships!” Vieve declared; “I’d like
to go and see these queer places the way you do. Girls never have a
chance to see anything.”
“They’re a very lucky lot,” Kit answered. “They only have to stay at
home and be comfortable, while their fathers and brothers go away to
work for them.”
“Now, children, I’ll have to punish you both if you begin to quarrel,”
Mrs. Silburn laughed. “The most important thing is when you will be
back from this next voyage, Kit; and that you haven’t told us yet.”
“We can safely say in about two months,” Kit replied, “if all goes
well. And by that time I think we ought to have an answer from New
Zealand.”
Those two days at home were many hours too short, but there was no help
for it. Kit had nearly two months’ wages to hand over to his mother,
and after taking a good look at the outside of the house he suggested
that she should get some one to mend the two or three broken places and
then have it painted.
“That will not cost very much,” he said, “for it is a small house. And
if--if that should--well, you know what I mean. We want everything
looking nice if he comes home.”
Silas did not go down to Bridgeport with his stage in time to catch the
9.15 train, the one that Kit wanted to take; so he walked down as he
had walked up, glad to have another two or three hours among the green
fields after so much blue water.
From the time of his reaching New York again the young supercargo had
very little time to himself until the _North Cape_ cleared for
Marseilles, for the cargo began to arrive next day, and he had to give
his attention to it.
“It hardly seems to me as if we had been home,” he said to Captain
Griffith as they stood on the bridge, watching the gradual fading
away of the Navesink Highlands. “They keep us going so fast; to-day in
Barbadoes, to-morrow in London, next day in Marseilles. I see you have
the ‘Count of Monte Cristo’ among your books, Captain. I will get you
to let me read it when I am through with my work. I have been reading
everything I could find about Marseilles.”
“Oh, yes, you can take it,” the Captain answered. “You will find it a
very interesting story, particularly when you are bound for Marseilles.
But there is something about it that to me is of more interest than the
story itself. I won’t tell you what it is; you can find that out for
yourself.”
For four or five days Kit was busy with his manifests, but after that
his time was his own, except for an occasional visit to the hold to see
that his cargo was in good order--his “magic oil,” he called it; for as
far as he could make out it was to go into Marseilles nothing but plain
cotton-seed oil, and return to New York “pure olive-oil,” worth two
dollars a gallon.
The ocean seemed a vast desert of water on this voyage. They were far
out of the usual track of vessels crossing the Atlantic, except those
bound for the far East by way of the Suez Canal; and in the eighteen
days before Gibraltar was sighted they passed only three sails. But in
those days Kit put all his papers in order and read the “Count of Monte
Cristo” with great care.
“I should not have spent so much time on an ordinary story,” he said
when it was finished, “but this tells so much about Marseilles. And I
wanted to find out what you considered of more interest about it than
the story itself.”
“And did you find it out?” the Captain asked.
“I think so, sir,” Kit replied. “The story was evidently written about
the middle of this century, or less than fifty years ago. I think the
author wanted to show what wonderful things could be accomplished by
a man with fabulous wealth. So after the hero had been imprisoned
in that Castle d’If a great many years, he made his way through the
walls to the dungeon of a very wise priest who was confined there.
The priest became so attached to him that before he died he told him
of the secret hiding-place of an immense treasure; and after the hero
escaped he went to the island and got the treasure. As nearly as I
can make out, the treasure amounted to about three million dollars,
and he did all his wonderful things with that money. The interesting
thing is, as I understand it, that less than fifty years ago, a great
author, living in Paris, when he wanted to write about a man with
as much money as anybody could imagine, much less really have, gave
him only three million dollars, which in those days seemed beyond
belief; whereas now within a single lifetime, some of our American
millionaires are so much richer that three million dollars would seem
like a small sum to them.”
“That’s it, exactly,” the Captain replied; “I am glad you caught the
idea. It just shows how the wealth of the world has increased in the
last fifty years--or perhaps how it has fallen into comparatively few
hands. Half a century ago three millions was as great a fortune as
could be imagined; now when a man gets three he is not satisfied till
he turns it into thirty.”
“It has made me anxious to see that Castle d’If and its dungeons,” Kit
said.
“I hope to have another look at it myself,” the Captain answered. “I
was there once, but it was many years ago--long before you were born.
We will go out together some day.”
When Gibraltar was reached, the hoisting of two or three flags caused
a telegraphic message to be sent by cable to London and thence to New
York, “Passed, steamer _North Cape_, New York for Marseilles. All
well,” so that the ship’s owners and the crew’s friends knew within a
few hours that she had once more crossed the Atlantic in safety.
“I should hardly like to be sailing past here in a ship that that
tremendous fort was trying to keep out,” Kit declared. “It looks as if
nothing could get past, with those great tiers of guns commanding this
narrow passage. This is the strangest thing I have seen yet--Africa
just across the channel, Spain on this side, and that great tall rock
at the end of the peninsula belonging to England. I have read how the
rock is full of underground passages and hidden batteries. They call
it the impregnable fortress; don’t they, sir?”
“Impregnable is a very good word, Silburn,” the Captain answered, “but
no place is impregnable in these days. That rock has been taken and
retaken a number of times, so it cannot be impregnable. The English
have fortified it very strongly, because it is an important point; but
in case of attack they would have to depend largely upon their navy to
defend it. A few dynamite cartridges thrown against the rock would soon
reduce it.”
“Well, it doesn’t really look as if the English had any business with a
big fort right on the best corner of Spain,” Kit went on.
“You will soon find yourself in deep water if you go into such
questions as that, young man,” Captain Griffith laughed. “What business
have the English in India, or Egypt, or Africa? What business have the
Spaniards in Cuba? What business have we in America, for that matter,
which belonged to the Indians? You will save yourself trouble by taking
things as you find them. You’ll be saying next that the Phœnicians
ought to own Marseilles, instead of the French, because they founded
it.”
After two days of skirting the Spanish coast the _North Cape_
sighted the Balearic Isles; and two days more took her into the Gulf of
Lyons, within a few hours of Marseilles. The last half of her journey
in the Mediterranean, however, was not as pleasant as the first; for
a heavy wind from the northwest made the air raw and chilly, even in
that warm climate, and stirred up a heavy sea.
“It is the Mistral,” the Captain explained. “That is the name they give
the cold north wind all along this coast. It comes up very suddenly
once every six or eight weeks, and makes the natives shiver. I am just
as well satisfied to have it now, for it only lasts a day or two, and
we will be pretty sure of fine weather in port.”
As they approached Marseilles, Kit recognized many of the points
from what he had read. There was the semicircle of mountains at the
rear, forming a vast amphitheatre in which the city lay--desolate,
barren-looking mountains of grayish-white rock, with hardly any traces
of vegetation. And there was the church on the summit of a high hill
rising from the valley, with a great gilded statue of the Virgin
Mary on top; he knew that must be Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde, from the
descriptions of it, and imagined that the long straight lines running
up the side of the hill must be the track of the elevators. Then when
they drew nearer he saw the long breakwater, extending a mile or
more along the shore, which makes Marseilles one of the best ports
in Europe. And to the right lay a group of three rocky islands, some
distance apart, one of which he was sure must be the island of the
Castle d’If.
“I suppose we run in behind the breakwater, Captain?” he asked. “I see
there is quite a forest of masts in there.”
“No,” the Captain answered, “we go into the Old Port--the Vieux
Port, as they call it here, _vieux_ being the French word for
_old_. That was the original port, of course, that was the making
of Marseilles; and a very curious place it is; a natural basin running
right up into the heart of the city, with a narrow entrance. However,
you will soon see it all for yourself.”
It was before ten o’clock in the morning that the ship ran between
the two old-fashioned forts, one on each side of the narrow entrance,
and ploughed her way slowly up the Old Port. It did not look to Kit
as if there could possibly be room for another steamer on any of the
three sides, so thickly were the vessels crowded in--big steamers and
little, sailing-ships, tugs, beautiful yachts, fishing-boats, excursion
boats, every sort of craft he could think of. All around, except at the
entrance, were broad streets full of people, lined with tall buildings
of light stone, many of them looking as if they might have stood since
the old Phœnician days. But room was found on the east side for the
_North Cape_, and as soon as she was made fast, both the Captain
and Kit went ashore--the former to attend to his custom-house business,
and Kit to find his agents.
Within ten minutes they were both back at the ship, each with a
disgusted look in his face.
“Well, did you find your agents, Silburn?” the Captain asked. “Just
about as much as I got into the Custom House, I suppose. Every business
place is shut up tight as a drum. This is some saint’s day or other,
and all business is stopped; the only places open are the cafés and
tobacco shops. They don’t care very much for Sundays in these Catholic
countries, except as a time for bull-fights and the opera; but just
give them a saint’s day, and you couldn’t induce one of them to work.
This is a wasted day for us, and I don’t like it.”
“Nor I,” Kit answered; “but I suppose we must put up with it. It
wouldn’t be so bad if we had some work to do on board.”
“No, there is nothing to do,” the Captain growled. It was not hard to
see that he was very much annoyed at the delay. “We might as well go
out and see some of the sights, I suppose. How would you like to go up
to that church on the hill? or would you rather go out to Castle d’If?”
“Why, I should much rather go out to Monte Cristo’s castle, sir,” Kit
answered, wondering that circumstances had made the trip possible on
his very first day in port.
“Then Monte Cristo it is!” the Captain exclaimed. “I’ll be getting
angry at these saintly Frenchmen pretty soon if I don’t do something
to work it off. Then you step ashore, Silburn, and find out how we can
get there. There used to be a little steamboat or two going out, and I
suppose they still run. Just find out what time they start.”
Kit returned in a few minutes with a longer face than before.
“No boats to-day, Captain,” he reported. “They are all afraid of the
rough water outside.”
“Right enough for them,” the Captain answered, “since they are small
excursion boats and made for smooth water. But there’s nothing outside
to-day to hurt a good sea-boat. Step over there to the head of the port
where you see those sail-boats to hire, and see whether you can get a
boatman to take us over.”
Kit was gone longer this time, but once more he returned with bad news.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to give it up, Captain,” he said. “Not one of
the boatmen will venture outside the port. I made them understand by
saying ‘Castle d’If,’ and pointing out; but they only shook their heads
and answered ‘Le Mistral! le Mistral!’”
“Well,” the Captain exclaimed, with an expressive shrug of the
shoulders, “this town is pretty well closed to-day, isn’t it? But I
think I can find a way to get to that island. Lower away the longboat,
Mr. Mason.”