THE UNSUSPECTING TRAVELER.
The steamship Baltic was on the point of sailing from America to Europe.
The usual scenes were visible on the wharf--the rushing on board of
belated freight and baggage--the crush of passengers and their friends
on deck, or down in the cabins, where partings were being drunk in wine;
the crowd of steerage passengers forward, trying to keep out of the way
of the sailors, and at the same time to salute or converse with their
friends on the dock; the rattle and bustle all around; the blow of steam
from the impatient boilers; the sharp, brisk orders of the junior
officers; the rush of carriages with passengers, and the shouting of
draymen anxious to get their loads aboard--all these sights and sounds
were both felt and visible as a bright-looking young man, distinctly
American to all appearances, alighted from a cab and walked up the
steamer's gang-plank, followed by a porter and the driver with trunks
and parcels.
He was indeed a bright-looking youth, such as you will find in New York
oftener than anywhere else, and as he reached the deck his hand was
grasped by several young and enthusiastic friends who had come aboard to
see him off.
This was William Barnwell, a young New Yorker, slightly over twenty-one
years of age, who had recently inherited quite a fortune from a deceased
relative, and he was now on the point of starting on a tour which he
intended should encompass the globe.
He was now alone in the world, so far as relations were concerned,
although he had a large circle of friends to whom he was greatly
attached, as they were to him.
From boyhood up he had always been an enthusiast in almost everything,
but more especially in politics and revolution, as shown in national
struggles, and the pride of his life was the history of the American
Revolution, and the success of the patriots in that cause.
But outside of his being an enthusiast and a lover of liberty, he was
not known, and had never taken any prominent part in any of the social
or political movements of the day, beyond sympathizing with the
struggles of the working men and women of the world in their struggles
to better themselves.
These facts were not only known to his friends, but to many men
belonging to the secret societies of Ireland, Germany, and Russia. That
is to say, they knew him only as a bright young fellow, possessing
brains and pluck, together with enthusiasm, which, if rightly directed,
would make him a valuable member of any secret organization having the
liberty of the people at heart. But beyond this nothing particular was
known of him.
His friends gathered around and wished him a prosperous voyage and a
happy return, and with refreshments and flowers they expressed
themselves as only New Yorkers do on such occasions.
And as he stood there on deck, surrounded by his friends, he looked
indeed like a representative American young gentleman.
He was light-complexioned, nearly six feet in height, and proportioned
like an athlete; bright, smart, and intelligent.
And while the excitement of "sailing-day" was at its height, and young
Barnwell was in the midst of his friends, a strange man approached and
tapped him on the shoulder.
The young man turned to see who it was, but he did not know him.
"Can I speak a word with you?" the stranger asked, with a strong foreign
accent.
"Certainly. Excuse me a moment, my friends. I will join you presently,"
said Barnwell, walking away with the stranger, a little way forward of
the main hatch, out of the crowd.
"You are William Barnwell, I believe?" said the stranger.
"Yes, that is my name," said Will.
"I was sure of it. You are going abroad for pleasure, I understand?"
"Yes."
"You are an American?"
"I am proud to acknowledge it," said Will, drawing himself up to his
full height.
"And let me tell you, young man, I know you thoroughly--know you for a
thorough-bred American gentleman."
"Thank you."
"You would do almost anything in the cause of human liberty?"
"I would."
"I wish I had known you before."
"Why?"
"I might have bound you closer."
"To what?"
"The heart of human liberty."
"What do you mean?"
"I cannot tell you now. But when will you go to St. Petersburg, Russia?"
"Well, I did intend to go there at once, and from there visit the
different capitals."
"And will you go to St. Petersburg?"
"Certainly."
"And will you do me a favor--will you do it in the cause of human
liberty?" asked the stranger, catching hold of his hand.
"I will."
The stranger appeared like a Russian or a Polish Jew, but there was
something about him that seemed to interest Barnwell.
"Can I trust you beyond a doubt?"
"I think you can in ordinary matters. Why do you ask?"
"For very good reasons. And when you know that the lives and liberty of
hundreds of brave men and women depend upon your trust and faith, will
you swear to be true?"
"I will swear, sir," said Barnwell, earnestly, for he was becoming more
strongly interested.
The stranger appeared to hesitate as though not daring to trust the
entire importance of the business to the young man. But he finally
concluded what to do, evidently, and drawing Barnwell still further away
from the throng, he took a large brown envelope from the breast-pocket
of his coat.
"Everybody in St. Petersburg knows Prince Mastowix, and it will be an
easy matter for you to find and approach him, seeing that you have your
passport all right. Will you swear to me to place this envelope in his
hand, allowing no one else to see or handle it?" asked the stranger,
with great earnestness.
"I will swear to do so if you will tell me your name, and assure me that
I shall not be breaking any law of my country by so doing."
"Paul Zobriskie is my name," said he, after hesitating an instant, and
gazing sharply at the brave youth before him.
"I think I have heard the name before, in connection with socialistic
matters," mused Will.
"Very likely; but keep that to yourself, for it will be better for you
not to know me in Russia. As to the other, I assure you that you will
break no law, social, moral, or political, in giving this to Prince
Mastowix."
"Very well. On those conditions I will convey the packet to him," said
he, taking it.
"Good; and the prince will be of great service to you during your stay
in Russia, and perhaps furnish letters which will assist you in many
other capitals."
"Thanks. That is just what I require, as I have no letters of
introduction anywhere beyond my passport, and shall be a stranger
everywhere," said Barnwell, evidently delighted with such a prospect.
"Good speed to you," said Zobriskie, shaking him cordially by the hand.
"Thank you," and they parted, Barnwell thrusting the envelope into his
breast-pocket.
He returned to his waiting friends and apologized for his protracted
absence.
"Do you know that man, Billy?" asked one of his friends.
"Well, not particularly. He wanted me to deliver a letter for him,
that's all."
"Well, keep an eye on yourself."
"What for?"
"That man is an exiled Nihilist, and there may be danger in what you are
doing," said he.
"Oh, I guess not. It is only to deliver a letter to a certain man in St.
Petersburg," replied Barnwell, carelessly.
"Well, in these times, anything that is connected in the remotest way
with the city of the Czar is suspicious. Have an eye to yourself,
Billy," he added again.
"Oh, never fear. I shall at least do that. But come, I have some good
cheer waiting for you in my cabin. Friends, follow me," said he, leading
the way through the crowd to the cabin stairway.
And there they gathered to receive his cheer, and to wish him all the
fortune and good luck that could wait on mortal man.
But while all this was going on there was a pair of small black eyes
fastened upon him, as his own shadow might cling to him--fastened from
the moment Paul Zobriskie drew him aside to converse.
Those eyes belonged to one Tobasco, a Russian detective, stationed in
New York, and he knew his business thoroughly, having been intrusted
with the duty of watching the Nihilists who were fermenting plans
against the empire on this side of the Atlantic.
He had overheard but little that had passed between Paul Zobriskie and
the unsuspicious young American, but while his eyes appeared directed in
some other way, he saw the well-known Russian Nihilist deliver him a
parcel, knowing him to be going to St. Petersburg (for this much he had
overheard), and it at once became his duty to shadow this young man and
ascertain the nature of his mission, even though he did not know it
himself.
So he at once took measures to provide himself with a passage, and going
on shore, he purchased a few necessaries which he had not time to get
from his lodgings, and he wrote a letter to his landlord, informing him
of his unexpected departure, together with instructions regarding his
personal effects.
Only a few moments after his return to the steamer's deck, the cry "All
ashore!" was heard, and young Barnwell came on deck with his companions
to take a final leave of them, as dozens of others were doing with the
groups of friends surrounding them.
It is at such a time as this that the feelings of friendship come out
the strongest.
Those who have taken passage, even on ever so large and staunch a ship,
seem like ants on a piece of driftwood, especially when the number of
shipwrecks is considered, and that among the first-class steamships; and
when friend parts with friend each understands the danger and
uncertainty of ever meeting again, and consequently the partings are
more pathetic, the handshakes more intense, embraces more fervent and
sensational than they would be under other circumstances.
But those embraces were exchanged, those earnest handshakes indulged in,
and everybody not going to Europe was ordered ashore. What partings,
what expectations!
The gang-plank is finally drawn ashore, the last lines loosened from
cleats and spiles, the engineer's bell rings, and the black hull of the
Baltic moves slowly from her pier.
Friends on the dock give cheers to those on board, and they, in return,
wave their handkerchiefs, kiss their hands--aye, from the cabin to the
steerage-passengers, and the forecastle (those not employed), all waft
their good-by greetings to those who are left behind, not knowing
whether they may be the more fortunate or not.
William Barnwell stood on the after-deck waving his hat to the friends
he had just parted with, and in spite of the dangers of the deep, of
which he never thought, wondering how long it would be before they would
meet again.
The secret police agent stood near the main-hatch, and watched him
narrowly.
Darkness was just closing in when the gallant steamer, with her nose
pointed to the southeast, passed the Sandy Hook light, and began to lay
her course towards England.