IN WHICH WE SAIL THE SILVER RIVER AND I SEE A FACE I KNOW
I had covered, perhaps, almost as much open sea when I was blown out of
Bolderhead in the sloop, as now lay between the Scarboro and Cape St.
Antonio. But, as you might say, I had taken that first trip blindly.
This time I had my eyes open and all my wits about me--and I knew that
we had taken a big contract. The Wavecrest was a mere cockle-shell in
which to cross such a waste of open sea as that which lay between us and
the mouth of Rio de la Plata.
But the Wavecrest was a seaworthy craft, and that indeed had been
proved. She had been freshly caulked while she lay on the deck of the
Scarboro, and her seams did not let in enough water to keep her sweet.
She sailed well in either a light or heavy wind and I really had no fear
that we should not make the great seaport of the Argentine Republic all
in good time.
It was bad for poor Ben Gibson, however. The sun was hot and in the
cabin the atmosphere was sometimes stifling. However, the captain had
warned me to keep the fellow as quiet as possible and not to move him if
it could be helped before we reached our destination.
Old Tom sailed the sloop most of the time, and I gave my attention to
the wounded youth. But we tried to keep something like watch and watch.
We only slept by snatches, however, and never a cloud appeared in the
sky as big as a man's hand that we did not watch it cautiously. As for
sail, or steam, we saw neither till we raised the cloudy headland that
marked Cape St. Antonio on the skyline.
It was a pretty tame cruise to write about, for nothing really occurred.
We were only on the watch for some untoward happening; that made it
nerve wracking. But even when we sighted the spur of land which we knew
marked the southern boundary of the de la Plata--the widest mouth of any
river on the globe, for it is not masked by islands at all--we were not
out of danger. The peril of gales still menaced us. We had many miles to
sail yet before we reached Buenos Ayres.
Indeed, we got a stiff blow before sighting Point Piedras; but it
favored us after all, and the Wavecrest ran before it at a spanking
pace. We had sighted plenty of other craft now--both sail and steam. One
great, red-funneled steamship came in behind us, and at first we thought
it was making for Montevideo, which is on the northern side of the
river; but finally old Tom made out the steamer and what she was.
"It's one of the Bayne Line steamers from Boston," he declared. "I know
them red pipes. They touch at Para, Bahia, and other ports. She's bound
for Buenos Ayres now--no doubt of it."
The little squall that had kicked up something of a sea had now passed.
The great steamship overhauled us rapidly. I chanced to be at the helm
and I kept my head over my shoulder a good deal of the time, watching
the approach of the great, rusty-hulled craft. Somehow I felt as though
I had some connection with the boat. A foolish feeling, perhaps; yet I
could not shake it off.
The Wavecrest was bowling along nicely so I could give my attention to
the big ship, which I soon made out to be the Peveril. Old Tom was
right. She was one of the Bayne Line ships, coming from Boston--coming
from home, as you might say! To tell the truth, I was a good bit
home-sick.
I let my mind wander back to Bolderhead. Circumstances had made it
possible for me to leave the Scarboro, and I was now nearing Buenos
Ayres where I had written my mother to cable me money at the American
consul's bureau. I had got enough of whaling. Adventure and travel is
all right; but I had had a taste of it, and found it to be merely an
alias for hard work!
"It's me for home on the first steamship going north," I told myself,
wisely. "I've had adventure enough to last me a while."
I was sailing on the Silver River, as the exploring Spaniards had first
called this noble stream, and there might be a lot of fun and hard work
ahead of me if I remained with old Tom and Ben Gibson until they
rejoined the Scarboro. But I wasn't tied to them. I'd probably have
plenty of money with which to pay my passage home; and just then I
wanted to see my mother, and Ham Mayberry, and lots of other folk in
Bolderhead, more than I wanted to be knocking about in strange quarters
of the world.
I glanced around at the steamship again. She had almost caught up to us,
for although the sloop had a fair wind, the Peveril was sailing three
lengths to our one. On and on she came, the smoke pouring from her
stacks. Her high, rusty side loomed up not more than a cable's length
away. I could see the passengers walking on her upper decks, and the
officers on her bridge. Below, the ports were open, their steel shutters
let down on their chains like drop-shelves.
Some of the crew were looking out idly upon the Wavecrest as the
steamship slipped by. A cook in a white cap came to one port and threw
some slop into the sea. As he emptied the bucket my eyes roved to the
very next port aft. There somebody sat peeling vegetables. I could see
the flash of the knife in the sunlight, and the long paring of potato
peel curling off the knifeblade.
It was an idle glance I had turned upon the vegetable peeler. He was
only a cook's apprentice, or scullion. There was no reason why my gaze
should have fastened upon him with interest. Yet my eyes lingered, and
suddenly the fellow raised his head and his face was turned toward the
open port.
The mental shock I experienced made me inattentive to my helm and the
Wavecrest fell off. Old Tom sang out to know what I was about, and
silently I brought the sloop's nose back again. The steamship had
slipped by us and the wake of her set the little craft to jumping.
My mind was in a fog. I steered mechanically. The face I had seen at the
open port of the Peveril was still before me, as in a vision. I knew I
had not been tricked by any hallucination. I had not even been thinking
of the fellow at the time. And I was sure that the cook's assistant
aboard the Peveril had not seen and recognized me.
But I could not be mistaken in my identification of that face at the
port. It was that of my cousin, Paul Downes--Paul Downes, here on the de
la Plata, thousands of miles from home, and evidently working in the
menial position of cook's helper on the steamship, Peveril! Is it to be
wondered that I was amazed?