Behold, then, the pair of exiled Yankee mariners stanchly enlisted on
the side of King Osmond I of Trinadaro, against the designs of all who
would thwart his gorgeous and impracticable purposes. That his rank and
title were self-assumed and his realm as yet unpeopled impressed these
ingenuous sailormen as neither shadowy nor absurd.
King Osmond I was an elderly gentleman of a singularly guileless
disposition, and the notoriety attending his unique project had
caused him to be surrounded by persons who knew precisely what they
wanted. Of these the vanished minister of finance, Baron Frederick
Martin Strothers, of the brisk demeanor and the red waistcoat, had
been a conspicuous example. It was a rare piece of good fortune for
the amiable monarch that there should have come to his aid two such
hard-headed and honest adventurers as O’Shea and Johnny Kent.
As the result of several interviews they were engaged to select a
steamer and to take charge of her for the voyage to Trinadaro. Their
qualifications were warmly indorsed by the well-known ship-broking firm
of Tavistock & Huntley, of Leadenhall Street. The managing partner,
that solid man with the romantic temperament, took the keenest interest
in every detail of the picturesque enterprise. It would have been a
temptation not easy to resist if King Osmond had offered him the place
of minister of marine, with the bestowal of the insignia of the Grand
Cross of Trinadaro.
The august personage was prodigiously busy. Several secretaries and
stenographers toiled like mad to handle the vast amount of clerical
work and correspondence. The king planned to carry with him a sort of
vanguard of subjects, or colonists, who were to erect buildings, set up
machinery, till the soil, prospect for mineral wealth, and otherwise
lay the foundations of empire. These pioneers were largely recruited
from his own estates and villages in Norfolk, and formed a sturdy
company of British yeomanry.
Captain Michael O’Shea was never one to smother his opinions from
motives of flattery or self-interest, and what information about
Trinadaro he had been able to pick up on his own account was not dyed
in glowing colors.
“I have not seen the island meself, Your Majesty,” said he, “but the
sailing directions set it down as mostly tall rocks with a difficult
landing-place and a dense population of hungry land-crabs as big
as your hat. And if it was any good, would not some one of these
benevolent Powers have gobbled it up long ago?”
King Osmond pleasantly made answer to such objections.
“Several years ago I made a long voyage in a sailing-ship on account of
my health, Captain O’Shea, and we touched at Trinadaro to get turtles
and fresh water. It was then that I conceived the idea of taking
possession of the island as an independent principality. Although it
has a most forbidding aspect from seaward, there is an inland plateau
fit for cultivation and settlement. It contains the ruined stone walls
of an ancient town founded by the early Portuguese navigators. And
it is well to remember,” concluded the monarch of Trinadaro with a
whimsical smile, “that available domains are so scarce that one should
not be too particular. Trinadaro appears to have been overlooked.”
“’Tis a rule that the Christian nations will steal any territory that
is not nailed down,” was the dubious comment of O’Shea. “They must have
a poor opinion of Trinadaro, but, as ye say, ’tis about the only chance
that is left for a king to work at his trade with a brand-new sign over
the door.”
Johnny Kent spent most his time down river among the London docks.
Wherever sea-going steamers were for sale or charter his bulky figure
might have been seen trudging from deck to engine-room.
At length, with the royal approval, O’Shea had the purchase papers made
out for the fine steamer _Tarlington_, which was berthed in a basin
of the East India Docks. She was a modern, well-equipped freighter of
four thousand tons which had been in the Australian trade and could
be fitted for sea at a few days’ notice. The transfer of ownership
was given no needless publicity. George Huntley attended to that. He
had another interview with his friend, the barrister, who hinted at
forthcoming events which gravely threatened the peace and welfare of
Osmond I and the kingdom of Trinadaro.
O’Shea and Johnny Kent discussed this latest information at supper in
the Jolly Mermaid tavern with a platter of fried sole between them.
“’Tis this way,” explained O’Shea. “There is no doubt at all that this
grand king of ours will figure in the lunacy proceedings that we heard
was in the wind. His relatives are getting greedier and more worried
every day. And until the matter is decided one way or another they will
use every means the law allows to head him off from spending the good
money that belongs to him.”
“And how can they stop him from scatterin’ his coin for these wise and
benevolent purposes of his?” demanded the engineer.
“Well, George Huntley says the law will permit them to clap some kind
of a restrainin’ order on the ship and hold her in the dock with the
judges’ officers aboard till the proceedings are over. And they can
serve the same kind of documents on King Osmond to prevent his chasing
himself beyond the jurisdiction of the court.”
“But all this infernal shindy can’t be started unless there’s proof
positive that His Majesty intends to fly the coop, Cap’n Mike.”
“Right you are, Johnny, you old sea-lawyer. They can’t bother the king
until he is actually on board and the ship is cleared, so the barrister
lad tells George.”
“Then they’ll be watchin’ the _Tarlington_ like terriers at a
rat-hole,” exclaimed the engineer.
“No, they won’t,” cried O’Shea with tremendous earnestness. “Do ye mind
how we slipped out of Charleston Harbor in the _Hercules_ steamer,
bound on the filibusterin’ expedition to Honduras? ’Twas a successful
stratagem, and it could be done in London River.”
“Sure it could,” and Johnny Kent chuckled joyously. “And the king
needn’t know anything about it.”
“Of course we will keep it from him if we can,” agreed O’Shea. “I will
do anything short of murder to keep him happy and undisturbed. And
it would upset him terribly to know that he must be smuggled out of
England to dodge the rascals that would keep him at home as a suspected
lunatic.”
“We’d better put George Huntley next to this proposition of ours,”
suggested Johnny. “He itches to be a red-handed conspirator.”
The ship-broker admired the scheme when it was explained to him. Yes,
the old _Tyneshire Glen_ which they had so scornfully declined to
purchase was still at her moorings, and they were welcome to use her
as a dummy, or decoy, or whatever one might choose to call it. O’Shea
could pretend to load her, he could send as many people on board as
he liked, and put a gang of mechanics at work all over the bally old
hooker, said Huntley. If the enemies of King Osmond I took it for
granted that the _Tyneshire Glen_ was the ship selected to carry him
off to Trinadaro, that was their own lookout. It was a regular Yankee
trick, by Jove!
O’Shea and Johnny Kent took great care to avoid being seen in the
vicinity of the _Tarlington_. Such inspection and supervision as were
necessary they contrived to attend to after dark. The king was up to
his ears in urgent business and was easily persuaded to leave the whole
conduct of the ship’s affairs in their capable hands and to waive
preliminary visits to the East India Docks.
O’Shea employed a Scotch engineer, who understood that his wages
depended on his taciturnity, to oversee such repair work as the
_Tarlington_ needed, and to keep steam in the donkey-boilers.
All signs indicated that the _Tarlington_ was preparing for one of her
customary voyages to Australia. Soon the cargo began to stream into her
hatches. The ostensible destinations of the truck-loads of cases and
crates and bales of merchandise were Sydney, Melbourne, Wellington,
Fremantle, and so on. One might read the names of the consignees neatly
stencilled on every package. This was done under the eye of Captain
O’Shea, who, in his time, had loaded hundreds of boxes of rifles and
cartridges innocently labelled “Condensed Milk,” “Prime Virginia Hams,”
and “Farming Tools.”
But the place to find roaring, ostentatious activity was on board the
old _Tyneshire Glen_. This rusty steamer fairly hummed. Captain O’Shea
visited her daily, and Johnny Kent hustled an engine-room crew with
loud and bitter words. It appeared as though the ship must be in a
great hurry to go to sea. While they were stirring up as much pretended
industry as possible, the question of a cargo was not overlooked. It
was shoved on board as fast as the longshoremen in the holds could
handle it. Nor did these brawny toilers know that all these stout
wooden boxes so plainly marked and consigned to Trinadaro “via S.S.
_Tyneshire Glen_” contained only bricks, sand, stones, and scrap-iron.
They were part of the theatrical properties of Captain O’Shea, who
could readily produce a make-believe cargo for a faked voyage in a
steamer which had no intention of leaving port.
The London newspapers showed renewed interest in the schemes and dreams
of King Osmond I of Trinadaro. The _Tyneshire Glen_ was visited by
inquisitive journalists with note-books and cameras. Captain O’Shea
welcomed them right courteously, and gave them information, cigars,
and excellent whiskey. They returned to their several offices to write
breezy columns about the preparations for the singular voyage of the
_Tyneshire Glen_. So severe are the English libel laws that never a
hint was printed of the possible legal obstacles which might bring the
enterprise to naught. For purposes of publication, King Osmond I was as
sane as a trivet unless a judge and jury should officially declare him
otherwise.
Nevertheless, the intimation had reached the newspaper offices that
the relatives of Colonel Sydenham-Leach were likely to take steps to
prevent him from leaving England. And reporters were assigned to watch
the _Tyneshire Glen_ up to the very moment of departure.
Now and then Johnny Kent quietly trundled himself on board the
_Tarlington_, usually after nightfall, and was gratified to find that
progress was running smoothly in all departments. So nearly ready for
sea was the big cargo-boat that the time had come to devise the final
details of the stratagem.
Accordingly, Captain O’Shea went boldly to the custom house, and took
out clearance papers not for the _Tarlington_ to Australia, but for the
_Tyneshire Glen_ to the island of Trinadaro. The chief officer whom he
had selected to sail with him held a master’s certificate and the ship
was cleared in his name.
As for the _Tarlington_, which was really to sail while the _Tyneshire
Glen_ remained peacefully at her moorings in the East India Docks,
O’Shea decided to omit the formality of clearances. As he explained to
Johnny Kent:
“The less attention called to the _Tarlington_ the better. Once at sea
we will hoist the flag of Trinadaro over our ship, and His Majesty’s
government will give her a registry and us our certificates. ’Tis handy
to be an independent sovereign with a merchant marine of his own.”
The services of an employment agency enabled O’Shea to muster
several score bogus colonists or subjects of King Osmond, persons of
respectable appearance who were glad to earn ten shillings apiece by
marching on board the _Tyneshire Glen_ with bags and bundles in their
hands. There could be no room for doubt in the public mind that the
eccentric, grandiose Colonel Sydenham-Leach was on the point of leaving
his native shores with his people and material to found his island
principality.
It seemed advisable to Captain O’Shea to take the _Tarlington_ out
of the docks late in the afternoon, swing into the river, and anchor
until King Osmond should be brought aboard in a tug furnished by George
Huntley. There was much less risk of observation in having the royal
passenger join the ship after nightfall and away from the populous
docks, in addition to which O’Shea preferred to get clear of the
cramping stone basins and gates and hold his ship in the fair-way with
room for a speedy departure in the event of a stern chase.
He artlessly explained that this arrangement would allow the king to
spend several more hours ashore in winding up the final details of his
business. The unsuspecting Osmond I approved these plans and had no
idea that they were part of an elaborate conspiracy to smuggle him out
of England under cover of darkness.
As a crafty device to throw the enemy off the scent, O’Shea conceived
what he viewed as a master-stroke. George Huntley was called into
consultation and promptly sent for a superannuated clerk of his office
staff who had been pensioned after many years of faithful service. He
proved to be a slender, white-haired man who carried himself with a
great deal of dignity, and at the first glimpse of him O’Shea exclaimed
delightedly:
“You couldn’t have done better, George, if you had raked London with a
comb. Put a snowy mustache and chin whisker on him and he will pass for
King Osmond of Trinadaro with no trouble at all.”
“I think we can turn him into a pretty fair counterfeit,” grinned
Huntley. “And when he walks aboard the _Tyneshire Glen_ at dusk and
all those bogus subjects at ten shillings each raise a loyal cheer,
the hoax will be complete. This is the artistic touch to make the job
perfect.”
“And what am I to do after that, Mr. Huntley, if you please?” timidly
inquired the elderly clerk. “If it’s only a practical joke, I don’t
mind----”
“Play the part, Thompson. Acknowledge the homage of the ship’s company
and go below at once. Dodge into a state-room. The ship will probably
be watched by persons keenly interested in your movements. If they poke
a mess of legal documents at you, accept them without argument. The
meddlesome gents will leave you alone after that. They will merely
keep close watch of the ship to make sure that you don’t run away with
her. When you come back to London in the morning, pluck off the false
whiskers, and be handsomely rewarded for your exertions. I’ll see that
you get in no trouble.”
“It is a bit queer, Mr. Huntley, but you were always a great hand for a
lark,” said the clerk. “Thank you, I will do as you say.”
The genuine colonists of King Osmond stole on board the _Tarlington_,
singly, and by twos and threes, some before she pulled out of the
docks, others by boat after she swung into the stream. At the same time
the imitation voyagers from the employment agency were making as much
noise and bustle as possible as they trooped on board the _Tyneshire
Glen_.
Captain O’Shea intended to convey the king from the hotel to the
_Tarlington_, but at the last moment he was detained to quell a ruction
in the forecastle. George Huntley had been unexpectedly summoned to the
Hotel Cecil to see an American millionaire who was in a great hurry
to charter a yacht. O’Shea therefore sent a message to His Majesty
directing him to have his carriage driven to a certain landing on the
river-front of the East India Docks, where he would be met by the chief
officer of the _Tarlington_ and escorted aboard the ship.
Within the same hour, the dignified, elderly clerk by the name of
Thompson might have been seen to enter a carriage close by the Hotel
Carleton, and those standing near heard him tell the driver to go to
the steamer _Tyneshire Glen_.
The chief officer of the _Tarlington_, waiting near an electric light
at the landing-pier, abreast of which the steamer was anchored in the
stream, felt a weight of responsibility for the safe delivery of King
Osmond, and was easier in mind when he saw a carriage halt within a few
yards of him. The window framed the kindly features, the white mustache
and imperial, which the chief officer instantly identified. Hastening
to assist His Majesty from the carriage, he announced apologetically:
“Captain O’Shea sends his compliments and regrets that he is detained
on board. The ship is ready as soon as you are.”
The king murmured a word or two of thanks. The chief officer carefully
assisted him to board the tug, which speedily moved away from the pier
and turned to run alongside the _Tarlington_. The important passenger
mounted the steamer’s gangway and stood upon the shadowy deck, whose
row of lights had been purposely turned off lest his figure might be
discernible from shore.
Captain O’Shea was waiting to get the ship under way. It was no time
for ceremony. The business of the moment was to head for the open sea,
and beyond the reach of the British law and its officers. A few minutes
later, Captain O’Shea hastened aft to greet His Majesty and explain his
failure to welcome him on board. Meeting the chief officer, he halted
to ask:
“Everything all right, Mr. Arbuthnot? Did he ask for me? Did he give
you any orders?”
“All satisfactory, sir. The king said he was very tired and would go to
his rooms at once.”
“I wonder should I disturb him?” said O’Shea to himself, hesitating.
“’Tis not etiquette to break into his rest. Well, I will go back to the
bridge and wait a bit. Maybe he will be sending for me. My place is
with the pilot till the ship has poked her way past Gravesend and is
clear of this muck of up-river shipping.”
The _Tarlington_ found a less crowded reach of the Thames as she passed
below Greenwich and her engines began to shove her along at a rapid
gait. She had almost picked up full speed and was fairly headed for
blue water when the noise of loud and grievous protests arose from the
saloon deck. The commotion was so startling that O’Shea bounded down
from the bridge and was confronted by a smooth-shaven, slender, elderly
man who flourished a false mustache and imperial in his fist as he
indignantly cried:
“I say, this is all wrong as sure as my name is Thompson. I never
bargained with Mr. George Huntley to be kidnapped and taken to sea. I
don’t want to go, I tell you. These people tell me that this steamer is
bound to some island or other thousands of miles from here. I stand on
my rights as an Englishman. I demand that I be taken back to London at
once.”
O’Shea glared stupidly at the irate clerk so long in the employ of
Tavistock & Huntley. For once the resourceful shipmaster was utterly
taken aback. He managed to say in a sort of quavering stage whisper:
“For the love of heaven, what has become of the real king? Who mislaid
him? Where is he now?”
“I don’t know and I’m sure I don’t care,” bitterly returned the
affrighted Thompson. “I was an ass to consent to this make-believe job.”
“But how did you two kings get mixed?” groaned O’Shea. “You’re in the
wrong ship. Have ye not sense enough to fathom that much? You were
supposed to go aboard the _Tyneshire Glen_, ye old blunderer.”
“The man who drove the carriage told me this was the _Tyneshire Glen_.
I had to take his word for it. How was I to know one ship from the
other in the dark? I was told to pretend I was the genuine king, wasn’t
I? So I played the part as well as I could.”
“Ye played it right up to the hilt. My chief officer will vouch for
that,” and O’Shea held his head between his hands. He sent for Johnny
Kent and briefly announced:
“We are shy one king, Johnny. The deal has been switched on us somehow.
Our boss was left behind.”
“Great sufferin’ Cæsar’s ghost, Cap’n Mike!” gasped the other. “Say it
slow. Spell it out. Make signs if you’re choked up so that you can’t
talk plain.”
“The real king went in the discard, Johnny. We’ve fetched the dummy to
sea. The one that came aboard was the other one.”
“Then what in blazes became of our beloved King Osmond the First?”
cried Johnny.
“You can search me. Maybe his affectionate relatives have their hooks
in him by now and have started him on the road to the brain college.”
“It ain’t reasonable for us to keep on our course for Trinadaro without
the boss,” suggested the chief engineer. “This is his ship and cargo.”
This was so self-evident that Captain O’Shea answered never a word,
but gave orders to let go an anchor and hold the ship in the river
until further notice. Then he turned to glower at an excited group of
passengers who had mustered at the foot of the bridge ladder and were
loudly demanding that he come down and talk to them. They were loyal
subjects of the vanished monarch, his secretaries, artisans, foremen,
laborers, who ardently desired an explanation. They became more and
more insistent and threatened to resort to violence unless the steamer
instantly returned to London to find King Osmond.
O’Shea gave them his word that he would not proceed to sea without
the missing sovereign, and during a brief lull in the excitement he
thrust the bewildered Thompson, the masquerader, into the chart-room
and pelted him with questions. The latter was positive that he had
directed the cabman to drive to the _Tyneshire Glen_. And the fellow
was particular to stop and ask his way when just inside the entrance
to the docks. At least, he had halted his cab to talk to some one who
was apparently giving him information. Thompson was unable to overhear
the conversation.
“And did ye get a look at this second party?” sharply queried O’Shea.
“The carriage lamp showed me his face for a moment, and I saw him less
distinctly as he moved away. He was a young man, well dressed, rather
a smart-looking chap, I should say. I think he had on a fancy red
waistcoat.”
“Sandy complected? A brisk walker?” roared O’Shea in tremendous tones.
“I am inclined to say the description fits the young man,” said
Thompson.
“’Twas the crooked minister of finance, Baron Frederick Martin
Strothers, bad luck to him!” and O’Shea looked blood-thirsty. “I will
bet the ship against a cigar that he sold out to the enemy. He stands
in with the king’s wicked relatives and schemin’ lawyers. And we never
fooled him for a minute. ’Tis likely he switched the real king to the
_Tyneshire Glen_, where the poor monarch would have no friends to help
him out of a scrape. Strothers bribed the cabmen--that’s how the trick
was turned. Just how they got next to our plans I can’t fathom at all.”
“Then it is hopeless to try to secure the king and transfer him to this
steamer?” asked Thompson, easier in mind now that he comprehended that
he had not been purposely kidnapped.
“Hopeless? By me sainted grandmother, it is not hopeless at all,” cried
Captain O’Shea as he fled from the chart-room. Johnny Kent had made
another journey from the lower regions to seek enlightenment. O’Shea
thumped him between the shoulders and confidently declaimed:
“We’re done with all this childish play-acting and stratagems. ’Tis not
our kind of game. ’Twas devised to spare the sensitive feeling of King
Osmond, and this wide-awake Strothers has made monkeys of us. Now we’re
going to turn around and steam back to London and grab this genuine
king of ours and take him to sea without any more delay at all.”
“I like your language,” beamingly quoth Johnny Kent. “We’re about due
to have a little violence, Cap’n Mike.”
While the good ship _Tarlington_ swings about and retraces her course
there is time to discover what befell the genuine Osmond I after he
entered a carriage at the Hotel Carleton and set out to join Captain
O’Shea’s steamer.
He was rapidly driven to the East India Docks and the carriage drew up
alongside the _Tyneshire Glen_. The royal occupant had been informed
by Captain O’Shea that the ship would be out of the docks by now and a
tug waiting to transfer him. In the darkness the shadowy outline of one
steamer looked very like another, and King Osmond thought that perhaps
the plan of sailing might have been changed at the last moment.
The cabman strenuously assured him that this was the _Tarlington_, and
he decided that he had better go aboard and look for Captain O’Shea.
If a mistake had been made, it should be an easy matter to find the
landing-pier and the waiting tug.
No sooner had the king reached the deck than he was convinced that he
had been directed to the wrong steamer. The people who stared at him
were utter strangers. There was not a subject of Trinadaro among them,
nor did any of the officers of the ship step forward to greet him. He
was about to accost the nearest spectator when an officious man dressed
in seedy black confronted him, flourished a formidable-appearing
document under the royal nose, and pompously affirmed:
“A writ from the judge duly appointed and authorized by the Lord
Chancellor to take cognizance of such cases, distraining Colonel Osmond
George Sydenham-Leach from attempting to quit the jurisdiction of said
court pending an inquisition _de lunatico inquirendo_. Take it calm and
easy, sir. This won’t interfere with your liberty as long as you obey
the writ.”
Another minion of the law, a fat man with a well-oiled voice, thereupon
formally took possession of the steamer, explaining that because
clearance papers had been issued for a voyage to Trinadaro, the
court held that a departure from England was actually and speedily
contemplated. The presence of Colonel Sydenham-Leach on board in person
was also evidence after the fact.
The blow was staggering, humiliating, incredibly painful. It shook the
amiable gentleman’s presence of mind to the very foundations. To be
interfered with as an alleged madman was enough to bewilder the most
sapient monarch that ever wielded sceptre. As a landed proprietor,
a retired officer of the militia, a Conservative in politics, King
Osmond had profound respect for the law and the constitution of his
native land. He was not one to defy a judicial writ or to grapple with
the situation in a high-handed manner. In other words, he was rather
Colonel Sydenham-Leach in this cruel crisis than the sovereign ruler of
the independent principality of Trinadaro.
No help or comfort was to be obtained from the company around him.
These spurious voyagers from the employment agency were whispering
uneasily among themselves and regarding the unfortunate Osmond with
suspicious glances. They had not bargained to entangle themselves in
the affairs of an alleged lunatic on board of a ship which had been
seized in the name of the law. Ten shillings was not enough for this
sort of thing.
“It don’t look right to me,” said one of them. “The job is on the
queer. I say we hook it before the bloomin’ bobbies come and put the
lot of us in jail.”
This sentiment expressed the general view of the situation, and the
counterfeit subjects of Trinadaro began to flock down the gangway and
scatter in a hunted manner among the gloomy warehouses. Presently
Colonel Sydenham-Leach was left alone with the two court officers.
Recovering somewhat of his composure and dignity, he declared that he
must consult with his legal advisers before consenting to leave the
ship. He clung to the hope that delay might enable Captain O’Shea to
come to his rescue, although he was unwilling to try to send a message
to the _Tarlington_. This might reveal to the officers of the law that
the wrong ship had been detained, and put them on the track of the
right one.
There was no legal reason why the luckless king should not remain in
the _Tyneshire Glen_ until his lawyers could come and confer with him,
wherefore the captors grumblingly sat themselves down in the cabin to
wait. The king had nothing to say to them. He was absorbed in his own
unhappy reflections. His dreams had turned to ashes. His island empire
would know him not. He felt very old and helpless, and sad.
Thus he sat and brooded for some time. At length he heard the sound
of men tramping across the deck above his head. He roused himself to
look in the direction of the door-way. A moment later it framed the
well-knit, active figure of Captain Michael O’Shea. Behind him puffed
stout Johnny Kent.
“’Twas a good guess, Your Majesty,” cried O’Shea. “We thought you might
have gone adrift and fetched up aboard this old steamer. Who are your
two friends?”
“Officers from the bench of one of the judges in lunacy,” reluctantly
admitted King Osmond. “They have served distraining papers on me and
on my ship.”
“On this ship?” exclaimed Johnny Kent. “How ridiculous! What’ll we do
with this pair of bailiffs, or whatever you call ’em, Cap’n Mike? Make
’em eat their documents?”
“No; we will take the two meddlers along with us,” sweetly answered
O’Shea. “We can’t afford to leave them behind to tell how it happened.”
“But they have all the power and authority of the British government
behind them,” spoke up King Osmond.
“And they have a long voyage ahead of them,” said O’Shea. “Your Majesty
can give them jobs in your own judicial department and they will grow
up with the country.”
“I cannot countenance such actions,” began the king, but Johnny Kent
interrupted to remark with much vehemence:
“Excuse us, Your Majesty, but this ain’t no time for arguments about
the British constitution. Cap’n Mike and me agreed to take you and
your ship to Trinadaro. It was a contract, and we propose to earn our
wages. If you won’t come easy and willin’, then we’ll just have to call
a couple of our men from the boat that’s waiting alongside and escort
you, anyhow. We aim to live up to our agreements.”
O’Shea wasted no more words. Suddenly grasping one of the court
officers by the back of the neck and the slack of his garments, he
propelled him rapidly toward the deck, fiercely admonishing him to
make no outcry unless he wished to be tossed overboard.
The other man had started to flee, but Johnny Kent caught him in a few
heavy strides, tucked him under one mighty arm, clapped a hand over his
mouth, and waddled with his burden to the nearest cargo port.
“Drop them into the boat,” commanded O’Shea. “Ahoy, there, below! Catch
these two lads, and let them make no noise.”
The astonished King Osmond had followed the abductors out of the cabin.
Before he could renew the discussion Captain O’Shea, breathing hard,
but calm and smiling, faced him with the courteous invitation:
“After you, Your Majesty. We are at your service. A few minutes in the
boat and you will be aboard the _Tarlington_ and heading for the open
sea.”
It was obviously so futile to protest that the king meekly descended
to the boat, steadied by the helping hand of Johnny Kent. The seamen
shoved off and O’Shea steered for the long black hull of the steamer
visible a few hundred yards down-stream. Unable to voice his confused
emotions, the king suffered himself to be conducted up the gangway of
the _Tarlington_.
His loyal subjects, the real ones, cheered frantically at sight of him.
It was an ovation worthy of his station. He bowed and smiled and was
himself again. Already the recollection of his detention as a madman
seemed less distressing.
He felt the ship tremble under his feet as her engines began to drive
her toward the blessed sea and the long road to wave-washed Trinadaro.
Had it not been for the bold and ready conduct of his two faithful
mariners, he would now be a broken-spirited old man in London, a butt
of public ridicule. He went below to the state-rooms which had been
suitably fitted for his comfort and privacy, and discovered that he was
greatly wearied.
Before retiring he sent one of his secretaries to request Captain
O’Shea and Johnny Kent to give him the pleasure of their company at
breakfast next morning.
“That makes me feel a bit more cheerful,” said O’Shea to himself.
“Maybe he has decided to forgive us. We were guilty of high treason,
disobedience, and a few other things, in packing him off to sea while
he was trying to tell us he couldn’t go at all.”
The _Tarlington_ was in blue water next morning when the captain and
the chief engineer bashfully entered the private dining-room of His
Majesty. The latter greeted them with marked affability, and said:
“I take great pleasure, my dear friends, in conferring on you the
insignia of the Grand Cross of Trinadaro as a recognition of your
invaluable loyalty and assistance. You will be entitled to call
yourselves barons of my realm by royal warrant. While I must confess
that I could not ordinarily approve of such summary methods as you made
use of----”
“It looks different now that old England is dropping astern,” suggested
O’Shea. “The British constitution doesn’t loom as big as it did. Your
own flag is at the mast-head, Your Majesty, and you can make treaties
if ye like. I thank you with all my heart for the reward you have given
me.”
“It pleases me a heap more to be a member of the nobility of Trinadaro
than to earn big wages for the voyage,” warmly assented Johnny Kent.
“I’ll be the only life-size baron in my neck of the woods when I settle
down on that farm in the State o’ Maine, eh, Cap’n Mike?”
Freed of all anxieties and besetments, the royal passenger resumed
his labor of planning the occupations of his subjects. His enthusiasm
was delightful to behold. He seemed to grow younger with every day of
the voyage southward. His was to be a kingdom of peace and good-will,
of a benevolent ruler and a contented, industrious people. He was the
stanchest kind of a royalist, and Trinadaro was to be a constitutional
monarchy with an aristocracy which should be recruited after the
pioneering work had been accomplished.
The relations between the king and his mariners twain became those of
pleasant intimacy. They came to know him much better during the long
weeks at sea, and felt toward him an affectionate, tolerant respect.
The ship had crossed the equator and was ploughing through the long
blue surges of the South Atlantic when Captain O’Shea, after working
out the noon observations, informed the king:
“A couple of days more and we’ll begin to look for a sight of the peaks
of Trinadaro. If the weather holds calm, we can begin to put the people
and the cargo ashore right after that.”
“The peaks of Trinadaro!” fondly echoed Osmond I. “Do you know, Captain
O’Shea, I have wondered if you considered me a crack-brained old fool.
Many men in England think so, I am sure. I know that my relatives do.”
“’Tis my opinion that ye wish to make folks happy and that you will
do no harm with your money,” was the reply. “And there’s few rich men
that can say the same. No; ’tis not crack-brained to want to be a king.
Power is what men desire, and they will trample on others to get it. I
have heard ye talk here on board ship, and I have admired what you had
to say. You will live your own life in your own way, but ye will not
forget to make this island of yours a place for men and women to call
home and to be glad that they have found it.”
“I thank you, Captain O’Shea,” said the other. “I cannot help thinking
now and then of what will be the fate of my principality when
death comes to me. If I am spared for ten or fifteen years longer,
I shall have time to set my affairs in order, to make Trinadaro
self-sustaining, to win the recognition of foreign governments, to
arrange for an administration to succeed my reign.”
“May you live to be a king until you are a hundred!” cried O’Shea. “And
a man who is as happy and contented as you are is pretty sure of a ripe
old age.”
“I hope that you and Mr. Kent will consent to sail under my flag as
long as I live,” earnestly said the king. “I have learned to depend on
you, and I need not tell you that the financial arrangement will be
more favorable than you could make elsewhere.”
“We have no notion of quitting your service,” replied O’Shea, with a
smile. “’Tis up to us to see the kingdom fairly under way before we
turn rovers again.”
It was early in the morning of the second day after this when the
officer on watch roused Captain O’Shea with the news that land had been
sighted on the starboard bow. The master of the _Tarlington_ stared
through his binoculars and saw a black, jagged foreland of rock lifting
from the sea. He sent word to the passengers that Trinadaro lay ahead
of them.
King Osmond had left word that he was to be called whenever the first
glimpse of his island should be revealed. But he came not to the bridge
in response to the message from Captain O’Shea. In his stead appeared
his physician, with a demeanor terribly distressed. His voice was
unsteady as he said:
“It is my sad duty to inform you that His Majesty passed away some time
during the night. His heart simply ceased to beat. It had been somewhat
feeble and irregular of late, but the symptoms were not alarming. His
strength was overtaxed during those last weeks in London.”
O’Shea bared his head and stood silent. The announcement was very hard
to believe. Pulling himself together, he murmured to the chief officer:
“The king is dead. Please set the flag of Trinadaro at half-mast.”
As soon as the word was passed down to the engine-room Johnny Kent
sought the bridge and his eyes filled with tears as he exclaimed:
“It don’t seem right, Cap’n Mike. I ain’t reconciled to it one mite. He
deserved to have what he wanted.”
“Yes, he had slipped his cable, Johnny. There are cruel tricks in this
game of life.”
“What will you do now?”
“I have had no time to think. But one thing is certain. I will carry
King Osmond to his island, and there we will bury him. ’Tis the one
place in all the world where he would want to rest. And the peaks of
Trinadaro will guard him, and the big breakers will sing anthems for
him, and he will be the king there till the Judgment Day.”
The _Tarlington_ slowly approached the precipitous coast-line and
changed her course to pass around to the lee of the island. As the
deeply indented shore opened to view, and one bold headland after
another slid by, a comparatively sheltered anchorage was disclosed.
There, to the amazement of Captain O’Shea, rode two small cruisers. One
of them flew the red ensign of England, the other the green and yellow
colors of the navy of Brazil. He guessed their errand before a British
lieutenant came alongside the _Tarlington_ in a steam-launch and
climbed the gangway which had been dropped to receive him.
Gazing curiously at the silent company and the half-masted flag of
Trinadaro, he was conducted into the saloon, where Captain O’Shea
waited for him to state his business.
“This steamer belongs to Colonel Sydenham-Leach, I presume,” said the
visitor. “I should like to see him, if you please. Sorry, but I have
unpleasant news for him.”
“If it is King Osmond of Trinadaro ye mean, he is dead, God rest his
soul! He went out last night.”
“You don’t say! Please express my sympathy to the ship’s company,”
exclaimed the lieutenant. “How extraordinary! We received orders by
cable at Rio to proceed to Trinadaro in time to intercept this vessel
of yours.”
“And what were the orders, and why is that Brazilian man-of-war
anchored alongside of you?” asked O’Shea.
“It is all about the ownership of the island,” the lieutenant
explained. “Nobody wanted it for centuries, and now everybody seems
keen on getting hold of it. The English government suddenly decided,
after you sailed from London, that it might need Trinadaro as a
landing-base for a new cable between South America and Africa, and
sent us to hoist the flag over the place. Brazil heard of the affair
and sent a ship to set up a claim on the basis of an early discovery.
The Portuguese have presented their evidence, I believe, because their
people made some kind of a settlement at Trinadaro once upon a time.”
“And the forsaken island was totally forgotten until poor King Osmond
got himself and his project into the newspapers,” slowly commented
O’Shea.
“That is the truth of the matter, I fancy.” The naval lieutenant
paused, and commiseration was strongly reflected in his manly face.
“Tell me,” said he, “what was the opinion at home about this King of
Trinadaro? He was a bit mad, I take it.”
“No more than you or me,” answered O’Shea. “He had a beautiful dream,
and it made him very happy, but it was not his fate to see it come
true. And no doubt it is better that he did not live to know that the
scheme was ruined. His island has been taken away from him. It will be
wrangled over by England and Brazil and the rest of them, and there
is no room for a king that hoped to enjoy himself in his own way. The
world has no place for a man like Colonel Osmond George Sydenham-Leach,
my dear sir.”
“Too bad!” sighed the lieutenant. “And what are your plans, Captain
O’Shea? Do you intend to make any formal claim in behalf of the late
king?”
“No. His dreams died with him. There is no heir to the throne. I’m
thankful that his finish was so bright and hopeful. There will be
funeral services and a burial to-morrow. I should take it as a great
favor if detachments from the British cruiser and the Brazilian
war-vessel could be present.”
“I will attend to it,” said the lieutenant.
When the coffin of King Osmond I was carried ashore it was draped
with the flag of Trinadaro, which he himself had designed. Launches
from the two cruisers towed sailing-cutters filled with bluejackets,
who splashed through the surf and formed in column led by the bugles
and the muffled drums. The parade wound along the narrow valleys and
climbed to the plateau on which the ruler had planned to build his
capital.
There the first and last King of Trinadaro was laid to rest, and the
guns of the cruisers thundered a requiem. The British lieutenant
counted the guns and turned to Captain O’Shea to say:
“It is the salute given only to royalty, according to the navy
regulations. It is the least we can do for him.”
“And it is handsomely done,” muttered the grateful O’Shea as he brushed
his hand across his eyes.
“Will you take your ship back to England?”
“Yes. I can do nothing else. ’Twill be a sad voyage, but God knows
best. As it all turned out, this king of ours had to die to win his
kingdom.”
When the mourners had returned to the _Tarlington_, Captain O’Shea and
Johnny Kent went into the chart-room and talked together for some time.
At length the simple-hearted chief engineer said with a wistful smile:
“I’m glad we stood by and did what we could for him, ain’t you, Cap’n
Mike?”
“You bet I am, Johnny. He was a good man, and I loved him. Here’s to
His Majesty, King Osmond of Trinadaro! Even the pair of court officers
we kidnapped had come to be fond of him and wished him no harm. There
may be trouble waiting for us in London River on account of them and
the ship that took out no clearances. But we will face the music. ’Tis
not much to do for him that was so good to us.”
“Right you are, Cap’n Mike; but do you suppose we’ll go to jail?”
“No; for the blame will be laid to poor King Osmond, and the law will
hold him responsible for the acts of his agents. But we would not mind
going to jail for him.”
“Well, anyhow, they can never take his kingdom away from him,” softly
quoth Johnny Kent.