Part 2

‘You think it play, do you?’ Salvarini asked almost scornfully. ‘You will find it stern reality some day. Your hour may not come yet, it may not come for years; but if you are ordered to cut off your right hand, you will have to obey.’

‘Oh, indeed. Thanks, most earnest youth, for your estimation of my talent for obedience.—Come, Luigi! do not be so Cassandra-like. If the worst comes to the worst, I can pitch this thing into the Tiber.’ He took a gold coin from his pocket as he spoke, making a gesture as if to throw it through the open lattice.

Salvarini stood up, terror written in every line of his face, as he arrested the outstretched arm. ‘For heaven’s sake, Maxwell, what are you thinking of? Are you mad, or drunk, that you can dream of such a thing?’

Maxwell laughed as he restored the coin to his pocket. ‘All right, old fellow. I suppose I must honour your scruples; though, mind you, I do not consider myself bound to do anything foolish even for the League.’

‘You may not think so; indeed, I hope not; but time will tell.’

Maxwell laughed again, and whistled carelessly, thinking no more of the little episode. The League, the coin, everything was forgotten; but the time did come when he in his hour of need remembered Luigi’s words, and vividly realised the meaning of the look on his stern earnest face.

Visci looked on at the incident, totally unmoved, save by a desire to lead the conversation into more pleasant channels. ‘When do you leave, Maxwell?’ he asked. ‘I suppose you are not going for a few days?’

‘In about a week probably, not sooner. I did not know I had so many friends in Rome, till I was going to leave them.’

‘You will not forget your visit to my little place? Genevieve will never forgive me if I let you go without saying good-bye.’

‘Forget little Genevieve!’ Maxwell cried. ‘No, indeed. Whatever my engagements may be, I shall find time to see her; though, I daresay, the day will come when she will forget me easily enough.’

‘I am not so sure of that; she is a warm-hearted child. I tell you what we will do; and perhaps Sir Geoffrey and his daughter will join us. We will go down the day after to-morrow, and make a day of it.—Of course you will be one, Luigi?’

It was growing dark now, too dark to see the rich flush that mounted to the young Italian’s cheek. He hesitated a moment before he spoke. ‘With pleasure, Carlo. A day at your little paradise is not to be lightly refused. I will come gladly.’

‘You make a slight mistake, Visci, when you speak of Genevieve as a child,’ Maxwell observed reflectively. ‘She is seventeen—a woman, according to your Italian reckoning. At anyrate, she is old enough to know the little blind god, or I am much mistaken.’

‘I hope not,’ Visci returned gravely. ‘She is quick and passionate, and somewhat old for her years, by reason of the seclusion she keeps. But let the man beware who lightly wins her heart; it would go hard with him if I crossed his path again!’

‘There are serpents in every paradise,’ Maxwell replied sententiously; ‘and let us hope little Gen. is free from the curiosity of her original ancestress. But child or not, she has a woman’s heart worth the winning, in which assertion our silent friend here will bear me out.’

Luigi Salvarini started from his reverie. ‘You are right, Maxwell,’ he said. ‘Many a man would be proud to wear her gage upon his arm. Even I—— But why ask me? If I was even so disposed to rest under my own fig-tree, there are ties which preclude such a blissful thought.’

Maxwell whistled softly, and muttered something about a man drawing a bow at a venture—the words audible to Salvarini alone.

‘I am tied, as I told you,’ he continued coldly. ‘I do not know why you have drawn me into the discussion at all. I have sterner work before me than dallying by a woman’s side looking into her eyes’——

‘And not anything like so pleasant, I dare swear,’ Maxwell interrupted cheerfully. ‘Come, Luigi; do not be so moody. If I have said anything in my foolish way to offend you, I am heartily sorry.’

‘I am to blame, Maxwell, not you. You wonder why I am so taken up with this League; if you will listen, I will tell you. The story is old now; but I will tell you as best I can remember.’

‘Then, perhaps you will wait till I have found a seat and lighted my cigarette,’ exclaimed a voice from the background at this moment. ‘If Salvarini is going to oblige, I cut in as a listener.’

At these words, uttered in a thin, slightly sneering voice, the trio turned round suddenly. Had it been lighter, they would have seen a trim, well-built figure, with head well set on square shoulders, and a perfectly cut, deadly pale face, lighted with piercing black eyes, and adorned by a well-waxed, pointed moustache. From his accents, there must have been something like a sneer upon his lips. But whatever he might have been, he seemed to be welcome enough now as he drew a chair to the open window.

‘Better late than never,’ Maxwell cried. ‘Help yourself to wine, Le Gautier; and make all due apologies for not turning up to dinner.’

‘I will do so,’ the new-comer said languidly. ‘I was detained out of town.—No; you need not ask if a pair of bright eyes were the lodestars to my ardent soul, for I shall not tell you; and in the second place, I have been obtaining your permit as a Brother of the League. I offered up myself on the shrine of friendship; I lost my dinner, _voilà tout_;’ and saying these words, he put a narrow slip of parchment in Maxwell’s hands.

‘I suppose I had better take care of this?’ the Englishman answered carelessly. ‘I got so exasperated with Salvarini, that I came near pitching the sacred moidore out of the window. I presume, it would not be wise?’

‘Not if you have any respect for a sound body,’ Le Gautier returned dryly. ‘I gather that Luigi has been talking largely about the sacredness of the mission. Well, he is young yet, and the gilt of his enthusiasm does not yet show the nickel beneath, which reminds me. Did my ears deceive me, or were we going to hear a story?’

‘It is no story,’ the Italian replied, ‘merely a little family record, to show you how even patriots are not exempt from tyranny.—You remember my brother, Visci? and his wife. He settled down, after fighting years for his country, not many miles from here. Living with him was his wife’s father, an aged man, universally beloved—a being who had not a single enemy in the world. Well, time went on, till one day, without the slightest warning, the old fellow was arrested for compliance in some so-called plot. My brother’s wife clung round her father’s neck; and there, in my brother’s sight, he saw his wife stricken brutally down by the ruffianly soldiers—dead; dead, mind—her only crime that little act of affection—killed by order of the officer in charge. But revenge followed. Paulo shot three of the scoundrels dead, and left the officer, as he thought, dying. Since then, I have never heard of Paulo.—And now, do you wonder why I am a Socialist, with my hand against all authority and order, when it is backed up by such cowardly, unprovoked oppression as this?’

For a time the listeners remained silent, watching the twinkling stars as they peeped out one by one, nothing to be seen now of each but the glowing tip of his cigarette as the blue smoke drifted from the casement.

‘You do not think that your brother and Paulo Lucci, the celebrated brigand we hear so much of, are the same men?’ Visci asked at length. ‘People have said so, you understand.’

‘I have heard such a tale,’ Salvarini replied sardonically. ‘The affair created quite a stir in the province at the time; but the peasants do me too much homage in connecting my name with so famous a character. Our Italian imagination does not rest at trifles.’

‘Pleasant for the officer who ordered them to strike down your brother’s wife,’ Le Gautier drawled, as he emitted a delicate curl of smoke from his nostrils. ‘Did you ever hear the name of the fellow?’

‘Curiously enough, his name is the same as yours, though I cannot be sure, as it is five years ago now. He was a Frenchman, likewise.’

‘Moral—let all Le Gautiers keep out of Paulo Lucci’s way,’ Maxwell exclaimed, rising to his feet. ‘We do not pay you the compliment of believing you are the same man; but these brigands are apt to strike first and inquire after. Of course, this is always presuming Salvarini’s brother and Paulo Lucci are one.—I am going as far as the Villa Salvarino. Who says ay to that proposal?—The ayes have it.’

They rose to their feet with one accord, and after changing their coats for something more respectable, trooped down the stairs.

‘You will not forget about Friday?’ Visci reminded. ‘I shall ask Sir Geoffrey and his daughter to come. We are going down to my little place on that day.—Will you make one, Le Gautier?’

‘A thousand thanks, my dear Visci,’ the Frenchman exclaimed; ‘but much as I should like it, the thing is impossible. I am literally overwhelmed in the most important work.’

A general laugh followed this solemn assertion.

‘I am sorry,’ Visci returned politely. ‘You have never been there. I do not think you have ever seen my sister?’

‘Never,’ Le Gautier replied with an inexplicable smile. ‘It is a pleasure to come.’

AN ATLANTIC VOYAGE—AS IT WAS AND AS IT IS.

When Samuel Johnson said, ‘A ship is a prison with a chance of being drowned,’ he in that aphorism gave expression to the opinion generally entertained by landsmen in his day. In fact, the discomforts, and even privations, which sea-travelling then involved were such that very few persons were willing to expose themselves to them, save when compelled by imperative circumstances to do so.

When I crossed the Atlantic in 1841, for the first time, the condition of things had, in the three-quarters of a century which had elapsed since Johnson’s time, measurably improved; but the _désagrémens_ to which passengers were even then subjected were numerous. No regular steam communication between Great Britain and the United States was in existence. The _Sirius_ and the _Great Western_ had indeed crossed the ocean in 1838, and the latter vessel had continued her trips at irregular intervals. But for some little time subsequently, no other steamer attempted to follow her example, the Cunard line not having been established until 1842.

At the period of which I speak, the sailing packets which ran between London and New York, and between Liverpool and that port, were ships of five to six hundred tons burden. The staterooms—as the little cabins ranged on either side of the saloon were termed—were below the sea-level. They were incommodious, dark, and ill ventilated. In fact, the only light they enjoyed was that furnished by small pieces of ground glass inserted in the deck overhead, and from the fan-lights in the doors opening to the saloon, and this was so poor, that the occupants of the staterooms could not even dress themselves without making use of a lamp. The sole ventilation of them was that afforded by the removal of the saloon skylights, which, of course, could only be done in fine weather. The consequence was that the closeness of the atmosphere in the staterooms was at all times most unpleasant; whilst the smell of the bilge-water was so offensive as to create nausea, independent of that arising from the motion of the vessel. In winter, on the other hand, the cold was frequently severe. There was, it is true, a stove in the saloon, but the heat from it scarcely made itself appreciably felt in the side-cabins.

In other matters there was the same absence of provision for the comfort of the passengers. The fresh water required for drinking and cooking purposes was carried in casks; and when the ship had a full cargo, many of these were placed on deck, with the result that their contents were sometimes impregnated with salt water from the waves shipped in heavy weather. At all times, the water was most unpalatable, it being muddy, and filled with various impurities from the old worm-eaten barrels in which it was kept. Not only was the water bad, but the supply occasionally proved inadequate; and when the voyage was an unusually long one, the necessity would arise of placing the passengers upon short allowance.

There was always a cow on board; but there was no other milk to be had than what she supplied, no way of preserving it having then been discovered. Canned fruit and vegetables were equally unknown. There was commonly a fair provision of mutton and pork, live sheep and pigs being carried; but of other fresh meat and of fish, the stock was generally exhausted by the time the vessel had been a few days at sea, refrigerators at that period not having been invented.

But the arrangements on board these ships were defective in much more important matters than in not providing a good table for the passengers. The boats—even when they were seaworthy, which frequently was not the case—were so few in number that, in the event of shipwreck, there was no possibility of their holding more than a third of the souls on board. The longboat, indeed, was practically useless in an emergency, as it was almost invariably filled up with sheds for the accommodation for the cow, sheep, and pigs; and it would have been several hours’ work to clear the boat and launch her.

The law did not then render it compulsory for every vessel crossing the Atlantic to carry a surgeon, and the owners of the various lines of American packets would not incur the expense of providing one. The consequence was that, if an accident occurred or there was serious illness on board, no medical assistance was available. When I was returning to Europe in the _Mediator_ in 1842, a sailor fell from one of the yards, badly fracturing his right leg. The commander of the vessel was a Yankee—that is, a native of one of the New England States—and he had the ingenuity and readiness of resource which are characteristic of the people of that section of the Union. He so admirably set the injured limb with splints, that, when the ship arrived at London and the man was taken to Bartholomew Hospital, the officials of that institution highly complimented Captain Morgan upon the workmanlike manner in which he had performed the operation. The fact, however, remains, that but for the purely fortuitous circumstance of the commander of the vessel having been able to deal with the case, the result of there being no surgeon on board must have been that the injured man would either have died, or been a cripple for life.

If the cabin passengers had good cause to complain that neither their safety nor their comfort was sufficiently studied, the condition of the steerage passengers was infinitely worse. Men, women, and children were huddled like sheep in the quarters assigned them, no separation of the sexes being attempted. The berths, which ran on either side of the vessel, were not inclosed, and were without curtains. The women were compelled to dress and undress before the eyes of the male passengers, and exposed to their coarse remarks and scurrilous jests. Indeed, the moral downfall of many a poor girl was to be attributed to her feelings of decency and modesty having been blunted by her painful experiences during the voyage.

The steerage passengers were required to both supply and cook their own provisions. There was commonly a fierce struggle for a place at the galley fire, in which the sick and feeble necessarily went to the wall; and sometimes several days would pass without any warm food being obtained by those who were most in need of it. Again, when there was a storm, or even when the ship experienced heavy weather, the hatches were closed, rendering the atmosphere of the steerage almost stifling. In fact, the condition and treatment of this class of passengers were simply abominable, and such as to reflect deep discredit upon the government for allowing so many years to elapse ere any attempt was made to deal with the evil.

Now, all is changed. The steamers which at the present day cross the Atlantic are vessels ranging from four to seven thousand tons burden; and the arrangements on board of them are excellent in all respects. Besides the lifeboats—which are numerous, large, and built on the most approved models—there are rafts which, in case of necessity, can be got ready and launched in a few minutes. In the event, too, of a fire breaking out in any part of the ship, the appliances for extinguishing it are of the most thorough character. In fact, the provision made for the safety of the passengers would be all that could be desired if every ship carried a sufficient number of boats to accommodate, in case of disaster, _every_ passenger, even when her complement was full. Note the late disaster to the _Oregon_.

The comfort of the travelling public is now carefully studied. The cabins for the first-class passengers are placed amidships, where the motion of the vessel is least felt, instead of, as formerly, at the stern. The staterooms are commodious, handsomely furnished, thoroughly ventilated, and heated by steam. The saloon, which is spacious and well lighted, contains a piano, a small library, bagatelle tables, chess, &c., for the use of the passengers. There are also smoking and reading rooms and bathrooms, supplied with hot as well as cold water. The table is so luxuriantly spread that there is scarcely a delicacy which can be obtained in the best hotels in London, found lacking on board these steamers. The supply of fresh water—furnished by condensers—is practically unlimited; whilst that which is required for drinking purposes is in summer cooled with ice, of which a large stock is provided. A surgeon is invariably carried, the law rendering it obligatory to do so; and his services are at the disposal of any of the passengers who needs them without the payment of any fee.

Nor have the steerage passengers failed to participate in the altered condition of things. Instead of their being crowded together in the badly ventilated and unhealthy quarters assigned to them, as was formerly the case, it is now compulsory for a fixed cubic space to be allotted to each individual. Not only, too, are the berths inclosed—which is greatly conducive to the preservation of decency—but the single women occupy a separate compartment, in the charge of a matron. But one of the greatest improvements which has taken place in the condition of occupants of the steerage has been effected by the Act, passed a few years ago, requiring cooked provisions being found by the owners of the ship; and although the passage-money is necessarily higher than it was under the old system, this drawback is more than compensated by the comfort which results from the present arrangement.

In conclusion, I may say that, indulging in a retrospect upon my experiences for the last forty years—during which period I have crossed the Atlantic ten times—I have been forcibly struck by the contrast the peril, tedium, and inconveniences then attendant upon an Atlantic voyage afford to the safety, rapidity, and comfort with which it is now accomplished.

IN ALL SHADES.

CHAPTER XLIV.

Next morning, Tom Dupuy, Esquire, of Pimento Valley, Westmoreland, Trinidad, mounted his celebrated chestnut pony Sambo Gal at his own door, unchained his famous Cuban bloodhound Slot from his big kennel, and rode up, with cousinly and lover-like anxiety, to Orange Grove, to inquire after Nora’s and her father’s safety. Nora was up by the time he reached the house, pale and tired, and with a frightful headache; but she went to meet him at the front door, and dropped him a very low old-fashioned obeisance.

‘Good-morning, Tom Dupuy!’ she said coldly. ‘So you’ve come at last to look us up, have you? It’s very good of you, I’m sure, very good of you. They tell me you didn’t come last night, when half the gentlemen from all the country round rode up in hot haste with guns and pistols to take care of papa and me. But it’s very good of you, to be sure, now the danger’s well over, to come round in such a friendly fashion and drop us a card of kind inquiries.’

Even Tom Dupuy, born boor and fool as he was, flushed up crimson at that galling taunt from a woman’s lips, ‘Now that the danger’s well over.’ To do him justice, Tom Dupuy was indeed no coward; that was the one solitary vice of which no fighting Dupuy that ever lived could with justice be suspected for a moment. He would have faced and fought a thousand black rioters single-handed, like a thousand fiends, himself, in defence of his beloved vacuum pans and dearly cherished saccharometers and boiling-houses. His devotion to molasses would no doubt have been proof against the very utmost terrors of death itself. But the truth is that exact devotion in question was the real cause of his apparent remissness on the previous evening. All night long, Tom Dupuy had been busy rousing and arming his immediate house-servants, despatching messengers to Port-of-Spain for the aid of the constabulary, and preparing to defend the cut canes with the very last drop of his blood and the very last breath in his stolid body. At the first sight of the conflagration at Orange Grove, he guessed at once that ‘the niggers had risen;’ and he proceeded without a moment’s delay to fortify roughly Pimento Valley against the chance of a similar attack. Now that he came to look back calmly upon his heroic exertions, however, it did begin to strike him somewhat forcibly that he had perhaps shown himself slightly wanting in the affection of a cousin and the ardour of a lover. He bit his lip awkwardly for a second, with a sheepish look; then he glanced up suddenly and said with clumsy self-vindication: ‘It isn’t always those that deserve the best of you that get the best praise or thanks, in this world of ours, I fancy, Nora!’

‘I fail to understand you,’ Nora answered with quiet dignity.

‘Why, just you look here, Nora: it’s somehow like this, I tell you plainly. Here was I last night down at Pimento. I saw by the blaze that these nigger fellows must have broken loose, and must be burning down the Orange Grove cane-houses; so there I stopped all night long, working away as hard as I could work—no nigger could have worked harder—trying to protect your father’s canes and the vacuum pans from these murdering, howling rebels. And now, when I come round here this morning to tell you, after having made sure the whole year’s crop at old Pimento, one of your fine English flouts is all the thanks I get from you, miss, for my night’s labour.’