Chapter 3

WE MEET SOME QUEER PEOPLE

A servant in private livery admitted us to a spacious drawing-room and Señor de Jiminez, arrayed in a regulation dress suit, in which he appeared far more imposing than in the flashy attire he had before worn, advanced quickly to greet us. At a center table sat an aged, pleasant faced lady and crouching in a chair by the fireplace was a youth of about my own age, who bore so strong a facial resemblance to De Jiminez that it needed no shrewdness to guess he was his son.

Our host led us first to the lady.

“Young gentlemen,” said he, as with profound deference he bowed before her, “I have the honor to present my mother, Señora de Jiminez.”

She smiled graciously and extended her hands to us.

“It is unfortune,” he added, “that she is not with your English language familiar.”

“Oh, but I speak Spanish—a little,” said I; for I had learned it during a sojourn in Panama. Then I told the lady I was glad to meet her, speaking in her own tongue, and she bade me welcome.

De Jiminez seemed pleased. He next led me to the young fellow by the fire, who had not risen nor even glanced toward us, but seemed tremendously interested in his own thoughts. These could not have been very pleasant, judging from the somber expression of his face.

“My son Alfonso,” said our host, introducing us. “Alfonso, I present Mr. Steele and Mr. Herring, two young American gentlemen I have recently met.”

The boy looked up quickly.

“Not of the Seagull!” he exclaimed in English.

“Yes.”

“Then—” he began eagerly; but his father stopped him with a gesture.

“I am making consideration of a proposition they have made to me,” he observed with dignity.

“Perhaps, Alfonso, we may sail back to Colombia in the Seagull.”

The boy’s eyes glistened. They were dark and restless eyes, very like those of his parent. He rose from his chair and shook hands with us with an appearance of cordiality. We now saw he was remarkably short of stature. Although he was sixteen the crown of his head scarcely reached to my shoulder. But he assumed the airs and dress of a man and I noticed he possessed his father’s inordinate love for jewelry.

“Would you prefer in the hotel restaurant to dine, or in our private salon?” inquired the elder De Jiminez.

“It is unimportant to us, sir,” I returned. “Do not alter your usual custom on our account, I beg of you.”

“Then,” said he, “I will order service in the salon.” He seemed relieved and went to consult his servant.

Meantime young Alfonso looked at us curiously.

“You do not own the Seagull, I suppose,” he remarked.

“Why not?” I asked with a smile.

“It’s a fine ship. I’ve been over to look at it this afternoon—”

“Oh; you have!”

“Yes. They would not let me go aboard, but I saw all I wished to. It is swift and trim—what is called ‘yacht built.’ It can sail or go by steam. Your crew looks like a good one.”

“That is all true, sir,” I agreed, amused at his observations.

“And you young fellows own it?”

“I don’t,” said Joe. “I’m second mate, that’s all. But Mr. Steele here is one-third owner, with his father and uncle owning the other two-thirds.”

Alfonso looked at me intently.

“Have you sold it to my father?” he asked in a low voice.

“Not yet,” said I, laughing. “But, as Señor de Jiminez told you, we are considering the matter.”

“You know why we want it?”

“‘We’?” I repeated. “Are you also a conspirator—pardon me, a patriot—then?”

“I am a De Jiminez,” he returned proudly. “After my father I am entitled to rule over Colombia.”

“To rule? That savors of monarchy. I thought Colombia is a republic.”

“You are quite right. It is a republic—as Mexico is; as Venezuela and Costa Rica are. But the president has great power. Is not Diaz equal to a king?”

“I am not very well posted on South American or Mexican politics,” I replied evasively. “But from what your father said I imagine there is already a president in Colombia.”

He gave a frown at this, amusingly like his father’s frown. Then his face cleared and he said:

“Permit me to explain. The family of De Jiminez has controlled Colombian politics ever since my great ancestor discovered the country and called it New Grenada. But a few years ago, while my father was traveling in Europe, the opposition obtained control and still has the presidency. The important and wealthy class, however, resented the usurpation, and even before my father alarmed at the situation hurried back home, a revolution had begun. I say a revolution, because the opposition had firmly established themselves. We are really attempting a restoration of the rightful party to its former power.”

“In our own republic,” I said thoughtfully, “the votes of the majority rule. Why do you not resort to the ballot instead of to arms?”

“I have visited your country,” he said. “The conditions there are different. In Colombia we have a small class of wealthy and influential people and a horde of vulgar laborers who are little more than slaves. They have small intelligence, no education, and work for a bare living. My father tried to establish a school system that would enable them to rise above such conditions. They would not send their children to the schools. Then he tried to force them by law—compulsory education you know, copied from your own and other countries—but they rebelled at this and the opposition made capital out of their resentment. The result was the overthrow of the De Jiminez party as I have stated.”

This seemed to put a new aspect on the revolution. I began to approve the action of the De Jiminez party and to sympathize with their “cause.”

“Has your father many followers in Colombia?” I asked.

“The intelligent class is of course with him; small in numbers but controlling the wealth of the country. We ourselves are coffee planters and bankers, and we employ several hundred laborers who will do whatever we may direct—and do it willingly. Many of the families in sympathy with us can also control their servants; but we have found great difficulty in securing arms and ammunition for them. We have organized and drilled several regiments—I have drilled our own men myself—but they cannot fight without weapons. That is why we are so eager to ship our cargo of arms to Colombia.”

The elder De Jiminez had returned in time to hear the conclusion of this speech, and he nodded approval. It seemed to me that the little fellow really talked remarkably well. He spoke better English than his father and expressed himself in well chosen language. It at once occurred to me why Joe and I had been invited here. The young De Jiminez was a rabid partisan of “the Cause” and his clever father imagined that an enthusiastic boy would be more apt to impress boys of his own age than his senior might impress men. The thought put me somewhat on my guard and made me inquire into things more carefully.

“Australia seems a queer place to obtain a cargo of arms,” I remarked. “There are no factories here I believe.”

“No,” said our host, “the arms I purchased came from England consigned to a local firm. We could not purchase direct for it would result in international complications; but we have many friends here in Australia. It is a favorite resort for exiles from my country, and that is why I arranged the purchase here. But come; dinner is served and I hope you have good appetites.”

He gave his arm to his old mother, who was remarkably active for her years, and led the way to a connecting room where the dinner was served. It was a fine spread, and Joe and I did full justice to the many courses.

Afterward we returned to the drawing-room, where the old lady read a Spanish periodical while we chatted in English concerning Colombian affairs and the revolution.

I learned that the De Jiminez family was considered among the wealthiest of the republic. Our host conducted an important banking business in Bogota and had extensive coffee plantations in the foothills. He was not directly known as the leader of the revolutionists, but would be chosen the new president by the insurgents if they succeeded in overturning the present government. Yet De Jiminez was scarcely safe in his own country just at present and intended to land in a secret cove on the coast and transport his cargo of arms inland to one of the rendezvous of the revolutionists.

Young Alfonso was as ardent a partisan as his father. He was tremendously ambitious and it seemed his father encouraged this, telling his son many times that the future of his country would some day be dependent upon the boy’s ability and courage and that he must uphold the honorable name of De Jiminez.

Their assumed importance was of course amusing to me, who looked upon their seven by nine country with tolerant disdain; but to them Colombia and the revolution were the most tremendous things in the world. And, after all they were simple, kindly people, honestly inclined and desirous of improving the conditions in their native land if this “tempest in a teapot” resulted in their favor. I had already decided that we would be justified in concluding the deal with Señor de Jiminez when a diversion was created by the arrival of visitors.

The servant ushered two ladies into the room. One was a beautiful woman of middle age and the other a tall, slim girl who was evidently her daughter. Both were exquisitely dressed and impressed me as persons of importance even before I noticed the extreme courtesy with which our host greeted them.

Introductions followed. The elder lady was Señora de Alcantara of Bogota, and the younger her daughter Lucia. At once Madam inquired in an eager tone:

“Well, De Jiminez, have you succeeded in getting a ship?”

“I think so,” he replied, glancing at me a bit doubtfully. “The only thing still to be settled is the matter of terms. I have not much money left to satisfy the owners, who have no confidence in their being able to collect when we arrive at Colombia. But I hope it can yet be arranged in a satisfactory manner.”

“I also hope so,” she returned, “for I am anxious to travel home in your company.”

“You!” he exclaimed in unfeigned astonishment.

“Yes. I have just received letters of absolute pardon from the government. I am free to return to my home in Bogota whenever I please.”

“You surprise me, Señora,” he said, evidently disturbed by the news. Then he took the lady aside, and while they were conversing privately Alfonso said to us:

“De Alcantara, her husband, was the first leader of the revolution, and was killed in battle two years ago. His wife and daughter fled to Australia and their estates were confiscated. This is indeed surprising news; but I think the government wishes to placate the wealthy classes by this lenient action.”

Señor de Jiminez returned to our group smiling and content. I overheard Madam de Alcantara say in Spanish to Madam de Jiminez. “Never, under any circumstances, will I abandon the Cause. I shall return to my estates, because here I am an exile and dependent upon our friends for maintenance. There I may intrigue to advance the revolution, although I am warned against mixing in politics if I accept the government’s amnesty.”

“The Cause is sacred to us all,” was the calm reply.

Lucia de Alcantara was at once monopolized by Alfonso, who deserted us to pay the young girl marked attention. She did not appear to resent this; neither did she respond with much enthusiasm. She was really a beautiful girl, not more than fifteen or sixteen years of age, and her slender, willowy form towered so far above the undersized Alfonso that I remarked to Joe, aside: “That certainly is the long and short of it old man, isn’t it?”

“I suppose there will be accommodations in the Seagull for the ladies?” inquired Señor de Jiminez.

“Yes,” said I; “they might be made fairly comfortable.”

He said no more then, but presently sat down to a quiet game of bezique with Madam de Alcantara, leaving Alfonso to entertain us as well as Lucia. We found that the girl spoke English, and she became so interested in our accounts of the United States that she fairly ignored the youthful Colombian to question us about our country, our ship, and the chances of our sailing together across the South Seas.

It was quite late when they left, Alfonso and his father both escorting their guests to the carriage, and on their return Joe and I pleaded fatigue and retired to our rooms.

“Well, Joe,” I said, when we were alone, “what do you think now?”

“Mighty pretty girl,” he returned musingly.

“But about the business deal?”

“Oh, that,” he responded, waking up, “I’m in favor of it, taking it all around. We get well paid and run no especial chances except when we land the goods. We’ve done harder things than that, Sam, for less money; so it needn’t bother us much. You see the Alcantaras can have the for’ard cabin and—”

“Bother the Alcantaras!” I exclaimed impatiently. “You’re usually opposed to passengers, Joe.”

“I know; but they’re anxious to get home and Lucia said—”

“‘Lucia!’”

“Isn’t that her name?” he demanded.

“I believe it is.”

“She’s a clever sort of a girl. Usually, Sam, girls are dubs; but this Spanish creature has lots of ‘go’ to her and won’t make bad company on the voyage.”

I let him alone, then, and went to bed. Joe Herring was a silent fellow at ordinary times, but if I had let him ramble on about this girl I am sure he’d have kept me awake half the night. It didn’t strike me there was anything remarkable about her either.