The business of putting his luggage on board took but little time, as Tim did not believe in special correspondents travelling with much impedimenta.
“You could have brought more luggage, if you had liked,” said Philip, when they inspected Tim’s modest kit.
“More! Haven’t I got all I want,” retorted Tim, indignantly. “What would I be stuffing up the boat with rags for. A tooth-brush and a clean collar is all I require.”
“Hardly, if this is going to be a lengthy campaign,” replied Philip, dryly. “I expect, before the end of the voyage, you’ll be wearing Peter’s clothes.”
Peter was so small, and Tim so large, that the idea struck the latter as wonderfully ludicrous, and he sat down to laugh which he continued to do until the screw began to beat the water. Then he went on deck to superintend the departure.
In due time they arrived at Plymouth without accident, where they found Peter waiting with as much luggage as a bride would take on her honeymoon. It proved to be mostly articles for capturing butterflies, and cases for preserving them much to the disgust of Philip, who hated his yacht to be overloaded with such débris. With that painful candour which prevailed between them, he told Peter that he would only take half; but the meek doctor waxed indignant, and refused to go without all these, what he called, “necessaries.” So, in the end, Philip had to give in.
Then The Bohemian turned her prow westward, and dipping her nose in the salt brine, followed in the track of Columbus.
Chapter IV.
In the Track of Columbus
Spread sails, out oars, the galley’s beak
Points westward where the sunset dies.
The fabled land of gold we seek,
Which glows beneath the tropic skies,—
A jewelled land of Paradise;
The waters round our prow are curled,
White foam bells streak their turquoise blue,
We leave behind the ancient world,
To seek the new.
Spread sails, out oars, a path of gold
Streams from the sinking sun at eve,
As those bold mariners of old,
Again romances wild we weave,
Of splendours we would fain believe;
Yon path leads on to fairyland,
Which glows within the sunset’s heart,
We anguish for that magic strand,
And so depart.
Notwithstanding the notoriety of the Atlantic Ocean for storms, The Bohemian met with little or no bad weather during her voyage to Cholacaca. Blue skies, blue seas and fair winds, it was an ideal cruise, and had it not been necessary to reach Tlatonac with as little delay as possible, Philip would willingly have prolonged this ocean tramping for an indefinite period. Jack, however, was anxious to see Dolores; the special correspondent looked forward eagerly to the fierce delights of possible battles, and Peter hankered after the insect tribes of Central America; so, in deference to their wishes, Philip made his yacht act well up to her reputation as a fast boat. The Bohemian did not belie her fame, and made a bee-line straight for her destination.
Ignoring Lisbon, where boats generally touch on their way to South America, the yacht held on straight for the Azores, passed them in the night, and continued her course to Cuba, from whence she could drop down to Tlatonac in a few days. She touched at Havana, which was a trifle out of her course, at the express request of Jack, who had a few commissions to fulfil for Dolores; otherwise her nearest point of call would have been Kingston, in the Island of Jamaica.
Truly there are worse lots in the world than a lotus-eating existence on board a crack yacht, and none of the four friends found the voyage too long or too dull. Peter attended to his entomological traps; Tim, obeying his journalistic instincts, made notes of daily events for future use; and Philip, in conjunction with his sailing master, attended to the navigation of the boat. The only idle person on board was Jack Duval, who did nothing but eat, sleep, drink, and think of Dolores, save when he amused himself by worrying his busier companions.
Thanks to the powerful engines of The Bohemian and the uniform speed at which they were kept the whole time, the voyage to the Carribean Sea was accomplished in a wonderfully short period. Occasionally, when the bearings of the engines became heated by constant friction, the screw was stopped and the sails were set, when the yacht, leaning slightly to one side, swirled through the waters under a cloud of canvas. They depended chiefly on steam power, however, and it was rarely that the drum of the screw ceased resounding through the vessel as she held on steadily westward in the eye of the sunset.
All four friends had plenty to do and plenty to talk about, so managed to get through the days in a sufficiently pleasant fashion. After dinner, which was the principal event of the twenty-four hours, they sat on deck chatting in the warm tropic nights, or else stayed in the saloon listening to Philip’s piano playing and Jack’s singing. Tim also sang in a pleasant tenor voice, and often favoured the company with a varied selection of ditties, ranging from pathetic Irish melodies to the latest music-hall songs of the day. Peter was the most unmusical member of the party, and, save talking, did little else to amuse his friends. It is true that he offered to give them a lecture on “lepidopterous moths,” but the offer was promptly refused on the score that it would be dull. Peter could not understand such an adjective being applied to so interesting a subject.
It was at one of these symposiums that Jack gave them a description of the political situation in Cholacaca, information peculiarly acceptable to Tim, who was anxious to be thoroughly acquainted with the local affairs of the country. On reaching Tlatonac, he wrote a capital article embodying Jack’s information, and sent it off at once to The Morning Planet, in whose columns it duly appeared, and gave the British public an excellent idea of Don Hypolito’s reasons for rebelling against the Established Government of the Republic. Tim’s articles were brutally plain and untempered by style.
The night was warm and cloudless. Westward the faint after-glow of the sunset; and in the east, the slender crescent of the moon, low down on the horizon. Overhead the constellations large and mellow burned like lamps in the purple sky, and mirrored their flashing points in the deep, so that the yacht cut her way through a glittering sea of planetary splendours. The sails were all furled, and a light breeze made humming noises in the taut hemp of the rigging. From the wide mouth of the funnel floated a faint trail of smoke, and the steady screw, with monotonous repetition, throbbed like a beating heart. The water hissing like serpents, streamed past the black sides of the boat, and at the prow the white foam boiled like a witch’s cauldron, as she rose and fell on the heaving plain. It was all wonderfully charming, and the voyagers seated on deck felt it to be so. After a time conversation ceased, and they remained silent, drinking in the beauty of the night and the infinite magic of the sea. Peter, unromantic Peter, was the first to break the charm with a commonplace remark.
“I hope we shall get fresh milk in Cuba; I’m tired of this Swiss stuff.”
“The
