Chapter Thirty Two.
A Supper Carte-Blanche.
On parting from the “El Dorado,” Crozier and Cadwallader do not go directly aboard the Crusader. They know that their boat will be awaiting them at the place appointed. But the appointment is for a later hour; and as the breaking of the Monté bank, with the incidents attendant, occupied but a short while, there will be time for them to see a little more of San Francisco life. They have fallen in with several other young officers, naval like themselves, though not of their own ship, nor yet their own navy, or nation, but belonging to one cognate and kindred—Americans. Through the freemasonry of their common profession, with these they have fraternised, and it is agreed they shall all sup together. Crozier has invited the Americans to a repast the most recherché, as the costliest, that can be obtained at the grandest hotel in San Francisco, the Parker House. He adds humorously, that he is able to stand the treat. And well he may; since, besides the English money with which he entered the “El Dorado,” he has brought thousands of dollars out of it, and would have brought more had all the ivory cheques been honoured. As it is, his pockets are filled with notes and gold; as also those of Cadwallader, who helps him to carry the shining stuff. Part of the heavy metal he has been able to change into the more portable form of bank-notes. Yet the two are still heavily weighted—“laden like hucksters’ donkeys!” jokingly remarks Cadwallader, as they proceed towards the Parker.
At the hotel a private room is engaged; and, according to promise, Crozier bespeaks a repast of the most sumptuous kind, with carte-blanche for the best wines—champagne at three guineas a bottle, hock the same, and South-side Madeira still more. What difference to him?
The supper ordered in the double-quick soon makes its appearance. Sooner in San Francisco than in any other city in the world; in better style, too, and better worth the money; for the Golden City excels in the science of gastronomy. Even then, amidst her canvas sheds, and weather-boarded houses, could be obtained dishes of every kind known to Christendom, or Pagandom: the cuisine of France, Spain, and Italy; the roast beef of Old England, as the pork and beans of the New; the gumbo of Guinea, and sauerkraut of Germany, side by side with the swallow’s-nest soup and sea-slugs of China. Had Lucullus but lived in these days, he would have forsaken the banks of the Tiber, and made California his home.
The repast furnished by the Parker House, however splendid, has to be speedily despatched; for unfortunately time forbids the leisurely enjoyment of the viands, to a certain extent marring the pleasure of the occasion. All the officers, American as English, have to be on their respective ships at the stroke of twelve.
Reluctantly breaking up their hilarious company, they prepare to depart.
They have forsaken the supper-room, and passed on to the outer saloon of the hotel; like all such, furnished with a drinking-bar.
Before separating, and while buttoning up against the chill night-air, Crozier calls out:
“Come, gentlemen; one more glass! The stirrup-cup!”
In San Francisco this is always the wind up to a night of revelry. No matter how much wine has been quaffed, the carousal is not deemed complete without a last “valedictory” drink taken standing at the bar.
Giving way to the Californian custom, the officers range themselves along the marble slab; bending over which, the polite bar-keeper asks:
“What is it to be, gentlemen?”
There is a moment of hesitation, the gentlemen—already well wined—scarce knowing what to call for. Crozier cuts the Gordian knot by proposing:
“A round of punches à la Romaine!”
Universal assent to this delectable drink; as all know just the thing for a night-cap.
Soon the cooling beverage, compounded with snow from the Sierra Nevada, appears upon the counter, in huge glasses, piled high with the sparkling crystals; a spoon surmounting each—for punch à la Romaine is not to be drunk, but eaten.
Shovelling it down in haste, adieus are exchanged, with a hearty shake of hands. Then the American officers go off, leaving Crozier and Cadwallader in the saloon; these only staying to settle the account.
While standing by the bar, waiting for it to be brought, they cast a glance around the room. At first careless, it soon becomes concentrated on a group seen at some distance off, near one of the doors leading out, of which there are several. There are also several other groups; for the saloon is of large dimensions, besides being the most popular place of resort in San Francisco. And for San Francisco the hour is not yet late. Along the line of the drinking-bar, and over the white-sanded floor, are some scores of people of all qualities and kinds, in almost every variety of costume; though they who compose the party that has attracted the attention of the English officers show nothing particular—that is, to the eye of one unacquainted with them. There are four of them, two wearing broadcloth cloaks, the other two having their shoulders shrouded under serapes. Nothing in all that. The night is cold, indeed wet, and they are close to the door, to all appearance intending soon to step out. They have only paused to exchange a parting word, as if they designed to separate before issuing into the street.
Though the spot where they stand is in shadow—a folding screen separating it from the rest of the saloon—and it is not easy to get sight of their faces—the difficulty increased by broad-brimmed hats set slouchingly on their heads, with their cloaks and serapes drawn up around their throats—Crozier and Cadwallader have not only seen, but recognised them. A glance at their countenances, caught before the muffling was made, enabled the young officers to identify three of them as De Lara, Calderon, and the ci-devant croupier of the Monté bank. The fourth, whose face they have also seen, is a personage not known to them; but, judging by his features, a suitable associate for the other three.
Soon as catching sight of them, which he is the first to do, Crozier whispers to his companion:
“See, Will! Look yonder! Our friends from the ‘El Dorado!’”
“By Jove! them, sure enough. Do you think they’ve been following us?”
“I shouldn’t wonder. I was only surprised they didn’t do something, when they had us in their gambling den. After the heavy draw I made on Mr Lara’s bank, I expected no less than that he’d try to renew his acquaintance with me; all the more from his having been so free of it in the morning. Instead, he and his friend seemed to studiously avoid coming near us—not even casting a look in our direction. That rather puzzled me.”
“It needn’t. After what you gave him, I should think he’ll feel shy of another encounter.”
“No; that’s not it. Blackleg though the fellow be, he’s got game in him. He gave proof of it in the ‘El Dorado,’ defying, and backing everybody out. It was an exhibition of real courage, Will; and, to tell the truth, I couldn’t help admiring it—can’t now. When I saw him presiding over the gambling table, and dealing out the cards, I at once made up my mind that it would never do to meet him—even if he challenged me. Now, I’ve decided differently; and if he call me out, I’ll give him a chance to recover a little of his lost reputation. I will, upon my honour.”
“But why should you? A ‘sport,’ a professional gambler! The thing would be simply ridiculous.”
“Nothing of the kind—not here in California. On the contrary, I should cut a more ridiculous figure by refusing him satisfaction. It remains to be seen whether he’ll seek it according to the correct code.”
“That he won’t; at least, I don’t think he will. From the way that lot have got their heads together, it looks as if they meant mischief, now. They may have been watching their opportunity—to get us two alone. What a pity we didn’t see them before our friends went off! They’re good fellows, those Yankee officers, and would have stood by us.”
“No doubt they would. But it’s too late now. They’re beyond hailing distance, and we must take care of ourselves. Get your dirk ready, Will, and have your hand close to the butt of that shooting-iron, you took from Mr De Lara.”
“I have it that way. Never fear. Wouldn’t it be a good joke if I have to give the fellow a pill out of his own pistol?”
“No joking matter to us, if they’re meditating an attack. Though we disarmed him in the morning, he’ll be freshly provided, and with weapons in plenty. I’ll warrant each of the four has a battery concealed under his cloak. They appear as if concocting some scheme—which we’ll soon know all about—likely before leaving the house. Certainly, they’re up to something.”
“Four hundred and ninety dollars, gentlemen!”
The financial statement is made by the office clerk presenting the bill.
“There!” cries Crozier, flinging down a five hundred dollar bill. “Let that settle it. You can keep the change for yourself.”
“Thank ye,” dryly responds the Californian dispenser of drinks, taking the ten dollar tip with less show of gratitude than a London waiter would give for a fourpenny piece—little as that may be.
Turning to take departure, the young officers again look across the saloon, to learn how the hostile party has disposed itself. To their surprise, the gamblers are gone; having disappeared while the account was being paid.
“I don’t like the look of it,” says Crozier, in a whisper. “Less now than ever. No doubt we’ll find them outside. Well; we can’t stay here all night. If they attack us, we must do our best. Take a firm grip of your pistol, with your finger close to the trigger; and if any of them shows sign of shooting, see that you fire first. Follow me; and keep close!”
On the instant of delivering these injunctions, he starts towards the door, Cadwallader following as directed.
Both step out, and for a short while stand gazing interrogatively around them. People they see in numbers, some lounging by the hotel porch, others passing along the street. But none in cloaks or serapes. The gamblers must have gone clear away.
“After all, we may have been wronging them,” remarks Urozier, as in his nature, giving way to a generous impulse. “I can hardly think that a fellow who’s shown such courage would play the assassin. Maybe they were but putting their heads together about challenging us? If that’s it, we may expect to hear from them in the morning. It looks all right. Anyhow, we can’t stay dallying here. If we’re not aboard by eight bells, old Bracebridge ’ll masthead us. Let’s heave along, my hearty!”
So saying, he leads off, Cadwallader close on his quarter—both a little unsteady in their steps, partly from being loaded with the spoils of “El Dorado,” and partly from the effects of the Parker House wines, and punches à la Romaine.