Following our cook’s rendition of “John Brown” there was silence for a space and then, in place of sand-box, raucous fiddle, and discordant harmonica, the soft, liquid tinkle of a guitar rippled through the tropic night and a wonderfully rich voice began to sing: [[92]]
“Vuelvo dormir,
Vuelvo sonar,
Y siempre estoy.”
I was all attention; surprised, curious. I was unaware that we had a Spanish West Indian in our crew, and while I knew that Sam, Joe, and one or two others spoke a smattering of Spanish and had visited Cuba, Porto Rico, Santo Domingo, or Panama, their accent was atrocious. Never, I was sure, could they have mastered a Spanish song. And now the singer had changed his tune. There was a plaintive wail in the silvery notes of his guitar that tugged at one’s heart-strings, and, filled with pathos and yearning, his voice came drifting to me, filling the night with the melody of “La Paloma.”
Scores—yes, hundreds—of times, I had listened to that dreamy, haunting air. I had heard it sung by shadowy vaqueros watching their herds on broad, black llanos under twinkling stars. I had heard it borne on the night breeze, as, resting under waving palms, I had watched a lateen-sailed craft creep across the moon’s silvery “Path to Spain.” I had heard it hummed by the carmine lips of black-eyed, full-throated señoritas leaning from the grilled railings of their windows in many a Latin-American town, and I had heard [[93]]it issuing from garish dance-halls heavy with the scent of musk and the smoke from brown cigarettes. But never had I heard it sung as on that last night that the old Vigilant swung to her anchor off St. John.
Rising, I strolled forward, filled with curiosity as to the identity of the singer. As I reached the galley and from its shadows glanced at the little group about the fore hatch I could scarcely believe my eyes. Seated upon the anchor winch, across his knees a battered guitar which belonged to Joseph, the final words of “La Paloma” issuing from his huge mouth, was—Trouble! [[94]]