In the Footprints of the Padres

by Charles Warren Stoddard

OR a long while he had been listening to the moan of the sea—the wail and the warning that rise from every reef in that wild waste of waters. There was no moon, but the large stars cast each a wake upon the wave, and the distant surf-lines were faintly illuminated by a phosphorescent glow.

There were reefs on every hand, and treacherous currents that would have imperilled the ribs of any craft depending on the winds alone for its salvation; but the "Waring," its pulse of steam throbbing with a slow measured beat, picked its way in the glimmering night with a confidence that made light of dangers past, present, and to come.

It had struck eight-bells forward; midnight; the air was warm, moist, caressing; it stole forth from invisible but not far distant vales ladened with the unmistakable odor of the land—a fragrance that was at times faint enough, but at other times was almost overwhelming; from the heart of the tropics only, is such perfume distilled; few who inhale it for the first time can resist its subtle charm; its influence once yielded to, the soul is soon enslaved and the dreams that follow are never to be forgotten.

Eight-bells, and silence broken only by the swish of the propeller as it ploughed slowly, deliberately, through the sea; the slap of the ripples under the prow, and an occasional harp-like sigh of the zephyr in the softly-vibrating shrouds; Paul Clitheroe had stolen out of the cabin and was sitting by the companion-way on the port side. A small ladder still hung there, for there had been boating and bathing just before dinner, and there was sure to be more or less fishing whenever the weather was favorable. Moreover, it must be acknowledged that the yacht was liberty-hall afloat, yes, adrift, on a go-as-you-please cruise, and things were not always in ship-shape.

An old half-breed Trader, who knew these seas as the star-gazer knows the skies, was in the wheelhouse; every wakeful eye among officers and crew, was at the prow peering into the depth in search of danger-signals; every ear was listening intently for an order from the lips of the pilot, and for the first whisper of the wave upon the reef. Meanwhile the vessel crept forward with utmost caution, barely ruffling the water under her keel.

One Bell! Two Bells! Clitheroe had for a long time been sitting unobserved by the companion-way. He had dined with a riotous company and withdrew as soon after dinner as possible; this privilege was freely accorded him, for he was at intervals gloomy, or silent, and his companions were quite willing to dispense with his society. Hilarity had ceased for the night, the fact was patent. The truth is, there was apt to be something too much of it aboard that ship. When a young gentleman, on the death of a distant relative, comes suddenly into an almost fabulous fortune, he is apt to set about doing that which pleases him best; in all probability he overdoes it. If he be fond of any society and is willing to pay for the purchase of it, he will find no difficulty in supplying himself, even to the verge of satiety.

A certain gentleman who shall be nameless in these pages but who came to be known among his followers as The Commodore, finding himself heir to a fortune, chartered a yacht for a summer cruise, and invited his friends to join him. The yacht had been for some weeks the scene of unceasing festivity; the joyous party on board her had passed from island to island, the feted guests of Kings and Queens and dusky Chiefs; feasting, dancing, and the exchange of gifts—these were the order of entertainment night and day.

It was a novel life for most who were on board, filled with adventure and spectacular surprises. The Commodore's hospitality was boundless; the appetites of his guests insatiable. But Clitheroe had seen all this from quite another point of view; he had been a native among the natives; admitted into brotherhood with the tribe, he had lived the life they lead until it had become as natural to him as if he had been born to it. Their thoughts were his thoughts, their tongue, his tongue. He was thinking of this as he sat by the companion-way, in the silence, unobserved.

Three Bells! He rose and going to the open transom, looked down into the cabin. The long dinner table had been relieved of dessert-dishes, but the after-dinner bottles were there in profusion, and cigar-boxes and cigarettes within convenient reach; it was an odd scene; a picture of confusion in a dead calm. The lights were burning low and there was no sound save the hoarse breathing of some of the revelers who had subsided into uncomfortable positions and were too heavy with sleep to seek easier ones. Clitheroe saw at the head of the table the Commodore, stretched back in his easy chair; he was fast asleep; there was no doubt about that. His guests one and all were dozing. The drowsy stupor that follows a debauch pervaded the whole company. I venture the assurance that not one person present could have been aroused in season to save himself or herself had the ship at that moment struck a reef, and foundered.

There they were, dimly outlined under the cabin-lamps, the companions with whom for a season Clitheroe had been more or less intimately associated in the Misty City; the Bohemians who had found it an easy and pleasant thing to flock upon the deck of the "Waring," one foggy afternoon, and set sail on a summer cruise. The Commodore invited them for his entertainment, and because he was a mighty good fellow and could afford to. They went for a change of air and scene, in search of adventure—and moreover they were sure of luxurious hospitality for at least six months. Clitheroe joined the company, not only for the reason that there seemed nothing else for him to do, but he was glad of the opportunity of revisiting a quarter of the globe so very dear to him. This voyage, he thought, might re-awaken his interest in life; at any rate, he could lose nothing by taking it, and that settled the question for him.