"The mail has come. We're after it. We'll soon be back. The mail has come!"
The launches clustered about the ship like an eager crowd of boys scrambling for pennies. They had to be straightened out. The bags had been arranged on deck and then there came a stream of men passing them down. There was an average of twenty bags to each ship. As fast as each launch got its load it dashed back at full speed to its ship. The bags were hurried up the sides and fairly ripped open. Half a dozen men were set at sorting out the letters and papers. In less than two hours after the Byron had anchored hundreds of men were going about with a contented but far away look upon their faces.
"Oh, yes, thank you," was a general remark. "They're all well and they had a pleasant Christmas. Your people all right, too? That's good. 'Twas nice to hear from home, wasn't it? Wonder when we'll get the next one?"
There are many stock questions asked on board of a man-o'-war. In time of conflict the chief one is:
"Wonder where we'll catch the enemy?"
In time of peace the chief one seems to be:
"Wonder where we'll get the mail?"
To a passenger on one of these ships that seems to be the most important question to be asked and answered. Speculation as to the time of reaching port, of remaining in port, of departing, of the length of the cruise, as to the routine or even unusual work to be accomplished—all these seem to be of minor importance to the question as to when the mail will come. The American man-o'-warsman surely does love his home and people. "God's country and God's people!" is the way he puts it. Apparently what he cares for most in all the world is mail from God's country and God's people.
But there will be no mail for the ships here at Punta. There used to be a hidden post office in the straits for sailormen. It was where the Indians could not find it. Letters and papers were left there to be mailed and reading matter was dropped behind for another vessel to pick up. It is said that never was that strange mail box trifled with and never robbed. But all that was years ago.
Now there is a modern city of something like 12,000 people here, with a Chilean post office to see that things are managed properly; but the mails are irregular, for they still depend for their despatch more or less on the irregular calls of steamers. Of course there are certain vessels which make regular trips, but these are few and far between, and you never know when you mail a letter here how long it will be before it reaches its destination.