University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.,
Which contains a queer story, which the reader
had better make a note of.

The early part of our voyage was, I
presume, what all sea voyages, at their
outset, usually are—namely, a disagreeable
sea-sickness, followed by wonder
and dissatisfaction at the vague
waste of water on every hand. After
the first sensation of novelty and nausea
had passed, I either spent most of
my time on deck, listening to Archbold's
stories, or in rambling over the
vessel pestering the sailors with inquiries.
This grew wearisome, too, and
then, to further break the monotony, I
took to studying the officers and crew.
At night, my thoughts went back to
Paul and Zara, and things of the past.

The master of the vessel—captain,
as every one called him—was named

Peabody. He was a slender little man,
with a superabundance of light whisker
around his cheeks and throat, clear,
blue eyes, and a pleasant, genial, and
open countenance. He had started in
sea-faring life on board of a whaling-ship
out of New Bedford, and had
fought his way up, until, at thirty-two
years of age, he had, along with the
reputation of being a thorough seaman,
the command of one of the finest
of the American packet-ships. He had
accumulated a little fortune, which was
invested in two houses in the city of
New York. In the smallest of these
his wife and children resided—the rent
of the other serving for their support
during his absence, while the greater
part of his pay was accumulating.

He had views of a different life, too,
for I heard him one day observe in conversation
with Archbold:

“Yes, sir, this is to be my last vy'ge.
I ain't tired of the sea, which I've
lived on about twelve years out of the
last sixteen; but I want to be at home
more with my family. So I've made
up my mind to throw up my command;
my owners don't know it, and won't
till I return—sell my two houses, and
buy a little farm in the Jarsies, somewhere
in Monmouth or Middlesex,
where I can look out on the salt water
and sniff the sea-weed; and there I'll
raise my own pigs and potatoes. You
see I'm kind of used to farming—I was
brought up to it between vy'ges, when
I was young—used to tend a spell on
father's farm when I'd come home from
whaling. It'll all come back, sir, with
a little practice.”

Archbold said to me afterwards, referring
to this idea, that there was al
ways an itching among two classes of
people to turn farmers, namely, sea-faring
men and actors. The shipmasters
generally did very well, and seemed
to plow the land as easily as they
previously had the ocean; but the actors
found their agricultural life too
monotonous.

Of the first mate, Mr. Lansing, we
saw little. He was taken ill on the
first day of our voyage out, and so severely
as to be confined to his berth.
The second mate, Van Kline, a native
of New York city, was a short, stout
man, about forty-five or fifty years old,
tanned and grizzled; moody, sullen,
and taciturn, but known to be exceedingly
temperate, and a fair officer. He
had followed the sea unremittingly from
his boyhood up; but though a good
sailor, never rose above the third position
in a ship. This had apparently
soured him, and though attentive to
his duties, his manner made him no favorite
with either passengers or crew.

There were but five cabin passengers,
Mr. Archbold, a New Yorker
named Rapelje, and his two sons, and
myself. The three Rapeljes, pere et fils,
were very proud of their Dutch ancestors—the
original emigrant to America,
by the bye, had been a worthy tailor—and
were very exclusive and toploftical.
They had made the tour of
Europe in three months, traveling post
haste from London to Paris, from Paris
to Berlin, from Berlin to St. Petersburg,
from St. Petersburg to Vienna,
from Vienna to Constantinople, from
Constantinople to Rome, from Rome to
Gibraltar, and from Gibraltar to London,
having seen everybody, every
place, in short, everything worth seeing
all over the world. They kept

close to their state rooms during the
voyage, except at meals; or if they
occasionally emerged to the deck, held
no communion with any one but themselves,
which, as they were not a lively
party, was rather a comfort than
otherwise.

Archbold was a tall, dark, loosely-jointed,
but, nevertheless, rather distinguished
man, about the middle age of
life. He belonged to the eastern shore
of Virginia—at least he had a large
plantation there—and he had a handsome
dwelling-house, I was told, in the
town of Richmond; but neither of
these localities saw him more than once
in two or three years. There seemed
to be no rest for the sole of his foot.
The man was a citizen of the world.
If he had any places particularly his
favorites, they were London, Paris,
and New York, between which he vibrated
with tolerable regularity. He
had been in the American naval service,
but when he had risen to the rank
of lieutenant, resigned, ostensibly because
promotion was too slow, but
really because he had too much money.
He was exceedingly good company,
full of fun, told a good story well, sung
a good song passably, and did not
think it beneath his dignity to stroll
to the forecastle on a pleasant night,
and listen to the tough yarns spun
there. He was a great favorite with
the sailors, one of whom, Ben Ward,
had served on a cruise with him aboard
a United States sloop of war.

Of the crew, but one was worthy
of particular note, and that was this
same Ben Ward. He was an old man-o'-war's
man, nearly sixty years of age,
but active as most men at thirty;
knew his profession well, and was
proud of the knowledge, and rather
thought he had compromised his dignity
by entering the merchant service.
He took a great fancy to me, taught
me the names and uses of the various
ropes and spars, and told me very funny
stories of his scrapes and adventures,
all of which would make very
agreeable reading, no doubt, if this
were the proper place to reel them off.

Nothing occurred of note until we
were out about four days, when the
first mate suddenly died. The ceremony
of a burial at sea has been so
often described, that I need not attempt
it here, though the scene made a great
impression on me. Mr. Archbold, at
the captain's request, read the funeral
service; the body, sewed up with a
piece of kentledge at its feet, in lieu of
round shot, was sent overboard, and
the next day all appeared to have been
forgotten. Van Kline kept the dead
man's position on board, and everything
went on as before.

The weather was not so stormy for
a couple of days after Lansing's death
as it had been, and Archbold and I,
during the fifth afternoon, were leaning
over the quarter chatting, when
my companion suddenly said:

“Do you know I've been trying to
place you, as they say, ever since I
saw you? I had seen some one with
your cast of features before, and I
couldn't tell who it was, or where it
was, for the life of me. But now I
have it; and it implies quite an odd
story too. Shall I tell it?”

“By all means,” I replied. “I have
been told so often that I look like somebody
else, that I shall begin to think
after a while my face bears a resemblance
to every tenth man in the
world.”

“Well, my boy, you can believe it

or not, but the man I speak of had a
great resemblance to you, though he
was a great deal older, and it is not
long since I saw him, not over eighteen
months.”

“Where does he live, and who is
he?”

“He is nobody now, and don't live
anywhere, for he is dead; but he was
Don Estevan de Cabarrus, one of the
wealthiest land-holders and cattle-owners
in the north of Chihuahua.”

“A Mexican, eh?”

“No, a native of old Spain, but he
spent the greater part of his time on
his Mexican estates—in fact he had
lived there for several years, and was
a naturalized citizen. I came overland
from Mazatlan, through Durango,
just before going to England, and—
well, it is a long story, but it is quite
enough that I was there, and the Senor
de Cabarrus, whom I had met at
Cadiz years ago, invited me to remain
awhile. I did so. He was a widower,
and had two very handsome daughters,
one of whom, Juanita, was the belle
of that region. The Senor lived en
prince. The ranchero was a place of
importance, a little town. The hacienda
where he dwelt was the abode of a
number of his farm-laborers and herdsmen,
whose adobe huts made a respectable-sized
village. In the centre was
his own mansion. You wouldn't call
it much of a mansion, I fancy, seeing
it was only one story high, and built
of wood, on a stone foundation; but it
was a great house for that quarter of
the world.

“Don Estevan passed his time in the
country, partly in superintending his
estate; he had several thousand horses
to take care of.”

“Several thousand!” I interrupted.

“Several thousand,” repeated Archbold,
coolly. “You must recollect that
there are large prairies in that quarter,
and that cattle and horses are
turned loose in vast numbers, breed
rapidly, and when wanted are captured,
or driven into great pounds. A
thousand there are about equal to ten
here, and cost less to rear. He passed
his time in taking care of these, and
amused himself in that, philosophical
experiments of one kind or other, and
reading. He had a large library, and
a complete set of philosophical instruments,
and among others a large electrical
machine, of London make. Keep
your eye on the electrical machine, for
there's the nub of the story.

“The Indians, Navajoes, and what
not, used to come down in that quarter,
plundering and slaying, but at the
time I staid there, they had not honored
the place with a visit for years.
Consequently, nobody looked for them;
but one night, or rather one morning,
just before day, about a hundred of the
vagabonds dashed in on us. In fact,
if it had not been for some of the curs
who commenced a furious barking at
their approach, the first tidings of their
presence would have been the breaking
in of the doors. We were roused
up suddenly, and made as good fight
as we could, but they were too many
for us, and we were soon prisoners at
their mercy.

“Senor Estevan fared badly. I was
overpowered at the beginning, thrown
down and tied. Don Estevan made
more resistance, and was beaten down.
The Indian was about to finish him—
the red rascal's blood was up, you see
—when another savage interfered, and
saved him partly. The blow fell, and
my host was seriously wounded, but

the force of the blow being interrupted,
did not finish him outright. I was
not a little astonished, when this new-comer
spoke to me in very good Spanish,
and said:

“`Keep yourselves still, and I will
manage to save your lives.'

“I could not do anything else but
keep still, for there I was, pinioned—
trussed like a turkey for the spit—
and they bundled us all into the library,
while they rummaged the house.
There we were, the Don lying wounded,
the two daughters with their hands
tied, sobbing, and expecting to be carried
off prisoners; and I, bound hand
and foot, waiting patiently the convenience
of my captors to have my brains
knocked out.”

“You were in a bad way,” I ventured.

“Yes, rather; but not so bad as the
Don. For you see, while we were lying
there, a big, hulking savage, his
name, as I learned, in his own language,
meant the Bear, came in and
offered some indignity to Juanita. I
shouted at him, but he paid no attention
to me. The father endeavored,
wounded as he was, to defend the girl,
and the Indian stabbed him. At that
moment the same man who had saved
him before entered, and interfered.
The Bear and the new-comer jabbered
awhile in their own dialect, and it ended
by the Bear going out very sulkily.
The Don had been stabbed in the arm.
The friendly savage—at least he was
dressed in their costume—made an extempore
tourniquet, and stopped the
flow of blood, and turning to the girls
assured them that they should be protected
from farther insult.

“`You must all keep as quiet as you
can,” he said. My power over these
men depends on their superstition; but
the one who has gone out is the chief
of the expedition, and hates me. I
an Englishman, a captive among these
wretches, though nominally one of the
tribe. He has gone out threatening
to rouse the rest against me, and it
will require dexterous management;
but I think I can save you, especially
as I see the means here.'

“He pointed to the electrical machine,
and bidding one of the girls to
watch the door, loosened me. We
both set to work to charge the machine,
and by the time the Bear got
back we had filled a couple of Leyden
jars, and I was seated quietly in a corner.
Are you getting tired?”

“No, I am quite interested. Pray
go on.”

“Well, the Indians swarmed in, and
gravely seated themselves around the
room, on the floor. It was a sort of
extempore council, and in spite of the
terrors of the occasion, the scene was
attractive. The gloomy faces of the
savages, streaked with their war paint,
peered out of the darkness, for there
was but a single lamp lit in the place;
and in contrast with their threatening
looks, and the alarmed faces of the
Don and his daughters, was the calm
look of our semi-savage Englishman,
as he stood leaning against the frame
of the electrical machine.”

“What a picture for a painter!”

“I dare say; but if you had been
in the middle of it, you would have
seen nothing in it but a band of blood-thirsty
savages debating about your
fate. You'd have found it too interesting
to be agreeable.

“Presently the Bear got up, and
spread himself for a speech. I couldn't
tell what he said, but as the deaf man

said of Prentiss, a famous orator of
ours, he went through the motions
splendid. He was evidently pitching
into our benevolent English friend,
whose conduct, seen in an Indian light,
had been rather irregular; and from
the glances cast from time to time by
the dusky warriors, I was very much
afraid that the chance of the whites
was a poor one. When he sat down
there was a general grunt of approval
in the council that boded no good.

“But the Englishman did not mind
it. By Jove! he was as cool as an
iceberg. He mounted the insulating
stool, and, with the connecting-rod in
one hand, he began to make his
speech. As he talked Indian of course,
I could not tell what he said. At first,
I could see that it made no impression;
but he wound up with some
proposition that evidently startled
them. There was a general look of
dismay among the party, but they came
up to the scratch with the Bear at their
head, and I partly found out what the
proposition was, and got it all afterwards.

“He had been inviting them, if they
doubted he was a great magician, to
touch his hand, when they would feel
their stout hearts tremble, and their
frames shake at the stroke of his anger.
They came toward him with some
misgivings, and at his direction joined
hands, he taking that of the Bear. I
saw what was coming. The jar that
he touched was a heavy one, and full
charged. The shock was strong
enough to bring the Bear and most of
his companions to their knees, and as
soon as they had recovered from it,
they slunk off one by one, leaving the
Englishman triumphant.”

“But who was he?” I asked.

“That's more than I certainly know,”
said Archbold; “he said that the savages
called him `The Great Mystery
Man,' but he gave me no English
name.”

“No doubt they thought him a great
medicine,” I said.

“He enlightened me on that point
some, in a conversation I had with him
after. He said that what we translate
`medicine,' should be `mystery.' The
Indians are ignorant and superstitious.
Whatever they don't understand they
call `mystery.' He had been taken
captive, and would have been put to
death, but some feats of legerdemain,
something like ordinary juggler's tricks,
which he had done to amuse one of the
squaws, made them think him a powerful
magician, and they saved his life.
His last feat eclipsed all the others.”

“I should have thought, as a civilized
man, he would not have gone on
their expeditions.”

“He went to save the whites from
being carried off, and always succeeded,
except with the peons' children. He
never intended to save them.”

“Why not?”

“Well, he gave a very fair reason.
He said they were better off as prisoners
among the savages, if adopted into
the tribe, than at home; and as to
the lack of Christian education, the
Christianity of the peons was only a
modification of Paganism.”

“And what else happened?”

“The most singular of all. By this
time the daylight was on us, and our
preserver turned to the Don to look at
his wounds. They both appeared to
recognize each other at the same moment.
Don Estevan said nothing—he
looked alarmed; but the Englishman
made use of an expression which puzzled

me at the time. He said, half in
wonder, and half triumphantly:

“So, so! Bugunda Jawa?”'

I started as Archbold repeated these
words. Was I then to find the solution
of the mystery, in an occurrence
far out in the wilds of Mexico?

“The two men,” continued Archbold,
“regarded each other silently for awhile,
and then the Don said:

“`I owe you something, Senor, and
I will pay it better than you think. I
am mortally wounded; I am sure of it;
but I may last some time yet. Let us
two be alone for awhile.'

“Well, I led out the girls; and going
out sent for the nearest surgeon.
Before he came, the interview between
the two closed, and the Indians, with
the stranger at their head, rode off,
driving with them the best of the
horses, and carrying all the portable
plunder they could. I never saw the
Englishman again, and suppose he is
with them yet; though he told me that
he intended to escape to civilization
when he could do it safely.”

“And this man whom I resemble—
what more of him?”

“He died in about three days,” answered
Archbold. “He told me that
he had done a very grievous wrong to
the other once, under the belief that
he was his enemy; but the interview
had cleared matters up.”

“Did he give you any of his own
history?”

“Yes, a good deal. It appears that
he was a Spaniard of good family, the
son of a Marquis, in fact a Marquis
himself, although he had abandoned
the title. When young, his family
being poor, he went to the East to seek
his fortune. From Manilla, he wandered
to Java, and found his way to
the court of the Susuhunan, or Emperor
of Java, at that time at Sura-Kerta, on
the Solo river. This prince was rather
partial to foreigners who had either
birth or parts to recommend them, and
Don Estevan, not being troubled with
two much conscience, turned Mahummadan,
and finally rose to be the Raden
Adipati, or chief minister of state.
The other came there too, a traveling
Englishman of rank, and the two at
first were very friendly. But circumstances
occurred which made the minister
think the Englishman intended to
supplant him. So fixed did this impression
get that the Spaniard hired
ruffians to assassinate his old friend,
but the attempt failed.”

“Pleasant,” I said.

“Very; but that is Eastern politics.
Their hatred got intensified afterwards,
I believe, when the Spaniard had left
Java, being a disgraced minister, and
he met the Englishman elsewhere.
There were some family difficulties, if I
understood rightly; but I didn't get
the particulars. I've given you all I
know.”

I pondered a good deal on this story,
though it appeared to me that I was
only getting deeper in a labyrinth of
conjecture. I determined, however, to
let Paul know it, and wrote a letter to
be sent to him either by the first vessel
that crossed us, or on my arrival at
New York.