The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Consul, by Richard Harding Davis

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THE CONSUL

by Richard Harding Davis

For over forty years,best finger puppets for 9 year olds in one part of the world or another, old man Marshallhad, served his country as a United States consul. He had been appointed byLincoln. For a quarter of a century that fact was his distinction. It was nowhis epitaph. But in former years, as each new administration succeeded the old,it had again and again saved his official head. When victorious and voraciousplace-hunters, searching the map of the world for spoils, dug out hishiding-place and demanded his consular sign as a reward for a younger and moreaggressive party worker, the ghost of the dead President protected him. In theState Department, Marshall had become a tradition. “You can’t touch Him!” theState Department would say; “why, HEwas appointed by Lincoln!”Secretly, for this weapon against the hungry headhunters, the department wasinfinitely grateful. Old man Marshall was a consul after its own heart. Like asoldier, he was obedient, disciplined; wherever he was sent, there, withoutquestion, he would go. Never against exile, against ill-health, against climatedid he make complaint. Nor when he was moved on and down to make way for somene’er-do-well with influence, with a brother-in-law in the Senate, with acousin owning a newspaper, with rich relatives who desired him to drink himselfto death at the expense of the government rather than at their own, did old manMarshall point to his record as a claim for more just treatment.

And it had been an excellent record. His official reports, in a quaint, statelyhand, were models of English; full of information, intelligent, valuable, wellobserved. And those few of his countrymen, who stumbled upon him in theout-of-the-world places to which of late he had been banished, wrote of him tothe department in terms of admiration and awe. Never had he or his friendspetitioned for promotion, until it was at last apparent that, save for hisrecord and the memory of his dead patron, he had no friends. But, still in thedepartment the tradition held and, though he was not advanced, he was notdismissed.

“If that old man’s been feeding from the public trough ever since the CivilWar,” protested a “practical” politician, “it seems to me, Mr. Secretary, thathe’s about had his share. Ain’t it time he give some one else a bite? Some ofus that has, done the work, that has borne the brunt——”

“This place he now holds,” interrupted the Secretary of State suavely, “is onehardly commensurate with services like yours. I can’t pronounce the name of it,and I’m not sure just where it is, but I see that, of the last six consuls wesent there, three resigned within a month and the other three died ofyellow-fever. Still, if you insist——”

The practical politician reconsidered hastily. “I’m not the sort,” heprotested, “to turn out a man appointed by our martyred President. Besides,he’s so old now, if the fever don’t catch him, he’ll die of old age, anyway.”

The Secretary coughed uncomfortably. “And they say,” he murmured, “republicsare ungrateful.”

“I don’t quite get that,” said the practical politician.

Of Porto Banos, of the Republic of Colombia, where as consul Mr. Marshall wasupholding the dignity of the United States, little could be said except that itpossessed a sure harbor. When driven from the Caribbean Sea by stress ofweather, the largest of ocean tramps, and even battle-ships, could find in itsprotecting arms of coral a safe shelter. But, as young Mr. Aiken, the wirelessoperator, pointed out, unless driven by a hurricane and the fear of death, noone ever visited it. Back of the ancient wharfs, that dated from the days whenPorto Banos was a receiver of stolen goods for buccaneers and pirates, wererows of thatched huts, streets, according to the season, of dust or mud, a fewiron-barred, jail-like barracks, customhouses, municipal buildings, and thewhitewashed adobe houses of the consuls. The backyard of the town was a swamp.Through this at five each morning a rusty engine pulled a train of flat cars tothe base of the mountains, and, if meanwhile the rails had not disappeared intothe swamp, at five in the evening brought back the flat cars laden with odorouscoffee-sacks.

In the daily life of Porto Banos, waiting for the return of the train, andbetting if it would return, was the chief interest. Each night the consuls, theforeign residents, the wireless operator, the manager of the rusty railroad metfor dinner. There at the head of the long table, by virtue of his years, of hiscourtesy and distinguished manner, of his office, Mr. Marshall presided. Of thelittle band of exiles he was the chosen ruler. His rule was gentle. By force ofexample he had made existence in Porto Banos more possible. For women andchildren Porto Banos was a death-trap, and before “old man Marshall” came therehad been no influence to remind the enforced bachelors of other days.

They had lost interest, had grown lax, irritable, morose. Their white duck wasseldom white. Their cheeks were unshaven. When the sun sank into the swamp andthe heat still turned Porto Banos into a Turkish bath, they threw dice on thegreasy tables of the Café Bolivar for drinks. The petty gambling led to pettyquarrels; the drinks to fever. The coming of Mr. Marshall changed that. Hisstandard of life, his tact, his worldly wisdom, his cheerful courtesy, hisfastidious personal neatness shamed the younger men; the desire to please him,to, stand well in his good opinion, brought back pride and self-esteem.

The lieutenant of her Majesty’s gun-boat Plovernoted the change.

“Used to be,” he exclaimed, “you couldn’t get out of the Café Bolivar withoutsome one sticking a knife in you; now it’s a debating club. They all sit rounda table and listen to an old gentleman talk world politics.”

If Henry Marshall brought content to the exiles of Porto Banos, there waslittle in return that Porto Banos could give to him. Magazines andcorrespondents in six languages kept him in touch with those foreign lands inwhich he had represented his country, but of the country he had represented,newspapers and periodicals showed him only too clearly that in forty years ithad grown away from him, had changed beyond recognition.

When last he had called at the State Department, he had been made to feel hewas a man without a country, and when he visited his home town in Vermont, hewas looked upon as a Rip Van Winkle. Those of his boyhood friends who were notdead had long thought of him as dead. And the sleepy, pretty village had becomea bustling commercial centre. In the lanes where, as a young man, he had walkedamong wheatfields, trolley-cars whirled between rows of mills and factories.The children had grown to manhood, with children of their own.

Like a ghost, he searched for house after house, where once he had been madewelcome, only to find in its place a towering office building. “All had gone,the old familiar faces.” In vain he scanned even the shop fronts for afriendly, homelike name. Whether the fault was his, whether he would betterhave served his own interests than those of his government, it now was too lateto determine. In his own home, he was a stranger among strangers. In theservice he had so faithfully followed, rank by rank, he had been dropped, untilnow he, who twice had been a consul-general, was an exile, banished to a feverswamp. The great Ship of State had dropped him overside, had “marooned” him,and sailed away.

Twice a day he walked along the shell road to the Café Bolivar, and back againto the consulate. There, as he entered the outer office, José, the Colombianclerk, would rise and bow profoundly.

“Any papers for me to sign, José?” the consul would ask.

“Not to-day, Excellency,” the clerk would reply. Then José would return towriting a letter to his lady-love; not that there was any-thing to tell her,but because writing on the official paper of the consulate gave him importancein his eyes, and in hers. And in the inner office the consul would continue togaze at the empty harbor, the empty coral reefs, the empty, burning sky.

The little band of exiles were at second break fast when the wireless man camein late to announce that a Red D. boat and the island of Curaçao had bothreported a hurricane coming north. Also, that much concern was felt for thesafety of the yacht Serapis. Three days before, in advance of hercoming, she had sent a wireless to Wilhelmstad, asking the captain of the portto reserve a berth for her. She expected to arrive the following morning.

But for forty-eight hours nothing had been heard from her, and it was believedshe had been overhauled by the hurricane. Owing to the presence on board ofSenator Hanley, the closest friend of the new President, the man who had madehim president, much concern was felt at Washington. To try to pick her up bywireless, the gun-boat Newarkhad been ordered from Culebra, the cruiserRaleigh, with Admiral Hardy on board, from Colon. It was possible shewould seek shelter at Porto Banos. The consul was ordered to report.

As Marshall wrote out his answer, the French consul exclaimed with interest:

“He is of importance, then, this senator?” he asked. “Is it that in yourcountry ships of war are at the service of a senator?”

Aiken, the wireless operator, grinned derisively.

“At the service of thissenator, they are!” he answered. “They call himthe ‘king-maker,’ the man behind the throne.”

“But in your country,” protested the Frenchman, “there is no throne. I thoughtyour president was elected by the people?”

“That’s what the people think,” answered Aiken. “In God’s country,” heexplained, “the trusts want a rich man in the Senate, with the same interestsas their own, to represent them. They chose Hanley. He picked out of thecandidates for the presidency the man he thought would help the interests. Henominated him, and the people voted for him. Hanley is what we call a ‘boss.’”

The Frenchman looked inquiringly at Marshall.

“The position of the boss is the more dangerous,” said Marshall gravely,“because it is unofficial, because there are no laws to curtail his powers. Menlike Senator Hanley are a menace to good government. They see in public officeonly a reward for party workers.”

“That’s right,” assented Aiken. “Your forty years’ service, Mr. Consul,wouldn’t count with Hanley. If he wanted your job, he’d throw you out as quickas he would a drunken cook.”

Mr. Marshall flushed painfully, and the French consul hastened to interrupt.

“Then, let us pray,” he exclaimed, with fervor, “that the hurricane has sunkthe Serapis, and all on board.”

Two hours later, the Serapis, showing she had met the hurricane and hadcome out second best, steamed into the harbor.

Her owner was young Herbert Livingstone, of Washington. He once had been in thediplomatic service, and, as minister to The Hague, wished to return to it. Inorder to bring this about he had subscribed liberally to the party campaignfund.

With him, among other distinguished persons, was the all-powerful Hanley. Thekidnapping of Hanley for the cruise, in itself, demonstrated the ability ofLivingstone as a diplomat. It was the opinion of many that it would surely leadto his appointment as a minister plenipotentiary. Livingstone was of the sameopinion. He had not lived long in the nation’s capital without observing thevalue of propinquity. How many men he knew were now paymasters, and secretariesof legation, solely because those high in the government met them daily at theMetropolitan Club, and preferred them in almost any other place. And if, afterthree weeks as his guest on board what the newspapers called his floatingpalace, the senator could refuse him even the prize, legation of Europe, therewas no value in modest merit. As yet, Livingstone had not hinted at hisambition. There was no need. To a statesman of Hanley’s astuteness, thelargeness of Livingstone’s contribution to the campaign fund wasself-explanatory.

After her wrestling-match with the hurricane, all those on board theSerapisseemed to find in land, even in the swamp land of Porto Banos, acompelling attraction. Before the anchors hit the water, they were in thelaunch. On reaching shore, they made at once for the consulate. There were manycables they wished to start on their way by wireless; cables to friends, tonewspapers, to the government.

José, the Colombian clerk, appalled by the unprecedented invasion of visitors,of visitors so distinguished, and Marshall, grateful for a chance to serve hisfellow-countrymen, and especially his countrywomen, were ubiquitous, eager,indispensable. At José’s desk the great senator, rolling his cigar between histeeth, was using, to José’s ecstasy, José’s own pen to write a reassuringmessage to the White House. At the consul’s desk a beautiful creature, all inlace and pearls, was struggling to compress the very low opinion she held of ahurricane into ten words. On his knee, Henry Cairns, the banker, was inditinginstructions to his Wall Street office, and upon himself Livingstone had takenthe responsibility of replying to the inquiries heaped upon Marshall’s desk,from many newspapers.

It was just before sunset, and Marshall produced his tea things, and the youngperson in pearls and lace, who was Miss Cairns, made tea for the women, and themen mixed gin and limes with tepid water. The consul apologized for proposing atoast in which they could not join. He begged to drink to those who had escapedthe perils of the sea. Had they been his oldest and nearest friends, his littlespeech could not have been more heart-felt and sincere. To his distress, itmoved one of the ladies to tears, and in embarrassment he turned to the men.

“I regret there is no ice,” he said, “but you know the rule of the tropics; assoon as a ship enters port, the ice-machine bursts.”

“I’ll tell the steward to send you some, sir,” said Livingstone, “and as longas we’re here.”

The senator showed his concern.

“As long as we’re here?” he gasped.

“Not over two days,” answered the owner nervously. “The chief says it will takeall of that to get her in shape. As you ought to know, Senator, she was prettybadly mauled.”

The senator gazed blankly out of the window. Beyond it lay the naked coralreefs, the empty sky, and the ragged palms of Porto Banos.

Livingstone felt that his legation was slipping from him.

“That wireless operator,” he continued hastily, “tells me there is a mostamusing place a few miles down the coast, Las Bocas, a sort of Coney Island,where the government people go for the summer. There’s surf bathing androulette and cafes chantants. He says there’s some Spanish dancers——”

The guests of the Serapisexclaimed with interest; the senator smiled.To Marshall the general enthusiasm over the thought of a ride on amerry-go-round suggested that the friends of Mr. Livingstone had found theirown society far from satisfying.

Greatly encouraged, Livingstone continued, with enthusiasm:

“And that wireless man said,” he added, “that with the launch we can get therein half an hour. We might run down after dinner.” He turned to Marshall.

“Will you join us, Mr. Consul?” he asked, “and dine with us, first?”

Marshall accepted with genuine pleasure. It had been many months since he hadsat at table with his own people. But he shook his head doubtfully.

“I was wondering about Las Bocas,” he explained, “if your going there might notget you in trouble at the next port. With a yacht, I think it is different, butLas Bocas is under quarantine.”

There was a chorus of exclamations.

“It’s not serious,” Marshall explained. “There was bubonic plague there, orsomething like it. You would be in no danger from that. It is only that youmight be held up by the regulations. Passenger steamers can’t land any one whohas been there at any other port of the West Indies. The English are especiallystrict. The Royal Mail won’t even receive any one on board here without acertificate from the English consul saying he has not visited Las Bocas. For anAmerican they would require the same guarantee from me. But I don’t think theregulations extend to yachts. I will inquire. I don’t wish to deprive you ofany of the many pleasures of Porto Banos,” he added, smiling, “but if you wererefused a landing at your next port I would blame myself.”

“It’s all right,” declared Livingstone decidedly. “It’s just as you say; yachtsand warships are exempt. Besides, I carry my own doctor, and if he won’t giveus a clean bill of health, I’ll make him walk the plank. At eight, then, atdinner. I’ll send the cutter for you. I can’t give you a salute, Mr. Consul,but you shall have all the side boys I can muster.”

Those from the yacht parted from their consul in the most friendly spirit.

“I think he’s charming!” exclaimed Miss Cairns. “And did you notice his novels?They were in every language. It must be terribly lonely down here, for a manlike that.”

“He’s the first of our consuls we’ve met on this trip,” growled her father,“that we’ve caught sober.”

“Sober!” exclaimed his wife indignantly.

“He’s one of the Marshalls of Vermont. I asked him.”

“I wonder,” mused Hanley, “how much the place is worth? Hamilton, one of thenew senators, has been deviling the life out of me to send his son somewhere.Says if he stays in Washington he’ll disgrace the family. I should think thisplace would drive any man to drink himself to death in three months, and youngHamilton, from what I’ve seen of him, ought to be able to do it in a week. Thatwould leave the place open for the next man.”

“There’s a postmaster in my State thinks he carried it.” The senator smiledgrimly. “He has consumption, and wants us to give him a consulship in thetropics. I’ll tell him I’ve seen Porto Banos, and that it’s just the place forhim.”

The senator’s pleasantry was not well received. But Miss Cairns alone had thetemerity to speak of what the others were thinking.

“What would become of Mr. Marshall?” she asked. The senator smiled tolerantly.

“I don’t know that I was thinking of Mr. Marshall,” he said. “I can’t recallanything he has done for this administration. You see, Miss Cairns,” heexplained, in the tone of one addressing a small child, “Marshall has beenabroad now for forty years, at the expense of the taxpayers. Some of us thinkmen who have lived that long on their fellow-countrymen had better come homeand get to work.”

Livingstone nodded solemnly in assent. He did not wish a post abroad at theexpense of the taxpayers. He was willing to pay for it. And then, with“ex-Minister” on his visiting cards, and a sense of duty well performed, forthe rest of his life he could join the other expatriates in Paris.

Just before dinner, the cruiser Raleighhaving discovered thewhereabouts of the Serapisby wireless, entered the harbor, and AdmiralHardy came to the yacht to call upon the senator, in whose behalf he had beenscouring the Caribbean Seas. Having paid his respects to that personage, theadmiral fell boisterously upon Marshall.

The two old gentlemen were friends of many years. They had met, officially andunofficially, in many strange parts of the world. To each the chance reunionwas a piece of tremendous good fortune. And throughout dinner the guests ofLivingstone, already bored with each other, found in them and their talk offormer days new and delightful entertainment. So much so that when, Marshallhaving assured them that the local quarantine regulations did not extend to ayacht, the men departed for Las Bocas, the women insisted that he and admiralremain behind.

It was for Marshall a wondrous evening. To foregather with his old friend whomhe had known since Hardy was a mad midshipman, to sit at the feet of his owncharming countrywomen, to listen to their soft, modulated laughter, to note howquickly they saw that to him the evening was a great event, and with what tacteach contributed to make it the more memorable; all served to wipe out themonths of bitter loneliness, the stigma of failure, the sense of undeservedneglect. In the moonlight, on the cool quarter-deck, they sat, in ahalf-circle, each of the two friends telling tales out of school, tales ofwhich the other was the hero or the victim, “inside” stories of greatoccasions, ceremonies, bombardments, unrecorded “shirt-sleeve” diplomacy.

Hardy had helped to open the Suez Canal. Marshall had assisted the Queen ofMadagascar to escape from the French invaders. On the Barbary Coast Hardy hadchased pirates. In Edinburgh Marshall had played chess with Carlyle. He hadseen Paris in mourning in the days of the siege, Paris in terror in the days ofthe Commune; he had known Garibaldi, Gambetta, the younger Dumas, the creatorof Pickwick.

“Do you remember that time in Tangier,” the admiral urged, “when I was amidshipman, and got into the bashaw’s harem?”

“Do you remember how I got you out?” Marshall replied grimly.

“And,” demanded Hardy, “do you remember when Adelina Patti paid a visit to theKearsargeat Marseilles in ’65—George Dewey was our second officer—andyou were bowing and backing away from her, and you backed into an open hatch,and she said ‘my French isn’t up to it’ what was it she said?”

“I didn’t hear it,” said Marshall; “I was too far down the hatch.”

“Do you mean the old Kearsarge?” asked Mrs. Cairns. “Were you in theservice then, Mr. Marshall?”

With loyal pride in his friend, the admiral answered for him:

“He was our consul-general at Marseilles!”

There was an uncomfortable moment. Even those denied imagination could notescape the contrast, could see in their mind’s eye the great harbor ofMarseilles, crowded with the shipping of the world, surrounding it thebeautiful city, the rival of Paris to the north, and on the battleship theyoung consul-general making his bow to the young Empress of Song. And now,before their actual eyes, they saw the village of Porto Banos, a black streakin the night, a row of mud shacks, at the end of the wharf a single lanternyellow in the clear moonlight.

Later in the evening Miss Cairns led the admiral to one side.

“Admiral,” she began eagerly, “tell me about your friend. Why is he here? Whydon’t they give him a place worthy of him? I’ve seen many of ourrepresentatives abroad, and I know we cannot afford to waste men like that.”The girl exclaimed indignantly: “He’s one of the most interesting men I’ve evermet! He’s lived everywhere, known every one. He’s a distinguished man, acultivated man; even I can see he knows his work, that he’s a diplomat, born,trained, that he’s——” The admiral interrupted with a growl.

“You don’t have to tell MEabout Henry,” he protested. “I’veknown Henry twenty-five years. If Henry got his deserts,” he exclaimed hotly,“he wouldn’t be a consul on this coral reef; he’d be a minister in Europe. Lookat me! We’re the same age. We started together. When Lincoln sent him toMorocco as consul, he signed my commission as a midshipman. Now I’m an admiral.Henry has twice my brains and he’s been a consul-general, and he’s here,back at the foot of the ladder!”

“Why?” demanded the girl.

“Because the navy is a service and the consular service isn’t a service. Menlike Senator Hanley use it to pay their debts. While Henry’s been serving hiscountry abroad, he’s lost his friends, lost his ‘pull.’ Those politicians up atWashington have no use for him. They don’t consider that a consul like Henrycan make a million dollars for his countrymen. He can keep them from shippinggoods where there’s no market, show them where there is a market.” The admiralsnorted contemptuously. “You don’t have to tell MEthe value ofa good consul. But those politicians don’t consider that. They only see that hehas a job worth a few hundred dollars, and they want it, and if he hasn’t otherpoliticians to protect him, they’ll take it.” The girl raised her head.

“Why don’t you speak to the senator?” she asked. “Tell him you’ve known him foryears, that——”

“Glad to do it!” exclaimed the admiral heartily. “It won’t be the first time.But Henry mustn’t know. He’s too confoundedly touchy. He hates the ideaof influence, hates men like Hanley, who abuse it. If he thought anything wasgiven to him except on his merits, he wouldn’t take it.”

“Then we won’t tell him,” said the girl. For a moment she hesitated.

“If I spoke to Mr. Hanley,” she asked, “told him what I learned to-night of Mr.Marshall, would it have any effect?”

“Don’t know how it will affect Hanley,” said the sailor, “but if you askedmeto make anybody a consul-general, I’d make him an ambassador.”

Later in the evening Hanley and Livingstone were seated alone on deck. Thevisit to Las Bocas had not proved amusing, but, much to Livingstone’s relief,his honored guest was now in good-humor. He took his cigar from his lips, onlyto sip at a long cool drink. He was in a mood flatteringly confidential andcommunicative.

“People have the strangest idea of what I can do for them,” he laughed. It washis pose to pretend he was without authority. “They believe I’ve only to wave awand, and get them anything they want. I thought I’d be safe from them on boarda yacht.”

Livingstone, in ignorance of what was coming, squirmed apprehensively.

“But it seems,” the senator went on, “I’m at the mercy of a conspiracy. Thewomen folk want me to do something for this fellow Marshall. If they had theirway, they’d send him to the Court of St. James. And old Hardy, too, tackled meabout him. So did Miss Cairns. And then Marshall himself got me behind thewheel-house, and I thought he was going to tell me how good he was, too! But hedidn’t.”

As though the joke were on himself, the senator laughed appreciatively.

“Told me, instead, that Hardy ought to be a vice-admiral.”

Livingstone, also, laughed, with the satisfied air of one who cannot betricked.

“They fixed it up between them,” he explained, “each was to put in a good wordfor the other.” He nodded eagerly. “That’s what Ithink.”

There were moments during the cruise when Senator Hanley would have foundrelief in dropping his host overboard. With mock deference, the older maninclined his head.

“That’s what youthink, is it?” he asked. “Livingstone,” he added, “youcertainly are a great judge of men!”

The next morning, old man Marshall woke with a lightness at his heart that hadbeen long absent. For a moment, conscious only that he was happy, he laybetween sleep and waking, frowning up at his canopy of mosquito net, trying torealize what change had come to him. Then he remembered. His old friend hadreturned. New friends had come into his life and welcomed him kindly. He was nolonger lonely. As eager as a boy, he ran to the window. He had not beendreaming. In the harbor lay the pretty yacht, the stately, white-hulledwar-ship. The flag that drooped from the stern of each caused his throat totighten, brought warm tears to his eyes, fresh resolve to his discouraged,troubled spirit. When he knelt beside his bed, his heart poured out his thanksin gratitude and gladness.

While he was dressing, a blue-jacket brought a note from the admiral. Itinvited him to tea on board the war-ship, with the guests of theSerapis. His old friend added that he was coming to lunch with hisconsul, and wanted time reserved for a long talk. The consul agreed gladly. Hewas in holiday humor. The day promised to repeat the good moments of the nightprevious.

At nine o’clock, through the open door of the consulate, Marshall saw Aiken,the wireless operator, signaling from the wharf excitedly to the yacht, and aboat leave the ship and return. Almost immediately the launch, carrying severalpassengers, again made the trip shoreward.

Half an hour later, Senator Hanley, Miss Cairns, and Livingstone came up thewaterfront, and entering the consulate, seated themselves around Marshall’sdesk. Livingstone was sunk in melancholy. The senator, on the contrary, wassmiling broadly. His manner was one of distinct relief. He greeted the consulwith hearty good-humor.

“I’m ordered home!” he announced gleefully. Then, remembering the presence ofLivingstone, he hastened to add: “I needn’t say how sorry I am to give up myyachting trip, but orders are orders. The President,” he explained to Marshall,“cables me this morning to come back and take my coat off.” The prospect, as achange from playing bridge on a pleasure boat, seemed far from depressing him.

“Those filibusters in the Senate,” he continued genially, “are making troubleagain. They think they’ve got me out of the way for another month, but they’llfind they’re wrong. When that bill comes up, they’ll find me at the old standand ready for business!” Marshall did not attempt to conceal his personaldisappointment.

“I am so sorry you are leaving,” he said; “selfishly sorry, I mean. I’d hopedyou all would be here for several days.” He looked inquiringly towardLivingstone.

“I understood the Serapiswas disabled,” he explained.

“She is,” answered Hanley. “So’s the Raleigh. At a pinch, the admiralmight have stretched the regulations and carried me to Jamaica, but theRaleigh’sengines are knocked about too. I’ve GOT to reach KingstonThursday. The German boat leaves there Thursday for New York. At first itlooked as though I couldn’t do it, but we find that the Royal Mail is dueto-day, and she can get to Kingston Wednesday night. It’s a great piece ofluck. I wouldn’t bother you with my troubles,” the senator explainedpleasantly, “but the agent of the Royal Mail here won’t sell me a ticket untilyou’ve put your seal to this.” He extended a piece of printed paper.

As Hanley had been talking, the face of the consul had grown grave. He acceptedthe paper, but did not look at it. Instead, he regarded the senator withtroubled eyes. When he spoke, his tone was one of genuine concern.

“It is most unfortunate,” he said. “But I am afraid the Royal Mailwillnot take you on board. Because of Las Bocas,” he explained. “If we had onlyknown!” he added remorsefully. “It is mostunfortunate.”

“Because of Las Bocas?” echoed Hanley.

“You don’t mean they’ll refuse to take me to Jamaica because I spent half anhour at the end of a wharf listening to a squeaky gramophone?”

“The trouble,” explained Marshall, “is this: if they carried you, all the otherpassengers would be held in quarantine for ten days, and there are fines topay, and there would be difficulties over the mails. But,” he added hopefully,“maybe the regulations have been altered. I will see her captain, and tellhim——”

“See her captain!” objected Hanley. “Why see the captain? He doesn’t know I’vebeen to that place. Why tell him?All I need is a clean bill of healthfrom you. That’s all HEwants. You have only to sign thatpaper.” Marshall regarded the senator with surprise.

“But I can’t,” he said.

“You can’t? Why not?”

“Because it certifies to the fact that you have not visited Las Bocas.Unfortunately, you have visited Las Bocas.”

The senator had been walking up and down the room. Now he seated himself, andstared at Marshall curiously.

“It’s like this, Mr. Marshall,” he began quietly. “The President desires mypresence in Washington, thinks I can be of some use to him there in helpingcarry out certain party measures—measures to which he pledged himself beforehis election. Down here, a British steamship line has laid down local ruleswhich, in my case anyway, are ridiculous. The question is, are you going to bebound by the red tape of a ha’penny British colony, or by your oath to thePresident of the United States?”

The sophistry amused Marshall. He smiled good-naturedly and shook his head.

“I’m afraid, Senator,” he said, “that way of putting it is hardly fair.Unfortunately, the question is one of fact. I will explain to the captain——”

“You will explain nothing to the captain!” interrupted Hanley. “This is amatter which concerns no one but our two selves. I am not asking favors ofsteamboat captains. I am asking an American consul to assist an Americancitizen in trouble, and,” he added, with heavy sarcasm, “incidentally, to carryout the wishes of his President.”

Marshall regarded the senator with an expression of both surprise anddisbelief.

“Are you asking me to put my name to what is not so?” he said. “Are youserious?”

“That paper, Mr. Marshall,” returned Hanley steadily, “is a mere form, a pieceof red tape. There’s no more danger of my carrying the plague to Jamaica thanof my carrying a dynamite bomb. You knowthat.”

“I doknow that,” assented Marshall heartily. “I appreciate yourposition, and I regret it exceedingly. You are the innocent victim of aregulation which is a wise regulation, but which is most unfair to you. My ownposition,” he added, “is not important, but you can believe me, it is not easy.It is certainly no pleasure for me to be unable to help you.”

Hanley was leaning forward, his hands on his knees, his eyes watching Marshallclosely. “Then you refuse?” he said. “Why?”

Marshall regarded the senator steadily. His manner was untroubled. The look heturned upon Hanley was one of grave disapproval.

“You know why,” he answered quietly. “It is impossible.”

In sudden anger Hanley rose. Marshall, who had been seated behind his desk,also rose. For a moment, in silence, the two men confronted each other. ThenHanley spoke; his tone was harsh and threatening.

“Then I am to understand,” he exclaimed, “that you refuse to carry out thewishes of a United States Senator and of the President of the United States?”

“Then I am to understand,” he exclaimed, “that you refuse to carry out thewishes of a United States Senator and of the President of the United States?”

In front of Marshall, on his desk, was the little iron stamp of the consulate.Protectingly, almost caressingly, he laid his hand upon it.

“I refuse,” he corrected, “to place the seal of this consulate on a lie.”

There was a moment’s pause. Miss Cairns, unwilling to remain, and unable towithdraw, clasped her hands unhappily and stared at the floor. Livingstoneexclaimed in indignant protest. Hanley moved a step nearer and, to emphasizewhat he said, tapped his knuckles on the desk. With the air of one confident ofhis advantage, he spoke slowly and softly.

“Do you appreciate,” he asked, “that, while you may be of some importance downhere in this fever swamp, in Washington I am supposed to carry some weight? Doyou appreciate that I am a senator from a State that numbers four millions ofpeople, and that you are preventing me from serving those people?” Marshallinclined his head gravely and politely.

“And I want you to appreciate,” he said, “that while I have no weight atWashington, in this fever swamp I have the honor to represent eighty millionsof people, and as long as that consular sign is over my door I don’t intend toprostitute it for you, or the President of the United States, or any oneof those eighty millions.”

Of the two men, the first to lower his eyes was Hanley. He laughed shortly, andwalked to the door. There he turned, and indifferently, as though the incidentno longer interested him, drew out his watch.

“Mr. Marshall,” he said, “if the cable is working, I’ll take your tin sign awayfrom you by sunset.”

For one of Marshall’s traditions, to such a speech there was no answer savesilence. He bowed, and, apparently serene and undismayed, resumed his seat.From the contest, judging from the manner of each, it was Marshall, not Hanley,who had emerged victorious.

But Miss Cairns was not deceived. Under the unexpected blow, Marshall hadturned older. His clear blue eyes had grown less alert, his broad shouldersseemed to stoop. In sympathy, her own eyes filled with sudden tears.

“What will you do?” she whispered.

“I don’t know what I shall do,” said Marshall simply. “I should have liked tohave resigned. It’s a prettier finish. After forty years—to be dismissed bycable is—it’s a poor way of ending it.”

Miss Cairns rose and walked to the door. There she turned and looked back.

“I am sorry,” she said. And both understood that in saying no more than thatshe had best shown her sympathy.

An hour later the sympathy of Admiral Hardy was expressed more directly.

“If he comes on board my ship,” roared that gentleman, “I’ll push him down anammunition hoist and break his damned neck!”

Marshall laughed delightedly. The loyalty of his old friend was never sowelcome.

“You’ll treat him with every courtesy,” he said. “The only satisfaction he getsout of this is to see that he has hurt me. We will not give him thatsatisfaction.”

But Marshall found that to conceal his wound was more difficult than he hadanticipated. When, at tea time, on the deck of the war-ship, he again metSenator Hanley and the guests of the Serapis, he could not forget thathis career had come to an end. There was much to remind him that this was so.He was made aware of it by the sad, sympathetic glances of the women; by theirtactful courtesies; by the fact that Livingstone, anxious to propitiate Hanley,treated him rudely; by the sight of the young officers, each just starting upona career of honor, and possible glory, as his career ended in humiliation; andby the big war-ship herself, that recalled certain crises when he had only topress a button and war-ships had come at his bidding.

At five o’clock there was an awkward moment. The Royal Mail boat, having takenon her cargo, passed out of the harbor on her way to Jamaica, and dipped hercolors. Senator Hanley, abandoned to his fate, observed her departure insilence.

Livingstone, hovering at his side, asked sympathetically: “Have they answeredyour cable, sir?”

“They have,” said Hanley gruffly.

“Was it—was it satisfactory?” pursued the diplomat.

“It was,” said the senator, with emphasis.

Far from discouraged, Livingstone continued his inquiries.

“And when,” he asked eagerly, “are you going to tell him?”

“Now!” said the senator.

The guests were leaving the ship. When all were seated in the admiral’s steamlaunch, the admiral descended the accommodation ladder and himself picked upthe tiller ropes.

“Mr. Marshall,” he called, “when I bring the launch broadside to the ship andstop her, you will stand ready to receive the consul’s salute.”

Involuntarily, Marshall uttered an exclamation of protest. He had forgottenthat on leaving the war-ship, as consul, he was entitled to seven guns. Had heremembered, he would have insisted that the ceremony be omitted. He knew thatthe admiral wished to show his loyalty, knew that his old friend was now payinghim this honor only as a rebuke to Hanley. But the ceremony was no longer anhonor. Hanley had made of it a mockery. It served only to emphasize what hadbeen taken from him. But, without a scene, it now was too late to avoid it. Thefirst of the seven guns had roared from the bow, and, as often he had stoodbefore, as never he would so stand again, Marshall took his place at thegangway of the launch. His eyes were fixed on the flag, his gray head wasuncovered, his hat was pressed above his heart.

For the first time since Hanley had left the consulate, he fell into suddenterror lest he might give way to his emotions. Indignant at the thought, heheld himself erect. His face was set like a mask, his eyes were untroubled. Hewas determined they should not see that he was suffering.

Another gun spat out a burst of white smoke, a stab of flame. There was anechoing roar. Another and another followed. Marshall counted seven, and then,with a bow to the admiral, backed from the gangway.

And then another gun shattered the hot, heavy silence. Marshall, confused,embarrassed, assuming he had counted wrong, hastily returned to his place. Butagain before he could leave it, in savage haste a ninth gun roared out itsgreeting. He could not still be mistaken. He turned appealingly to his friend.The eyes of the admiral were fixed upon the war-ship. Again a gun shattered thesilence. Was it a jest? Were they laughing at him? Marshall flushed miserably.He gave a swift glance toward the others. They were smiling. Then it wasa jest. Behind his back, something of which they all were cognizant was goingforward. The face of Livingstone alone betrayed a like bewilderment to his own.But the others, who knew, were mocking him.

For the thirteenth time a gun shook the brooding swamp land of Porto Banos. Andthen, and not until then, did the flag crawl slowly from the mast-head. MaryCairns broke the tenseness by bursting into tears. But Marshall saw that everyone else, save she and Livingstone, were still smiling. Even the bluejackets incharge of the launch were grinning at him. He was beset by smiling faces. Andthen from the war-ship, unchecked, came, against all regulations, three long,splendid cheers.

Marshall felt his lips quivering, the warm tears forcing their way to his eyes.He turned beseechingly to his friend. His voice trembled.

“Charles,” he begged, “are they laughing at me?”

Eagerly, before the other would answer, Senator Hanley tossed his cigar intothe water and, scrambling forward, seized Marshall by the hand.

“Mr. Marshall,” he cried, “our President has great faith in Abraham Lincoln’sjudgment of men. And this salute means that this morning he appointed you ournew minister to The Hague. I’m one of those politicians who keeps his word. Itoldyou I’d take your tin sign away from you by sunset. I’ve done it!”

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