Chapter 23

IN WHICH WE SAIL THE SILVER RIVER AND I SEE A FACE I KNOW

I had covered, perhaps, almost as much open sea when I was blown out of Bolderhead in the sloop, as now lay between the Scarboro and Cape St. Antonio. But, as you might say, I had taken that first trip blindly. This time I had my eyes open and all my wits about me--and I knew that we had taken a big contract. The Wavecrest was a mere cockle-shell in which to cross such a waste of open sea as that which lay between us and the mouth of Rio de la Plata.

But the Wavecrest was a seaworthy craft, and that indeed had been proved. She had been freshly caulked while she lay on the deck of the Scarboro, and her seams did not let in enough water to keep her sweet. She sailed well in either a light or heavy wind and I really had no fear that we should not make the great seaport of the Argentine Republic all in good time.

It was bad for poor Ben Gibson, however. The sun was hot and in the cabin the atmosphere was sometimes stifling. However, the captain had warned me to keep the fellow as quiet as possible and not to move him if it could be helped before we reached our destination.

Old Tom sailed the sloop most of the time, and I gave my attention to the wounded youth. But we tried to keep something like watch and watch. We only slept by snatches, however, and never a cloud appeared in the sky as big as a man's hand that we did not watch it cautiously. As for sail, or steam, we saw neither till we raised the cloudy headland that marked Cape St. Antonio on the skyline.

It was a pretty tame cruise to write about, for nothing really occurred. We were only on the watch for some untoward happening; that made it nerve wracking. But even when we sighted the spur of land which we knew marked the southern boundary of the de la Plata--the widest mouth of any river on the globe, for it is not masked by islands at all--we were not out of danger. The peril of gales still menaced us. We had many miles to sail yet before we reached Buenos Ayres.

Indeed, we got a stiff blow before sighting Point Piedras; but it favored us after all, and the Wavecrest ran before it at a spanking pace. We had sighted plenty of other craft now--both sail and steam. One great, red-funneled steamship came in behind us, and at first we thought it was making for Montevideo, which is on the northern side of the river; but finally old Tom made out the steamer and what she was.

"It's one of the Bayne Line steamers from Boston," he declared. "I know them red pipes. They touch at Para, Bahia, and other ports. She's bound for Buenos Ayres now--no doubt of it."

The little squall that had kicked up something of a sea had now passed. The great steamship overhauled us rapidly. I chanced to be at the helm and I kept my head over my shoulder a good deal of the time, watching the approach of the great, rusty-hulled craft. Somehow I felt as though I had some connection with the boat. A foolish feeling, perhaps; yet I could not shake it off.

The Wavecrest was bowling along nicely so I could give my attention to the big ship, which I soon made out to be the Peveril. Old Tom was right. She was one of the Bayne Line ships, coming from Boston--coming from home, as you might say! To tell the truth, I was a good bit home-sick.

I let my mind wander back to Bolderhead. Circumstances had made it possible for me to leave the Scarboro, and I was now nearing Buenos Ayres where I had written my mother to cable me money at the American consul's bureau. I had got enough of whaling. Adventure and travel is all right; but I had had a taste of it, and found it to be merely an alias for hard work!

"It's me for home on the first steamship going north," I told myself, wisely. "I've had adventure enough to last me a while."

I was sailing on the Silver River, as the exploring Spaniards had first called this noble stream, and there might be a lot of fun and hard work ahead of me if I remained with old Tom and Ben Gibson until they rejoined the Scarboro. But I wasn't tied to them. I'd probably have plenty of money with which to pay my passage home; and just then I wanted to see my mother, and Ham Mayberry, and lots of other folk in Bolderhead, more than I wanted to be knocking about in strange quarters of the world.

I glanced around at the steamship again. She had almost caught up to us, for although the sloop had a fair wind, the Peveril was sailing three lengths to our one. On and on she came, the smoke pouring from her stacks. Her high, rusty side loomed up not more than a cable's length away. I could see the passengers walking on her upper decks, and the officers on her bridge. Below, the ports were open, their steel shutters let down on their chains like drop-shelves.

Some of the crew were looking out idly upon the Wavecrest as the steamship slipped by. A cook in a white cap came to one port and threw some slop into the sea. As he emptied the bucket my eyes roved to the very next port aft. There somebody sat peeling vegetables. I could see the flash of the knife in the sunlight, and the long paring of potato peel curling off the knifeblade.

It was an idle glance I had turned upon the vegetable peeler. He was only a cook's apprentice, or scullion. There was no reason why my gaze should have fastened upon him with interest. Yet my eyes lingered, and suddenly the fellow raised his head and his face was turned toward the open port.

The mental shock I experienced made me inattentive to my helm and the Wavecrest fell off. Old Tom sang out to know what I was about, and silently I brought the sloop's nose back again. The steamship had slipped by us and the wake of her set the little craft to jumping.

My mind was in a fog. I steered mechanically. The face I had seen at the open port of the Peveril was still before me, as in a vision. I knew I had not been tricked by any hallucination. I had not even been thinking of the fellow at the time. And I was sure that the cook's assistant aboard the Peveril had not seen and recognized me.

But I could not be mistaken in my identification of that face at the port. It was that of my cousin, Paul Downes--Paul Downes, here on the de la Plata, thousands of miles from home, and evidently working in the menial position of cook's helper on the steamship, Peveril! Is it to be wondered that I was amazed?