Ainslee's, Vol. 15, No. 5, June 1905

Simeon’s own Spanish was too poor to undeceive them, but, thinking he might be of some use, he went back with them, and rigged out a set of splints, that made it possible to carry the young man to their encampment, about a mile away. In gratitude for his services, they accompanied him to the ship on his return, mounting him on one of their horses and forming a bodyguard round him. It was then that they proposed the guanaco hunt to the officers of the ship; their own visit to the Straits being simply in pursuit of game.

The morning of the hunt the captain described as unusually warm for that region, even in January, and not particularly clear; there was a haze that was just not a fog. The Indians met them about a mile back from the shore, bringing a dozen extra horses for their guests. The quietest beast was selected for Ponsonby, but its docility was so questionable, and the rider’s inexperience so evident, that the captain persuaded him to give up the chase, and content himself with a ride to the encampment to inquire about his patient. The last ever seen of him he was sitting on horseback watching the departing hunt.

Guanacos in large numbers had been seen on the plains to the northwest, whereas the Indian camp lay to the northeast, and Ponsonby’s route was widely divergent to that of the hunters. All that was known is that he never reached the encampment; perhaps he mistook the trail, and, having left his compass in his cabin, had no means of ascertaining his direction – or perhaps his horse became unmanageable and bolted, carrying him far inland; at all events, his chance without a compass was poor, for a tremendous rain came on, which lasted for three days, leadening the sky to an even gray, with no mark of setting or rising sun.

At the end of four days the horse he had ridden came into camp riderless; its saddle had been removed, probably by Simeon, to make a pillow at night, and its whole appearance bespoke long travel. For a fortnight the ship’s company and the Indians scoured the country seeking him. They sent up rockets at night, and lighted fires on the hilltops by day; they wearied themselves and the tireless Indians, and at last, knowing the limits of human endurance in a case like Ponsonby’s, they gave up in despair.

All these incidents formed the main topics of conversation in the long evenings in the saloon of the yacht. In addition to Señor Lopez and the captain of the Tintoretto, Stephen had secured the services of a young physician with a taste for adventure, and his own sailing master was a person of intelligence, so that the little party brought a variety of experience to the councils held on board ship or round the camp fire when their search carried them so far inland that it was impossible to return to the yacht at night. Several times, accompanied by Pecheray guides, they had been gone for ten days at a time, but never found a trace of the lost man. There was the faint possibility that he had been found and cared for by wandering Indians, but what was far more likely was that French might stumble upon the spot where he died. Even in that land of beasts and birds of prey something would be left in evidence.

The daylight hours were now so few that little could be accomplished, and the cold was becoming severe. A violent snowstorm on the fifteenth of May decided French to give up the search and go home. Accordingly, they steamed out of the Straits of Magellan and turned the vessel northward, keeping as near the Patagonian shore as was prudent, in the hope of sighting canoes.

They had been steaming in this direction for about three hours, going slowly and keeping a sharp outlook toward the land, when the captain called French’s attention to an opening in the coast line, where the Gallegos River empties into the sea. An impulse – perhaps it might more truly be called an inspiration – induced French to order the yacht brought to anchor in the bay. Although the shore seemed deserted, several canoes filled with Indians immediately put out for the yacht, as was, indeed, their invariable custom. The boats were large, capable of holding six or eight people in the two ends, while in the middle was the inevitable clay hearth, on which smoldered the fire of hemlock. As they approached the yacht, the Indians began begging for rum and tobacco, some by gestures and some in a patois, in which Spanish and Indian words were strangely blended; and French, whose policy was always to secure their good will, invited them on board and ordered the steward to bring spirits and tobacco, and also a plentiful supply of ship biscuit and sweets.

The men were of medium size, and not bad looking, and for the most part dressed in loose-fitting mantles of guanaco skins, stained bright red. In spite of the cold, this one garment was their only protection, and even this they would offer in exchange for rum. Knowing their customs, French was astonished to find the first man who stepped on board wearing the coat of civilization under his mantle, and his astonishment gave way to alarm when he recognized an old checked cutaway of Simeon’s, which had done service for many a winter at Harmouth, and was as unmistakable as the features of its lost owner. While Stephen stared – too agitated to find a word of Spanish – the Indian tossed off half a tumbler of raw whisky at a gulp and, drawing from the pocket of poor Simeon’s coat a silver flask, he presented it to the steward to be filled with the same genial fluid. The flask was Stephen’s parting gift to Simeon, and marked with his name.

The excitement now became intense, for the Indians declared that the owner of the coat was alive, and the one who was wearing it, and who seemed to exercise some authority over the others, began an explanation in signs. He pointed to a cliff that overhung the stony beach at the mouth of the river, and, lifting his hand high above his head; brought it down with a violent gesture, as if to simulate a fall. He next motioned toward the canoes, talking volubly all the while, though his language was unintelligible to anyone except the captain of the Tintoretto, who picked out a word here and there.

The tribes of the Straits of Magellan and the adjacent coasts vary greatly in their characteristics; some have the impassive bearing we associate with the Indian, and some are imitative, reproducing sounds and gestures with surprising exactness.

It was not difficult to guess that Simeon had fallen over the cliff and been found by the Indians, who are always skirting the shore in their canoes, and the Spanish captain made out that he was now in one of their boats higher up the river. When the Indian was asked whether he would guide them to the place, he hesitated until bribed by rum and provisions, and then he agreed to go in his own canoe and bring Simeon to the yacht, where the exchange was to be effected. Why he hesitated remained a mystery, unless Ponsonby’s knowledge of herbs had made him of value to the tribe.

French immediately ordered the various tins and boxes, containing the supply of food promised, to be placed conspicuously on the deck as an earnest of his honesty in the barter, and when a small keg of rum was added, the satisfaction was complete; four or five Indians followed their leader into his canoe and paddled up the river.

They were gone so long – over three hours – that French began to curse his folly in trusting them, and he was about to follow them up in the launch, when he saw their canoe coming round a bend in the stream. At the first glance it seemed filled with Indians only, and it was not until it was actually alongside that he detected a mummy-like form lying in the stern, which he guessed to be Simeon.

Half a dozen sturdy arms made the transfer, by means of a hammock, from the canoe to the yacht, and Simeon, alive but quite unconscious, was laid on the deck. He had probably been subjected by the removal to more pain than in his enfeebled condition he could bear, and it required long and patient exertion on the part of the doctor before he was revived from his syncope.

His condition was pitiable; from an injury to the spine he was a helpless cripple, while the arm which had been broken in his fall had knit in a way to render it perfectly useless. He was fearfully emaciated, probably from the lack of palatable food, and his expression was vacant.

French gave up his own deck cabin, the most commodious in size, and before another hour had passed Simeon was lying in a comfortable bed, clean, warm, devotedly tended, but apparently dying.

For forty-eight hours they kept the yacht within the shelter of the river, fearing the effect of motion on that feeble flame of life, but the warmth and nourishment soon began to tell, and on the third day he recognized French, and tried to murmur some words of gratitude and pleasure.

That night Stephen called the doctor into his own room and shut the door. He wanted to put a very simple question, one which might have been asked anywhere out of Simeon’s hearing, and yet the effort seemed almost beyond his powers.

“Can he live?”

The words came in such a hoarse, unnatural voice that the doctor, a sensitive man, feared to deal the blow of truth. This was a very marvel of friendship; like the love of David and Jonathan, it passed the love of women.

The doctor temporized. Mr. Ponsonby had rallied wonderfully; his constitution was much stronger than he had been given to understand; it was rather soon to give a definite opinion, but —

Here Stephen interrupted him.

“Great God, man! Can’t you answer a plain question. Yes or no?”

The doctor drew himself up and, to quote his own language, “let him have it straight.”

“If he lives to get home it will be a good deal more than I expect of him.”

French nodded toward the door, and turned his back.

That night he relieved the doctor’s watch by sitting up with his friend, and, having given him his broth at midnight, was almost dozing in his chair when a whisper from Simeon roused him. The sound was so faint, he held his breath to listen.

“Stephen, I want to see Deena.”

French’s heart began thumping like the screw of his yacht. How he thanked God that he could look his friend in the face as he answered:

“So you shall, old man; just as quickly as steam can carry you to her.”

A look of satisfaction came into the tired eyes.

“It will be a race with death,” he said, “but perhaps – thank you, Stephen.” And he fell asleep.

CHAPTER X

With Deena the spring moved drearily. Her position was strangely anomalous; she was neither wife nor widow, without the right to be glad or sad – only dumbly wretched. She could not mourn for a husband who might be living, nor could she ignore the fact that he might be dead, and all the while that parting scene with Stephen burned into her conscience like a brand.

She shut herself up with Polly and the baby, and hardly went out of the house while she remained in New York. Love for the child crept deep into her heart and soothed her into patience when all else failed.

In May the house in Harmouth returned to her keeping, the lease having expired, and she left the Sixty-fifth Street household with reluctance to take up her old life. In the great city she had been but a human atom. Her conduct, her unhappiness, her very existence mattered to no one there, except, perhaps, to Ben and Polly, who were as tender and sympathetic as such vigorous people could be; but in Harmouth every creature was interested in Simeon’s fate, and watched Deena with a curiosity she found maddening.

She felt herself the main topic of conversation; she never approached two people talking in the street that they didn’t break off in guilty confusion, and comments upon her mode of dressing and daily occupations were continually repeated to her in the form of censure. Her own family were especially out of touch, for their assumption that she mourned her husband as Polly would have done made her feel like an impostor. They did not give her much of their company, for their newly found fortune made them even more self-centered than their misfortunes. Dicky was the exception; perhaps because he had started in life hard as nails, and so couldn’t grow any harder. At all events, Deena thought she discerned a reluctant affection in his greeting that was infinitely flattering.

Stephen wrote whenever he could catch the Chilian mail boats on their way through the Straits. His letters were those of a man under the strong hand of restraint; admirable letters, that filled her with respect for him and shame at her own craving for “one word more.”

On the twenty-fifth of May she had a cable that changed the face of events. It was from Montevideo.

Have found Simeon. Desperately ill. On our way home.

    S. French.

The news spread over the town like wildfire. The local paper issued an extra; a thing it had not done since the assassination of Mr. McKinley. As soon as Harmouth knew Mrs. Ponsonby’s exact status it became distinctly friendly. People are helpful by instinct, and offers of neighborly assistance poured in from all sides.

Deena left nothing undone that could, by anticipation, add to Simeon’s comfort. His room was ready, a nurse engaged, and all the paraphernalia belonging to the care of the sick collected long before the time due for his arrival. She counted upon seeing him four weeks from the date of the cable. The regular trip of the mail boats between Rio and New York is twenty days; from Montevideo two days more; to that must be added another day to reach Boston, and she was warned that a yacht would go more slowly than a large steamer; she therefore concluded the third week in June would bring them.

The lot of women is to wait, and they do it under a pressure of nervous strain that makes it slow torture. No turn of fortune could have surprised Deena at this crisis, for her imagination had pictured every possibility.

When a summer storm blackened the sky she saw the yacht tempest-tossed and sinking, driven before a tropical cyclone; when the sun shone, she fancied it sailing gayly into port with Simeon restored to health, expecting to find her as he left her – the willing slave, the careful housewife – and she shivered and went pale at the thought; and then in a revulsion of feeling she saw him dying, and she was ready to cast herself at his feet, and tell him all – how she had tried to do right, how she had struggled against her love for Stephen. Perhaps he would have mercy upon her and let her go away, all by herself, to wrestle with her heart.

She couldn’t eat; she couldn’t sleep. She grew so wan and thin she was like a ghost of her old self.

Her mother said:

“My dear, you must stop fretting. I am sure, under the care of that clever young doctor Mr. French took down, and with the comforts of the yacht, your husband will be quite himself by the time he gets home.”

And her father added:

“You must not be so impatient, Deena; it is mighty nasty sailing through West Indian waters, and a boat of that size doesn’t carry enough fuel for a prolonged voyage; they will have to stop for coal somewhere on their way up.”