Belowdecks in his cabin on the Ebro, George was not so lucky.
"And now, my angel," George said. He reached for the Senhorita's veil.
"I could kiss you," said Mac, and lifted the veil for himself.
George was about to roar with well-earned laughter when he saw the two large black bags on either side of what was the back of a deep leather armchair. The man slumped in the seat was concealed by the wide wings connected by a high, studded arch in the English style. He suddenly stood up, turned round and surprised them both. Mac gasped; George was only momentarily startled. The figure was, of course, Austin. He kicked open one of the black bags and began uncorking several of the bottles of claret he had cradled for two hours.
George took from one of the bags several of the ten small but heavy sacks. He shook them: gold.
"You'll never know how difficult—*' began Austin.
George interrupted. "Perhaps you might have preferred to buy the Senhorita's clothes?" They all burst into laughter and then the now united trio began to drink.
Three separate splashes outside the cabin, and the subsequent boisterous Portuguese as the boatmen and port official clambered into the vessel that was to take them to their sexual destinations that night, were heard some time later only by Mac, whose eyes flickered, seeing his companions, as exhausted as he was, sprawled asleep on the two brass beds. Lying in a leather armchair, Mac wiped the red paint from his lips and rouge from his cheeks. George was right—he could never have done it sober. If they could get through the next twelve hours to a clanging of bells and the midday sailing time, they would be, this time at least, tantamount to being home and dry.
Mac was never quite sure whether it was reality, a phantom or a vision of the future, but through the open porthole, in a flash of light, as a firework silently exploded in the distance, he saw on the peak of the mountain Corcovado a great silhouette of Christ, arms spread—beneficent. Before he faded into sleep that night, Mac said a little prayer.
§
The sparkling waters of Guanabara Bay glistened as the hot tropic sun beat down without mercy. Already much of the morning had passed, and aboard the Ebro preparations had almost been completed to depart. The small boat in the distance meant very little to most of the passengers, who were taking their last look at South America.
But to George, who was settled in a chair at the bow, the approaching vessel was trouble. An elderly Portuguese with whom George had struck up acquaintance lent him a telescopic eyeglass that confirmed his worst suspicions. The boat, seen more fully, was by no means small. It was a Customs launch with an engine—a steam pinnace. Several faces were turned toward the Ebro as its speed of eight knots brought the craft nearer.
George identified Braga, Maua and Company's Manager; his assistant, seen only briefly by George on the steps of the company building before Mac's pursuit, and—worse— Senhor Meyers, broker on the Exchange. George suddenly felt the heat. The elderly Portuguese excitedly, but politely, asked for the glass as the small boat began to flash a light. The little Morse code George had picked up in the Army was enough to confirm his fears. Sweat began to bead his brow. He broke open his collar. So near and yet so far.
They were coming to search the ship. For Mac, the police uniforms and port officials on the craft were too numerous to hope that they might escape a cursory check; this was to be thorough. George bowed to the Portuguese and left as the old man stood up to peer at the small boat, which had already disappeared beneath the high bow.
As George reached the steps to go below, he heard engines cut and voices shouting orders, directed at the other craft offloading final supplies, to clear a path to the floating platform and gangway.
§
"They're gonna check the ship, boys!" said George grimly. Mac sat down slowly—now ashen. "My God, George..." he began.
Austin looked quickly at George. "What are we going to do?"
George was looking over the large room of his cabin with a thoroughness that even Meyers would have envied. Austin,
George could explain, was merely a friend come to bid "Mr. Wilson" farewell. Then they both might question their interrogators for a more accurate, description of this suspected blackguard, for if they should catch a mere glimpse of him in the future, they could immediately inform the relevant authorities—that, at least, was the way the conversation should go. In point of fact, Austin had not bought a ticket at that time because, should the unexpected occur, as indeed it was at that very moment, he would at least be on hand, and anonymous, to attempt some aid should Mac require it—if he were unavoidably detained in the tropics.
George looked at Mac. Now he was really shaken. It was eleven o'clock precisely.
§
"Where is the ticket agent?" Braga's voice was authoritative and brought the man running over between boxes and cartons. Slaves, merchants, officials, officers and sailors milled about on deck as cargo was stowed away down the foreward hatch, and bags ported to the individual cabins of first and second class. Third and steerage had a separate gangway to the rear of the ship and enjoyed accommodation on a par with the sacks of coffee now filling the cargo holds.
"I am here, senhores, I am here," said the agent as he arrived at the group. It was unnecessary, but he saluted. The group was imposing, to say the least.
"We wish to see the passports." The voice that said this was quiet and incisive. Meyers seldom became agitated. Beneath the hot sun, he, as the others did not, looked decidedly cool and was sure that this Mr. Morrison was aboard and theirs for the taking.
The port official, now again on duty, was suffering from the night that had finished only three hours before. He clicked , his heels, bowed, then led the dignitaries to his superior in the makeshift office of the Purser's cabin.
§
At eleven o'clock, all who were sailing on the Ebro were aboard—but not all who were aboard were necessarily sailing. At the hatches and below in the hold, dock workers who had been rowed out to complete final loading of cargo and provisions would be taken off immediately prior to departure.
On deck, in the corridors and staterooms that led off them, leaning against the rail outside the open doors of their cabins, passengers conversed with family and friends until the last moment, when (as they knew) warning bells were rung indicating that visitors must be put ashore, either on the large steam pinnace or by the myriad rowboats that lay round about the Ebro.
In the Purser's Office, the passenger manifest was scrutinized by the group of dignitaries, who were aware that, once at sea aboard the British ship, their man would have effectively escaped them. All likely names and descriptions presented by the agent were questioned by Braga. Meyers referred directly to the passports.
Time was running out for the group, as Meyers well knew: the Captain had been adamant that his ship would sail on the stroke of twelve or Maua and Company would answer for it. No proof existed, only suspicion, which was insufficient to delay the Ebro's schedule; therefore, prompt action had to be taken by Braga, on Meyers' advice—action that was appearing, every minute, more fruitless. Suddenly Meyers was up and moving.
"The ship is not so large, and the reason to inquire not so inadequate, that we cannot, Senhor Braga, request a tour of the cabins and rooms in first and second class." He paused as all in the small, hot Purser's Office understood that this man was not to be satisfied by mere talk. It was eleven twenty-three.
"I am sure the agent will comply with our request, Senhor Braga," said Meyers, looking first at the chief police officer, then at the agent.
The port official, regretting his debauched night, coughed, loosened his collar and thought of the heat below-decks from which there was no respite until the ship was under way and ventilated by a sea breeze.
Had the agent lived in Liverpool, he might well have argued successfully that he had done all that was in his power, and to disturb his passengers at the outset of a long voyage was out of the question. But he lived in Rio de Janeiro, and the men bef
ore him were powerful figures of that city. It was difficult. He gestured helplessly. "If it is your wish, senhores."
"As I hope it is yours, senhor," said Meyers pointedly, "in the interest of justice." "Of course," said the agent.
The men left the room in order of importance. The duty port official, who now felt sick, was last.
The Ebro was not so big that the procession, snakelike now as it moved down the corridors, could not manage to scrutinize all in first and second class. The agent had reassembled his charm, and a succession of "only a formality, senhor, senhorita, my apologies," et cetera, issued forth, ignored by Meyers and Braga, who, as they inspected the occupants of cabins and rooms, merely nodded and passed on.
At eleven forty the first bells sounded out above, startling most of the police, who were basically of landlubber mentality and had no desire to be trapped aboard ship. The procession continued. Passports and tickets were produced, when called for by Meyers, from a box carried behind the agent. All, except Meyers, were now sweating profusely. At the rear, the port official, who was counting the minutes fervently, felt as bad as a human being is allowed to this side of the grave.
The inevitable rap on the door heralded the group outside number 8. A stateroom, said the agent, occupied by one—Wilson. Yes, he did know the man. Indeed he was American, but by no means was he the type, he emphasized, described by the honorable Senhor Braga; nor did he fit the description.
George had seen to it that the ticket agent and Mr. Wilson knew each other well. He had plagued the man with questions—reductions on his ticket, the seaworthiness of Ebro, the inadequacies and unreliability of steam power, the expense of modern sea travel; all these had served to exasperate the agent, who looked forward to going ashore to an office where he would be certain to find peace—Mr. Wilson being Liverpool-bound far out into the ocean. Nevertheless, the door of number 8 was opened by Meyers, who stood at the threshold and looked in.
Two men, disheveled by the heat, coats flung on a bunk below the porthole, were drinking iced claret—shirt sleeves rolled, ties undone.
George and Austin turned to see their "unexpected" guest, Senhor Meyers. Both smiled in polite question at their visitor.
"A formality..." began the agent.
"We are searching, gentlemen," said Meyers, "for a suspected criminal."
"Oh!" said Austin.
"Indeed!" said George.
"Are you both traveling?" asked Meyers.
"Mr. Wilson is Liverpool-bound," said the agent.
"And this gentleman," said George, indicating Austin, "has come to bid me farewell."
Meyers looked long and hard about the room, then entered and walked to a spot where he could see through into the adjoining chambre a coucher. The bath area was to one side behind a partition. All was neat, prepared for the voyage.
Meyers' eyes sought for a single clue. He saw nothing but luggage and souvenirs.
"Is all that your baggage, sir?" he asked.
"Any excess can be stored as cargo until required on the voyage, Senhor Meyers," interjected the agent.
Bells again sounded above. This time longer, in double peals.
"I see," said Meyers. George smiled. "You do not travel light, Mr. Wilson," said Meyers. "I do not," said George. He smiled again. Silence held the room.
A final double peal of bells faded.
"You will miss the boat back to Rio, senhor," said Meyers to Austin.
"I sincerely hope not," said Austin. "Your beautiful city is one I hope to enjoy further before I replace it with fond memories."
"You are a poet?" asked Meyers, with more than a trace of sarcasm. "A businessman," said Austin. "Oh?" said Meyers. "In what do you deal?"
Austin took a long draw on the cheroot he had in his hand and saw at that moment the veil and shawl Mac had worn the night before, lying between his own white and pale gray check and George's dark frock coat on the bunk. He became aware of a prickling sensation that was growing by the second as Meyers persisted. Bells again rang—now throughout the ship.
"Senhor Meyers," said Braga, "it is fifteen minutes before twelve I fear we must..." He did not finish.
"Gentlemen," said Austin decisively, "my partner and I must conclude our conversation, which pertains to private matters. I am sure you understand."
Meyers did not move, but the others nodded and began to leave. Meyers saw the veil.
"Are you married, senhor?" he said quickly to George.
Austin saw that George was taken aback and had no idea how important his reply would be."
"He hopes, senhor," Austin said quickly, "to be."
"Oh?" said Meyers.
"To my sister," replied Austin.
George was wide-eyed at the tack his brother had taken. Shouts in Portuguese from the waiting boats outside now interrupted the moment's silence.
"It is an excellent institution, as you say," said Meyers, "provided you find the right woman."
"We, senhor, in America," replied Austin firmly, "say lady.' "
"Of course," said Meyers, looking George up and down. He bowed slightly, making his opinion of the two men obvious. He was unimpressed. Meyers backed to the door.
"I hope she enjoys the gift." He indicated the bunk.
George turned quickly, saw the veil and shawl, absorbed the shock, then recovered to reply smoothly, "I hope you find your man."
"We will," said Meyers. He paused, then suddenly with forced pleasantry he asked, "What is beneath your bunk, Mr. Wilson?"
As if stunned, George was unable to think; he froze. "Oranges," said Austin.
Meyers raised his brows. With a smile Austin stood up, crossed to the bunk, knelt and opened the end two-foot square panel door. He thrust in his hand, found the bag and grasped a single orange, withdrew his arm, closed the panel, stood up and smiled at Meyers. 'Fresh,'' he said, and offered it.
Irritated by the young man's impudence, Meyers shook his head, bowed quickly and went, followed by the entourage.
Austin was about to close-the stateroom door when the port official, who was just managing to remain on his feet, appeared and looked into the cabin. His cursory glance was mere curiosity, but he saw the veil immediately. He pointed. George swallowed. Austin blanched, then offered him the orange. The official took it, nodded his thanks, then winked hugely. He left to join the others on deck.
Bells clanging were drowned by the ship's horn as Ebro gave out to the entire bay that she was about to sail. The group at the top of the gangway to the floating platform halted. Austin watched; he had come on deck to ensure that they went and, should Meyers be observant still, to show that he too was about to embark for the shore. One by one the group descended to the waiting Customs pinnace.
Austin wiped sweat from his face and took a last look around at the clear sky above peaks that rose from a haze over the city in the distance. The water sparkled, offering instant relief from the heat. Austin longed for the bath he had promised himself immediately the Ebro weighed anchor.
Meyers turned a moment, squinted against the sun and watched Austin, in his white and pale gray check suit, cross to the other side of the ship, where a smaller gangway led down to rowboats that would take last visitors ashore.
Three blasts from the ship resounded over Guanabara Bay and gave dreams to young men ashore, who gazed longingly at the distant vessel. The deep note of engines, coal-fed and steam-driven, was absorbed by the tons of sea churned to foam. Ebro slowly turned on an axis, then settled her hull into the water at half ahead slow, as she nosed toward the thousand-yard passage between the Island of Lage and Pao de Acticar.
Around the mooring, in their small boats which now bobbed up and down, boatmen along with their fares waved farewells to the crowded rails of Ebro as her wake increased and the city began to fall away. All aboard the Customs pinnace were anxious now to be back ashore, sipping cool wine and, after luncheon, to take their siesta, the tropics' relief from intense midday heat.
Only Meyers searched the sma
ll craft now pulling for the Pharoux. He wanted to find the visitor from Wilson's cabin. The English-cut white coat with the pale gray check on it would not be difficult to spot with a telescope. He surveyed each small boat in turn as it dropped behind the swift-moving pinnace, and there—in a longboat pulled by two Negroes —there was the coat, thrown on a sack, beside which lay a man whose face was hidden.
Meyers put down the telescope and resolved, after the pinnace had docked, to await the longboat with its several passengers. It would be only half an hour at most. After all, fellow Americans abroad normally stuck together; perhaps a clue . . . something, at least. He looked at the Manager of Maua and Company. Braga was oblivious of everything but his unaccustomed discomfort. He, Meyers thought, would deal with this matter—as he did most things—himself.
§
Of the three two-foot-square panels beneath the berth in Mr. Wilson's cabin, only the two end ones opened for small stowage. The bunk was not particularly comfortable, being just six feet long: for a maid, perhaps ideal—not a man.
George opened the end panel; oranges tumbled everywhere. Mac could not fall out, as he dearly wished; instead he again had to crawl painfully, inching his way, body contorted, now out of the black hole and into sight of George, who aided him as best he could, pulling, pushing and generally easing the pain Mac had endured.
Extricated, Mac lay in a pool of sweat on the floor, breathing heavily.
"Where's Austin?" he wheezed.
"I hope," replied George, "on deck."
"Jesus! George," said Mac, "what the hell else do I have to do?"
Neither man laughed. It had been too damned near, and both knew it. Instead, they listened to the sound of freedom: steam horsepower. A deep background note that would be with them for twenty-one days.
On deck, Austin felt a first breeze from the open sea caress his face and leaned back gratefully. Sugar Loaf Mountain was to starboard of the ship, towering above—barren but imposing. For Austin, Pao de Acucar represented Rio perfectly: a city, he reflected, he would never forget. Clearing the channel, Ebro went to half ahead both. As the bow wave lifted and the ship's wake widened, her twin funnels began to trail thick smoke.
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