§
The cab was not a hansom, nor was it a carriage. It carried four people in less than comfort and, with a surly driver, hardly created the fabled atmosphere of foggy London nights. But it would arrive at its destination, and for money, the driver, despite his ill-mannered impatience, would wait, move or stop at the beck of his fares; it was merely the prerogative of tradition that he grumbled.
His horses cantered, galloped and sidled through the evening traffic in light rain that added wetness to the heavy yellow fog all around; only gas lamps breathed noxious fire to light their route.
To Mac, faraway places had never seemed more attractive. He longed to be elsewhere. Ellen had met May, Mac had shaken George's woman's hand and then only the rattling wheels and outside cries of the night city interrupted further thought.
The two women eyed each other suspiciously as Mac fell into a semiconscious awareness. Life, for the moment, became a dream, and only the fixed stare of George, the glittering eyes of Ellen or a jolt and shout at a crossing brought him back into the cocoon of the vehicle and a dim perusal of his situation. He was exhausted.
The cab stopped. No one moved for a moment, and Mac peeped out the small window.
"We've arrived," he said.
"Not yet, Mac," said George pointedly, "not yet."
The cab continued, how long Mac did not know—all he could feel was May's warmth beside him. The cold outside was dangerous and predatory, as if wishing to invade the small compartment and envelop the group. Mac shivered and shook himself fully awake.
"Euston," said George. The cab was stationary.
"Have a good journey," said Mac.
George climbed out, helped Ellen down from the other side and made sure that their overnight cases were taken by the porter from the cabbie.
"Where's Ed?" said Mac suddenly, realizing his friend had gone without a farewell.
"He took a hansom," said George.
"Where to, sir?" asked the porter. The rain was laying a film on his shoulders, and tip or no, he wasn't going to risk his death waiting for the likes of these gents.
"Birmingham," said George.
The porter wheeled the bags away. The gaslights of the station were just discernible in the background.
Ellen began to follow; George, stern-faced, merely waved a hand, and the group disappeared into the fog. May giggled. Mac looked at her clear eyes and happy smile, drew the woman toward him—and was interrupted in an embrace.
"Where to, sir?" was repeated now by the driver roughly, through the open trap above the pair inside the cab.
"The Gaiety," answered Mac, looking up.
"With the lady, sir?" The cabbie, knowing the place, was obviously offering a warning.
"Yes, cabbie," said Mac, as he gazed long and affectionately at his woman, "with the lady."
The trap slammed shut, and horses jerked the cab away into the wet, yellow shroud of a cold London night. To the two lovers it was all lost in a kiss.
§
The warmth of the Caribbean was balm to tortured imaginings Austin Bidwell could not, even with overwhelming optimism, exclude from his mind. Now that he knew the operation was under way, even thousands of miles behind, his nerves needed strict discipline. He had lost, in the first week out from a last European stop at Lisbon, the boyish exuberance that Elizabeth had become accustomed to, yet she made no attempt to scold or return Austin's mood in kind; she merely waited, always affectionate, willingly sympathetic, until Austin finally confided that business problems had been troubling him.
Privately, he hoped that the New World would provide overwhelming distractions—sufficient at least to relieve his increasing anxiety. It began merely as a wish, but the morning Austin awoke to the first breath of Gulf air, it became fact. Soft trade-wind clouds, floating above a warm, clear blue sea and distant vessels, under billows of sail or with a thin stream of smoke, on the horizon, as they rose and sank beyond vision, became as if a dioramic dream. Islands appeared to float by until the reality of their first port of call, St. Thomas; rich, luxuriant vegetation shading white sand beaches and a colorful shantytown below the more settled colonial houses of the harbor brought home to Austin forcibly that here was another world and it was, if he chose, his.
After a late lunch on the second day out from St. Thomas, the Captain of the Martinique informed first-class passengers that soon the highlands of Cuba would be in sight—the Pan of Matanzas. Although it was still clear overhead, a mist lay along the southern horizon. At about four, the undulating coast line became visible, though the ship was still sixty miles from Havana.
Westward along the northern shore the fertile land came right to the sea, rising inland to hills above which lay galleon-like clouds, peculiar to the Caribbean. The turquoise and myriad blues of the water were ornament to the pale wash of sky, sun-scorched till dusk.
At the rail of the Martinique, Austin and Elizabeth leaned forward, as did all others aboard, pointing excitedly as the capital of Cuba emerged from the fading day. There, right ahead of them, was a city on the sea, seemingly without harbor or bay; jutting across it, the Mono, a stately hill of tawny rock, rising vertically out of the water; walls, parapets and towers; atop, flags and signals flying, whilst just in front of its outer wall was a tall lighthouse, commanding the sea all around.
As Martinique slowed to make her approach all her passengers could see the narrow harbor entrance between the Punta and the Morro; beyond appeared a mass of innumerable masts and funnels. The loud horn of the Martinique bellowed across the water and received a flash of light from the tall tower before the Morro.
A deep, resounding shot was fired from the Citadel and caused all aboard to look first ashore, then westward as the sun dipped below the horizon. It was the sunset gun, now followed by trumpets echoing over the water from the fortifications. It was too late to enter port, so the Captain reluctantly went about and turned north, full ahead, to find sea room for a night anchorage.
Darkness fell quickly, but still Austin and Elizabeth lingered on deck. The slow rise and fall of the sea beneath a sky full of stars, the Southern Cross just above the horizon, two streams of light on the sea—one of gold from the Morro, one of silver from the moon—created an enchantment that made decision easy for the two travelers staring toward the shore.
Austin had whispered to his lady, relinquishing the idea, grown and nurtured during the voyage, of continuing to Mexico and taking a hacienda near Vera Cruz; in a word he had created the future: "Cuba," he had said. Elizabeth had only sighed.
Blood and gold, the yellow-striped flag of Spain flew over the towers, guns and signal poles of the Morro fortress as a first glow of dawn revealed Havana to the several passengers already on the deck of the Martinique.
The morning gun thundered out, and a "leave to enter" signal was run up on the Citadel. The ship pulled its anchor and, at full ahead, bore down on the channel into the harbor. Blue, white and yellow houses with red-tiled roofs; the quaint old cathedral towers; continuing lines of fortifications and seeming endless masts and "stacks" of shipping, densely assembled at the quays and docks below an already azure sky, only traces of sunrise remaining', framed with the backdrop of luxuriant hills: all this, was, to Austin, a reminder of Rio; but here was civilization and—perhaps—home.
The Martinique, as she slowed, was besieged by boats to load oranges, bananas, water, supplies or to take off the passengers going ashore. Austin had determined already; the bags had been waiting since the first light—of blood and gold.
§
After several days at the Grand Hotel (not quite up to its name, but at least a tropical version of service and cleanliness), Don Fernando, the proprietor, offered Austin his large villa built on a hillside above the Gulf, with superb panoramas and cool protective surrounding vegetation. Austin agreed to the price and moved in with Elizabeth.
Here life became a series of outings, dinners, parties and dances: the colonial ideal; the heaven-on-earth. Austin soon became
acquainted with most of Havana Society, and his personality established him as an excellent guest and generous host. Via the telegraph to the United States, thence Europe, Austin had communicated his whereabouts to George, Mac and Noyes. Thus, when the middle of February had passed and, in the north, raged still—the blizzards and winter storms—in Havana, at Customs, Austin received the first of several packages. No report was recorded or seal damaged, but several Customs officers were able to add substantially to their civilian wardrobes.
On the evening of February 21, Austin and Elizabeth drove along the Paseo de Ysabel Segunda. It was the custom before supper, between five and dusk, to ride here or the Campo de Marte and then along the Paseo de Tacon, a beautiful double avenue, lined with trees, which led two or three miles into the countryside from the sea.
The tropical day turned slowly to night: above, the clear moon in a blue field of glittering stars; all about, the pure, balmy air with its myriad aromas and hum of crickets, flash of firefly and soaring swallows. The English-style carriage, with two servants in livery on the box, took Austin and Elizabeth to the rise from which they were able to look back on the city. In the distance, oil lamps and gas burners danced with fireflies that were all around the stationary carriage.
Austin's cigar smoke wafted into the air, where, from overhead, the stars arced toward Havana until all the twinkling pinpoints of light—moving insect, stationary man-made and infinite glitter—became one, as if gems thrown on soft purple velvet.
Elizabeth felt the relaxation in her man, with whom she now lived as "wife."
"Europe seems so far away/' she said thoughtfully.
Austin did not reply.
"Are you glad we remained here?" Elizabeth asked.
"Instead of Mexico?" replied Austin.
"Yes," said Elizabeth,' lying against his shoulder, looking up into the night.
"We'll go there, eventually," said Austin slowly.
"Why?" asked Elizabeth, mildly troubled that they might now be disturbed from the pleasure they'd found.
"Reasons," said Austin, and then was quiet.
Elizabeth knew that something had again come to trouble Austin; she had thought that they had left the past behind.
"The only time you become agitated is when the New York papers arrive. Why?" she asked.
"Because they're already a week into history afore I read 'em," said Austin and drew on his cigar—now, after several years of smoking them in many countries, bought from source at the very place where they were rolled.
"The large package," Elizabeth began after a while, "that arrived the other day..."
"What of it?" Austin spoke lazily.
"It was cleared through Customs unopened." Elizabeth wanted an explanation.
"A douceur," Austin said with a smile at his woman, rubbing his finger and thumb by way of illustration, "buys co-operation."
The two people relaxed a moment longer; then Elizabeth rustled her dress and took something from her purse. She unfolded the paper and wafted it in front of Austin.
"It contained a fortune in U.S. Bonds," she said decisively, and smiled. The paper was self-evident—a bond. Austin was at first startled, then angry, but the woman beside him only began to laugh at his consternation.
"I will explain..." he began.
Elizabeth stopped him with a kiss.
"There is no need." she said, then looked away. "Besides," she went on softly, "it will give our little visitor-security."
Austin sighed and signaled to the driver. Eventually he would have to tell Elizabeth the truth, when the storm broke: as it would—inevitably.
"What visitor?" he asked absently, and leaned back to look up into the infinite depths of night; there was not a cloud in sight.
"I've been to the doctor," said Elizabeth.
§
The two men walking briskly down Bond Street hesitated at the intersection of Bruton Street and decided to turn left toward Regent Street. Once again, halfway along, one changed his mind and, remembering that the small jeweler's they wanted would be closed for luncheon, decided to walk directly to St. James's Place, where a rendezvous had previously been set, for which both men were already late.
Thus it was that George Bidwell and Edwin Noyes found themselves walking down Savile Row at five minutes past one on the twenty-second day of February 1873.
"One more week, Ed," said George.
"We're late for Mac," Edwin replied, noting that George had lengthened his stride.
"St. James's is not far," George said, his warm breath misting in the cold air.
The day was bright, an overcast of light cloud diffused the sun, but it was still quite definitely winter. The voice, sharp, and directed at the owner of the name it uttered with such surety, stopped both George and Edwin dead.
"Mr. Warren, sir!" it cried.
George turned slowly, prepared for anything.
An eager young man ran up.
"I was just returning from an errand, sir," he said to George. "Mr. Green's, sir!" Edwin remained puzzled. "Mr. Williams, sir—of the cane."
George knew instantly, but nodded slowly. "Mr. Williams," he said laconically, suppressing a scream of anger. "Well met." They shook hands.
"Indeed it is, sir." Mr. Williams pumped George's hand. "Indeed it is," he repeated with pleasure.
"My..." George paused as he referred Williams to Edwin with a private glance. "... brother's—tailor," he said.
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. . . . ?" Williams had taken the initiative.
"Hills," said Edwin, and shook hands with Mr. Williams.
" 'Ills, pleased, I'm sure," said Williams. "What a night we 'ad in Paris, eh, Mr. Warren?" he said, looking directly at George. "How is Mr. F.A.?"
"Well, Mr. Williams, well," said George quickly. "I am afraid we are in rather a hurry. Perhaps some other time we could..." George faltered.
"It would be my pleasure to buy us all a noggin," said Williams with a smile.
"I'm sorry." George tapped the watch he'd taken from his pocket and, with a forced smile, shrugged.
"Another time, then," said Williams, a little despondent. " 'Ere, Mr. 'Ills," he continued, taking one out: " 'ere's me card."
"Good day, sir," said George. Edwin took the small rectangle of card, pocketed it absently and, as he turned sharply, instantly forgot Williams. The two men walked quickly away.
At the end of the street Williams thought he saw George wave (it was, in fact, a gesture at a small beggar boy out of sight). He raised his arm and waved back enthusiastically.
Williams went into Mr. Green's with a smile on his face. "A nice coincidence, he said to himself." As he closed the shop door he caught a glimpse of the sky, which had darkened just in those moments outside. It began to rain.
"Lucky, that," he said to one of his colleagues as he took off his coat. "I was almost caught out in it."
Omission
OF all the papers concerning medical science read before the British Association at the beginning of 1873, none was more important than that of Professor Ferrier on the localization of the functions of the brain. From the time it had been established that the brain, as a whole, was the organ of feeling, of thought and of voluntary motion, it had become more than probable that each of these functions had its especial seat in the nervous tissue and that their partial operations might also be localized in a similar manner.
Ferrier, experimenting with induced electric current, had established the constant and definite results that stimulation of the same part of the surface of a hemisphere always produces the same movement, not only in the same animal but in all animals of its species. Thus when the conductors touched one portion of the brain, a front limb was moved in some determinate direction; when they penetrated another, a hind limb moved instead. In this way a great variety of actions were illustrated with absolute certainty.
Ferrier deduced from this that the cerebrum had a proper reflex action of its own and that this action was exerted unconsciously, so tha
t a connected series of cerebral modifications could take place, of which only the results came within the sphere of consciousness as ideas or emotions. As to the question whether the centers of the movements were also the "organs" of the ideas or emotions which called forth those movements, Ferrier expressed himself more doubtful. It was as well!
Religious groups did not react in any other way than characteristically to the publication of such phenomena and interference with God's instrument on earth. The spark of life was the soul, it was religiously and forcibly declared; and where, it was asked, in Dr. Ferrier's experiments, had he established that soul to be?
The enraged eye and pointing finger of numerous sermons in divine flight, that Sunday after the revelation had been made public, gleefully emphasized that these devilish experiments were doomed; for if man was made in God's image, would the Almighty await discovery in the body of man at the hands of a quack scientist with a galvanic battery?
In the main, the religious hysteria had missed the point. Ferrier indeed established what was in man, and conceded, perhaps disturbingly, that even in so doing he might have established what also, in man, was not.
§
In the late afternoon of Thursday, February 27, 1873, in the rooms of "Captain" MacDonald at 7 St. James's Place, George Bidwell and Edwin Noyes were at the end of their task, counting out the sizable amounts of U.S. Bonds, gold and Bank of England notes taken from the large trunk.
Mac stoked up a fire until the flames roared with heat, intense even for a cold winter day. The blinds were drawn. Outside, it was becoming dark already.
"One last trip, George," Mac said, "and we can clear out."
"What's remaining?" asked George, pausing before a final count of the sheaf of notes on the table. All three men were in their shirt sleeves.
"Four on Rothschilds'," said Mac, taking the bills of exchange from the table, "and two on Blydenstein."
"That's one hundred and forty thousand dollars!" exclaimed Edwin Noyes, incredulous.
"And that touches our 'two,' George," said Mac quietly.
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