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  • A.C. Gunter’s Baron Montez: 17. Vadalia Cardinalis

    A.C. Gunter’s Baron Montez: 17. Vadalia Cardinalis

    Vadalia Cardinalis is an insect now known as Rodolia Cardinalis due to an etymological reclassification, though its common name remains the same. It is a name that most know from a childhood rhyme, but Gunter keeps this his little secret, for revealing it would seriously damage the analogy he uses later in the chapter for the Baron and his intentions. Having no access to handy etymological works, Gunter can be reasonably confident that his readers will remain ignorant. The narrator is practically rabid in describing this insect which freed of normal dimensions verges on a creature from science fiction. While quite appropriate to compare Montez to an insect, he does not have the charm of this Australian import. See closing notes for the terrible truth.

    Vedalia Beetle (Wikimedia Commons)

    Baron Montez is back in Panama, hot on the heels of chanteuse Mademoiselle Bébé de Champs Élysées. Bébé‘s disaffection with the now truly heart-struck Harry Larchmont, involving a promised string of pearls, leads her to disclose Harry’s presence in Panama to the Baron. The string of pearls serves to revive the reader’s memory of pearls procured by Fernando Montez for the beautiful Alice Ripley all those decades ago. The Baron’s reflections on his own loose lips compel him to consider those of his cher ami next to him in sinister overtones.

    Montez meets with Herr Wernig, and at the close of their discussions the topic of ‘the Lottery’ is raised. Some of Gunter’s readers of the time may have been aware of the significance of this Lottery, but for the modern reader some background is definitely required. In the proposed Lottery, two million bonds would be offered bearing 4 per cent interest at a cost of 360 francs each. These bonds would be redeemable in ninety-nine years for 400 francs. Draws would occur every two months with top prizes in the vicinity of 700,000 francs. The lottery bill would allow the Company to borrow a 720 million francs, 600 for completion of work on the canal and the remainder to be invested in French government securities to guarantee payment on the bonds and to provide cash prizes (Parker, p.183).

    The financial future of the Canal is tenuous—it has always been so. Lotteries are one method De Lesseps has used successfully in the past to gain funds; however, to take place the project had to be considered of national importance and also required an Act of Parliament.

    The new government was reticent to approve a Lottery and delayed a decision.  Well-known engineer Armand Rousseau was commissioned by the Minister of Works to go to Panama and provide a report for the government. Rousseau submitted his report in April, 1886. Although critical of the management of contractors, and the challenges of a canal without locks, the report was largely favorable, based upon the extent of the work completed and the depth of the French commitment, in terms of government backing and the French people’s investment thus far (Parker, pp.163,169). The project had reached a point of no return where the risks of continuing outweighed the prospect of ceasing the undertaking. Despite this, over two and a half years since Rousseau’s report, the Cabinet declined to support the bill to the Chamber of Deputies. Much lobbying, petitions and bribery failed to sway the Cabinet. De Lesseps could not wait any longer and went with another bond issue, but this did not perform well. He was forced to borrow thirty million francs from Crédit Lyonnais and Société Générale so that the company could survive.

    Finally, on the 28th April 1888 due to the support of a hero of the Franco-Prussian war, Charles François Sans-Leroy, the Commission approved the bill by six to five. The company although receiving permission for the lottery, did not garner government backing of the bonds, and so were required to state this in their prospectus (Parker, pp.181-2). The success of the lottery is another matter.

    CHAPTER 17

    VADALIA CARDINALIS

    Then Mademoiselle de Champs Élysées and Harry Larchmont pass on, the crowd gathering about them with hum and chatter and merry voices, and screening them from her view; and the girl, who has thoroughbred pluck, and whose eyes have looked the gentleman very straight in the face, suddenly feels faint, and thinks the sun has gone out of the heavens, for love, trust, and faith in humanity have gone out of her heart also.

    She notes, in an abstracted way, that Martinez is making some little joke upon the appearance of the French woman: for though he has told his daughters not to look, the old notary’s eyes have devoured the beautiful yet too highly colored picture La Champs Élysées has made.

    After a little the young Martinez ladies suggest going home, and Louise is very glad, and departs with them to her lodgings, carrying her head quite high and haughtily, though she has a heart of lead and iron within her wildly panting bosom.

    But she has left a picture in the eyes of Harry Larchmont that he will never forget! That of a girl with a light straw hat, the ribbons floating in the breeze above her lovely head—a graceful figure posed like a statue of surprise, one little foot advanced from under white floating draperies, the other turned almost as if to fly. A sash of blue shining silk or satin, knotted by a graceful bow about a fairy waist; above it, a bosom that pants wildly for one moment, and then seems to stop its beating, as her hand is wildly pressed upon its agony. But the face! The noble forehead; the true, honest, hazel eyes, which flash a shock of unutterable surprise and scorn for debased mankind, and nostrils panting but defiant; pink cheeks that grow pale even as he looks upon them; rosy lips that become slowly pallid, the lower trembling, the upper curled in exquisite disdain; the mouth half open, as if about to speak—then closed to him forever; and over all this the infinite sadness of a woman’s heart for destroyed belief in what she had considered a noble manhood.

    And his heart stops beating, too, for even as he looks at her comes a sudden rapture, then a chill of horror—rapture, for at this moment he guesses that she loves him; horror, because he knows she will love him no more.

    Turning from this picture of pure womanhood, he sees beside him the woman for whom he has lost all hope of gaining what he now knows has been his hope in life. For the shock of her disdain has told him something a false pride had made him fight against believing; that he, Harry Larchmont of the world of fashion, loves Louise Minturn of the world of work with all his heart and all his soul.

    Though Bébé de Champs Élysées utters her latest piquant drolleries imported from Paris, and tries her best to amuse and allure this handsome young American who strolls by her side, and whom she supposes rich, for he has squandered money on her, she finds him but poor company. He contrives to reply to her, but her flaunting affectations seem more meretricious to him than ever.

    After a little time he excuses himself to Mademoiselle Bébé, and leaves this fascinating siren surrounded by a crowd of gentlemen admirers, for her notoriety, as well as beauty, have given her quite a following of highlife worshippers in this town of Panama.

    As he goes away the band is playing one of the Spanish love songs Louise had sung to him in the moonlight on the Colon’s deck, and he mutters to himself, crushing his hands together, “My dear little sweetheart of the voyage! Fool that I was! I have lost her for a fantasy!” Which is true, for no love of Bébé de Champs Élysées had ever entered Harry Larchmont’s heart.

    He had gone into this affair rather recklessly, simply seeking information that he thought she could give, and for which he was willing to pay. As to its moral sense, he had given it very little consideration. It had simply occurred to him that by it he might destroy his adversary. In New York he would doubtless have hesitated before embarking in a matter that might bring scandal upon his name; but here, in this far-off little place, which has the vices of Paris, without even its slight restraints, he had dismissed this aspect of the affair from his mind, with the trite remark: “When you are in Rome, do as the Romans do!”

    So Baron Montez not being on hand, Harry Larchmont has obtained a passing introduction to this siren of the Boulevards upon her arrival. He has made his approaches to her quite cautiously, and with all the secrecy possible, not wishing to form part of the petite gossip of Panama. Having spent quietly considerable money and considerable time in trying to insinuate himself into her good graces, he has succeeded in gaining perhaps more of Mademoiselle Bébé’s regard than he himself would wish.

    Vintage French postcard

    Her confidences, for he has been compelled to approach the matter very deftly, have been so far only confidences as to what kinds of jewelry she likes most. In fact, a great deal of her conversation has been in regard to the wondrous string of pearls that a merchant has brought from the Isle del Rey, that are, as she expresses it, “dirt cheap!” For this young lady has an eye to business, and knows that the traders of Panama have not as fine diamonds as those of Paris, yet in pearls they sometimes equal, sometimes excel them.

    Her promptings and petitionings have been so persistent, that Harry knows that the gift will probably win from her the information that he wishes, and that when the pearls of Panama adorn Mademoiselle Bébé’s fair neck, she will perchance in a gush of rapture open her pretty lips, and tell him what she knows, if he pumps her deftly.

    So this very Sunday he has this string of pearls in his pocket, having purchased them the evening before, and was about to present them to her. But even while he is arranging a little coup de théâtre that may unloose the siren’s tongue, she has insisted upon his visiting the Battery in her company; for this lady likes to make public display of her conquests, and Larchmont is a very handsome one. Some sense of shame being on him, even in this free-and-easy, out-of-the-way place, Harry has declined her invitation.

    But Bébé’s temperament will not brook denial even in little things; she has turned upon him and said: “Mon ami, are you ashamed to be seen by the side of the woman to whom you express devotion? If I thought that, my handsome Puritan, I should hate you—you have never seen Bébé’s hate.”

    Under these suggestions he has yielded, and been led very much like Bichon, her poodle, in triumph to the Battery of Panama, there to meet what fate had prepared for him.

    But now shame changes this man’s ideas. He mutters to himself: “The cost is too great! I will not win success at the degradation of my manhood! though, Heaven help me! I fear I have already paid the bitter price!”

    From this time on he visits Mademoiselle de Champs Élysées no more.

    But his desertion produces a curious complication, and brings the siren’s undying hate.

    Among the gentlemen who pay their devotions on the Battery this afternoon to Mademoiselle de Champs Élysées, immediately after Harry’s departure, is young Don Diego Alvarez, who has lingered in Panama, waiting for the steamer to carry him to Costa Rica. This fiery young cavalier still hates, with all his Spanish heart, Mr. Harry Sturgis Larchmont. His regard for him has not been increased by his apparent success with the coming celebrity at the theatre. He has learned that Larchmont is a clerk in the Pacific Mail, and sneers at him as such, and laughs to himself: “What will be the effect of my news on the mercenary diva?”

    So he strolls up to her, and enters into conversation, remarking: “I am delighted, Mademoiselle Bébé, to see at least one woman who admires a handsome man, even if he has no other attractions.”

    “You don’t mean me?” laughs the lady in gay unbelief.

    “Certainly, you!”

    “And who is the gentleman? Of course I’ve never seen him yet.”

    “Why, that American, Senor Larchmont.”

    “Oh, Henri,” says the young lady in playful, easy familiarity. “Henri has plenty of other attractions. Besides good looks, he has money!”

    “Money?” sneers the Costa Rican.

    “Yes, money!”

    “But not much money.”

    “He has enough to promise me the great string of pearls that have just come from the islands!”

    “What? This clerk in the Pacific Mail Company, at a beggarly salary, buy the great string of pearls?” scoffs the Costa Rican.

    “This clerk in the Pacific Mail Steamship Company! Whom do you mean?” gasps the fair Bébé, growing pale.

    “The Señor Harry Larchmont.”

    “Impossible!”

    “You can convince yourself of the truth of what I have said, easily enough tomorrow, or this evening, if you are in a hurry,” laughs Don Diego.

    “And he promised me that string of pearls, the misérable! He played with my heart!” gasps the lady, placing her hand where that organ should be, but is not. “A clerk in the Pacific Mail—an accountant—a beggarly scribbler! But I will investigate! Woe to him if it is true!”

    Battery, Panama (1853), George Cooper, Lithograph

    Being a woman of her word, not only in affairs of the heart but in matters of business, this lady makes inquiry and finds that what she feared is true; and would have vented her rage upon Mr. Larchmont had he appeared before her. But Harry keeping aloof, she changes her tune in reference to this gentleman, for she is an inconstant creature, longing most for what she has not. She mutters: “The poor fellow! I frightened him away by my extravagance. I would have forgiven his being a clerk, he is so handsome!”

    But the pearls being still in her head, she thinks she would like to take a look at them; that, perhaps, as Baron Montez is coming, he may be induced to purchase them; and she goes to the shop of Marcus Asch the jeweller near the Cabildo, and asks for the baubles that she will gloat over and admire. But they inform her that the pearls are gone.

    “Gone? Absurd! They were here last Saturday!”

    “Yes, but Señor Larchmont bought them.”

    And perchance if Harry could have seen her then, he would have bought from her with his pearls any revelations of chance words Montez had let fall in the confidences of the champagne glass or petite supper; for Bébé, like Judas, will betray her master for the ten pieces of silver as often as they are laid at her feet.

    But Larchmont does not receive her note. He has gone away, along the line of the Canal, towards Aspinwall.

    “Mon Dieu! Impossible!” she screams; and then going away, mutters: “Malediction! if he has given them to another!” but sends the gentleman who has bought the pearls a most affectionate note.

    So she grows very angry and thinks to herself: “What other one has received what were bought for me? I will punish this traitor!”

    That afternoon Baron Montez arrives in Panama.

    This gentleman is apparently quite happy and contented as he drives up from the railroad station in company with his partner and Herr Wernig, and enters his office, hardly noting that there is a bright-eyed girl who looks up from her work in the room behind the private office with curious interest at him. His years have been successful ones, and though there are two gray locks upon his temples, his eyes are as bright as of yore, and his intellect as vivacious, though tempered by contact with other brilliant minds.

    He gets through his business rather quickly in his office, saying to Aguilla, who would be effusive, “Tomorrow, mon ami. Tonight my comrade Herr Wernig and I will talk over old times.”

    So the two go away together to the Grand Hotel, where Montez has the finest apartments and is received by Schuber the proprietor with much deference and many bows; for though the Baron has been careful never to have his name upon the directory of the Panama Canal, still he is known to be in very close touch to its management and control.

    After dinner the two stroll up to the theatre where Mademoiselle Bébé is waiting for her cher ami, with many evidences of petulant affection, one of them being a revelation of “l’affair Larchmont.”

    First greetings being over, this little poseuse affects a jealousy she does not feel. She pouts and mutters, “You came not to Panama, Fernando mio, as soon as you promised.” Then her eyes flash from absinthe or some other French passion, and she cries, “Ah! It is that little minx of the Boulevard Malesherbes! But I’ll teach her when I go back!”

    “I pray you not to mention that young lady’s name!” says the Baron, looking at her rather curiously.

    “Tut! Tut! What do I care for those savage eyes of yours, Monsieur le Baron?” laughs the lady. “I can have other admirers!” As she easily can; for even now she makes a most alluring appearance, her costume de theatre being such as to display beauties of the figure as well as the face; of which Bébé de Champs Élysées has many, though most of them are of the “Robert le Diable” enchantress order.

    But Montez not answering her, she babbles on, “You don’t believe me! You have not yet heard of the handsome young American whose eyes are as bright and big as your friend Herr Wernig’s, though mon Henri’s are straight, not crooked.”

    “Mon Henri’s,” mutters the Baron, giving her an under glance.

    “Yes, mon Henri, who is wild with love for me. So wild, he offered me a great string of pearls worth a fortune. But for your sake, ingrate, I repulsed him!”

    “Ha, ah! ma chère! That means, you want a string of pearls!” laughs Fernando, who knows this lady’s tricks and manners very well.

    “I do!” answers Bébé, “but not from him! Had I wished them from him, they would have been mine! I think, from certain hints of his, he wanted some revelation from me. A revealing of some of your careless remarks over supper table and champagne glass, of your connection in business with his brother, Monsieur Francois Larchmont.”

    “Larchmont!” cries Montez. “Oh, it is that younger brother who has come here to the Isthmus?”

    “Certainement!”

    This suggestion makes Fernando very serious. Though Montez is a great man, like most great men he has a weakness. A drop of blood from a Gascon adventurer in his polyhaema veins, makes his tongue over a champagne glass sometimes throw away careless hints of things it were wiser not to speak of. This is especially his nature when he has been triumphant; and he has been triumphant so many times over the careless trust of Francois Leroy Larchmont, that he fears he may have dropped some suggestion that the lady beside him might under duress, or lured by gold, betray. And did she but know it, poor laughing méchante Bébé’s tongue has been doing some industrious work on her sepulchre just now.

    Baron Montez looks at her curiously, then as she stands babbling to him, waiting for her cue at the side scene, puts off this short-skirted, white-shouldered siren with a few careless words; and shortly after, leading his Fidus Achates, Herr Wernig, from the theatre, plies him with some very pertinent questions about the young American, as they stroll towards the Plaza.

    After getting his answers, Fernando gives a chuckle and ejaculates  “Parbleu! This young bantam has come to fight me on my own dunghill!”

    Rudolph Valentino (1895-1926), late 1910s (public domain; Wikimedia Commons)

    Then he listens in an abstracted way as Herr Wernig goes on in further explanation: “You wrote me about him. I watched him carefully. He is supposed to be a clerk in the Pacific Mail Steamship Company’s office, but he does as he pleases. He also had quite a flirtation on the Colon coming out, with that pretty stenographer in your office.”

    “Oh, yes,” remarks Montez, “the girl I saw this afternoon. I remember I told our agents in New York to engage one. I thought an American would be less dangerous than a French one to our confidential communications. Personally, I always write my own letters of importance, but poor Aguilla is not good with his pen, and requires a correspondent.”

    “Poor Aguilla? Rich Aguilla! He’s your partner,” laughs the German.

    Here from out Montez’ white teeth issues a contemptuous “Bah!” and Herr Wernig, after a pause of thought, gives a little giggle.

    “As to the young lady stenographer, I will ask her some questions in the morning. You say she was épris with this Larchmont?” murmers Fernando, puffing his cigarette very slowly.

    “Oh, very much, but there has been some trouble. She has not spoken to him since they left the steamer. I saw her cut him very directly on the Battery last Sunday, when he was walking with Mademoiselle Be̕be̕, for whom I understand he bought the big pearls, but did not deliver them.”

    Into this Montez suddenly cuts: “You leave tomorrow morning?”

    “Yes, by a quick steamer to St. Thomas, and then to Paris.”

    “Of course! to add your weight, Wernig, to the Lottery Bill that is to permit the Canal here to make one last big gasp before it”—here Fernando lowers his voice—“dies.”

    “Certainly!”

    “You need have no fear. The bill will go through the Corps Législatif. Then a spark of life, but after a little time there will be an end of the ditch. However, it is very important that this Lottery Bill pass, for you and for me. By it we will get the moneys due us from the Panama Canal Company, which are at present delinquent. After that no more contracts for me!”

    “For me also!” laughs the German. “Don’t you think I have seen this as well as you?”

    “Ah, you have come here to clean up—so you need not return?”

    “Yes, I have done so pretty effectually.”

    “I am here to clean up also, and very thoroughly. If the Lottery Bill did not go through, work would stop here at once, and there are some in this dirty little town who would call themselves my dupes, and perhaps wish my blood—the blood of poor, scapegoat Montez—the innocent blood! But in two months I shall be safely out of all this, so vive la loterie!”

    “I wonder you did not remain in Paris till the bill passed!” says Wernig inquisitively.

    “That was impossible!” returns Fernando. “Besides”— here he whispers to the German who bursts into a guffaw and cries, “What! The Franco-American!”

    “Yes! He is doing the buying; he is at my suggestion making himself amenable to French law. But you leave tomorrow morning for Colon,” continues the Baron. “I must bid you adieu tonight. I am not an early riser.”

    Then the two go into some more private confidences, but as Montez bids Wernig goodnight, he whispers these curious words: “In a month you will see me in Paris. In a week or two I shall be away from here, and leave nothing behind me—nothing!”

    Then looking around, he waves his hand with foreign gesticulation, and laughs: “I will have eaten them all up—I have such a big appetite!”

    And the German seizes his hand and chuckles: “And so have I, my brother!”

    So after a farewell glass of wine at the Café Bethancourt, these two part, with many expressions of mutual esteem, and many foreign embraces, and even kisses, they so adore each other; though Wernig has made up his mind to eat Montez, and Montez has made up his mind to devour Wernig.

    Far away Australia, among other wondrous birds, beasts, fishes, and reptiles, has given birth to a most marvellous insect—the Vadalia Cardinalis! Its appetite is phenomenal, its voracity beyond description. Though not destructive to vegetable life, were it large enough, it would eat the entire animal world.

    There is also a lazy lower order of insect that lives dreamily upon the leaves of the orange trees of California, known by the name of the Cottony Scale. Its form of life is so low that it seems more a white incrustation on the beautiful plants than an insect who lives upon their leaves and life.

    Into the orange orchard, dying from myriads of Cottony Scale, the planter lets loose a few Vadalia Cardinali. These prey upon and eat up the lazy white Cottony Scale with incredible rapidity, and the beautiful plants, bereft of what is drawing their life away, survive and nourish. But after the Vadalia Cardinali have eaten up all the Cottony Scale insects in the orange plantation, with incredible voracity they fall upon and devour each other, and the survivors again devour. Each hour they become fewer and fewer, until there are but two Vadalia Cardinali left. And these two battle and fight with each other till one is victorious and destroys and devours his opponent. And from that orchard that once was white with myriads of Cottony Scale glistening in the tropical sun, and here and there a red spot of Vadalia Cardinali, but one insect crawls away, seeking for further prey for his all devouring jaws—one Vadalia Cardinalis!

    Such an insect is Baron Montez of Panama. He has already eaten up and destroyed outside stockholders and investors in Panama securities—the weaklings, the Cottony Scales—such as Francois Leroy Larchmont and Bastien Lefort. Having devoured the Cottony Scales, he is now about to eat his own breed—his partner Aguilla, his old chum Wernig, his early companion Domingo the ex-pirate, who has invested his savings under Montez’ advice, and half a hundred other cronies of his, who have assisted in his work of despoiling the lower order of animal life. He will be the only Vadalia Cardinalis, who will leave his own particular plantation on the orange farm called the Canal Interoceanic.

    Perchance he would be wiser, perchance he would have less care, perchance he would be more successful, if he let a few others save himself have a little of the pickings of his schemes; for even Cottony Scale bugs writhe in anguish sometimes, and some of the men he is about to devour are Vadalia Cardinali, ferocious, implacable, and cunning. For instance, Domingo the ex-pirate, and Aguilla, who has swindled many in his time in his honest bourgeois way. But to eat all is Montez’ nature; he is a Vadalia Cardinalis.

    Notes and References

    • Vadalia Cardinalis /Rodolia cardinalis: common name ‘ladybird beetle’, ‘ladybug’. See influentialpoints.com and Rice Univ. Insect Biolog Blog, ‘Invasive, Sex-Crazed Cannibals‘.
    • meretricious: alluring by a show of flashy or vulgar attractions; tawdry, based on pretense, deception, or insincerity. Pertaining to or characteristic of a prostitute. [Latin meretrīcius of, pertaining to prostitutes, derivative of meretrīx prostitute, from mere-, stem of merēre to earn] thefreedictionary.com
    • méchante: Nasty, villain, wicked, vicious,evil.
    • Fidus Achates: faithful friend or companion—Latin, literally: faithful Achates, the name of the faithful companion of Aeneas in Virgil’s Aeneid. Collins Dictionary
    • Parbleu!: For God’s sake!, By Jove!
    • épris: love
    • Corps Legislatif: French Legislative body

    Parker, M. Hell’s Gorge: The Battle to Build the Panama Canal (London: Arrow Books, 2007).

    Snyder, W.E. et al. “Nutritional Benefits of Cannibalism for the Lady Beetle Harmonia axyridis (Coleoptera: Coccinellidae) When Prey Quality is Poor“. Environmental Entomology, Volume 29, Issue 6, 1 December 2000, Pages 1173–1179. Available Oxford Academic.

    This edition © 2021 Furin Chime, Brian Armour

  • A.C. Gunter’s Baron Montez: 16. The Duplicate Tintype

    A.C. Gunter’s Baron Montez: 16. The Duplicate Tintype

    Settling into life in ‘Little Paris’, Louise is about to embark on another journey: one of discovery. Whereas Harry will struggle to gain any ground through his dedicated efforts, evidence of Montez’s treachery will almost fall into her lap.

    Readers will remember, in Chapter Three, George Ripley proudly showing Fernando Montez a tintype image of his wife taken in Sans Francisco, and Alice Ripley remarking that a copy had been sent to her daughter, Mary. Old objects pass through time in a way that human beings may not. Wayward, long-forgotten, they may gather dust, wear, tarnish, but still exist as an embodiment of a particular time. So it is with the tintype.

    It is well to consider how Louise Minturn, granddaughter of George and Alice Ripley, came to be placed where she is. Miss Work, her former employer, who learning of a stenographer’s position for which she thinks Louise suitable above all others, arranges an interview. Louise, with only a stray thought of her missing grandparents lost those decades ago in Panama, and none of the deadly threat of yellow fever, accepts the job and its outstanding salary of sixty dollars a week. Then her multiple coincidental meetings and ongoing involvement with Harry Larchmont lead to the chance revelation that they share, not only a destination, but a common foe in Baron Montez, her new employer.

    And it is Harry, not Louise herself, who arranges her accommodation with Silas Winterburn and his portentous ‘collection of curiosities’. Such coincidences might strain credulity unless one were to believe in the strength of subconscious intuition, of a cosmic consciousness capable of leading a trusting soul where they need to go. Or otherwise, the careful planning of an author wanting to surprise his reader with a familiar found object and create degrees of pathos at the same time. Significantly, revelation of the contents of the powder case glimpsed in the previous chapter, has been delayed.

    Bastien Lefort resurfaces, virtually apoplectic at the extravagances he has witnessed in the building of the Canal Interoceanic. It does not seem to me extraordinary, however, that the Director-General’s house is luxurious, nor indeed that he is paid a startling salary—such incentives are required to entice someone of sufficient experience to risk their lives in the disease-ridden Panama. Were Lefort to look about some more, he would find examples of extreme waste: tons and tons of unsuitable equipment, never used, rusting by the canal (Parker, p.140). The narrator has already alluded to some surface indicators of corruption.

    ‘Boneyard of the Old French Machinery’ (McKinlay, 1912)

    Describing the failure of the French attempt, United States Member of Congress Duncan E. McKinlay wrote:

    … of the enormous sum of money raised by the French Canal Company, one-third was wasted, one-third grafted and one-third probably used in actual work.

    It seemed as if anyone who had any sort of influence might sell that influence to the Panama company for some kind of a consideration. On the Isthmus today they will show you a storehouse containing about half a ship’s cargo of snow shovels which a manufacturing company in France succeeded in selling to the French Panama Company, no doubt in return for the influence they might be able to give in assisting in the sale of the French Panama Company’s stocks. Of course, one can easily see the ridiculous side of the purchase of half a cargo of snow shovels to be used in the tropics.

    The Panama Canal (1912)

    At the lowest level, pilfering was rife and the bribing of inspectors charged with estimating excavation costs common. Countless avenues existed for defrauding company funds, right up to the French banks and financial institutions who took generous cuts for processing the funding (Parker, p.140). Lefort would have been only one of eight hundred thousand investors. Thus far US$280 million dollars had been spent, and the French Panama Canal Company (Universelle du Canal Interocéanique) had liabilities many times that again (Parker, p.185). At the time, not only is the Panama Canal the largest engineering project ever undertaken on Earth, but also the greatest financial investment in human history.

    Up to this point the novel has been aggregating material, essential background data for the reader on characters and events. From here on, the story cascades, uncovering and re-animating relics from the past. The chapter concludes once again in a conflict between Louise’s jealous desire for Harry versus the easy charm he wields over other females, this time in pursuit of the information he needs to nail Montez.

    CHAPTER 16

    THE DUPLICATE TINTYPE

    The next morning Miss Minturn, having American business methods in her mind, makes her appearance, after an early breakfast, at the office of Montez, Aguilla et Cie., on the Calle de Paez, but finds that it is not open, and is told by a negro boy who is in charge of it, that if she will call at eleven o’clock, they will be ready for business.

    Consequently, though somewhat astonished, the young lady takes a walk about town, and going towards the bay, finds herself in the market of Panama, where a number of negro women and mulattoes are doing a thriving business in yuccas, frijolis, beef cut in long strips (tassajo), fruits, and fish.

    Tempted by some of the beautiful fruit of the Isthmus, Louise buys an orange, and walks nonchalantly, eating it, towards the end of the railroad track which runs out on the wharf into the bay. Nearing this, she sees a building that is now almost in ruins, carelessly deciphers on it the words “Pacific House,” and suddenly gives a start. This is the place from which the last letter of Alice Ripley had been written to her daughter in the far away United States.

    It brings the epistle home to her; Montez comes into her mind she wonders, and: “Can it be true—the wild accusations that the American has made against him? If he has ruined one friend in Paris, may he not have destroyed another frank, trusting soul upon the Isthmus?”

    Filled with these thoughts, the girl strolls slowly down the wharf, to see a figure that appears familiar to her. It is that of the second-cabin passenger on board the Colon, Bastien Lefort.

    The old man is sitting looking over the beautiful waters of the bay, which, as the tide is in, are now rippling at his feet. His eyes have a dreamy, far off expression, and he is muttering as if brokenhearted, words that come to Miss Minturn something like this:

    “Five hundred thousand francs! Sapriste!—for the residence of the Director General! Seven hundred and fifty thousand francs! Mon Dieu!—for his country palace! Millions for luxury, the pigs—the swine—but little for work!”

    Then to her astonishment, the man suddenly becomes very animated, for he utters a snarling, shrieking “Sacré! What shall I do? The savings of a life!” and goes dancing and muttering up the wharf in a semi-demented, semi-paralyzed manner.fc

    But the beauties of the scene bring back her thoughts to it. It is fairyland!—and a fairyland she had never seen before, for no stage picture was ever so beautiful. The dainty islands of Flamenco, Perico, Tobaguilla, and in the distance faraway Toboga, rise before her from blue water, green—eternal green!

    To the south, blue water;—though this seems to her west, for the points of the compass are wondrously changed here, to those not knowing them.

    Panama City, View Taken from Mount Ancon (1885), wood engraved print, anon.

    To the east, the coast running away to the far-off tower of deserted old Panama, and back of it green savannas and mountains that rise from it, islands in an emerald sea. To the north, the old gray ramparts of the city. But the sun is coming up upon this scene of beauty, and warned by its heat, the girl leaves the wharf and returns to the town of Panama, to make her appearance at the office of Montez, Aguilla et Cie.

    Here she is received by the junior partner Aguilla, who is an old, pleasant, round-faced, honest-mannered Frenchman, one of the bourgeois class, who had been taught in his youth to save pennies, but now, in this era of extravagance, runs his business quite liberally.

    “Ah,” he says, “Miss Minturn!” speaking to her in French, to which she replies in the same language. “I had received advices of your leaving New York from our correspondents, Flandreau & Company, who have forwarded to me your contract. Your duties here will not be difficult, nor unpleasant, I hope. You will chiefly take my dictation, and forward my letters, doing any other correspondence that may be entrusted to you. An American stenographer was engaged, at the suggestion of my partner, the Baron Fernando Montez.” The old gentleman speaks with great reverence of his titled associate. “He thought an American would have less interest in discovering any of our confidential transactions, and would be more difficult of approach than any one we could employ here. Your engagement, Miss Minturn, is a tribute to the respect my partner and I feel for the business honor of the United States.”

    Then the old gentleman chuckles in a theatrical way: “Voilà Remington!” and shows her, in an adjoining office, a newly imported typewriter.

    “It came with you, on the same steamer,” he laughs.

    “Oh, I brought mine with me also!” says the girl.

    “Ah, that will be convenient, if one gets out of order. Besides,” here a sudden idea strikes this gentleman, “I occupy a villa belonging to Baron Montez, on the Island of Toboga. We will have this sent there. I have often correspondence that requires attention on Sundays. Sometimes I will ask you to make a picnic to Toboga, on a bright day, where you will be pleasantly received by my wife who lives there. Thus we can save a delay of twenty four hours in our correspondence.”

    A few minutes afterwards, Miss Minturn’s own machine, which has been sent from his house by the notary, arrives, and the young lady finds herself at her old occupation again, and playing upon the well-remembered but perhaps not well-beloved keys.

    She is delighted to find she has a room to herself. It is immediately behind the private office of Monsieur Aguilla. The large general offices, three or four of them, are occupied by numerous clerks who go about business in a French way, with a good deal of excited jabber and volubility.

    Miss Minturn’s first day’s correspondence is chiefly with the Panama Canal Co. Everything with that institution is done by letter. However, there are some outside epistles, one to the agent of the railroad at Colon, and another addressed to Domingo Florez, Porto Bello, State of Panama, enclosing a draft upon the Railroad Company at Colon, for the sum of fifty dollars.

    “You can keep that form of letter,” remarks Aguilla, after dictating it, “as you will have to send a similar one every month to the old man, as it contains his remittance—his dividend on his Panama stock.”

    Then the old gentleman looks with quick, eager eyes at the deft hands of the young lady, as they fly over the keyboard.

    He laughs as he goes away, and says:

    “You are like an artist on the piano. I feel quite proud of our firm! We have the only stenographer and typewriter on the Isthmus!”

    Antique postcard showing a Smith Premier No. 4

    This sets the girl to thinking. She the only stenographer in Panama—what could have put it into their heads? But the remark of Aguilla satisfies her on this point. They fear that their affairs would not be as private in the hands of someone who knew more about the state of business on the Isthmus—someone who perhaps might find it to his interest to disclose some of their contracts with the Panama Canal Company—one or two of the letters to that concern having made Miss Minturn open her bright American eyes, and wonder with her bright American mind, if there is not jobbery and rascality contained between their rather ambiguous lines.

    But this is none of her business, and getting through with her work, Louise soon becomes interested in the movements of her fellow clerks, a few of whom are now introduced to her by the head of the house.

    Most of these are young Frenchmen; although there are a few Spaniards and Chilians, there are no Americans among them. But, curiously enough, there is a Chinaman! He has charge of the accounts of the various laborers hired upon certain excavation contracts that the firm is engaged upon, and also carries accounts with several Chinese stores and booths scattered along the works of the Canal, between here and Colon.

    Two of the clerks, however, interest her. They are both great dandies, one of them a young Parisian named Massol, and the other a Marseillais named D’Albert. These two young gentlemen are apparently well up in the office and have good salaries, as they stroll off to the Bethancourt for lunch, while the bulk of the employees are perfectly content with the more democratic and less expensive La Cascada, which is more convenient to the Calle de Paez.

    Noting the employees going away, the young lady steps into Monsieur Aguilla’s private room, and says: “What must I do now?”

    “Why, do what the rest of them have done. Run away to your breakfast!”

    “Will I have time?” asks the girl, astonished, recollections of the rush of Nassau Street coming to her.

    “Oh, certainly! There will be nothing for you to do till half-past two—say three o’clock. I will be here at three. Perhaps I may have a few letters.”

    So the girl trips away quite lightly, though the sun is warm, wondering to herself: “Sixty dollars a week for this! At this rate I would have earned six hundred dollars a week at Miss Work’s.”

    But she soon discovers that the heat is such that one cannot labor as vigorously in Panama as in New York.

    When she gets home and has a déjeuner a la fourchette, she is very glad to escape from the sun, and under the cool veranda lounge out a couple of hours in a hammock siesta. It does not take long for old Sol to destroy even Anglo-Saxon activity in this land of the Equator.

    So the week runs along, and grows heavy to her, for by this time she has become very anxious to see the bright face of Harry Larchmont. She has, however, heard about him several times from the loquacious clerks, D’Albert and Massol, the former of whom questions her regarding the young American. He remarks one day: “Mademoiselle, you came by the same steamer with Monsieur Larchmont, the new clerk of the Pacific Mail Company?”

    “Yes,” replies the girl, “why do you ask?”

    “Why? Because he is the most wonderful clerk in the world. His salary, I have inquired and discovered, is one hundred and fifty dollars a month. He spends one hundred and fifty dollars in a night. Now, if he were rich, he might be a clerk in other lands, but nobody who is rich would ever come down here to slave.”

    Then he suddenly strikes his head, and says: “Mon Dieu! perhaps he is an embezzler! Perhaps he has fled from the United States!” for there are several of these gentry upon the Isthmus.

    The girl answers, with indignant eyes: “Embezzler! What do you mean? Mr. Larchmont is a member of one of the richest families of the United States!”

    “Oh, indeed! And mademoiselle is angry!” replies the young man. Then he bows to her mockingly, and remarks suggestively: “Monsieur Larchmont is also one of the handsomest men in the United States!”

    Watching them as they go to breakfast, Louise notes with flaming eyes and indignant face D’Albert and Massol emit sly giggles, and indulge in shrugs of shoulders, and slight pokes in each other’s Gallic ribs.

    Going off to her own afternoon intermission she smites her pretty hands together nervously, once or twice, and murmurs: “Yes, handsome! God help me! Too handsome for my happiness!” Then she says suddenly: “What a fool he is! Could he not have seen it was Miss Severn made me angry?”

    So the time is heavy on her fair hands. Silas Winterburn has already gone back to his dredger on the Chagres, and Mrs. Winterburn devotes herself chiefly to her child and rummaging in her husband’s museum in the daytime, and listening to the music of the young ladies at night; for this is almost the only recreation that Louise has found.

    According to Spanish custom, young ladies cannot go out by themselves, and old Martinez does not seem to ever think of taking his daughters to evening amusements.

    “If they would only go to the theatre,” thinks Miss Minturn, “I could perhaps invite myself to go with them. There I might see him! What shall I do to pass the coming nights that are even now so long?”

    And she has thoughts of writing a novel, or poetry, or some other wild literary thing that young ladies when driven by ennui, resort to, to bring despair upon publishers.

    So Saturday arrives, and Louise imagines she will have a Sunday holiday, and thinks of doing the Cathedral. But before leaving the office for the afternoon, a large mail comes in, and Aguilla taking it in his hands says:

    “Behold our Sunday work! Make up a little picnic. Ask one of your young lady friends, the Martinez, I believe you live with, or someone else, to come with you to Toboga. Run down tomorrow. I have had the new typewriter sent there. You will have a little office all to yourself in my villa. Come and pass the day with us, and take a two hours’ dictation from me. The Ancon goes down every morning, and you will enjoy the trip, I think. The expense, of course, will be mine.”

    “Thank you,” replies the young lady, “I shall be delighted to come,” as in truth she is; for she knows it will be a pleasant excursion, having heard of the beauties of Toboga Island from other people besides her employer.

    So she asks Mrs. Winterburn if she will not go with her, thinking she will be more protection, and perchance needs more recreation than the voluble Spanish girls, who seem to find their life in Panama a pleasant one, notwithstanding there is a dearth of suitors, as old Martinez has no great dot to bestow upon his numerous progeny.

    Thus it comes to pass that Miss Minturn and the wife of the engineer, one bright Sunday morning, run down through the limpid waters of the bay, upon the steamboat which lands them amid the palms, plantains, and cocoanuts of Toboga Island, which is very fair—fair as when George Ripley looked upon it in 1856, though now slightly more modern.

    They tramp up the little hill, and over the same walk that Fernando had skipped down that 15th day of April, and come to the villa of Baron Montez of Panama, which has been greatly enlarged from the bamboo and palm-thatched cottage of its early days.

     Seated on a veranda overlooking the bay. Louise finds the genial Frenchman and his family, and they make her at home, and treat her very kindly; and after a pleasant lunch, she takes half an hour’s dictation from the business man.

    “Now,” he says, “I think you can write all these letters and have time to return to Panama this afternoon!”

    He leads her into quite a large room which had once been used as a bedchamber, but which has been made into a temporary office, for there is a bureau, chest of drawers, and washstand in it. In this has been set up the typewriter.

    Working rapidly, Louise finishes the letters in less time than she had expected.

    As she hands them to Aguilla, he remarks: “Have this paper put away in the bureau. Make everything permanent for yourself. This dictation has been a great success! I am a day ahead in my week’s work. We will have more of these Sunday dictations.”

    “Very well,” answers the young lady, “I will put the paper and envelopes in the drawers of the bureau.”

    “Yes, I believe it is empty,” he replies. “I don’t think the room has been occupied for a long time, though my partner slept in it years ago, before even the Canal.”

    So he leaves Mrs. Winterburn and Miss Minturn together, for the girl is putting on her wraps.

    Susie says suddenly: “I will put away the paper for you, so we will have more time to catch the boat.”

    “Thank you, I think the top drawer will be all I want,” answers Louise, by this time engaged with her hat strings.

    “What a pretty picture!” suddenly exclaims the matron, from the depths of the bureau.

    “Indeed?” says the young lady nonchalantly.

    “Yes, I reckon she must have been some sweetheart of the Baron’s,” laughs the lady. “It’s quite your facial expression. Look!” and she thrusts the picture under the girl’s vision.

    And suddenly Louise’s eyes grow great with startled surprise, and stare at a portrait! For it is the counterpart of the one she showed Harry Larchmont that day upon the Colon—the one even now she is carrying in her pocketbook.

    She gasps—she almost staggers!

    “Why, what’s the matter, dearie?” cries Mrs. Winterburn.

    “Nothing, but a great surprise! Something that I may want,” says the girl suddenly, a kind of horror coming into her eyes,—“want you to bear witness to. See!” She has opened the pocketbook. “Compare these two—the one found in this deserted room—in the unused bureau—it is the duplicate! It is the picture of Alice Ripley, who disappeared on the Isthmus over thirty years ago!”

    And she holding them before the astonished woman’s face, Mrs. Winterburn says, also growing pale: “Oh, goodness gracious! They are just the same! She was a relative of yours?”

    ”Yes, she was my mother’s mother,” whispers Louise. “She and her husband were robbed here of a fortune which should have been mine—at all events, it disappeared. This picture I am justified in keeping! But say nothing of it—not even to your husband.”

    “Why, Silas can help you in the matter! He knows everything about the old Isthmus in those days!” gasps Mrs. Winterburn.

    “Until I tell you—not a word to him! I must consider.”

    The girl’s hand is laid warningly upon the woman’s arm, as Aguilla coming in, says: “Hurry, my dear young lady, or you will miss the boat!”

    “Yes,” answers Louise. “Thank you for your hospitality!” and goes down the path falteringly, leaning upon Mrs. Winterburn’s arm.

    So falteringly that Aguilla remarks to his wife: “Is sickness coming upon that poor child so soon? See, even now she looks pale—her limbs tremble. Can the yellow fever have found even her youth and beauty?” and sighs, turning away his face, for he has seen many a young face go down before Yellow Jack in this town of Panama.

    But as they approach the landing, Louise starts and gives a jeering laugh, for Mrs. Winterburn has whispered to her: “Do you think he is the murderer?”

    “He? Who?”

    “Why, Aguilla, the man in the house.”

    “No!” cries the girl. “He is as kind-hearted a Frenchman as the sun ever shone on! He has an honest heart! Though I think there is another who is not so scrupulous! But for God’s sake, keep silent! My future depends upon your promise!”

    “Very well!” says the lady, “though I’d like to have told my husband!”

    “I’ll tell him if necessary,” answers Louise.

    Then they board the steamer, which ploughs its way back over the blue water to Panama, making the trip in about an hour; and all this time Miss Minturn is in a brown study no flight of flying fish attracts her, no big shark draws her gaze—her eyes look out on the blue water but see it not.

    She is thinking: “He divined! He knew! I’ll tell Harry Larchmont! I’ll beg his pardon! I’ll tell him what a fool I was! I’ll ask his aid, and if Montez is guilty, I’ll help him throw the villain down!”

    Now she becomes desperately anxious to see this man she has turned her back upon. She throws away mock modesty. Excitement gives force to her character.

    Soon after they reach her home in Panama, Martinez says: “You are not tired; your eyes are very bright; your face has plenty of color, Señorita Luisa; why not take a walk with me and my daughters, on the Battery? Everybody goes there on Sunday afternoons, to hear the band play. It costs nothing.”

    “Willingly!” cries the girl, for sudden thought has come to her: “If everybody goes to hear the band play, Harry Larchmont will be there!” She can speak to him. She can apologize and ask his advice and aid.

    So they all stroll off to the Battery, which is but a step for them, and climbing up on the old ramparts, that have the city prison beneath them, they see the town in its glory—the white dresses of the ladies, the gay colors of the negroes, the fashions of Paris displayed in ancient setting of rare beauty; blue water on one side, the old town on the other; underneath, prisoners wearing out their lives in sepulchral heat; and overhead, gay Panama.

    The crowd is brilliant as a butterfly and light and airy as the blowing breeze. The military band is playing, and the scene is radiant with French color and French vivacity, but it has tender Spanish music, for the band is South American, and Spanish music always brings love to young girls’ hearts.

    Postcard, 1900

    So there are tears in Louise’s brown eyes, and she is looking anxiously for Harry Larchmont, when suddenly there is even more than the usual French buzz about her, and she sees a beautiful woman in the latest mode of Paris, sweeping with bold eyes and flaunting step, and brazen look through the assemblage. The eyes of all are turned upon her, and she is laughing and flirting her parasol about her, and crying: “Bichon! Viens ici! Bichon! Vite!” to a French poodle that has been shaved in artistic manner, and is led by a maid beside her. She is talking to a gentleman whose form the girl recognizes and starts as she sees his face, for it is Harry Larchmont, and he has shut off all admirers from this lady’s side, and is talking to her, making play with his eyes, as if he loved her.

    Then there is a whisper in the girl’s ears. It is that of old Martinez the notary, who knows everybody and says: “Turn away your heads, girls! It is that awful French actress—that fearful Mademoiselle Bébé de Champs Élysées, the heroine of a hundred loves, the chère amie of Baron Montez, the financier.”

    But Miss Minturn does not turn away her head! She looks straight at the gentleman, who on seeing her is about to speak, but as her eyes gaze at him, his eyes droop, abashed, a flush of shame runs over his cheeks, that for one moment have become pale, and his lips tremble a little, though they force themselves to try to speak, as Louise Ripley Minturn, the stenographer of Seventeenth Street, New York, cuts Harry Sturgis Larchmont, of fashion and Fifth Avenue, dead—dead as the yellow fever!

    Notes and References

    • frijolis: Mexican cooking bean.
    • Sapriste: ‘heavens’, ‘by Jove’.
    • déjeuner a la fourchette: luncheon or light meal.
    • Viens ici: come here.
    • Viens vite: come quick.

    McKinnlay, D.E., The Panama Canal (San Francisco: Whitaker & Ray-Wiggin Co., 1912). gutenburg.org copy.

    Mills, J. Saxon, The Panama Canal: A history and description of the enterprise (London & NY: T. Nelson and Sons, 1913). gutenburg.org copy.

    Parker, M. Hell’s Gorge: The Battle to Build the Panama Canal (London: Arrow Books, 2007).

    This edition © 2021 Furin Chime, Brian Armour

  • A.C. Gunter’s Baron Montez: 15. Winterburn’s Museum

    A.C. Gunter’s Baron Montez: 15. Winterburn’s Museum

    An unopened powder canister bearing the stamp “Dupont Rifle Powder, 1852″ embedded in a tree branch is just one of the curious mysteries the reader will confront in this chapter. There are also alligators and snakes—lots of snakes; and as well, young girls smoking cigarettes.

    Louise, our courageous heroine, finds her accommodation comfortable in the house of Martinez, the notary. The family warmly welcomes her and she is treated to a tour of Silas Winterburn’s museum of strange artefacts. In the process, the mystery of Mrs. Silas Winterburn’s Christian name is revealed, though another curious mystery concerning her husband’s treasures remains for another day.

    After acquiring his less than salubrious accommodation, Harry’s first act is to purchase a ‘wide-brimmed sombrero de Guayaquil’. While the word ‘sombrero’ may evoke an image of Mexican cowboys and mariachi musicians, it is simply Spanish for ‘hat’. Guayaquil is the largest port and city of Ecuador, and the hat Harry has purchased would have been handwoven by locals from a palm-like plant called Paja Toquilla (or Carludovica Palmata). The sombrero de Guayaquil was popular among workers on the canal. Although made in Ecuador, it is Panama that gives this stylish hat its name, and makes it famous world-wide.

    Types of Notables in the Capital, Province of Santander [Colombia] (1850), watercolor, Carmelo Fernández. Source: National Library of Colombia

    When it comes to his mission, whereas before it was only a suggestion of the narrator, now Harry personally dons the knight’s armour. There is some confusion, however, over which damsel’s colours he bears. He is aware that the only weapons he possesses are his physical presence, good looks and charm; and because of Louise, he feels invested with strong resolve. Previously he has referred to his travel to Panama as a ‘wild goose chase’, and at this point the reader may speculate about what he hopes to achieve.

    First through Louise, and now in this chapter, Harry is seeking a means of getting the dirt on Baron Fernando Montez, but to what end? He will be unlikely to discover that Montez is not a Baron. However, if he does find some incriminating or unsavory information about Montez, it is hard to fathom how discrediting the Baron publicly will serve to regain Miss Severn and Frank Larchmont’s fortunes. Of course, possessed of information that Montez does not want made known would give Harry the opportunity to blackmail him, but is that the action we expect of a knight errant?

    BOOK 4

    THE STRUGGLE IN PANAMA

    CHAPTER 15

    WINTERBURN’S MUSEUM

    Striking a bargain with a mulatto charioteer, half in the English tongue, half in Spanish, Winterburn procures a carriage, and the party take route up the lane leading from the railway station; and passing into the old town of Panama, between houses whose balconies come very close together, they reach the Calle del Cathedral or Main Street.

    A moment after, Miss Minturn gives an exclamation of pleasure, for they have come out on the great plaza of the town, and the sunshine is upon it, making it look very bright and pleasant compared to the dark streets through which they have passed.

    They drive along this, past a little café, with seats and tables on the sidewalk, after the manner of Paris, and then in front of the old Grand Hotel—the one in which Montez had made the acquaintance of the Franco-American. This is now devoted to the offices of the Panama Canal Company—the upper floors being used for business purposes, and the lower one being turned into a general club full of billiard tables for the use of its employees; all lavishly paid for by the money of the stock holders.

    Then they come to another café or restaurant, more elaborate than the first, whose tables and chairs are upon the sidewalk like those of the grand Boulevard cafés in far-off Paris. Turning the corner, across the Plaza with its walks and tropic plants, the girl sees the great Cathedral of Panama, old with the dust of centuries. But this is distant and ancient; and the Grand Central Hotel and a lot of offices are near her and modern.

    At the old Club International, they turn away from the Plaza and go towards the sea wall and the ‘Battery’; and after passing through more narrow streets with over hanging verandas, they come to the house of the notary, Martinez.

    Here Mrs. Winterburn is received in voluble Spanish, by the wife of the official, a Creole lady of about thirty-five, but looking much older, and her numerous progeny; all of them daughters, ranging from twenty-two to fourteen, and all of them, in this rapid sunny part of the world, of marriageable age.

    Louise’s Spanish soon makes them her friends, and she finds herself settled very comfortably in a room that looks out over a wide veranda on a little patio, or enclosed courtyard, around which the house is built. This courtyard has a few plants and flowers, in contradistinction to most of the Panama patios, whose inhabitants are too lazy to put into the earth anything that merely beautifies, though the land only requires planting to blossom like Sharon’s Vale. Her apartment is up one flight of stairs, for there are stores underneath, and the family, as in most of the Spanish portions of Panama, live over them.

    Inspection discloses to Miss Minturn that she has a clean room, with whitewashed walls and matting upon the floor; a white-sheeted bed, and a few other articles of furniture that are comfortable, though not luxurious. At one end of her room swings a hammock.

    “Hammock, or bed! You can take your choice, señorita!” laughs the old Spanish lady. “But if you take my advice, you will choose the hammock—it’s cooler!” and leaves her alone.

    Then Louise looking around, finds there is a veranda overhanging the street, to which a door leads directly from her room. With this open there is a very good draught, which is pleasant, as it is now the sultry portion of the afternoon.

    Soon her trunk, which has been attended to by kindly old Winterburn, arrives, and the girl unpacking it, makes her preparations for permanent stay, and looking out on the prospect, thinks: “How different this is to Seventeenth Street in New York!” Then she murmurs: “How quiet! and this for a whole year!” and sadness would come upon her; but she remembers there are Anglo Saxon friends in the house with her. She thinks, “Were it not for his thoughtfulness I should be alone and home sick. And I was unkind to him—not because of his proposition, but because”—then cries—“I hate her any way!”

    After this spurt of emotion, being tired with the railroad trip, and worried over Mr. Larchmont, Louise thinks she will take, after the manner of the Spanish, a siesta and forget everything; and climbs into her hammock. Being unused to this swinging bedstead, she gives a sudden shriek, for she finds herself grovelling on the floor; the management of this comfort of the tropics not being an accomplishment that is acquired in one siesta.

    Anon. 1902

    But the heat will not let her sleep, so she goes into a daydream, from which she is aroused by one of the young ladies of the household coming in, and crying: “Señorita Luisa, I have brought you some cigarettes!”

    “For me? I never smoke!” laughs the American girl, partly in dismay, partly in astonishment.

    “Not smoke?—and you speak Spanish!” says the Isthmus maiden in supreme surprise. “Let me teach you!”

    She lights up, and lolls upon the bedstead, telling the young American lady, to whom she seems to have taken a great fancy, that her name is Isabel, but all who love her call her Belita, giving out incidentally the petite gossip of Panama, between deft puffs of smoke that rise in graceful rings about her.

    Louise sits looking at her dreamily, thinking that Panama is a very quaint and quiet place, as it is to her, this afternoon.

    Mr. Larchmont’s experiences, however, are different. He drives into the town over much the same road as the Winterburns have taken, but stops at the Grand Hotel, and would engage a suite of apartments of most extraordinary extent and price for a man depending upon the salary of a clerk in the Pacific Mail Steamship Company, or any other clerk for that matter, except, perhaps, some of the Canal Company, who are paid most extravagant prices; but suddenly Harry remembers he is supposed only to have one hundred and fifty dollars a month for his stipend, grows economical, and chooses quarters that do not please him and make him swear—this luxurious young man.

    Then having made himself as comfortable as the heat will permit, attired in the whitest linen, and a wide-brimmed sombrero de Guayaquil, which he has purchased in the French bazaar as he drove into town, Harry Larchmont steps out to see the sights of this arena upon which he has come two thousand miles, like a knight of old, to do battle for a young maiden, against the giant who has her in his toils.

    Like Amadis de Gaul and Saint George of Merry England, on his journeying he has found another Queen of Beauty to look upon the combat; and though her place is not on the imperial dais, and under its velvet canopy, still one smile from her would make his arm more potent, his sword more trenchant, his charge more irresistible, and nerve him to greater deeds of “daring do,” than those of the maiden for whom he battles, or those of any other maid in Christendom.

    So with chivalry in his heart, and a great wish to strike down Baron Montez, the evil champion opposed to him, though scarcely knowing where to find rent in his armor of proof, Sir Harry of Manhattan steps out upon the Plaza de Panama, to see a pretty but curious sight.

    A Spanish town turned into a French one!

    Not some quaint old village of Brittany, or Normandy, but a bright, dashing, happy-go-lucky, “Mon Dieu!” Cancan, French town! In fact, a little part of gay Paris transferred to the shores of the Pacific. A modern French picture in an old Spanish frame.

    As he leaves the hotel, the Café Bethancourt, just across the street, is filling up with young Frenchmen arrayed very much as they would be on the Champs Élysées or Boulevard des Italiens. They have come in, as they would in la belle Paris, to drink their afternoon absinthe.

    Open carriages, barouches, landaus, are carrying the magnates of the Canal management, with their wives and their children—or perhaps some one else—about the Plaza preparatory to their drive to the Savanna; which, unheeding the mists of the evening, they will take as they would in the Bois du Boulogne, though the miasma of one breeds death, and the breezes of the other bring life.

    All this looks very pretty to the gentleman as he strolls through the Plaza, between green plants and over smooth walks, and notes that about this great square none of the surrounding buildings, save the great Cathedral and the Bishop’s Palace, have now the air of old Spain. The rest have become modern Parisian cafe̕s, offices, hotels, bazaars, or magazins.

    After a few moments’ contemplation of this, the young man says to himself: “But I came here for work! To discover the weak spots in this villain’s armor, it is necessary for me to know those who are acquainted with him, those who have business with him; in fact, the world of Panama! And to become acquainted with these novel surroundings, first my letters of introduction.”

    So he starts off, and after a few inquiries, finds the office of the American Consul General, which is just opposite the Bishop’s Palace, in the Calle de Comercio.

    Fortunately this dignitary is at home, and Harry, presenting his credentials, is most affably received, for his letters bear very strong names both socially and politically, in the United States.

    “I’ll put you up at the Club International immediately,” says the official. “There you will meet every body! Supposing you drop in there with me this evening?”

    “Delighted!” returns Harry, “provided you will dine with me first—where do they give the best dinners?”

    “Oh, Bethancourt’s as good as any.”

    “Well, dine with me there, will you? Half-past seven, I suppose’ll be about the hour.”

    “With pleasure,” answers the representative of America. And Mr. Larchmont, noting the official has business on his hands, leaves him and saunters off to kill time till the dinner hour, curiously enough asking the way to the house of Martinez the notary, but contenting himself with walking past and giving a searching glance at its windows, though he does not go in.

    Panama City, typical street scene, early 20th c. Library of Congress

    Then he strolls back to the hotel to dress, and being joined by the consul the two go to the swell café of Panama, where Mr. Larchmont gives the representative of Uncle Sam a dinner that makes him open his eyes and sets him to thinking, “What wondrous clerk has the Pacific Mail Company got, who spends half a month’s salary upon a tête à tête and that to a gentleman? Egad, I’d like to see this young Lucullus entertain ladies!” a wish this gentleman has granted within the next few days, in a manner that makes him and the whole town of Panama open their eyes; for Harry suddenly goes to playing a game at which he cannot be economical.

    This comes about in this manner. Larchmont and his new friend are enjoying their coffee, seated at one of the tables outside; scraps of conversation coming to them from surrounding tables. The one next to them is occupied by two excitable and high-voiced Frenchmen, one an habitue of the Isthmus; the other a later arrival.

    “I wish,” says the newcomer, “that I could get some definite word out of Aguilla about their contract with me. But he puts me off, saying that Montez when he arrives will attend to it. Now Baron Fernando likes the great Paris better than the little one. He has not been here for a year. I am waiting two months, and I’m rather fatigued!”

    “You won’t have to wait much longer,” laughs his companion, the Panama habitue. “Baron Fernando will shortly arrive.”

    “Ah, has his partner told you?”

    “No, Aguilla never says anything.”

    “Then how do you know?”

    “How?” says the old resident, with a wisely wicked smile. “By that!” and he points to a placard hanging on a wall nearby. Following his glance Harry Larchmont sees that it announces that Mademoiselle Bébé de Champs Élysées of the Palais Royal, Paris, will shortly make her appearance at the Panama Theatre.

    “When Mademoiselle Bébé is announced, Baron Montez very shortly afterwards steps on the stage,” continues the gentleman at the table.

    “Ah, she is a friend of his?” queries the other.

    “Sans doute! So much of a friend that she never comes here without her cher ami, Baron Montez, arriving very shortly after her.”

    “You seem interested in the conversation next us, Larchmont,” whispers the consul. “Do you know the famed Baron Montez?”

    “A little!” answers Harry abstractedly, for he has just thought what he thinks a great thought, and is pleased with himself.

    It is something after this style: “Perhaps here is a flaw in my enemy’s armor of proof. Perchance Mademoiselle Bébé de Champs Élysées has the confidences of her cher ami my adversary. Mayhap from her I can gain some knowledge that may give me vantage over him! “Then he laughs to himself quite merrily. “By Jove! what great friends Mademoiselle Be̕be̕ and I shall be!”

    With this rather unknightly idea in his mind, the young gentleman proceeds to pump the consul and everyone else he meets this evening, about the coming dramatic star at the Panama Theatre, and very shortly discovers that de Champs Élysées is a young lady, who, though she is by no means prominent on the Parisian boards, is considered a great card in Panama.

    This has been chiefly owing to the push that has been given to her artistic celebrity by the devotion of Baron Fernando, who has lavished a good deal of money and a good deal of time upon this fair élève of the café’s chantants and the Palais Royal.

    After a little, anxious to learn more about her, Harry proposes to his guest that they drop into the theatre. So they saunter to the temple of Thespis where a Spanish opera company that has come up from Peru is giving “High Life in Madrid”, which is so much like high life in Paris embellished by the chachucha and fandango instead of the cancan, that it greatly pleases the mixed French and Spanish audience.

    Though everyone else is interested in the performance, Mr. Larchmont is not. He is devoting himself to discovering all about the attraction that is to follow it. Getting acquainted with one of the attachés of the theatre, he learns that Mademoiselle Bébé de Champs Élysées will arrive within a day or two, and appear probably the next Monday. That she is not a very great singer; that she is not a very great actress; that she is not a very great dancer; but that she is “a very diable” as the old door keeper expresses it.

    “However, Monsieur is young, handsome, and I hope rich. So he can soon see for himself,” suggests the old man with a French shrug of the shoulders.

    The opera over, Harry and the American official go to the Club International, which has been moved from its former quarters on the Grand Plaza, to a house called “The Washington,” somewhat nearer the railroad, and in the old Spanish quarter. Here they find some billiard-playing, some chess, and lots of Frenchmen, Spaniards, and in fact a good deal of the male high life of Panama.

    Mr. Larchmont is introduced right and left, and being anxious to make friends, soon has lots of acquaintances, for his offhand manner wins everybody. All that he learns here, using both tongue and ears with all their might, satisfies him on one point, and that is, that Mademoiselle Bébé de Champs Élysées will know the secret thoughts of Baron Fernando Montez, if any one does.

    Ellen Baxone, Belle Epoque stage actress, Antique French postcard, 1905. From the Bygone.

    So he chuckles to himself: “I’ll nail this scoundrel Samson of Panama by this naughty Delilah of Paris!” and considers himself a very great diplomat, and a wonderful cardplayer in the game of life, as he goes to bed about three o’clock in the morning, which is a rather bad time for an industrious clerk to retire to rest, if he wishes to be at his duties in the Pacific Mail Steamship Company’s offices early the next morning.

    But even as Harry turns into bed, he mutters: “If she had been kinder, I should not have done this thing!”

    Still, notwithstanding his buoyant nature that considers half the battle won, this young gentleman, as he closes his eyes, gives half a sigh, and wonders what has been lacking in his life this day; then suddenly becomes wide awake, as he mutters: “By Jove! I have not seen her face—I have not looked into her eyes—or heard her voice for twenty-four hours!”

    Next grows angry and indignant and cries out: “Hang it! I will go to sleep. No woman shall keep me awake!”

    But notwithstanding this determination, he tosses about on a sleepless bed for an hour or two, and wonders if it is the mosquitoes of Little Paris.

    As for the object of his thoughts, she has passed a quiet evening with the Winterburns, and the family of old Martinez, who has lived a long time upon the Isthmus, and tells her anecdotes of the earlier days of Panama, before it became, as he calls it, “a French colony”.

    Some of his daughters are musical, and Louise and they sing snatches of the old operas together, in duos, trios, and quartettes, to the accompaniment of mandolin and guitar; music which seems in keeping with the tropic evening and quiet of this Spanish portion of Panama, which is half deserted after nightfall.

    Winterburn breaks in after each selection with a quaint mixture of American applause and Spanish bravos, sometimes saying with a sigh: “Tomorrow I’ll have to be going off to work on my Chagres dredger again at Bohio Soldado.”

    ‘“You have lived on the Isthmus a long time,” remarks Miss Louise. “I suppose now you’re used to it.”

    “Well, yes, pretty well. I’ve been on it so long that I know everything about it.”

    Then he astonishes the girl, by ejaculating suddenly: “Would you like to see my museum?”

    “Your what?” asks Louise.

    “My collection of curiosities. I’ve got most enough to run a dime show, in the U. S. Just let me add a couple of San Blas Indians, a live crocodile, an anaconda, and throw in a Spanish dancing girl, and the pen with which De Lesseps signs Panama bonds, and diablo! I will do a fine business on the Bowery!”

    “The Bowery!” says his wife. “Why, Silas, have you ever seen the Bowery?”

    “Yes, I saw it on my third wedding tour, ten years ago,” he remarks contemplatively. “Sally—she was the one before you—was very much taken with it also. I’ll give you a show at it, too, Susie, some day.”

    On this cheering remark Miss Minturn breaks in, saying: “The museum, quick!”

    “Then I’ll accommodate!” replies Silas genially. “I always like to accommodate pretty girls, even when they’re thick as candles in a cathedral, as they are about here,” and he looks around at the various señoritas of the Martinez family, with a jovial chuckle, and a horrible soto voce remark: “Perhaps some day, if I live long enough, I’ll be marryin’ one of ye.”

    So they all troop into a big room at the end of the house, which had once been occupied by domestic impedimenta of the Martinez family that are now crowded out by the collection of this pioneer of the Isthmus.

    It is a conglomeration of odds and ends picked up in nearly forty years of the Tropics. This he proceeds to walk around, giving a lecture very much after the manner of exhibitors of similar collections in the United States.

    “Here,” he says, “ladies and gentlemen, is the first spike that was ever driven in the Panama Railroad. I know it’s genuine, for I pried it out and stole it myself.

    “This,” he shouts, pointing to a hideous saurian of tremendous size, “is an alligator I killed myself down on the Mindee in ’55. There were lots of them there in those days—big fellers! This chap is reported to have eaten a native child, but I don’t guarantee that!

    “Here,” and he points to some curious images, “are some of the old statues taken from Chiriqui temples. Dug ‘em up myself, and can swear to their bein’ the real genuine. Archaeologists declare that they take us back as far as the times of most ancient record, equivalent to days of Pharo’s Egypt.

    “Lot number four is a bottle of snakes of my own killin’ also. The one with the big head is what the natives call the Mapana down on the Atrato, whose bite is certain death. Here is a Coral, likewise deadly. Killed it in the ruins of old Panama. And that reminds me—by-the-by, Miss Louise, I want to give you a little advice about snakes in this country. Most people will tell you there ain’t none about here. So there ain’t, in town here, and along the works of the Panama Canal and Railroad. But I remember in the days in old Gargona, when the passengers went down from the board hotel to take boat for Cruces early in the morning, and a negro boy always went ahead, swinging a lantern, to scare the creepers away. When you go into the country, you wear high boots, and don’t skip around old trees in openwork stockings!

    “Here is a counacouchi,” and he points to a stuffed snake some thirteen feet long. “The natives here call it a name I can’t pronounce, but it is the same as frightens people in Guiana under the high title of ‘Bushmaster’. It is the deadliest and fiercest viper on earth. He don’t wait for you to come at him—he comes at you. Look at them inch and a half fangs! There’s hyperdermics for ye!” And he shows the two fangs of that deadly snake, some of which inhabit the more inaccessible parts of this Isthmus of Panama, together with the no less dreaded lance-headed viper—the Isthmus prototype of the hideous Fer de lance of Martinique, and Labarri of Guiana, scale for scale, the only difference being that climatic changes have given different coloring to the snake.

    “Oh, no more of this,” shudders Louise. “I shall dream of snakes!” and turns away to examine a hideous idol.

    While doing this, she cries suddenly: “What is this?” and points to the branch of a large tree, in whose solid wood is imbedded a powder canister, which bears the stamp “Dupont Rifle Powder, 1852,” though age has rendered it scarcely legible.

    “The first,” says Silas, “is an idol that the Indians used to worship before the Spaniards taught ‘em better. The second is a proof of the wonderful growth of all vegetable substances in this rapid land. I was working my dredger on the main Chagres last rainy season. It was just after a flood, and there was a pile of brushwood coming down the river, when I seed somethin’ glisten in the floatin’ rubbish, as it went past me, and fished this out, and brought it over here. That tree must have been growin’ around that old Dupont powder canister that probably some California miner flung away, for perhaps thirty odd years, and has now become part of it.

    “Well! you have not much curiosity, though you are a Yankee!” laughs Louise.

    “Why?”

    “Because you have never removed the lead stopper from it. There might be something inside.”

    “Oh, open it, Silas!” cries his wife. “Perhaps there’s money in it!”

    “Oh, leave that for a rainy day. Ye can spend an afternoon investigating it, when I’m on the dredger. At present I am goin’ on with the museum: Lot number six. Bow and poisoned arrows. Have been used by the San Blas Injuns in fighting off surveyors and explorers. The high mountainous nature of the country prevents their bein’ conquered, and at present they are the only politically free people in the State of Panama!”

    “Hush!” cries the old notary, laughing. “Don’t touch on politics, my friend Winterburn.”

    “Oh, ho! Is there another revolution on foot?” inquires the Yankee, and goes on with the description of his collection.

    Some of his curiosities are very peculiar, notably an idol with revolving eyes.

    After a time, Miss Louise grows tired of idols, bows and arrows, snakes, lizards, and jaguars, and suggests that they leave the balance of the curiosities for another day, as she is anxious to be at her post early in the morning.

    Alone in her room, Silas’ warning about snakes impresses her so much that she climbs into her hammock, thinking with a shudder that it is safer than the bed. But she can’t sleep in the hammock and crawls timidly to the bed, and there forgets about snakes, for her pretty lips murmur—“Harry” as unconsciousness comes over her and closes her bright eyes.

    Notes and References

    • Carmelo Fernández watercolor: Fernández worked for the Comisión Corográfica of New Granada (present day Colombia and Panama): “The commission, which began work in 1850, studied the geography, cartography, natural resources, natural history, regional culture, and agriculture of New Granada”. He painted about 30 watercolours for them between 1850-52. Library of Congress, World Digital Library.
    • ‘San Blas Indians’: Showing Louis his collection, Silas makes a comment about the ‘Sans Blas Indians’, remarking that they are the only free people in the State of Panama. Sans Blas is a group of three hundred and sixty low-lying islands off the east coast of Panama in the Caribbean Sea. The Guna (Kuna) people who previously lived throughout Columbia and Panama, retreated to the islands to preserve their culture, and to escape other hostile tribes and the mosquitos of the mainland. They maintained their own religion and government, fiercely rejecting attempts to suppress their traditional culture. Following a successful revoltion in 1925, The Guna forged a treaty with Panama to retain their cultural autonomy. Self-governing, the islands are administered as a ‘country within a country’. San Blas province is rich in tradition. The Guna follow their own customs, laws, and legislation, and preserve their natural environment and heritage. See Howe, J. , A People Who Would Not Kneel: Panama, the United States and the San Blas Kuna. (Smithsonian Books 1998).
    • Sans doute: French – without a doubt
    • cafe chantants: a café where singers or musicians entertain the patrons
    • Thespis: Greek poet. First credited with appearing on stage as an actor portraying a character.
    • diable: devil
    • The Bowery: a street and neighborhood in the southern portion of the New York City borough of Manhattan.
    • Chiriqui: Chiriqui Grande in the region of Bocas del Toro is a town located in Panama – some 177 mi or ( 285 km ) West of Panama City.
    • Sharon’s Vale: in the Bible it only occurs as the name of two separate regions: one is a pasture land east of the Jordan occupied by the sons of Gad (1 Chronicles 5:16), the other is the plain that covered much of the north coast of Israel (1 Chronicles 27:29).
    • Amadis de Gaul: 14th Century Spanish chivalry story series
    • Lucullus: Lucullus was a Roman general who is known for his campaigns in Asia Minor against Mithradates, but is even more renowned for the extreme luxury in which he lived, both in camp and at his estate outside Rome. The word “lucullan”, in fact, means extreme opulence. Jump to Reference

    Howe, J. A People Who Would Not Kneel: Panama, the United States and the San Blas Kuna ( Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution. 1998)

    Panama Hat: Historia del panama hat

    This edition © 2021 Furin Chime, Brian Armour

  • A.C. Gunter’s Baron Monez: 14. Little Paris

    A.C. Gunter’s Baron Monez: 14. Little Paris

    Following Louise’s outburst at Harry’s suggestion she spy for him, emotions are still up in the air. She remains stalwart, and Harry is flummoxed by her behavior. Following a request from the captain, Harry gets to strut his stuff once more with another young lady, much to the chagrin of Louise. However, Harry’s parting gesture is to secure her safe accommodation in Panama.

    The steamship completes its voyage at Colon on what was a ‘marshy islet‘ called Manzinillo. Relieved of the confines of shipboard relations, our romantic characters assume further depth through their interactions with other new characters: Mr. Stuart of the Pacific Mail company, who shows her around the town; and a flamboyant Silas Winterburn and his wife. Historically, the town of Colon had been a focus of ongoing political struggle and civil war in Colombia (bearing in mind that Panama was still a province of Colombia). Three years earlier than Gunter’s setting in 1888, Panamanian rebels had destroyed most of the town by fire, during the Panama crisis of 1885.

    Gunter provides descriptions and scenic notes on the train trip to Panama city, dramatizing the historical route. Works information given by Louise’s new friend’s husband, Silas Winterburn, is graphic and picturesque as the character himself. Starting from Colon (earlier called Aspinwall) on Manzinillo Island, they traverse the Mindee river, pass Monkey Hill (Mount Hope), and move on through the settlements of Gatun and Bohio Soldado (“Soldiers’ Home”). Crossing the Chagres River, they transit further villages along the line–Barbacoas, Gargona (Gorgona), and Culebra–before reaching Rio Grande station, Panama.

    Excavation of Culebra Cut (1896)

    Historically, apart from Yellow Fever, a gigantic excavation known as the Culebra Cut was the primary obstacle in engineering the Panama Canal. The Culebra, or ‘Snake river’ in English, is part of the Continental Divide, separating Lake Gatun on the Atlantic Ocean side from the Pacific Ocean access. In total, the French excavated 18,646,000 cubic yards of material from the Cut (Avery, p. 72). They reduced the height above sea level from 64 m (210 ft) to 59 m (193 ft) (Goethals).

    This chapter is the end of Book Three. Having settled his romantic characters in Panama, Gunter has his narrator comment on the possible future of the canal attempt. It is one thing for him to speculate on future fictional events; but hardly those of actual outcomes in the real world. In the novel, it is 1888, a crucial year in the history of the French undertaking to build the Panama Canal. In January, Gustav Eiffel’s men had arrived to make preparations for the installation of a series of locks. This was a major concession by De Lesseps, who had always insisted that the canal would be ‘à niveau’—at sea-level.

    The required funding did not eventuate, and by December1888 the company was declared bankrupt and placed in the hands of liquidators (Parker, pp. 180-182). Gunter is of course aware of these events; indeed, January, 1893, the year of the novel’s publication, saw De Lesseps and his son Charles before the courts. The narrator’s comments obliquely preface the coming collapse of the French enterprise and offer a forlorn prophecy regarding a return to Nature. Gunter did not live to see the United States’successfully complete the Panama Canal in 1914.

    CHAPTER 14

    LITTLE PARIS

    Neither Harry Larchmont nor Miss Louise Minturn make their appearance at lunch this afternoon upon the Colon.

    At dinner, only monosyllables pass between them, which the captain noticing whispers into Miss Louise’s pink ear to make it red: “Didn’t I tell you kisses stop at the gangplank?”

    Just here the seadog’s attention is fortunately attracted by what is happening to another young lady under his charge.

    Miss Madeline Stockwell, the pretty girl who is going to California to be married to the Los Angeles orange grower, oblivious of the vows she is journeying to take, has been indulging in a flirtation with the young Costa Rican, which has gradually grown from mild to tempestuous; from tepid to boiling hot!

    This young gentleman, not understanding English very well, has failed to catch what has been generally known about the ship, of this young lady’s engagement. But now, the voyage drawing to a close, some one has been kind enough to inform him, in good Spanish, that Miss Madeline, who has entangled him in the silken meshes of love, and whose bright eyes have grown to be very beautiful to him, and whom he has had wild dreams of transporting, after Church ceremony of course, to his coffee plantation near San Jose, is already promised to another!

    So all the afternoon Don Diego Alvarez has been going about with a Tibault glare in his eyes, and is now eating his dinner in a gloomy, vindictive manner, cutting into his salad as he would into the orange farmer’s throat, were he within knife reach.

    Soon after, all go on deck.

    Here is his opportunity. He steps towards the pretty Madeline, who has been hiding from him in her stateroom most of the day, and whispers something in her ear, at which she turns deathly pale, for she is now mortally frightened at this demon of Spanish love that she has conjured up, and that will not down.

    Noting this, the skipper, laying his hand on Larchmont’s shoulder, whispers to him: “Harry, will you do me a favor?”

    “Certainly, if possible.”

    “Well, here is a matter in which I cannot interfere unless I go to extreme methods. Young Alvarez is frightening that foolish girl. She has been silly enough to encourage him, and Spanish blood, when encouraged and then jilted, is sometimes obstreperous. Now you kindly take care of the young lady this evening. Tomorrow morning we will be at Colon, and after I have landed her, pretty Miss Madeline Stockwell can handle a Spanish flirtation as she pleases. Don’t leave her alone with him—that’s a good fellow!”

    Anon. vintage photograph

    Now Mr. Harry is exactly in the mood for something desperate himself. He has just had another short but exciting tête-à-tête with Miss Minturn, in a little dark spot of the deck that the rising moon has not yet intruded on.

    “You have not changed your mind about me, I see?” he has whispered, noting that Louise’s eyes are still uncompromising in expression.

    “Certainly not; about your proposition!”

    “And you accuse me of attempting to gain your friendship with the idea of making it?” the young man has asked hotly.

    “It would seem so. Why else?”

    “Why else? You are too modest. Don’t you think,” he has gone on warmly, “that you have other attractions than being the stenographer of Baron Montez? Didn’t I treat you with consideration before that? Did I ask your aid until those accursed letters showed me that you were probably his victim as well as my brother and Jessie?”

    “Oh, it is for Miss Severn’s sake that you ask me to do a thing I consider dishonorable? Learn that I consider a stenographer’s conscience as valuable as an heiress’s money!” the girl has muttered very haughtily, for her position makes her oversensitive. “Please do not speak to me again until you remember it also!”

    So turning away, she has left Larchmont in a very bad humor, for he feels he is badly treated. He has muttered to himself sarcastically: “I wonder if she thinks I saved her from the snow that night, because I divined she was going to be the stenographer of Montez, Aguilla et Cie.? She’s as unjust as she is beautiful.”

    Consequently at present Harry is about the worst person the captain could have chosen to pour oil upon the troubled waters of Miss Madeline Stockwell’s flirtation, although he accepts the office with alacrity. He whispers to the skipper: “See me cut the Costa Rican out!” then proceeds to join a tête-à-tête that is becoming exciting; for young Alvarez has just placed his hand upon his heart, and said with a rolling of the eyes: “Señorita, remember it is his life or my own! Tell that to your orange rancher!”

    “Good evening. Miss Madeline!” interjects Harry; and is very effusively received by the girl, who would be pleased at any time to receive attentions from this élève of New York society, but at this moment would be happy to have Old Nick himself intrude upon her interview with Don Diego.

    It is a little trembling hand that the American takes in his as Miss Stockwell whispers nervously: “I—I am delighted to see you, Mr. Larchmont. Permit me to present Señor Alvarez. I—I cannot always understand his Spanish. He speaks so fast and ex—excitedly.”

    “Can’t understand him, eh?” says Harry; “then permit me to be your interpreter;” and coolly places a steamer-chair between the young Costa Rican and his inamorata.

    Next turning upon the astonished Don, he mutters rather surlily: “Supposing you say to me what you were going to say to her.”

    “Say to you, Americano,” gasps the astounded Alvarez, “what I was going to say to the light of my soul, the Señorita Madeline?” Then looking at the American contemptuously, he says: “Bah! you do not interest me!”

    “Don’t I?” replies Harry courteously “Then perhaps Miss Maddy will be kinder to me. Don’t you think a promenade this pleasant night would suit you?” and he offers his arm to flirtatious Miss Stockwell, and takes her away, leaving the Costa Rican grinding his teeth at him, for Mr. Larchmont has a very tender manner with pretty girls, and Alvarez, noting his devotion to the young lady in the moonlight, includes him in his vendetta with the orange farmer, as rival number two.

    Harry’s attentions to Miss Stockwell are not unobserved by Miss Minturn, who thinks to herself: “He has not succeeded in gaining me over to his plans. Therefore I am of no more interest to him. See how he proves the truth of what I accuse him!” This feminine logic makes Louise’s heart grow very hard to Harry Larchmont, as he paces the deck of the Colon, whispering idle nothings to Miss Madeline Stockwell; for this young lady has a habit of thinking all men in love with her, and rolls her eyes most affectionately at the big fashionable creature, who she thinks has fallen before her charms.

    So Louise, growing desperate, mutters to herself: “If he shows indifference, why not I?” And Herr Alsatius Wernig chancing to come along, she receives his effusive attentions with a great deal more kindness than she has hitherto shown to him, and puts him in the seventh heaven of expectant delight, though ever and anon Mr. Larchmont turns an evil eye upon her, as he passes her on the deck.

    Consequently Miss Louise Minturn and Mr. Harry Larchmont, who had greeted each other this morning so warmly, go to bed this evening with bitter feelings in their hearts towards each other. Not the bitterness of hate, but the bitterness of love, which is sometimes equally potent, and ofttimes produces as unpleasant results.

    As for Miss Stockwell, she is radiantly happy. She imagines she has got rid of one flirtation that bothered her, and taken up another that she thinks will not bother her.

    Later in the evening, Mr. Larchmont, after packing his baggage, and getting in general order for going ashore next day at Colon, sits down and writes a letter, giving to it one or two sighs, and one or two imprecations; and just before going to bed, remarks: “So far, I don’t think my trip to Panama has been a success!” for this very evening he has added another enemy to his list—Don Diego Alvarez, the Costa Rican.

    The next morning, bright and early, everyone is up, for land has been sighted!

    From the deck, they see the distant Andes of South America.

    Then, after a time, from out its mists, they can distinguish the Tierras Calientes, that rise, a mass of tropical verdure, before them: from which, wafted by breezes over sparkling waves, are the odors of myriad plants and flowers. For what has been blustering, chilly spring in New York, is now early summer under the Equator.

    Then churning the blue waters, the great ship enters Navy Bay, and before them lies Manzinillo Island, on which stands the town of Colon—a mass of low red brick structures, brightened here and there by palm trees; embellished on its sea side by a number of parallel wharves that go straight into the bay, lined with the shipping of all nations.

    To their left are the pretty residences of the officers of the canal, on the Island of Christophe Colon, to which a causeway has been filled in, at great expense, by the ever-lavish Canal Interoceanic.

    Then the steamer running into her dock, ranges alongside the wharf, and ties up to it.

    All of this would have been noted with a good deal of interest by Miss Minturn, did not a more personal matter take up her attention.

    In the last moments of a voyage, just before landing, some of the niceties of ship etiquette are forgotten; and taking advantage of this, a pleasant looking round-faced woman, very neatly dressed, and leading by the hand a pretty child, leaves the second cabin, and coming to Miss Louise, presents a letter saying: “Mr. Larchmont asked me to give you this.”

    Looking over it, the girl is astonished by the following:

    Steamer Colon, March 30th, 1888.

    “Dear Miss Minturn:

    “Though you may consider it an impertinence, I take the liberty of making this suggestion to you. I have been thinking over the position in which you will be placed—a young lady, unknown, and alone in a foreign city—Panama.

    “Of course the firm by whom you are engaged, and Mr. Stuart, will do everything they can for your comfort; but still perhaps the matter of domicile may be a difficult one to you. You should have a home with some company and some protection.

    “Under the circumstances I venture to suggest to your favorable consideration, Mrs. Silas Winterburn. She has rooms and board in the Spanish family of an old notary named Martinez, in Panama—that is, when she is not with her husband, who is stationed with his dredger at this end of the Canal.

    “The Martinez family, she informs me, will be able to accommodate you, at a reasonable figure. Consequently I presume to mention this to you.

    “Yours most respectfully,

    “Harry Sturgis Larchmont.”

    Looking at these words, the girl sees the handwriting that came on the card with the violets, and her heart grows softer to the gentleman whose hand has penned this note.

    She says to the woman: “I am happy to meet you, Mrs. Winterburn. Mr. Larchmont has been kind enough to mention that you could assist me in obtaining a domicile in Panama;” and holds out a welcoming hand.

    This is cordially gripped by the woman, who replies:

    “Thank you very kindly! I hope you will come with me. It will be so nice to have someone to talk to in English. The other time I was there, I did not understand Spanish, or French, and it was so lonely!”

    As she says this, the steamer is at the wharf, and Louise finds herself face to face with a kindly-looking florid gentleman, whom the captain introduces as Mr. Stuart of the Pacific Mail, and to whom Miss Minturn presents her letter of introduction.

    As he is reading it, Mrs. Silas Winterburn and her pretty child have been hugged, kissed, and hugged again, by a peculiar-looking man, who was once tall, but has apparently been shrivelled by the sun from six feet one to five feet ten.

    “Miss Minturn, this is my husband!” says the woman very proudly.

    And the man adds: “By Plymouth Rock and Sanctus Dominus! I’m almighty glad to grip such a pretty girl by the hand.”

    “Oh, how do you do, Winterburn?” remarks Stuart cordially, looking at the mechanic.

    “Quite spryish, governor,” is the answer.

    Here Miss Minturn takes opportunity of explaining what Mr. Larchmont had suggested in the letter.

    After a moment’s consideration, Mr. Stuart says: “I really think that would be the best plan for you in Panama. Of course I shall see you safely onboard the cars, and that all preparations are made for your pleasant transport across the Isthmus. But though I can engage rooms for you in Panama, by telegraph, I do not think for a young lady situated as you are, they will be as pleasant as those in the family of old Martinez, the notary, where you will have at least American society and the protection of honest Silas Winterburn and his wife.”

    “Oh, everybody knows me,” remarks Silas, “from Colon to Panama, and from the Atrato to Chiriqui! I am the American pioneer of the Isthmus!”

    “The pioneer of the Isthmus?” echoes Louise, astonished.

    “Yes! Caramba! I beg your pardon!—I beg your pardon! I sometimes swear in Spanish from force of habit. I was a fireman on the first through train on the railway in ’55.”

    “And have you been here ever since?”

    “I’ve buried three families here, of yellow fever,” says the man, wiping a tear from his eye. Then he goes on in a happier voice: “But I’ve got started with number four!” And looking with loving eyes upon his wife, he whispers: “I think she’ll last me through. The other three were timid things from factories in Mass’chusetts, and most died of fright at the thought of Yellow Jack!”

    This is said in a manner that astonishes Miss Minturn, for Silas seems to suffer agony at the remembrance of his three lost families, but to be equally happy in the contemplation of the present one.

    By this time they have all got ashore, Louise noting that Mr. Larchmont is well ahead of her, and already in conversation with one or two officers of the Panama Railroad, who chance to be Americans he has seen in New York. This young man’s chief object now seems to be to make acquaintance with everybody on the Isthmus, and apparently he is succeeding.

    Then genial Mr. Stuart shows his pretty charge over the town, which consists chiefly of two rows of houses and stores running the length of the island, with the Panama Railroad shops on the south end of it, and the attachment called Christophe Colon at the north, and the canal, which is the Chagres River turned from its course, running past it: all this with a few palm and cocoanut trees thrown in, a mangrove swamp behind it, and a series of wharves in front of it that run out into the blue waves and soft surf which ripples upon a beach of coral sand.

    Half an hour of this is sufficient; then Mr. Stuart puts Louise on the train beside Mrs. Winterburn, the happy Silas and his little daughter occupying the opposite seat. The cars are crowded by a heterogeneous mass of foreigners. The bulk of the conversation however is French, for this canal with its thousand officers and myriad laborers in 1888, had made the Isthmus from Colon to Panama practically a French colony.

    Mr. Larchmont is not on the car in which Miss Minturn is seated. Therefore she does not speak to him, though she would have liked to; for she is beginning to repent of her hasty expressions towards him, which had been caused not only by his proposition, but by Miss Severn’s connection with it.

    She is even now thinking, “His letter this morning brought me protection, when I had treated him harshly. He has done me many kindnesses; and I have refused to do him one! I don’t think I could ever bring myself to his proposition, still I forgive him for making it. Yesterday, jealousy made me cruel!”

    Then she mutters to herself: “Jealousy! Pshaw! I am not jealous! Whom am I jealous of?” And glares around as if to find out the person on the train, but only catches the eye of Mr. Winterburn.

    This eccentric says: “What’s the matter, sissy? Are you looking for a beau? There’s plenty here. Por Dios! I beg your pardon for the swear. Most every one’s unmarried about here. By all the saints in the Cathedral! bachelors and widowers predominate.”

    “You—you seem to be very well acquainted with the Isthmus, Mr. Winterburn,” stammers the girl, throwing off meditation. “You say you are a pioneer?”

    “Yes, had the fever in 1856 and got acclimated. Since then I have found it as healthy as the Penobscot—for me! Other people sicken and die, but I thrive. I reckon, when we were building this railroad, we planted a man for every tie. Now I think the Canal is even beatin’ our average.”

    This eulogium upon the climate of the Isthmus gives Louise a shiver; she turns the conversation by suggesting: “You must have seen many curious things here?”

    “Yes, everything from revolution and riot, to balls and fandangos.”

    “Revolution and riot!” says the girl, and is about to ask him something eagerly, when glancing out of the car window she suddenly ejaculates: “How beautiful! How fairylike!”

    For the train has run out of Colon, and leaving the island, is dashing through the swamps of the Mindee that are fairylike in beauty, but awful in miasma and death.

    So they come to the mainland with its rank vegetation, in which are trees of a myriad species, flowers of a thousand hues, vines and creeping plants, each different from the other, making a thicket that is a garden.

    So passing Monkey Hill, they reach Gatun, getting here a first glimpse of the main Chagres; and turning up its valley, the cars run under great lignum vita; trees covered with parasites, and palms of every species, from the giant grande̕ to those of smaller stem and more feathery leaves.

    Every now and then, they pass a little native rancho with its thatched roof, and inevitable banana plantation. These are varied by occasional orange groves, and now and then a glimpse of the Chagres River, quiet and limpid in this the dry season, and rippling peaceably between banks of living green to the Caribbean. It is now disturbed, here and there, by the huge dredgers of the American Company—great masses of machinery that scrape the mud of the river from its bottom, to build up side walls to protect its banks.

    “It is one of them fellows that I work on as engineer, Miss Minturn,” says Winterburn, looking up from his little daughter, who has grown tired, and is sleeping contentedly in his lap.

    Now and again they get glimpses of trading stations for canal laborers, some of them kept by Chinamen, till finally they arrive at Bohio Soldado.

    “That’s my place of residence!” ejaculates Silas, who has now become communicative. “But I’ve three days leave, and so I’ll see you and the old lady through to Panama. Do you note that p’int?” he says, after twenty minutes more travel, “that’s the head of the dredging, and from there on, the Canal Company tackles not mud, but rocks. And rocks,” here he whispers to the girl, a curious twinkle in his eye, “is what’ll down ’em!”

    And then passing the great bridge over the river at Barbacoas they run up the other bank to Gargona, and from that on, by gradually increasing grades, come to Culebra, where the Canal people have their deepest cut to make.

    The Conquerors (Culebra Cut, Panama Canal), 1913, Jonas Lie (Source Wikimedia Commons; public domain)

    “Oh, goodness!” cries the girl, “what an enormous excavation!”

    “It’s the biggest in the world,” answers Silas. Then he whispers confidentially, “But there is five times as much more to dig.”

    “Why,” cries Louise, “they’ll never do it!”

    “Not this trip! Por la Madre!” assents Winterburn solemnly.

    But other views drive Culebra from the girl’s mind. They are descending the mountain; before them the great savanna that leads to Panama, and the white waters of the Pacific. Running down through hills that gradually become smaller, they come to the Rio Grande station, and first see the river that is to be the western waters of the canal.

    From there on, dashing over savannas ever green, they note at their right hand, some gray buildings on a hill.

    “That’s the Canal yellow-fever hospitals, where the poor critters will get a little breeze,” says Silas, eager to do the honors of the Isthmus.

    But leaving these, three miles away they run into a little station where carriages with native drivers are waiting for them, to drag them through dirty lanes into the town of Panama itself.

    This is now a little Paris. French people jabber about them at the station, and the language of Normandy and Brittany dominates the Spanish tongue; for la belle France has come over the Isthmus to capture Panama.

    Twice before this has been attempted. Twice with success! Once Morgan and his daring band of every nation freebooters came up the Chagres, and conquering, bore away with them the treasures of the western ocean. Then American enterprise fought its way with iron rail through the swamps of the Mindee, and up the valley of the Chagres, and through the gate of the mountains, and reached this town, to take its tribute from the commerce of the world, and pay to stockholders the dividends of Dives.

    And now comes France—not to cross the Isthmus, but to drive through it, and thus levy toll upon the navies of the sea!

    The Isthmus, subdued twice, will it be conquered again? Nature—the awful giant nature of the tropics—will it triumph? Will this land go back to nature, and become silent as when the Spanish Conquestadores first landed on its shores to make the Indians curse the white sails which bore to them a Christianity that came with blood and bigotry, to make them slaves?

    Notes and References

    • ‘this élève of New York Society’: élève meaning ‘student’, in the sense of l’élève de la nature, ‘the student of nature’ (e.g., De Beaurieu, 1789).
    • inamorata: A woman loved in a romantic way is one’s inamorata. From the Italian innamorare, “to fall in love”. Vocabulary.com
    • Tierras Calientes: Tierra caliente (hot land) includes all areas under about 900 m (3000 ft). These areas generally have a mean annual temperature above 25°C (77°F). Their natural vegetation is usually either tropical evergreen or tropical deciduous forest. Farms produce tropical crops such as sugar-cane, cacao and bananas. – Geo-Mexico.com
    • Penobscot: North American Idian tribe. ‘The word “Penobscot” originates from a mispronunciation of their name for themselves: Penawapskewi. The word means “the people of where the white rocks extend out” and originally referred to their territory on the portion of the Penobscot River between present-day Old Town and Verona Island, Maine’ (Wikipedia).
    • Dives: the rich man of the parable in Luke 16:19–31. Any rich man. Pron. dahy-veez (Dictionary.com). ‘Dives’: Latin for ‘rich’. See Mainly Norfolk.

    Avery, Ralph E. America’s Triumph in Panama. Chicago, 1913: L.W. Walter Co.. Freely available at Internet Archive

    Goethals, Colonel George W. (Chief Engineer). The Panama Canal (Address to National Geographic Society Feb., 1911)

    Parker, M. Hell’s Gorge:The Battle to Build the Panama Canal. Arrow Books, 2007

    This edition © 2021 Furin Chime, Brian Armour

  • A.C. Gunter’s Baron Montez: 13. A Bundle of Letters

    A.C. Gunter’s Baron Montez: 13. A Bundle of Letters

    The nexus of the Louise Minturn and Harry Larchmont characters is reached: their shared connection to Fernando Montez. This is all as the reader might expect from knowledge of Louise’s letters. However, Gunter wants to create a selective perspective of prior events involving Harry that the reader may later share with Louise. Not content with the attributes and qualities he has endowed his characters, Gunter seeks to intrude on the imaginative mental stream of the reader to frame and accentuate the action through his narrator and by other means.

    In Harry’s repartee with Louise in the last chapter, he revealed more of the ‘player’ he is reputed to be. At the close of the chapter, his impetuous act in separating Louise from the presence of Wernig weighs heavy on him, though his thoughts dwell, not on the beautiful Louise, but on his next steps to retrieve his brother’s fortune.

    Though there is no desire to disrupt the reader experience, in order to explore Gunter’s narrative strategy some notes on the content of the chapter ahead is required.

    Harry is on deck smoking cigars again one night, still, one would think, intoxicated with the vision of beauty that was Louise as she left him. Yet it appears in his meditations he has become resolute in a course of action of which some might be critical, perhaps deem dishonorable. Though having access to Harry’s more precise thoughts, Gunter declines to reveal them, and so leaves the reader guessing. Little mysteries add realism to a modern novel as they are part of everyday life, but this has the dramatic touch of deliberate obfuscation.

    At one juncture while informing Louise of the plight of his Francophile brother, Harry bemoans the lack of teaching of American culture in schools. He mentions the nascent sports of baseball and football (we know what becomes of them). But beyond this, one might ask; to what American culture is he referring? The U.S. may boast a number of technical and industrial development achievements, and there are substantial literary best sellers throughout the nineteenth century. Novels such as The Last of the Mohicans by James Fenimore Cooper, Uncle Toms Cabin by abolitionist Harriet Beecher Stowe, Moby Dick by Herman Melville and the very popular Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain which sold in the hundreds of thousands in the U.S. and overseas. And for generations without radio or film or television, and limited access to the theatre or books, entertainment was the circus coming to town. New railways meant the circus could reach many more thousands of people throughout America, and steamships meant many more overseas; Europe and even as far as Australia (Worrall). America’s chief cultural exports of the time were Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show and P.T. Barnum’s Greatest Show on Earth billed as a circus, museum and menagerie (Watkins).

    This isn’t the first time via Harry this apparent manifestation of inverse cultural cringe (Phillips) has presented with a skew-whiff reasoning. Describing his brother, he equates U.S. disaffiliation with loss of manhood. Gunter is something of a showman himself, and providing entertainment and being sensational is his game. Sensational, to his contemporary audience, is a nineteen-year-old young woman travelling alone without a companion on a steamship to a foreign country, but that is not sufficient. The author wants to provoke emotion-based opinions in his readers where none may have existed. The well-to-do are an easy target for prejudice, and patriotic transgression adds a certain righteousness.

    Woman with a Guitar (n.d.), Julio Romero De Torres (1874-1930)

    Louise has been portrayed as independent, beautiful, at times haughty with strong sense of personal worth, smart, accomplished and not afraid to speak her mind. Shortly after the letters appear, the reader may note an abrupt temporary change in dialogue attributions for our female character. Where before it was ‘Louise’, ‘Miss Minturn’ even ‘the young lady’, now it is ‘the girl’. An apparent attempt through subliminal manipulation to present Louise in an inferior position. So too is the narrator’s suggestion of a tone of proprietorship in Harry’s voice in respect of Louise’s morning agenda, which includes inspecting the letters.

    Louise’s letters are the focus of the chapter, though Harry’s persistence seems a little uncharacteristic, which even Louise remarks upon. On a comment from Harry regarding activities post letter-reading, the narrator cannot resist an amused aside from insider knowledge of what is to come—part of egging the reader on.

    Gunter, through his narrator, is the ringmaster of the various elements of the story that inhabit the reader’s imagination. In a previous intro we covered the paucity of entertainment available to the common man and woman, excluding a possible circus visit. Before the visual artistic forms of film and television, the novel was the chief direct access to the active mental plane of individuals—through their eyes. Reminders of the narrator’s aural presence as storyteller, of being read to by a third entity have the effect of distracting from the smooth ongoing visual transmission to imagination. There is a shift away from the self-created illusion of reality to acknowledging an amusing fictional entertainment. As the crescendo of the chapter becomes imminent, the narrator cannot resist a snide comment which raises jealousy over integrity as motivation, perhaps to dilute the colour of Louise’s final response, and perhaps also to secure for the author an avenue for later re-engagement.

    And now ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, for your reading pleasure, if you will direct your attention to the centre of the page below. Furin Chime is proud to present, for the first time in a hundred and twenty-five years—the next chapter in the Baron Montez saga! Please enjoy the show!

    CHAPTER 13

    THE BUNDLE OF LETTERS

    The next day Herr Wernig has become again effusively affectionate and thrusts his society upon Mr. Larchmont, though that young gentleman gives him but little chance, as he is again devoting himself to the second cabin passengers.

    This time, he has dropped the society of the man Bastien Lefort for that of one of the second-cabin ladies.

    This lady has a little child of about five. With paternal devotion Harry takes this tot up and carries it about, as he talks to the mother. This attention seems to win the lady’s heart. And he spends a good deal of the morning promenading by her side. By the time he returns to lunch in the first cabin, “his flirtation,” as they express it, has been pretty well discussed by the various ladies and gentlemen of the after part of the ship. Of course it comes to Miss Minturn’s pretty ears, and sets her wondering.

    After an afternoon siesta—for the boat is now well in the tropics, and everybody is drifting with it into the languid manners of the torrid zone—Louise strolls on the deck for a little sea breeze, and chancing to meet the gentleman of her thoughts, puts her reflections into words.

    “Travel views of Cuba and Guatemala” (1899–1926), Genthe photograph collection, Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division

    This subject is easily led up to, as Mr. Larchmont even now has in his arms the little girl from the second cabin.

    “Miss Louise,” he says, “this is a new friend of mine. This is pretty little Miss Minnie Winterburn, the daughter of a machinist on one of the Chagres dredgers. Her father has been out there almost since the opening of the railroad. He is by this time used to yellow fever.”

    “And her mother?” suggests the young lady rather pointedly, for Harry’s speech has been made in a rambling, semi-embarrassed manner.

    “Oh, her mother,” returns Mr. Larchmont, “is on board in the second cabin. She is much younger than her husband—third or fourth wife—that sort of thing, you understand. I have brought the little lady aft to get some oranges from the steward.” Which fact is apparent, as the child is playing with two of the bright yellow fruits. “If you will excuse me, I’ll return my little friend to maternal arms, and be with you in a minute. Let me make you comfortable on this camp stool.”

    Arranging the seat for her, Harry strolls off with the little girl. As he walks away the young lady’s eyes carelessly follow him; suddenly they grow tender. She notices the careful way he carries the little tot, and it reminds her of how he had borne her through the snow and ice of that awful New York blizzard.

    Apparently the emotion has not left her eyes when Larchmont returns to her; for he says, his eyes growing tender also: “Tonight we will have another musical evening?”

    “Oh, I’m not going to sing for you this evening,” ejaculates the young lady lightly, for seats beside each other three times a day at the dining table, and the easy intercourse of shipboard life have made her feel quite en camarade with this young gentleman, save when thoughts of her diary bring confusion upon her.

    “Why not?”

    “Oh! Second cabin society in the daytime, second cabin romance at night.”

    “Was there a first cabin romance last night?” asks the gentleman, turning embarrassing eyes upon her.

    “No—of course not—I—I didn’t mean anything of the kind!” stammers Louise.

    “Indeed! What did you mean?”

    “I meant,” says the girl, steadying herself, “that you seem to prefer second cabin society during the daytime—why not enjoy it also in the evening?”

    Whereupon he startles her by saying suddenly: “How a false position makes everything appear false! I presume, Miss Minturn, you imagine I enjoy the patois of Monsieur Bastien Lefort, and the good-hearted but homely remarks of the wife of the machinist—but I don’t!”

    “Then why associate with them?”

    “That for the present must be my secret! Miss Louise, we have been very good friends on shipboard. Don’t go to imagining—don’t go to putting two and two together—simply believe that I am just the same kind of an individual as I was five days ago.” Then he brings curious joy upon her, for he whispers impulsively, a peculiar light coming into his eyes: “No, not the same individual!” and gives the young lady’s tempting hand, that has been carelessly lying upon the arm of her steamer chair, a sudden though deferential squeeze; and with this, leaves her to astonished meditation.

    She does not see him till dinner, which he eats with great attention to detail and dishes. But, though he says very little, every now and then he turns a glance upon her that destroys her appetite.

    At dessert, this is noted by the captain, who in his affable sailor way, with loud voice suggests: “What’s the matter with your appetite, Miss Louise? Has the guitar playing of last night taken it away? Not a decent meal since yesterday.”

    “Oh,” replies the young lady, “the weather is too hot for appetite!”

    “But not for flirtations!” says the awful seadog. Then he turns a winking eye upon Larchmont, and chuckles: “Remember, Harry, kisses stop at the gang plank!”

    “Not with me!” says the young man, determination in his face and significance in his tone: “If I made love to a girl on shipboard, I should make love to her—always: I’m no sailor-lover!” With this parting shot at the skipper he strolls from the table, and goes away to after dinner cigar.

    “By Venus, we’ve a Romeo on board!” cries the captain. “Where’s the Juliet?” and turns remorseless eyes upon Miss Minturn.

    Fortunately this little episode has not been noticed by any of her fellow passengers, nearly all of them having left the table before Mr. Larchmont.

    A moment after, Louise follows the rest on deck, blushes on her cheeks, brightness in her eyes, elasticity in her step. She is thinking: “If he loved me, he would love—always. Did he mean that for—” Here wild hope stops sober thought; but after this there is a curious diffidence in her manner to Mr. Larchmont, though she does not avoid his companionship—in fact, from now on, he can have her society whenever he will, which is very often.

    This evening he asks for more songs, and gets them, perhaps even more soulfully given than the evening before. So the night passes.

    And the next day is another pleasant tropic one, that the two dream out together under the awnings, with bright sunshine overhead, and rippling waves, that each hour grow more blue, running beside them as the great ship draws near the Equator.

    And there is a new something in both their eyes, for the girl has thrown away any defences that her short year’s struggle with the world of business may have put about her, and is simply a woman whom love is making more lovely; and the gentleman has forgotten the conservatism of his conservative class, and is becoming ardent as the sun that puts bronze upon their blushing faces.

    So the second evening comes upon them, and the two are again together on the deck, and the strings of the girl’s guitar seem softer and her voice is lower.

    Then the crowd on deck having melted away, their moonlight téte à téte, as the soft blue ripples of the Caribbean roll past them, grows confidential. Drawn out by the young man, Miss Minturn, gives him her past history, which interests him greatly, especially that portion referring to the disappearance of her mother’s parents on the Isthmus.

    He suggests, “In Panama, perhaps you may learn their fate.”

    “But that was so long ago,” says Louise.

    “Nevertheless—supposing you look through your old letters. It won’t do any harm. Let me help you. It will give us a pleasant morning’s occupation,” goes on Harry, quite eagerly.

    “Don’t you think you could be happy without the letters?” laughs Louise. Then she suddenly whispers: “Oh, they are putting out the lights!” and rises to go.

    “Blow the lights!” answers Larchmont, who is out of his steamer chair, and somehow has got hold of Miss Louise’s pretty hand. “Promise the morning to me.”

    “The whole morning?”

    “Why are you so evasive? Promise—will you?”

    “Yes, if you will stop squeezing my hand. You—you forget you have football fingers!” gasps Louise; for his fervid clasp upon her tender digits is making her writhe.

    “Forgive me!”

    “O-o-oh!”

    He has suddenly kissed the hand, and the girl has flown away from him.

    At the companionway she turns, hesitates, then waves adieu, making a picture that would cause any man’s heart to beat. The moonlight is full upon her, haloing her exquisite figure that is draped in a soft white fluttering robe that clings about it, and would make it ethereal, were not its round contours and charming curves of beauty, those of the very birth of graceful, glorious womanhood. One white hand is upraised, motioning to him; one little slippered foot is placed upon the combing of the hatchway. Her eyes in the moonlight seem like stars. Her lips appear to move as she glides down the companionway. Then the stars disappear, and Harry Larchmont thinks the moon has gone out also.

    He sits there meditating, and after a little, his lips frame the words: “If I did, what would they say?” Then rising, he shakes himself like a Newfoundland dog that is throwing the water from him, tosses his head about, puts his hand through his curly hair, laughs softly, and says to himself: “Hanged if I care what anyone says!”

    Curiously enough, he does not go to the cardroom this evening, for he paces the deck for some two hours more, meditating over three or four cigars that he smokes in a nervous, excitable, fidgety manner.

    The next morning, however, as Miss Louise, a picture of dainty freshness, steps on the deck, he is apparently waiting for her. His looks are eager. There is perchance a tone of proprietorship in his voice as, after bidding her good morning, he says: “A turn or two for exercise first, then breakfast, and then the letters!”

    “Oh, you are beginning business early today,” laughs the young lady, whose eyes seem very bright and happy.

    “Yes. You see I want all your morning.”

    “Then you will have to read very slowly,” suggests Miss Louise, “or the letters will not occupy you till lunch time.”

    “After the letters are finished, there will doubtless be something else,” remarks the young man confidently; and in this prediction he is right, though he would stand aghast if he knew what he prophesied.

    So the two go down to breakfast together, and make a merry meal of it, as the captain, occupied by some ship’s duty, is not there to embarrass them by seadog asides and jovial nautical jokes that bring indignant glances from the young man, and appealing blushes from the young lady.

    They have finished their oranges when Mr. Larchmont says eagerly: “The letters!”

    “They are too numerous for my pocket!” answers the girl.

    “You have not read them?”

    “Not for years. In fact, I’ve forgotten all there is in them, except their general tone; but I fished them out of my trunk last night.”

    “Very well! Run to your cabin, and I’ll have steamer chairs in the coolest place on deck, where the skipper will be least likely to find us,” replies Harry; and the young lady, doing his bidding, shortly returns to find a cosy seat in the shadiest spot under the awnings, and Mr. Larchmont awaiting her.

    “Ah, those are they!” he says, assisting her, with rather more attention than is absolutely necessary, to the steamer chair beside him, and gazing at a little packet of envelopes grown yellow by time, and tied together with a faded blue ribbon. “These look as if they might contain a good deal.”

    “Yes,” replies the girl, “they contain a mother’s heart!”

    Looking over these letters that cover a period of four years, they find that Louise is right. They have been carefully arranged in order. Most of them are simply descriptions of early life in California, and of Alice Ripley’s husband’s efforts for fortune and final success; but every line of them is freighted with a mother’s love.

    The last four bear much more pointedly upon the subject that interests the young man and the young lady The first of these is a letter describing Alice Ripley and her husband’s arrival at San Francisco en route for New York, and mentioning that she encloses to her daughter a tintype taken of her by Mr. Edouart, the Californian daguerreotypist.

    “You have the picture?” asks Mr. Larchmont.

    Vintage photograph (n.a.)

    “Yes,” says the girl. “I brought it with me, thinking you might like to look at it,” and shows him the same beautiful face, the same blue eyes and golden hair that had delighted the gaze of Señor Montez in faraway Toboga in 1856.

    “It is rather like you,” suggests Harry, turning his eyes upon the pretty creature beside him.

    “Only a family likeness, I think,” remarks the young lady.

    “Of course not as beautiful!” asserts the gentleman.

    “I wish I agreed with you,” laughs Louise. Then she suddenly changes her tone and says: “But we came here to discuss letters, not faces,” and devotes herself to the other epistles.

    The second is a letter written by Alice Ripley from Acapulco, telling her child that sickness has come upon her; that she is hardly able to write; still, God willing, that she will live through the voyage to again kiss her daughter.

    The third, in contradistinction to the others, is in masculine handwriting, dated April 1oth, 1856, and signed “George Merritt Ripley.”

    “That is from my grandfather,”says Louise.

    Looking over this letter, Larchmont remarks: “A bold hand and a noble spirit!” for it is a record of a father’s love for his only daughter, and it tells of the mother’s illness and how he had brought his wife to Panama, fearing death was upon her, but that a kind friend, he has made on the Isthmus, has suggested that he take the invalid to Toboga. That on that island, thank God, the sea breezes are bringing health again to her mother’s cheeks.

    There is but one letter more, a long one, but hastily written upon a couple of sheets of note paper. This is inside one of Wells, Fargo & Company’s envelopes, for in 1856 the express company carried from California to the East, nearly as much mail matter as the United States Government.

    It reads as follows:

    “Panama, April 15th, 1856.

    “My Darling Mary:

    “I write this because you will get it one day before your mother’s kisses and embraces. Can you understand it? When you receive this, I shall be but one day behind it—for it will come with me on the same steamer to New York; but there, though I would fly before it, circumstances are such that it will meet you one day before your mother.

    “Tears of joy are in my eyes as I write; for by the blessing of God, once more I am well and happy, and so is your dear father.

    “How happy we both are to think that our darling will be in our arms so soon! We are en route to New York. Think of it, Mary—to you! We left Toboga this morning.

    “I am writing this in the Pacific House where we stay tonight, to take the train for Aspinwall tomorrow morning.

    “The gentleman who has been so kind to your father and me, has come with us from Toboga, to see the last of us. He has just now gone into the main town of Panama, which gives me time to write this, for your father and I have remained here. It is so much more convenient for us to rest near the station, the trunk is so heavy—the trunk your father is bringing filled with California gold dust for his little daughter. I have a string of pearls around my neck, which shall be yours also. Papa bought them today from Senor Montez.”

    At this Harry, who has been reading, stops with a gasp, and Louise cries: “Montez! That’s what made Montez, Aguilla et Cie. so familiar! Montez! It was the name in this old letter!” Then she whispers: “How curious! Can my employer be the man of this letter?”

    “He is!” answers Harry, for while the girl has been whispering, he has been glancing over the last of the manuscript. He now astounds her by muttering: “See, here’s his accursed name!”

    “What do you mean?” stammers Miss Minturn.

    “That afterwards,” goes on Mr. Larchmont; then he hastily reads:

    “This gentleman has been inexpressibly kind to us. George says that he saved me from death by the fever, because he took us to the breezes of Toboga.

    “On parting, my husband offered him any present that he might select, but Senor Fernando Gomez Montez (what a high-sounding name!) said he would only request something my husband had worn—his revolver, for instance—as a souvenir of our visit.

    “I am hastily finishing this, because I am at the end of my paper. There is quite a noise and excitement outside. Papa is going down to see what it is, and will put this letter into Wells, Fargo & Company’s mail sack, so that my little daughter may know that her father and mother are just one day behind it—coming to see her grow up to happy womanhood, and blessing God who has been kind to them and given them fortune, so that they may do so much for their idol.

    “With a hundred kisses, from both father and mother, my darling, I remain, as I ever shall be,

    “Your loving mother,

    “Alice Louise Ripley.

    “P. S. Next time I shall give the kisses in person! Think of it! Lips to lips!”

    “Does not this bear a mother’s heart? “whispers Miss Louise, who has tears in her eyes.

    “Yes, and the record of a villain!” adds Harry impulsively.

    “What do you mean?”

    “I mean this,” says the gentleman. “Last evening you told me that your mother’s parents and treasure disappeared during a negro riot upon the Isthmus on April 15th, 1856, the day this letter was written, Their gold was with them. That was their doom! Had they not carried their California dust under their own eyes, they would have lived to embrace their daughter!”

    “What makes you guess this?” asks the girl, her face becoming agitated and surprised.

    “I not only guess it—I know it!—and that he had something to do with it!”

    “He—who?”

    “Señor Fernando Gomez Montez!”

    “Why, this letter speaks of him as a friend who had saved her life!”

    “That was to gain the confidence of her husband, so he could betray him. Why did he ask for George Ripley’s revolver, so as to leave him unarmed? His nature is the same today! He has also betrayed another bosom friend!” says Harry excitedly.

    “Tell me what you know about him!” whispers the girl eagerly.

    To this, after a momentary pause of thought, Larchmont replies: “I will—I must!” And now astounds her, for he mutters: “I need your aid!”

    “My aid! How?”

    “Listen, and I will tell you all in confidence,” answers the young man. Then he looks upon her and mutters: “You have no interest to betray me?”

    “Betray you?” she cries, “you who saved my life? No, no, no!” and answers his glance.

    “Then,” says the young man, “listen to the story of a Franco American fool!”

    “Oh, don’t speak of yourself so!”

    “No,” he laughs bitterly, chewing the end of his mustache; “I am referring to my brother!”

    “Oh, your French brother!” cries the young lady, “the one your uncle sneered about.”

    “The one I shall sneer about also, and you will by the time you know him!” This explosion over, Mr. Larchmont goes on contemplatively: “My brother is not a bad fellow at heart. Had he been brought up differently, he might have had more force of character, though I don’t think it would have ever been a strong one.”

    Then his voice grows bitter as he continues: “There is a school in New Hampshire, or Vermont, called Saint Regis, the headmaster of which, had he lived in ancient Greece, would have been promptly and justly condemned, by an Athenian jury, to drink the juice of hemlock, and die—for corrupting the youth of the country; because he makes them unpatriotic and un-American. This gentleman is a foreigner—a man of good breeding, but though he educates the youth of this country—some five or six hundred of them—he still despises everything American. He calls his classes ‘Forms,’ after the manner of the English public schools. He frowns upon baseball because it is American, and encourages cricket because it is an English game. He tries to make his pupils foreigners, not Americans. Not that I do not think an English man is better for England, or a Frenchman better for France, but I know that an American is better for America! Therefore he injures the youth of the United States. However, it has become the fashion among certain of our better families in New York to send their boys to his school, to be taught to despise, practically, their own country.

    “Frank was sent to Saint Regis, and swallowed the un-patriotic microbes his tutor stuffed him with. After he left there, Yale, Harvard, or Princeton was not good enough for him. He must go to a foreign university. Which, it did not matter—Oxford, Cambridge, Heidelberg—anything but an American university. His guardians foolishly let him have his way. He took himself to Europe, ultimately settled in Paris, and practically forgot his own country, and became, as he calls himself: Francois Leroy Larchmont, a Franco American.

    “This would not probably have weakened his character altogether, for there are strong men in every country, though when a man becomes unpatriotic, he loses his manhood; but with Frank’s loss of Americanism, came the growth of a pride that is now, I am sorry to say, sometimes seen in our country—the pride of the ‘do nothing’; the feeling that business degrades. With that comes worship of title and an hereditary aristocracy, armorial bearings, and such Old World rubbish.”

    “Why! I—I thought you were one of that class!” ejaculates Miss Minturn, her eyes big with astonishment.

    “Oh! You think this is a curious diatribe from a man who has been called one of the Four Hundred, a good many of whom are devotees of this order,” Mr. Larchmont mutters, a grim smile coming over his features.

    “Yes, I—I thought you were a butterfly of fashion!” stammers the girl.

    “So I was—but of American fashion! Now I am a man who is trying to save his brother!”

    “From what?” asks Louise. “From being a French man?”

    “No, from losing his fortune and his honor!” remarks Harry so gloomily that the young lady looks at him in silence.

    Then he goes on: “My brother’s worship of title, his petty pride to be thought great in a foreign capital, got him into the Panama Canal, and the clutches of Baron Montez—God knows where he picked up the title. This man became my brother’s bosom friend, as he became, twenty odd years before, the bosom friend of the man whose letter I hold in my hand!”

    Press photograph (1906). See note.

    He taps the epistle of George Merritt Ripley, and continues: “This man was a strong man. He had to be killed perchance, to secure his treasure. My brother, being a weak one, needed only flattery and persuasion.” Then looking at the girl, Harry’s tones become persuasive; he says: “I am going to the Isthmus to try and save my brother’s fortune, and that of his ward, Miss Jessie Severn, out of which they have been swindled by this man, who probably ruined your chances in life, and made you struggle for livelihood in the workroom when you should have aired your beauty and graces in a ballroom. Will you aid me to force him to do justice to my brother? Your very position, thank God! will help you to do it!”

    But here surprise and shock come to him. His reference to Miss Severn has been unfortunate.

    Miss Minturn says slowly: “My position?—what do you mean?”

    “You will be the confidential correspondent of his firm. You will perhaps discover the traps by which Montez has purloined my brother’s fortune.”

    “Do you think,” cries the girl, “that I will use my confidential position against my employer?”

    “Why not, if he is a scoundrel?”

    “That is not my code. When I became a stenographer I was taught that the confidential nature of my position in honor forced upon me secrecy and silence!” And growing warm with her subject, Miss Minturn goes on, haughtiness in her voice, and disdain in her eye: “And you made my acquaintance—you tried to gain my friend ship, Mr. Larchmont—to ask me to do this?”

    “Good heavens! I never thought of it before these letters brought home this man’s villany to you, as well as to me!” gasps Harry “I was simply coming to the Isthmus to fight my brother’s battle, to win back for him, if possible, his fortune! To win back for Miss Severn, her fortune!”

    “And for that,” interjects the young lady, “you would make me do a dishonorable—yes, a series of dishonorable acts. You would lure me to act the part of Judas, day by day, to my employer, to bring to you each evening a record of each day’s confidences! How could you think I was base enough for this? How could you?”

    Then seizing the letters that have brought this quarrel upon them, and wiping indignant tears from her eyes, she whispers with pale lips: “Goodby, Mr. Larchmont!”

    “Goodby?”

    “Yes, goodby! I do not care to know a gentleman who thinks I could do what you have asked me!”

    She sweeps away from him to her own stateroom, where she bursts into tears; for, curiously enough, it is not entirely his hurried, perhaps thoughtless proposition, that makes her miserable, and has produced her paroxysm of wrath—it is the idea that he is fighting for Miss Severn’s fortune. “He loves her,” sobs the girl to her self, “and for that reason he would have made me his tool to give her wealth.”

    After she has left him, Mr. Larchmont utters a prolonged but melancholy whistle. Then he suddenly says: “Who can divine a woman? A man, thinking he had lost a fortune through this villain Montez, would have seized my hand, and become my comrade, to compel the scoundrel to do justice to us both! But she—” Then he meditates again, and says slowly: “I wonder—was there any woman’s reason for this? Her eyes—her beautiful eyes—had some subtle emotion in them that was not wholly indignation. They looked wounded—by something more than a business proposition!”

    Then a sudden pallor and fright come upon this young Ajax, as he falters to himself: “Great heavens! if she never forgives me!”

    Notes and References

    • player: A man or woman that has more than one person think that they are the only one. Urban Dictionary.
    • en camarade: in friendship. Cambridge Dictionary.
    • patois: a regional form of a language, especially of French, differing from the standard, literary form of the language.
    • Press photograph of male: Reynaldo Hahn (1874-1947): Venezualan singer and under-appreciated composer, conductor and music critic. Hahn was a notable denizen of Belle Époque Paris, and friend and lover of Marcel Proust.

    ‘Books that shaped America 1850-1900’, U.S. Library of Congress.

    Phillips, A.A. -‘The Cultural Cringe’ Meanjin.

    Watkins, H.L. Four Years in Europe – The Barnum & Bailey Circus – The Greatest Show on Earth. 1901. Digital Collections, New York Public Library. Jump to book

    Worrall, H. , Exposing the fallacy of circus ‘showmen’.

    This edition © 2021 Furin Chime, Brian Armour