AVING once assured Jimmy that whatever disposition he made of Mike Cochrane, the patriot run wild, would be sanctioned by me, it was beyond me to retract; but I was sometimes doubtful about the wisdom of carrying the oiler to Maracaibo. And these doubts continued to lurk at intervals in my mind, entirely without any adequate reason; for there was never a passenger aboard a ship who kept more completely to himself than Cochrane. So strong was his constitution that before we reached port he was frequently out on deck at times when he could be alone, but he avoided the other men from below as if dreading an interview of any kind. None of those aware of the cause of his injury spoke of it, all having been cautioned by me. But anything in the least inexplicable is apt to become a mystery aboard ship, and I know not what rumors spread.
It was in a bright forenoon and under a hot sun that we made Maracaibo and found it, like so many other ports, almost deserted. On other occasions when I had been there its harbor had been speckled with craft clear up to the shoals leading to the beautiful lake behind; ships fragrant with coffee, ships smelling to the skies with their cargoes of hides; ships flying all flags. It was remarkable how the ravages and hazards of war had cleared the port. There were but two ships loading, squatty little British steamers, built hurriedly after the war broke out, one taking on hides, probably to supply the English Army with shoe leather, the other taking on coffee and cocoa, destined, probably, to the same consumption. The city, with its Spanish houses, appeared sweltering, and even the tropical trees around the Plaza drooped.
And it was there that we put Cochrane ashore. First his box, then a ditty-bag, and lastly himself, were stowed away in the stern of a boat. The chief engineer had gone to the cabin where the oiler had been immured. What Jimmy said to him I never knew; but I saw, as the row-boat pulled slowly away toward the shore, that Twisted Jimmy waved the oiler a good-bye. I did not. I was glad to see the last of him.
Without incident we delivered our cargo to its consignees, and I doubt if a quicker unloading was ever made in Maracaibo, where good dock laborers in ordinary times are scarce. There was a positive clamor for charters, but unfortunately most of them were destined for European ports. I had brought the Esperanza to Maracaibo through tropical waters with the idea of having relief from the anxieties of transatlantic voyages, and therefore I took my time in deciding what outward-bound cargo I should accept. I desired nothing for Europe.
And while I was in this uncertainty, a most curious bit of news was given me by a Yankee shipping agent, named Farnes, with whom I had had dealings and who was by way of being the best friend I had in the port.
"Captain Hale," he said to me, banteringly, as I came into his office one morning, "I hope that you are not running away from any one, and that you have not done anything to put spots on your reputation?"
"Not that I know of," I answered with a laugh; "but what under the sun led to that observation?"
"The same old thing—mysterious stranger making inquiries concerning you, your rating, where you were born, what you have been doing, your personal character, particularly for honesty, and a thousand other similar queries; but I think I have a knowledge on one inquiry he made that no one else possesses. This information is for sale immediately upon receipt of one cigar from that estimable collection which you have in your pocket case."
Accepting his banter, I laughed, and handed him a cigar, telling him to fire away with his secret. He first lit the cigar, then conducted me to his private office, threw himself into a chair, and, with his feet on his desk, told me what he knew.