On Foreign Service; Or, The Santa Cruz RevolutionJeans, T. T. (Thomas Tendron)
General
On Foreign Service; Or, The Santa Cruz Revolution
Jeans, T. T. (Thomas Tendron)
Great Britain. Royal Navy -- Fiction; Seafaring life -- Fiction; South America -- Fiction
Then he and we two mids. had to do more waiting—it was terrible. The
sun went down, it got dark quite suddenly, and we couldn’t help thinking
of the awful road down the mountains to Los Angelos and how we were
going to get down there at night.
The Minister’s wife gave us some dinner and tried to be jolly, but I
couldn’t be, and couldn’t eat anything. She and the girls were pretty
nervous too, because, all the time we were pretending to have dinner,
there were noises as if a riot was going on in the town. We were all
fidgeting, and the black men-servants in their scarlet liveries were
very jumpy. You could see by the way they moved about that they were
frightened too.
The Minister’s wife made them close the big windows and that drowned a
good deal of the noise, and I couldn’t see the dark creepy shadows of
the palms outside and felt less uncomfortable. She kept on saying, ’I
wish your father would come back,’ and, just as we were going to have
some coffee, we heard the banging of rifles. The black footman dropped
his tray, and all of them simply trembled. It was no use to sit any
longer at the table, the two girls began to cry, and then it was our
turn to do something to help.
The firing sometimes seemed to be coming our way, so we three went round
the garden and made sure that all the gates were locked—a jolly creepy
job it was out there in the dark, and I jumped every time I heard a
rifle go off. The servants were all standing about, whispering and
looking frightened, which made it all the more horrid; so, to give them
something to do, we sent them to close all the shutters, though we
couldn’t get them to go into the street to close some there, and had to
do that ourselves. Then we made the three ladies come into the
drawing-room, lighted all the lamps, and tried to cheer them up. The
Angel played the piano, and Mr. Perkins, who hates singing, bellowed out
some sea-songs and made them join in the choruses. That wasn’t much of
a success, so he scratched his funny old head and did a few tricks. One
was to stand straight upright and then sit down on the floor without
bending his knees, and he did it so jolly well that it nearly shook the
ornaments off the mantelpiece, and the bump frightened them all. Then he
showed them how he could fall flat on his chest without bending his
knees, and did it, but banged his chin hard on the polished floor, so
that wasn’t quite a success either.
We couldn’t think of any other tricks.
Nine o’clock came, and ten o’clock—there was no firing now—and half-past
ten came before we heard several carriages coming towards the house, and
went out into the courtyard to the street gate.
The Minister, the Captain, the tall German, who turned out to be the
German Minister, and was in a grand-looking uniform, the little
Frenchman, four or five others, and the United States Minister in
ordinary evening dress, got down, and then several ladies, closely
wrapped up, came in too.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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