Taking the High Road Read Free Page B

according to Gabe, to be quite comfortable during their voyage, yet small enough to be friendly.
    Upon embarkation, all three of them hung over the rail like five-year-olds, fluttering farewell handkerchiefs to the crowd left behind—at least, the girls did. Gabe executed a few easy waves or an occasional salute to no one in particular, just to feel in the swim of things.
    Slow, gradual maneuverings from quieter waters to the greater ocean beyond, and they were on their way. There remained only inclusion in steamship life, with scrumptious meals at any hour of the day, games of shuffleboard, bracing walks around the outer decks, and nighttime dancing under the stars.
    Enough unattached young men were available to keep Cecelia from feeling like a wallflower. The extended cruise home from Europe just last month had familiarized her enough with shipboard routine to accept any romance for what it was: occasional flirting, nothing serious. At the end of the voyage, or upon any change of vessel, casual goodbyes would be exchanged and parties could continue on to their separate destinations, with, it was to be hoped, no stronger emotion involved than mild regret and definite well-wishing.
    Calls at various ports not only extended time for the passage, but allowed a chance to sightsee. While the South was becoming increasingly immured in political upheaval, with Charleston the recent site of the Democratic National Convention, and with Savannah’s Merchants and Planters Bank financing a wharf full of cotton bales bound for New York, stately old homes in both cities offered the charm of architecture and hospitality.
    Key West, with its lush semi-tropical setting of sand and surf and intriguing banyan trees, kapok trees, and palms, also served as a harbor for slave ships and their wretched human cargo. New Orleans provided relief from more serious matters, as travelers were treated to tours of scenic areas, both by carriage and by paddlewheel.
    Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on your point of view—the wild gold rush days of California madness had passed on by some ten years or so ago. The entire Eastern seaboard had heard of and palavered over the hardships involved in getting to The Promised Land. Gabe and his entourage, having quite comfortably visited a civilized American metropolis in several states, honestly assumed that the remainder of their trek would continue in the same vein.
    Thus, the sight of Chagres on Panama’s coast came as a shock. The village has been built mainly of large thatched huts that provided no sanitary conveniences; nor were roads, replacement stores, or modern lighting readily available. The bewildered natives had to cope with a steady influx of crazy people from all over the world, determined to make their way to California so that they might start picking up gold nuggets, right off the ground.
    The Liberty Belle’s passengers had arrived during the wet season. First the travelers were drowned by rain; shortly after, they were steamed halfway dry by the blazing sun.
    “Now I know how a clam must feel,” murmured Cecelia, drooping under the merciful shade of a protective awning on board ship.
    “We’re in luck, though, girls,” Gabe announced. “We got us reservations on the railroad ’cross the Isthmus. Once we get all our stuff on board, it’ll only be a few hours till we see the Pacific Ocean. Imagine that!”
    “I must confess, I am definitely ready to leave this part of the world behind,” Cecelia sighed. “Boston’s heat did not prepare me for a tropical climate.”
    Gabe eyed his charge, pale as putty in noonday temperatures, with sympathy. “I know, honey. But it could be worse. Before the railway was built, back a few years ago, we’d’a been usin’ canoes. And things woulda been a lot tougher for all of us. How you doin’, there, Bridge?”
    “Good thing I’m tough Irish stock, Uncle Gabe,” she said cheerfully. “This has been a wonderful trip, up to this