Kitabı oku: «The Dust of Conflict», sayfa 11
XIII – THE SECOND ATTEMPT
IT was at a brisk walk Appleby left the banker’s house, but he stopped a few minutes later where several streets branched off from a little plaza. He had some trifling business with a tobacco merchant who lived in one of them, but he decided after a moment’s reflection that it was scarcely likely he would find the man, who probably spent the evenings at a café, at home just then. Appleby had, however, stopped somewhat suddenly, and noticed that the footsteps he had heard behind him also ceased a second or two later. This, he surmised, had in all probability no special significance; but he raised his hand to an inner pocket where the letter the banker had given him lay. It was evidently of some importance, and he remembered that it was not money the man he had surprised at the hacienda was in search of.
As it happened he carried another letter, which he meant to ask somebody at the “Four Nations” to post. It was of very little consequence, and contained only a list of American tools and machinery which Harding dealt in, and Appleby smiled as he slipped it into the lower pocket of his jacket. Then he took out his cigar-case and slowly lighted a cigar, so that anybody who might be watching him should find a motive for his delay. He looked about him cautiously as he did so.
The plaza was small and dark, though a thin crescent moon was just rising over the clustering roofs. Its faint light silvered the higher portions of the two square church towers that rose blackly against the velvety indigo with one great star between them, but the rest of the building, which was the one Nettie Harding had found shelter in, was blurred and shadowy. Beyond it a few lights blinked in the calle he had just passed through, but they only intensified the darkness of the narrow gap between the flat-roofed houses, and – for it was getting late – the street seemed utterly silent. Yet Appleby had certainly heard footsteps, and no closing of a door to account for their cessation. The houses were large in that vicinity, and built, for the most part, round a patio, the outer door of which not infrequently consisted of a heavy iron grille which could scarcely be closed noiselessly. In front of him two streets branched off, one broad and well paved, the other narrow and very dark. The latter, however, led straight to the “Four Nations,” past the carniceria, or butchery, and two or three of the little wine-shops of shady repute which are usually to be found close to the principal church in a Spanish town. Here and there a blink of light streamed out from the open lattice of one of them.
Appleby stood still a moment, and then, reflecting that anybody who might be following him would expect him to take the broader way, slipped into the narrow street. A day or two earlier he would have laughed at the notion, but the footsteps which had stopped so abruptly troubled him. He had passed one wine-shop when he heard them again, and, though it seemed at least possible that they were those of some citizen going home, there was an unpleasant suggestiveness in them, and when the light of the second wine-shop fell across the street he decided to enter it. If the man behind him also stopped, his motive would be apparent.
Two or three men sat in the wine-shop with little glasses of caña before them, and Appleby was reassured when he glanced at them. They were evidently of the humbler orders, men who earned a meagre two or three pesetas a day; but their garments of cotton and coarse unstarched linen were, as usual, spotlessly clean, and he surmised from their shade of complexion that they had emigrated to Cuba from the Canaries. They saluted him courteously when he took off his hat on entering, and one laid down the torn and wine-stained journal he was reading.
“The war is making sugar dearer, señor,” he said.
Appleby was not altogether pleased at being recognized, as the observation implied, but the man seemed civil, and he smiled.
“It also puts up the cost of making it,” he said, turning to the landlord, as an excuse for remaining a little occurred to him. “You have Vermouth in an open bottle?”
“No, señor,” said the other, as Appleby had expected. “Since the war makes pesetas scarce one drinks the thin red wine and caña here. Still, I have a few bottles with the seal on.”
Appleby laughed. “Well,” he said, “as it has been observed, sugar is dear, and Vermouth is a wine I have a liking for. It is conceivable that these gentlemen would taste it with me.”
The men appeared quite willing, and one of them brought out a handful of coarse maize-husk cigarettes when the host laid down the bottle with the white Savoy cross upon it and a few little glasses.
“It is not the tobacco the senor usually smokes, but his cigar has gone out, and one offers what he has with the good will,” he said.
The man was clearly a peon, a day laborer, but Appleby fancied his manner could not have been improved upon, for it was free alike from undue deference or any assertion of equality. He took one of the cigarettes, and when he had handed round the little glasses sat with his face towards the door. The light from it, as he was pleased to notice, fell right across the narrow street, and he sat with his back to it. He had also not long to wait, for a patter of footsteps flung back by the white walls grew louder, and Appleby noticed that while they had rung sharp and decided they appeared to slacken as the man approached the wine-shop. This appeared significant, since it suggested that the man did not wish to cross the stream of light.
It was, however, evident that he must either stop or pass through it, and in another moment Appleby saw him. There was nothing especially noticeable about him except that the broad felt hat was pulled down a trifle lower than seemed necessary, and Appleby wondered if his suspicions were causeless, until the man turned his head a trifle. The movement was almost imperceptible, but Appleby felt that the dark eyes had rested on him a moment. Then as the stranger passed on he saw one of the men in the wine-shop glance at his companion, who made a little gesture of comprehension. It was, however a few moments later, and there was once more silence in the shadowy street when he turned to Appleby.
“It is getting late, señor,” he said significantly. “You sleep at the ‘Four Nations’?”
“No,” said Appleby, who wondered if this was intended as a hint. “Still, I am going there.”
The peon, he fancied, glanced at the landlord. “Then it would perhaps be better to go round by the calle Obispo.”
Appleby reflected a moment, for he fancied there was a meaning in this, but he knew the calle Obispo would be almost deserted at that hour; while by going through the carniceria he would shorten the distance, and, at least, have the man he suspected in front of him.
“I think I will go straight on,” he said.
“Then you will find it convenient to walk in the middle of the road,” said the peon.
Appleby glanced sharply at the man. He had seen sufficient of Spanish towns to know that there were reasons quite unconnected with the safety of foot passengers or their property which warranted the warning; but the olive face was expressionless, and with a punctilious salutation he left the wine-shop. Glancing over his shoulder a moment or two later, he saw the men silhouetted black against the light as they stood in the doorway, and swung into faster stride. He felt he had nothing to fear from them, but their hints had been unpleasantly suggestive.
In two or three minutes he reached the dark slaughterhouses, which were faced by a wall with one or two unlighted windows high up in it, and as, treading softly, he strained his ears he once more caught a faint patter behind him. This was somewhat astonishing, as it was evident that if the man who passed the wine-shop still desired to keep him in view he must have made a considerable round. Appleby stopped suddenly, and made up his mind when the footsteps ceased too. The spot was lonely, and shut in by the slaughter-houses and high blank walls; while the feeling that somebody was creeping up behind him through the darkness was singularly unpleasant, so much so, in fact, that it changed the concern he was sensible of into anger. He had also distinct objections to being stabbed in the back, and decided that if an affray was inevitable he would, at least, force the assailant’s hand, and to do that cover of some kind was necessary. Sooner or later he would find a doorway he could slip into, and he went on again softly and hastily.
He had made another fifty yards, and the footsteps were plainer still behind, when a pillar partly bedded in it broke the bare line of wall, and pulling out the little pistol from his hip pocket he turned sharply and flung himself into the gloom behind it. Then he realized his blunder, and that he had two men to deal with instead of one, for a strip of heavy fabric was flung about his head, and hard fingers fastened on his throat. Appleby gasped, and drew the trigger convulsively, while there was a crash as the pistol exploded. Then he felt it slip from his fingers, for the strength seemed to go out of him, and he was only sensible that he was fighting hard for breath. How long the tense effort lasted he did not know, but his faculties had almost deserted him when a cry he could scarcely hear rose from the street, and was followed by a sound of running feet.
Then he was flung against the pillar, and there was a crash as a shadowy object leapt into the doorway. A man reeled out of it in a blundering fashion, another sped down the street, and Appleby, staggering out, leaned, gasping, against the wall. It was some moments before he could make anything out, and then he saw two men standing close in front of him. One held something in his hand, and by their voices he fancied they were the peons he had met in the wine-shop. Looking round him as his scattered senses came slowly back, he saw another man apparently crawling out of the gutter. Then there was a rapid tramp of feet further up the street, and one of the men seemed to look at his companion, who made a sign of agreement.
“The civiles!” he said.
Then they fell upon the man in the gutter, dragged him to his feet, drove him before them with kicks, and stood still again while he reeled away in an unsteady fashion which suggested that he was at least half dazed. In the meanwhile the rapid tramp behind them had been growing louder, and the shuffling steps had scarcely ceased when a light was flashed into Appleby’s face, and he saw a man with a lantern in trim white uniform standing a few paces away, and another who carried a pistol behind him. Then the light was turned aside, and revealed the two peons from the wine-shop waiting quietly to be questioned.
Appleby recognized the men in uniform as civil guards, and knew that almost every man in that body had won distinction in the military service.
The street was now very silent again, and it was evident that the peons did not consider it advisable to put the civiles on the track of the fugitive just yet. The one who held the lantern looked at them, standing erect, with knee bent a trifle and a big pistol projecting from the holster at his belt.
“There was a shot, and by and by a shout,” he said. “An explanation is desired. You are warned to be precise.”
“It is simple,” said one of the peons. “Comes this señor the American, into the wine-shop of Cananos where we are sitting. There he takes a glass of Vermouth and goes away. Then comes a man slipping by where it is darkest, and we go to warn the señor taking the caña bottle. It appears there is another man waiting in this doorway, there is a struggle, and Vincente strikes down one of the prowlers with the bottle. He gets to his feet again, and they go in haste when they hear you coming. Then we find the señor faint and short of breath.”
The civile stretched out his hand for the caña bottle, which was apparently corked, and balanced it. “It would serve – a man might be killed with it,” he said. “But you had a knife!”
“With excuses,” said the peon. “We respect the law. The knife is forbidden.”
There was a little grim twinkle in the civile’s eyes, but he fixed them on Appleby. “I will not ask you to shake your sleeve, or question your comrade, because his tale would be the same,” he said. “That is what happened, señor?”
“Yes,” said Appleby, “so far as I can remember. I was going from the banker’s to the ‘Four Nations’ when I became aware that there was a man following me. To avoid him I slipped into this doorway, where another man was waiting. It was my pistol you heard, but the other man, whom I had not expected, had his fingers on my throat, and I was helpless when these others appeared.”
The civile made a little gesture of comprehension, and then, tilting up his chin, laid his fingers on his throat. “The head drawn back – and the thumb so! With the knee in the back at the same time it was as sure as the knife. The señor is to be felicitated on his escape. But the motive? Even in Santa Marta men do not fall upon a stranger without a purpose.”
Appleby, who was on his guard at once, felt his pockets, and was sensible of a vast relief when he found the letter the banker had given him was still in his possession. The other in his outer pocket had, however, as he expected, disappeared.
“I think their purpose was evident. It is for money one usually goes to a banker’s,” he said. “It is also known that I have dealings with the Señor Suarez. Still, thanks to the promptness of the gentlemen here, nothing of importance has been taken from me.”
The civile with the lantern glanced at his comrade, who nodded.
“It would be wiser to go there in the daylight another time,” said the latter as he held out Appleby’s pistol, which he had unobtrusively looked for and picked up. “One cartridge burned – it confirms the story! You would not recognize the men who attacked you?”
“No,” said Appleby, and the peon whom the civile turned to shook his head emphatically.
“It was very dark,” he said.
The civiles asked a few more questions, and then one of them insisted on escorting Appleby, who apparently failed to make the peons understand that he desired a word with them, to the “Four Nations.” The man, however, left him outside the hotel, and Appleby had spent a few minutes there waiting for his mule when one of the peons came quietly up to him in the patio.
“The señor lost this letter not long ago?” he said.
“I did,” said Appleby, taking the envelope. “Where did you find it?”
The peon smiled in a curious fashion. “It seems you know our country. I took it from the man Vincente felled, but it did not seem wise to mention it before the civiles. They have sharp eyes, those gentlemen.”
“I am indebted,” said Appleby. “It is, however, of no importance.”
The peon smiled again. “And yet you knew you had lost it, and said nothing. Why would one run a risk to seize a letter?”
“I don’t know,” said Appleby. “Nor am I sure why you and your companion should take so much trouble to guard a stranger. I would not, of course, offend you by suggesting that you did it to repay me for a glass of Vermouth.”
“For the charity then?” said the peon, smiling.
“I do not think so,” said Appleby, who looked at him steadily.
The man laughed. “Well,” he said reflectively, “there may have been another reason. It is known to a few that Don Bernardino is a friend of liberty.”
Appleby was a trifle astonished, but not sufficiently to show it, since he had already had vague suspicions.
“It is,” he said, “a thing one does not admit in Santa Marta, but if one might reward a kindness with money I have a few dollars.”
“It is not permissible, señor – not from a comrade,” and the man straightened himself a trifle. “Still, one might be grateful for a little bottle.”
Appleby laughed, though he was not quite at ease, and entering the hotel came back with two bottles of somewhat costly wine, which he thrust upon the man.
“If I can be of service I think you know where I am to be found,” he said.
Again the curious little smile showed in the man’s face, but he took off his hat and turned away; while ten minutes later Appleby rode out of Santa Marta somewhat troubled in mind. It was tolerably plain to him that Harding’s affairs were being watched with interest by the Administration or somebody who desired to gain a hold on him, and that his own connection with the Sin Verguenza was at least suspected by the peons who had befriended him. That being so, it appeared likely that others were aware of it too.
XIV – APPLEBY PROVES OBDURATE
THE hot day was over, and the light failing rapidly when Appleby, who had just finished comida, sat by a window of the hacienda San Cristoval with an English newspaper upon his knee. The room behind him, where Harper lay in a cane chair, was already shadowy, but outside the saffron sunset still flamed beyond the cane, and here and there a palm tuft cut against it hard and sharp in ebony tracery. Inside the air was hot, and heavy with the smell of garlic-tainted oil; but a faint cool draught flowed in between the open lattices, and Appleby, who had been busy since sunrise that day, sighed contentedly as he breathed it in. Beneath him the long white sheds still glimmered faintly, and a troop of men were plodding home along the little tram-line that wound through the cane; while in the direction they came from the smoke of the crushing-mill floated, a long, dingy smear, athwart the soft blueness, out of which here and there a pale star was peeping.
Appleby was dressed in spotless duck, with a gray alpaca jacket over it, and the thin garments showed his somewhat spare symmetry as he lay relaxed in mind and body in his chair. He felt the peaceful stillness of the evening after the strain of the day, for Harding had left him in sole charge for some months now, and the handling of the men who worked for him had taxed all his nerve and skill. By good-humored patience and uncompromising grimness, when that appeared the more advisable, he had convinced his swarthy subordinates that they would gain little by trifling with him, though he had wondered once or twice when an open dispute appeared imminent why it was that certain peons had so staunchly supported him against their discontented comrades. It was not, however, his difficulties with the workmen which caused him most concern, but the task of keeping on good terms with an administration that regarded aliens, and especially Americans, with a jealous eye, and appeasing the rapacity of officials whose exactions would, if unduly yielded to, have absorbed most of Harding’s profits. To hit the happy medium was a delicate business, but hitherto Appleby had accomplished it successfully.
The cigar he held had gone out, but he had not noticed it for the paper on his knee had awakened memories of the life he had left behind him. He could look back upon it without regret, for its trammels had galled him, and the wider scope of the new one appealed to him. In it the qualities of foresight, quick decision, daring, and the power of command were essential, and he had been conscious without vanity that he possessed them. Also, though that counted for less, his salary and bonus on the results of the crushing was liberal.
Still, he was thinking of England, for a paragraph in the paper had seized his attention. There was nothing to show who had sent it him, though two or three had reached him already, and he knew that Nettie Harding was in England. He could scarcely see, but he held up the journal to the fading light, and with difficulty once more deciphered the lines: —
“The electrical manufacturing company have been very busy since the consummation of their agreement with Mr. Anthony Palliser. Already their factory at Dane Cop is in course of construction, and they have an army of workmen laying the new tramway and excavating the dam. It is also rumored that negotiations are in progress for the establishment of subsidiary industries, and it is evident that Northrop will make a stride towards prosperity under the enterprising gentleman who has recently succeeded to the estate.”
Appleby smiled curiously as he laid the paper down. Tony, it was evident, would no longer be hampered by financial embarrassments, and Appleby did not envy him the prosperity he had not hitherto been accustomed to. Still, he wondered vaguely why Tony had never written to the address in Texas, from which letters would have reached him, especially since it appeared that Godfrey Palliser was dead. He was also curious as to whether Tony was married yet, and would have liked to have heard that he was. That, he felt, would have snapped the last tie that bound him to the post, and made it easier to overcome the longing he was sensible of when he remembered Violet Wayne. It would, he fancied, be less difficult if he could think of her as Tony’s wife. Then he brushed away the fancies as Harper noisily moved his chair.
“Hallo!” he said. “Another of their blamed officers coming to worry us!”
Appleby heard a beat of hoofs, and looking down saw a man riding along the tramway on a mule. It was too dark to see the stranger clearly, and he sat still until there was a murmur of voices below, and a patter of feet on the stairway.
“He is coming up,” he said, with a trace of displeasure in his voice. “I fancied I had made it plain that nobody was to be shown in until I knew his business. Still, we can’t turn him out now. Tell Pancho to bring in the lights.”
Harper rose, but as he did so the major-domo flung the door open, and stood still with a lamp in his hand as a man walked into the room. He made a little gesture of greeting, and Appleby checked a gasp of astonishment. The major-domo set the lamp on the table, and then slipped out softly, closing the door behind him.
“Don Maccario!” said Harper, staring at the stranger. “Now, I wonder where he got those clothes.”
Maccario smiled, and sat down uninvited. He was dressed in broadcloth and very fine linen, and laid a costly Panama hat on the table. Then he held out a little card towards Appleby.
“With permission!” he said. “Don Erminio Peralla, merchant in tobacco, of Havana!”
Harper laughed when he had laid out a bottle and glasses, and the faint rose-like bouquet of Canary moscatel stole into the room.
“That’s a prescription you are fond of,” he said. “The tobacco business is evidently flourishing.”
The last was in Castilian, and Maccario delicately rolled up the brim of the hat and let it spring out again to show the beauty of the fabric, while his dark eyes twinkled.
“It seems that one’s efforts for the benefit of his countrymen are appreciated now and then, but my business is the same,” he said. “One does not look for the patriot Maccario in the prosperous merchant of tobacco, for those who would make mankind better and freer are usually poor. That is all – but I am still a leader of the Sin Verguenza, and as such I salute you, comrade.”
He made Appleby a little inclination, which the latter understood, as he drank off his wine. It implied that he, too, was still counted among the Sin Verguenza.
“There is business on hand?” he said quietly, signing to Harper, who moved towards the door.
Maccario, somewhat to his astonishment, checked Harper with a gesture. “It is not necessary,” he said. “There is nobody there. Morales is sending his troops away, and by and by we seize the Barremeda district for the Revolution.”
“You want me?” asked Appleby very slowly.
A curious little smile crept into Maccario’s eyes. “Where could one get another teniente to equal you?”
Appleby sat very still. He had, he fancied, started on the way to prosperity when he became Harding’s manager, and while he sympathized vaguely with the aspirations of the few disinterested Insurgents who seemed to possess any he had seen sufficient of the Sin Verguenza. If he could cling to the position it seemed not unlikely that a bright future awaited him; and while free from avarice, he had his ambitions. On the other hand, there were privations relieved only by the brief revelry that followed a scene of rapine, weary marches, hungry bivouacs, and anxious days spent hiding in foul morasses from the troops of Spain. Still, he had already surmised that he would sooner or later have to make the decision, and while he remembered the promise the ragged outcasts had required of him a vague illogical longing for the stress of the conflict awoke in him.
“Well,” he said quietly, “when I am wanted I will be ready.”
Maccario made him a very slight inclination, which was yet almost stately and expressive, as only a Spaniard’s gesture could be.
“It is as one expected, comrade; but perhaps we do not want you to carry the rifle,” he said. “It is the silver we have in the meanwhile the most need of.”
“What I have is my friends’, to the half of my salary.”
“We do not take so much from you. A little, yes, when the good will goes with it; but there is more you can do for us.”
“No!” and Appleby’s voice, though quiet, had a little ring in it. “There is nothing else.”
Maccario lifted one hand. “It is arms we want most, my friend, and now the patriotic committee are liberal we are getting them. There remains the question of distribution and storage for the rifles as they some from the coast, which is difficult. Still, I thing Morales would not search one place, and that is the hacienda San Cristoval. It is evident how you could help us.”
“No,” said Appleby grimly. “Not a single rifle shall be hidden here. When the Sin Verguenza send for me I will join them, but in the meanwhile I serve the Señor Harding. That implies a good deal, you understand?”
Maccario appeared reflective. “A little hint sent Morales would, I think, be effectual. Arrives a few files of cazadores with bayonets, and the Señor Harding will want another manager.”
“Oh yes,” said Harper dryly as he sprang towards the door. “That’s quite simple, but the hint isn’t sent yet. A word from me, and I guess the Sin Verguenza would be left without a leader!”
Maccario looked round, and laughed softly as he saw the American standing grim in face with his back to the door and a pistol glinting in his hand.
“It is Don Bernardino I have the honor of talking with,” he said.
“You have heard all I have to tell you,” said Appleby. “I cannot embroil the Señor Harding with Morales.”
Maccario rose, and smiled at Harper. “It saves trouble when one has an understanding; and now, my friends, I will show you something. The major-domo had orders not to send up anybody without announcing him, but he admitted me. Will you come out with me into the veranda?”
“Put your pistol up, Harper,” said Appleby; but Maccario shook his head.
“Not yet, I think,” he said. “Open that lattice so the light shines through. Will you send for the men I mention, Don Bernardino?”
They did as he directed, and when they went out into the veranda Appleby blew a whistle. It was answered by a patter of feet, and Appleby spoke swiftly when a man appeared below.
“I have sent for the men. They are among the best we have, and supported me when I had a difference with the rest,” he said.
Maccario smiled. “They did as they were told, my friend.”
Appleby could not see his face because the light from the room was behind them, but his tone was significant, and he waited in some astonishment until the patter of feet commenced again, and half-seen men flitted into the patio. The latter could, however, see the men above them, for a threatening murmur went up when they caught the glint of Harper’s pistol, and two of them came running to the foot of the stairway. Maccario laughed, and laid his hand on Harper’s shoulder. Then the murmurs died away, and the men stood still below, while Maccario turned with a little nod to Appleby.
“One would fancy they would do what I wished,” he said. “The Sin Verguenza have, it seems, friends everywhere. It is permissible for one to change his mind.”
“Yes,” said Appleby, who hid his astonishment by an effort. “Still, in this case you have not been as wise as usual, Don Maccario. There are men who become more obdurate when you try to intimidate them. You have already heard my decision.”
Maccario laughed, and waved his hand to the men below. “I commend these two gentlemen to your respect. They are good friends of mine. There is nothing else,” he said. “Now we will go back again, Don Bernardino.”
The men apparently went away, and Maccario, who walked back into the room, smiled when he seated himself again.
“The Señor Harding is to be congratulated upon his manager,” he said. “Still, there is a difficulty about the rifles. There are ten cases of them here already. They are marked hardware and engine fittings.”
Harper gasped. “Well, I’m blanked!” he said. “I guess it’s the only time any kind of a greaser got ahead of me.”
“Then they must be taken away,” said Appleby. “Where are they, Don Maccario? If you do not tell me I shall certainly find them.”
“In the iron store shed, I understand. They would have been sent for at night to-morrow.”
“Get them out,” said Appleby, turning to Harper. “They will be safer lying on the cane trucks in the open than anywhere.”
Harper went out, and Maccario poured out a glass of wine. “It is fortunate you are a friend of mine, and one in whom I have confidence,” he said. “Had it been otherwise you would have run a very serious risk, Don Bernardino.”
Appleby laughed, though he was glad that he sat in the shadow. “I can at least, let you have four hundred pesetas if the Sin Verguenza want them; but you will remember that if more rifles arrive here I will send them to Morales.”
“In silver?” said Maccario. “I have samples of tobacco to carry, and a mule.”
Appleby brought out two bags of silver from the chest in his office, for golden coin was almost as scarce in Cuba then as it usually is in Spain, and the two talked of different subjects with a frankness that concealed their thoughts, until there was a rattle of wheels as Harper passed below with several men pushing a little truck along the cane tramway. By and by he came in and sat down.
