Kitabı oku: «The Dust of Conflict», sayfa 23
XXXI – STRUCK OFF THE ROLL
IT was with difficulty a handful of the Sin Verguenza cleared a way for Tony’s bearers through the clamorous mob below, and an hour had passed when Appleby, who had seen his comrade safely bestowed there, came out, grave in face, from the Spanish banker’s house. The doctor Maccario sent had, it was evident, no great hope of his patient’s recovery, though he insisted that he should be left in quietness.
A messenger from Maccario was waiting when Appleby reached the patio, and it was a relief to find that he had in the meanwhile work to do. Still, he stood almost a minute blinking about him with eyes that were dazzled by the change from the dimness of the hot room behind the closed lattices where Tony lay. The patio was flooded with glaring sunlight, and a confused din rose from every corner of Santa Marta. The hot walls flung back the tramp of feet and the exultant vivas of the mob, while from the tall church towers the clash of jangling bells rang across the town drowning the occasional crackle of riflery, for it was evident that scattered handfuls of the cazadores were fighting still.
Then the brown-faced man beside him made a little gesture of impatience when there was a crash of firing louder than the rest.
“Those cazadores are obstinate, and Don Maccario waits,” he said.
Appleby went with him vacantly, for now the strain had slackened he felt limp and his thoughts were in a whirl. Tony, it seemed, was dying, and the almost brotherly affection Appleby had once cherished for his comrade came back to him. As yet he could only realize the one painful fact with a poignant sense of regret.
Maccario, however, had work waiting him, and the day dragged through, though Appleby never remembered clearly all that happened during it. It was noon when they had cleared the town of the last of the cazadores, and bestowed those who had the wisdom to yield themselves in the cuartel. The rest leapt to destruction from windows and roofs, or went down, grimly clenching their hot rifles, in barricaded patios and on slippery stairways. Appleby was thankful when the work was done, though he had taken no part in it for Maccario, with a wisdom his comrade had not expected, bade him organize a guard, and see that there was no purposeless destruction of property. It was not, he said, a foray the Sin Verguenza had made, but an occupation they had effected, and there was nothing to be gained by pushing the wealthy loyalists to desperation. He also observed dryly that their dollars might fail to reach the insurgent treasury at all if collected independently by the rank and file.
The task was more to Appleby’s liking than the one he had anticipated, and it was necessary, since the smaller merchants in Cuba and also in parts of Peninsular Spain have no great confidence in bankers, and prefer a packet of golden onzas or a bag of pesetas to the best accredited check. He also contrived to accomplish it with success, somewhat to the astonishment of those whose property he secured to them, when they found he demanded nothing for himself, while he fancied there was reason in his companion’s observation as they went back to report to Maccario when there was quietness in the town. Harper sighed as they came out of the last loyalist’s house.
“I guess Maccario knew what he was about when he sent you to see this contract through,” he said.
“Well,” said Appleby, “it was a trifle more pleasant than turning out the cazadores.”
Harper grinned somewhat ruefully. “That’s not quite what I mean. Any one else with our opportunities would have been rich for life. Now, you didn’t seem to notice the diamond brooch the señora took out from her laces when she asked you to keep the rabble out of the house. It would have brought two hundred dollars in New York.”
Appleby looked at him with a little dry smile. “I have asked you no questions, but your pockets are suspiciously bulky.”
“Cigars,” said Harper disgustedly, pulling out a handful.
“Worth a dollar a piece in my country by the smell of them, but I’m not setting up a tobacco store! If I ever get hold of another contract of this kind I’ll take somebody else along.”
Appleby laughed a little, but his face grew grave again as they turned towards the banker’s house to inquire how Tony was progressing. There was no change, they were told, but the doctor, who was busy elsewhere, had left imperative instructions that no one was to see him.
Appleby was glad he had little leisure for reflection during the rest of the day, which was passed in strenuous activity. There were defences to be improvised, and ambulance corps to organize, barricades built, and men driven to their posts from the wine-shops, for Candotto’s Peninsulares would shortly arrive. They never came, however, but instead of them two hundred dusty men with rifles from Brena Abajo marched in, and a horde of peons from every aldea in the vicinity armed with staves and machetes followed them when dusk was closing down. Then once more the bells clashed exultantly above the clamorous town.
The soft darkness had descended upon Santa Marta, and there was quietness again, when Appleby and Harper took their places at the banquet in the Alcalde’s house where Maccario had decided he would establish the provisional administration. The great room blazed with light, the tables were piled with such luxuries as could be found in the city, fruits and flasks of wine, and Appleby, who was seated at Maccario’s right hand, gazed with a vague interest down the long rows of faces. They were exultant, eager, inscrutable, and anxious, for the loyalist citizens had evidently considered it advisable to comply with the leader of the Sin Verguenza’s invitation.
Maccario was now dressed immaculately, and the handful of loyalists with Castilian taste and precision, but there were also men with the grime of conflict still upon their brown faces, and garments foul with smoke and dust. It seemed to Appleby that he would never again sit down with so incongruous a company. At last, when all had eaten or made a pretence of it, there was a curious stillness as Maccario stood up at the head of the table. Every eye was turned upon him, and the olive-tinted faces grew intent, for among those who watched him were men who knew that their ruin or prosperity depended upon what he had to say.
“What we have accomplished to-day will last,” he said “The flag of Spain will never float over Santa Marta again.”
There was a murmur from the Sin Verguenza, and Appleby saw the faces of one or two of the loyalists harden, while the rest grew anxious. Maccario, however, smiled as he proceeded.
“A wise man yields to the inevitable,” he said. “The Sin Verguenza hold this town, and you have seen that from here to the mountains the country has declared for liberty. Men are flocking in, and there are rifles to arm the battalions we are raising in the cuartel. War with the Americans is now certain, and there can be only one result of that war, my friends, while Santa Marta stands alone, a place of no importance to the Spanish generals, who will be too busy to trouble about what happens there. Now you comprehend the position.”
He stopped, and it was evident that none of the loyalists could controvert him, though one rose to his feet.
“It is admitted, señor,” he said gravely. “What follows?”
“That,” said Maccario, “is for you and the others to decide. Martial law that will grind those who rebel against it into the dust, or, I think, prosperity, with due submission to a provisional administration. You see before you the head of it, and, at least, there will not be anarchy while he has two or three strong battalions to do his bidding. In the meanwhile the direction of affairs will be placed in the hands of ten men. Five will be nominated by myself, and I will ask your Alcalde to summon four others when he has consulted the wishes of the citizens.”
There was a murmur of relief and astonishment, for this was apparently the last thing the loyalists had expected, while Appleby, who glanced at Maccario, was sensible of a slight embarrassment, when he saw the little dry smile on his comrade’s face. The leader of the Sin Verguenza had, it seemed, guessed his thoughts, and he was glad when the Alcalde, a gray-haired, courtly man, stood up.
“It is not what we looked for, señor, and on behalf of Santa Marta you have our gratitude,” he said. “Still, while others may be willing, I, at least, can hold no office under an insurgent usurpation.”
There was an angry murmur from the Sin Verguenza, but the Alcalde stood very erect, gazing at them disdainfully, and Maccario raised his hand.
“The Alcalde is, I think, scarcely wise, but he is a loyal gentleman,” he said. “We will pass over him. The Senor Sanchez who, I am told, is regarded with respect in Santa Marta, will, perhaps, recommend five citizens of integrity.”
A slight, olive-faced gentleman in white duck stood up. “Since we have been beaten I agree,” he said. “One has, however, questions to ask. There will be an amnesty to those who have supported Morales, and their possessions will be made secure to them?”
A little grim twinkle crept into Maccario’s eyes. “Every citizen of means will be required to contribute to the equipment of the new battalions to be raised and the cost of administration, in proportion to his income, as the council shall decide. If there are any who desire to show their contrition for past hostility by being generous now they will have an opportunity. There are also one or two to whom such a course is recommended.”
More than one of the company glanced at his neighbor uneasily, but the man who had spoken turned to Maccario with a little expressive gesture. “Then I will go now to consult with and spread the good news among the citizens,” he said.
Maccario laughed softly. “They will no doubt be astonished. To them the Sin Verguenza have been as wolves, but that was the fault of Morales, who made them so. Now they are the bloodhounds who, while the household sleep in peace, keep watch in the patio. Still, the bloodhound is a beast that one would do well to beware of, my friend. Well, I will not keep the gentlemen who have honored us with their company, but there is a toast to drink, and you who have made plantations and built warehouses, and we who have marched and fought, can join in it equally. To the prosperity of Cuba!”
The men rose as one, the loyalists with evident relief that nothing more had been asked of them, and as they swung, up their glasses the building rang with the shout.
Then in the silence that followed the Alcalde filled his glass again.
“And,” he said, “to Spain!”
Maccario made him a little ceremonious inclination. “Señor,” he said, “with ten such men on the council one would have no fear concerning the prosperity of Santa Marta.”
Then the citizens went out, and Maccario smiled as he turned to Appleby.
“It seems that the time of the friends of liberty has come,” he said. “There will no doubt be preferment for those who have fought well, but the promise you made us was to hold only until Santa Marta had fallen.”
Appleby was almost astonished to find himself troubled by a keen sense of regret. “I take it back,” he said quietly. “You will now find plenty of other men willing to take my place with the Sin Verguenza.”
“It is likely, but none that one could trust so well. Still, you will not be hasty. It is a good life, Bernardino – ours of the march and bivouac. Would you be happier counting the dollars in American cities than watching the Cuban highways or lying on the hillsides by the red fires? To gain one thing one must always give up another, and would not such a man as you are prefer to decide the fate of cities and battalions than haggle over a bargain? It is command, the stress of effort, and the untrammelled joy of life, sunshine, and wine, we offer you, while one lives in bonds and sadly in your Northern cities.”
Appleby sighed a little, for the temptation was alluring, but he knew the shadowy side of the life the Sin Verguenza led, and he kept his head.
“I have made my decision, and the Señor Harding waits for me,” he said.
Maccario smiled. “Then I shall gain nothing by objecting. After all, it is of no great importance whether a man trades as a merchant or fights as a soldier. That will be as fate arranges it for him. He is born what he is.”
“The Señor Appleby will leave us?” asked one of the men.
“Yes,” said Maccario, who stood up, “when it pleases him, and I think it is scarcely likely we shall sit at meat with him again. You will pledge a faithful comrade and a valiant soldier, without whom we might never have been the masters of Santa Marta.”
The men were on their feet in a moment, and Appleby felt his heart throb as he glanced down the long row of faces. Many were still grimed with dust, and the brown hands that held the glasses stained with the black fouling from the rifles, but there was no mistaking the good will in the dark eyes. Then the glasses went up with a shout that filled the great room and rang out through the open windows across the silent town, and Appleby, who never remembered what he said, found himself speaking hoarsely.
He sat down while the shouting broke out again, and saw a man in the doorway signing to him.
“The Senor Palliser is permitted to see you. It is recommended that you lose no time,” he said when there was silence.
Maccario laid his hand sympathetically upon Appleby’s arm. “It is well to be prepared,” he said. “I am afraid that by to-morrow there will be another of your countrymen struck off the roll of the Sin Verguenza.”
Appleby rose and followed the man with his heart beating painfully, and it was only by an effort he retained his tranquillity when he was led into a room in the banker’s house where a lamp was burning. Its flame flickered in the draught, for the lattices were open wide, but it showed the drawn white face that was turned expectantly towards the door.
“I am glad you have come,” said the wounded man. “I don’t think I realized what was going to happen, or where I was, until an hour ago, and then I was horribly afraid the man wouldn’t find you. You see, I don’t suppose there’s more than another hour or two left me now.”
Appleby set his lips as he glanced down at the white face, and felt that this was true. Then his eyes grew a trifle dim as he laid his hand on Tony’s arm.
“Why,” he said hoarsely, “did I ever let you go?”
Tony smiled. “There is no necessity to reproach yourself. You know just as well as I do that you could not have stopped me, and I’m not sure that after all I’m very sorry. There is nobody who will not get on just as well without me.”
“You are wrong. There is not a man at Northrop who will not feel the blow – and there is Violet.”
Tony’s fingers seemed to quiver. “Still!” he said very slowly, “I think she will get over it.”
Appleby said nothing for a few moments, for there was something he could not understand in his comrade’s face Then he said softly, “How did it happen, Tony?”
Tony shook his head. “I can’t quite remember. I saw that cazador with the bayonet, and went for him with the butt,” he said. “The only thing I am sure about is that he got me instead.”
Appleby gasped as the vague memories of the struggle on the veranda grew clearer. “Tony, you thrust yourself in between him and me?”
Tony smiled a little. “Well,” he said slowly, “it seemed even chances that I could reach him with the butt, and I owed you a good deal, you see.”
Appleby clenched one hand, and turned his face away, and there was for a full minute silence in the dimly lighted room while he looked out through the square of open casement at the dusky blueness of the night. Then through the hum of voices in the street below there came a rhythmic tramp of feet and a thin jingle of steel, while as it grew louder the glare of waving torches shone into the room. Tony watched it flicker upon the wall.
“What is going on?” he said.
“They are carrying Morales to his burial,” said Appleby. “Maccario has sent a half-company of the Sin Verguenza.”
Tony smiled curiously. “That man has good taste. I liked him,” he said. “Well, there is one of the Sin Verguenza who will never march again. I wonder if you remember that two of our family once fought with the Legitimatists in Spain. Still, I think they would have looked down upon the Sin Verguenza.”
Again Appleby, struggling with tense emotion, found words failed him, and sat silent until Tony laid his hand on his.
“It might have been better if I had never fallen in love with Violet,” he said.
“Why?” said Appleby, who fancied that Tony was watching him curiously. “She was in love with you.”
“I think not,” and Tony feebly shook his head. “It isn’t necessary to discuss that again.”
He stopped with a little shiver, and Appleby’s fingers closed tightly on his hand.
“If I could only bring you back to her you would find out how mistaken you are.”
“That is evidently out of the question. Nobody could, and I think if a little longer life had been granted me I would have tried to give her up. I know now that she would never have been happy with me. Still, you will tell her, Bernard – what has happened to me.”
Appleby only pressed his hand, and it was a minute or two later when Tony spoke again.
“There is one man who would please Violet – and I don’t think I would mind,” he said.
Again Appleby felt the blood in his forehead. “She never thought of me, and I have nothing to offer her,” he said.
“No,” said Tony with a visible effort. “Still, I think, Bernard – if you saw much of her she would. You have both done a good deal for me.”
He stopped with a gasp, and seemed to sink into sleep or partial stupor, while Appleby sat very still listening to the voices in the street below while half an hour dragged by. Then Tony opened his eyes, and looked about him vacantly.
“I think I’ve been dreaming, and that song Hester was fond of is running in my head,” he said. “The one about the gates – it got hold of my fancy – I think they were of precious stones. She and Violet were out on the lawn of Low Wood – where you look down into the valley, you know – and Nettie was trying to convince the vicar those gates could be stormed. There was something I couldn’t quite understand about the marble knight in Northrop church.”
Appleby saw that Tony’s thoughts were wandering.
“Of course!” he said soothingly, though his voice was strained. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Tony.”
Tony looked at him as though he scarcely recognized him, and smiled.
“I think you’re wrong, and perhaps it isn’t necessary. That song is jingling in my head again. ‘If you but touch with your finger tips those ivory gates and golden.’ It sounds easy,” he said.
His head sank back on the pillow, and for five long minutes there was silence in the room. Then Tony sighed, and his fingers closed feebly on Appleby’s hand.
“It’s very hot in the sun here, and it was yesterday when I had a meal,” he said. “Still, I shall find Bernard. Now they’re marching on Santa Marta in open fours. They’re going in – nothing could stop the Sin Verguenza – but you can’t open those gates with a volley. It isn’t necessary.”
He said nothing more, and when another half-hour had dragged by Appleby rose, and with gentle force drew his hand away. Then he went out, shivering a little and treading softly, for he knew that the soul of Tony Palliser, who had sinned and made such reparation as was permitted him, was knocking at the gates which are made of precious stones.
XXXII – APPLEBY LEAVES SANTA MARTA
THE sun was low, and the town lay in grateful shadow when Appleby walked slowly down the calle that leads out of Santa Marta. He was dressed plainly in white duck, and no longer carried a rifle, while he scarcely seemed to hear the observations of Harper, who walked at his side. His brown face was a trifle grave, and Maccario, who went with them, smiled dryly when he noticed that once or twice he sighed.
Stone pavements and white walls were hot still, but the dazzling glare had faded, and the street was thronged with citizens enjoying the faint coolness of the evening. Here and there one of them greeted the little group with signs of respect, but Appleby scarcely noticed them. Looking straight before him he saw the shattered lattices, and the scars and stains of smoke on the white walls which marked the scene of the last grim struggle with Morales. Morales lay at rest in the little campo santo, and in a few more minutes Appleby would in all probability have turned his back forever on Santa Marta. It was with confused feelings, through which there ran a keen regret, he remembered what had befallen him there.
Then, as they approached the strip of uneven pavement hastily flung down on the spot where the Sin Verguenza had only a few days ago swept over the barricade, he stopped a moment as brown-faced men with rifles, regardless of discipline – which was, however, seldom much in evidence among the Sin Verguenza – thronged about him. Amidst cries and gesticulations they thumped his shoulders and wrung his hands, while once more Appleby wondered whether he had decided wisely as he recognized the sincerity of the good will in their dark eyes. He had fought with them, faced imminent peril, borne with anxiety and short-comings, and feasted riotously, in their company, and now he found it harder to part from them than it would have been from more estimable men.
Maccario, it seemed, understood what he was thinking, for his face was sympathetic as he glanced at his companion.
“One would fancy that they were sorry to let you go,” he said. “It is a good life, a man’s life, the one you are leaving. Will you find better comrades in your smoky cities?”
Appleby smiled a trifle wistfully, and did not answer for a moment. The vivid, untrammelled life appealed to him, and for a time he had found delight in it, but he was wise, and knew that once peace was established there would be no room in Cuba for the Sin Verguenza. They must once more become toilers, or descend to intrigue and conspiracy, and he knew the Castilian jealousy of the alien, and that past services are lightly remembered in the day of prosperity. He and his comrades had borne the stress and the strain, and it seemed wiser to leave them now before the distrust and dissension came.
“None better to face peril or adversity with, but a change is coming, and one cannot always wear the bandolier,” he said. “If I go now they will only think well of me.”
A little gleam of comprehension came into Maccario’s dark eyes. “Still,” he said slowly, “the Sin Verguenza will be remembered, and you with them.”
Then a man leading two mules on which their baggage was strapped came up, and Maccario held out his hand.
“Good-bye,” said Appleby simply. “I shall hope for your prosperity.”
He laid his foot in the stirrup, and Maccario swept off his hat.
“While there is one of the Sin Verguenza left you will never be without a friend in Cuba,” he said.
Appleby swung himself to the saddle, Harper mounted clumsily, and there was a beat of hoofs; but in a minute or two Appleby drew bridle, and twisted himself round in his saddle. With the two church towers rising high above it against the paling sky Santa Marta lay, still gleaming faintly white, upon the dusky plain behind him, and he fancied he could see Maccario standing motionless in the gap between the houses where the last fight had been. A cheerful hum of voices and a tinkle of guitars drifted out with a hot and musky smell from the close-packed town, and he turned his eyes away and glanced at the tall black cross on a rise outside the walls. Anthony Palliser of Northrop slept beneath it among the Sin Verguenza.
Then the crash of the sunset gun rose from the cuartel, and there was a roll of drums, the drums of the cazadores beaten by insurgent hands, and with a little sigh Appleby shook his bridle. He could picture his comrades laughing over their wine in the cafés, or mingling with the light-hearted crowd in the plaza, but he would never meet their badinage or see them sweeping through the smoke and dust again.
“It was pleasant while it lasted, and who knows what is in front of us now?” he said.
Harper, lurching in his saddle, laughed a little. “Well,” he said, “one gets accustomed to changes in this country, and I can hear the sea.”
“Then you have good ears. We may have trouble before we reach it,” said Appleby dryly.
They pushed on through the coolness of the night until the stars were growing dim in the eastern sky, and then rested in a little aldea until dusk came round again. The Sin Verguenza were masters of the country round Santa Marta, but sympathies were as yet divided in the region between it and the sea, and Appleby decided that it was advisable to travel circumspectly. Events proved him right, for two days later they narrowly avoided an encounter with a company of loyalist troops, and spent the next week lying close by day, and plodding by bypaths through the cane at night, while it became evident to both of them that they would never have reached the coast without the credentials with which Maccario had supplied them.
They found it was watched by gunboats when at last they reached a lagoon among the mangrove swamps, and were assured that it would be perilous to attempt to get on board a steamer in any of the ports. A small vessel with arms was expected, but when Appleby heard that she might not arrive for a month, and perhaps land her freight somewhere else, he decided to buy a fishing barquillo and put to sea at once. Harper concurred in this, and said there was little doubt that they would intercept one of the steamers from Havana.
The night was clearer than they cared about when with the big latine set they slipped out of the lagoon, but the land breeze which was blowing fresh, drove steamy vapors across the moon and it was almost dark when they reeled into the white surf on the bar. They went through it shipping water at every plunge, Harper sitting high on the boat’s quarter with his hand on the tiller and the sheet of the latine round his other wrist, while Appleby crouched among the ballast and bailed. Then the sea grew smooth again, save for the little white ripples made by the hot breeze, and Appleby, standing up ankle-deep in water, looked about him.
The mangroves lay behind him, a dusky blur streaked with a thick white steam which trailed out in long wisps across the sea that heaved blackly beneath the boat. Then the trees were blotted out as she ran into a denser belt of mist that was heavy with a hot, sour smell, and there was nothing to be seen but a strip of shining water shut in by sliding haze when she came out again. Appleby glanced at the froth that swirled past the gunwale, and turned to Harper.
“She is travelling fast, and we should be clear of the land by sunrise,” he said.
Harper glanced up at the moon. “If it had been darker it would have suited me just as well,” he said. “The trouble is that if a gunboat came along you wouldn’t see her in the mist.”
“Still, that should cut both ways.”
Harper shook his head. “It’s not easy to make a boat out until you’re close up with her, but you can see a steamer quite a long way off,” he said.
Appleby said nothing further for a while, and the boat’s gunwale became level with the froth that splashed about it, for the breeze freshened as they drew out from the land. A thin wisp of haze had stretched across the moon and dimmed the silvery light, but there was a wide strip of faintly shining water in front of them when he fancied he caught a faint, pulsating sound.
“You hear it?” he said.
“Oh yes,” said Harper dryly. “It’s a steamer’s engines. I kind of fancy she’s outside of us.”
They strained their ears to listen, but it is difficult to locate a sound among belts of haze, and when at last the measured throbbing was unpleasantly distinct Harper held up his hand.
“They’re shoving her along, and she’s not far away, but that’s ’bout all I know,” he said. “Get forward, and drop the latine.”
Appleby did as he was bidden, and stood staring forward in the bows when the sail came down. The boat lay plunging on the heave that was streaked with flecks of froth, and there was a long trail of sliding haze not far away from them. From out of it came the sound of water parting under iron bows. Then two tall spars that swung a little rose out of the vapor, and next moment a blur of shadowy hull grew into visibility. It lengthened rapidly, a smear of smoke streamed across the sea, but there was no blink of light beneath it, and with the froth piled up at her bows the vessel came down upon them, portentous in her blackness and silence.
“A gunboat sure!” said Harper. “Lie down.”
Appleby crouched at the foot of the mast with straining eyes. He could see the long black strip of hull swing with the heave until all the deck, which caught a flash of the dim moonlight, was visible. Then it swung back with slanted spars and funnel, and there was a white frothing about the tip of the lifted screw. It was evident that the gunboat would pass them unpleasantly close, and already the black shape of the man upon her forecastle was discernible against the sky, while hazy figures upon her slanting bridge grew into sharper form, and it seemed to Appleby that they could scarcely escape observation. Still, a boat lying low on the dusky water is difficult to see, and while he held his breath the war vessel drew abreast of them.
The roar of flung-up water and the pounding of engines throbbed about him, he could see a man upon the inclined deck clutch at something as she rolled, and now the funnel was level with him and a strip of streaming plates was lifted from the brine. It swept by, there was a swirl and a thudding beneath the lifted stern, and then the steamer grew dimmer while the boat lurched on the wake of throbbing screw.
“Now,” said Harper with a little gasp, “when you can get the latine up we’ll go on again.”
It cost Appleby an effort to hoist the thrashing sail, but when it was set and the sheet hauled aft Harper laughed softly as the boat swung away buoyantly with her gunwales dipping in the foam.
