The Web of the Golden Spider

This time the cheers were given with a will, and the boat rang with the noise.

“Now then, lay low an’ take yer orders. An’ I wish yer luck.”

“Three cheers fer Cap’n Stubbs,” shouted someone.

And as Stubbs bashfully beat a hasty retreat, the cheers rang lustily in his ears.

But he reported to Danbury with his face beaming.

“Now,” he said, “ye’ve gut some men worth something. They’ll be fightin’ fer themselves–fightin’ to keep outern jail. Mutiny has its uses.”

The next morning the anchor clanked through blue waters into golden sand and the throbbing engines stopped.

The land about Choco Bay is a pleasant land. It is surpassed only by the plains along the upper Orinoco where villages cluster in the bosom of the Andes in a season of never changing autumn. Nearer the coast the climate is more fitful and more drowsy. One wonders how history would have been changed had the early Puritans chanced upon such rich soil for their momentous conquering, instead of the rock-ribbed, barren coast of New England. The same energy, the same dauntless spirit, the same stubborn clinging to where the foot first fell, if expended here, would have gained for them and their progeny a country as near the Garden of Eden as any on earth. But perhaps the balmy breezes, the warming sun, the coaxing sensualism of Nature herself would have wheedled them away from their stern principles and turned them into a nation of dreamers. If so, what dreamers we should have had! We might have had a dozen more Keatses, perhaps another Shakespeare. For this is a poet’s land, where things are only half real. The birds sing about Choco Bay.

Rippling through the blue waters after dark, the yacht glided in as close to the shore as possible. The morning sun revealed a golden semicircle of sand rimming the turquoise waters of the bay. Across the blue sky above seagulls skimmed and darted and circled; so clear the waters beneath that the clean bottom showed like a floor of burnished gold. The harbor proper lay ten miles beyond, where a smaller inlet with deeper soundings was protected from the open inrush of the sea by the promontory forming one tip of this broader crescent. Far, very far in the distance the lofty Andes raised their snowy crests–monarchs which, Jove-like, stood with their heads among the clouds. So they had stood while kings were born, fought their petty fights, died, and gave place to others; so they stood while men contended for their different gods; so they stood while men loved and followed their loves into other spheres. It was these same summits upon which Wilson now looked which had greeted Quesada, and these same summits at which Quesada had shaken his palsied fist. It was these same summits which but a short while before must have greeted Jo; it was possible that at their very base he might find her again, and with her a treasure which should make her a queen before men. It made them seem very intimate to him.

CHAPTER XV

Good News and Bad

Though Wilson had listened with interest enough to the plans of the present campaign as outlined to him by Danbury, it must be confessed that he was still a bit hazy about the details. He understood that three interests were involved; those of the Revolutionary party, who under General Otaballo were inspired by purely patriotic motives in their desire to see the present government overthrown; those of Danbury, who was governed by more sentimental considerations, and, finally, those of the priest, who was prompted by revenge. General Otaballo was the last of one of those old families of Carlina who had spent their lives in the service of the family of Montferaldo. His grandfather, to go back no further, had died defending the last reigning queen, his father had been shot for leading a conspiracy to restore the family, and now the grandson was following in the old way. He was an old man now and had missed death a hundred times by narrow margins owing to his connection with just such enterprises as this. This was to be his last stand and into it he was throwing his heart and soul and to his standard gathering whatever forces he could win by hook or crook. It was he who had heard of Danbury and it was he who had prompted him to bargain with the priest. With a record of past defeats he himself had lost prestige with the hill people. And yet both the priest and Danbury turned to him now to manage the campaign. He knew the people, he knew every detail of the Republican army, every particular of the forts and other defenses, and every traitor in their ranks.

To take Carlina it was necessary only to capture Bogova, its capital. This city of some 20,000 inhabitants lay about the inner port and some eight miles from the bay where Danbury’s yacht now rode at anchor, safely, because of the treachery of the harbor patrol, who to a man were with the Revolutionists. Danbury had been instructed by Otaballo, through the priest, to make this harbor and remain until receiving further instructions. The latter came within three hours in the form of two letters; one from the General, and the other, enclosed, from the princess herself. Danbury tore open the letter before glancing at the official communication. He read it through and then stood with it in his hand looking dreamily out across the blue waters. He whistled to himself. Then handing it to Wilson, he asked,

“What do you think of that?”

Wilson read,

“Dear Dick:

I hope you have thought over what I said to you and haven’t planned to do anything foolish. Because, honestly, it can’t do any good. The old people are gone and with them the old cause. But I have heard rumors on all sides until I am nearly frightened to death about what you may have stirred up. When General Otaballo stole in this morning and showed me beneath his coat that old uniform I knew something serious was meant.

And, Dicky, I don’t want to be a queen–even to get revenge upon the cads who haven’t been nice. I don’t want to rule; it’s more bother than it’s worth; I’m afraid the royal blood has got pretty well thinned out in me, for I don’t feel any thrill stirring within at the war-cry,–only trembles. I want to jog along the same old peaceful path and I want you to come and see me like the dear good friend you’ve always been. And if you’ve got your pockets full of pistols, and your hands full of swords, throw them away, Dicky, and just jump into a carriage and come up and have supper with me. I’ve really been lonesome for you,–more, to be honest, than I thought I’d be or than I like to be. It’s the woman and not the queen who has been lonesome, too. So be a good boy and don’t get either of us into trouble, but bring the general to tea with you. We can fight it all out just as well over the cakes and no one the wiser.

Yours,Beatrice.”

Wilson smiled.

“I should think,” he said, “that it might be pleasant to–take supper with her.”

Danbury spoke earnestly.

“But a man can’t sit and eat cakes while such as she is insulted on her own streets. A man can’t drink tea with her–he must be up and doing for her. I shall take supper with her when she is a queen in her own kingdom.”

“She doesn’t seem to want to be queen.”

“But she shall,” he exclaimed, “by the grace of God, she shall, within two days!”

He tore open the missive from General Otaballo, and read aloud the instructions. But not until the last paragraph did Wilson learn anything of moment. Then, in a second his whole attitude towards the campaign was changed.

“In addition to your present interest in this movement, I have news that ought to spur your men on to added effort; the dogs of Republicans have arrested and imprisoned an American young lady, who reached here on the Columba in company with Dr. Sorez. The latter, though formerly a loyal Republican, has for some reason been thought in league with us, though, as far as I know, he is not. But the girl is the victim of the arbitrary and unjust persecution which has always been meted out to foreigners.”

Wilson was left dumb for a moment. But his mind soon grasped the urgency of the situation. He placed his hand upon Danbury’s arm.

“Danbury,” he said quietly, “I’ve got to get to her.”

“You don’t mean to say that this is–”

“The same one. Evidently Sorez has got her into trouble.”

“But this is serious–this imprisonment. The dungeons aren’t fit for a dog.”

“I know,” answered Wilson; “but we’ll get her out.”

“We can’t, until we batter down the old prison. They won’t let her out–not for us.”

“But why should they shut her up? What possible excuse can they have? It’s outrageous. If we can reach the authorities–”

“We’ll be locked up too. The authorities would be glad to have you come within reach. No, their suspicions are aroused, and to make a move towards her release would be only to excite them to do worse. You’ll have to wait–”

“That’s impossible. Wait, with her in the hands of those ruffians!”

“Wait until we get the ruffians in our hands. Otaballo plans the attack for early to-morrow; we ought to be in the city by noon. Once the place is ours you can take a force of men and go through the jail; I imagine that it is in the old palace. That is where I was locked up overnight, at any rate; and if it is like that–”

Wilson glanced up swiftly, his face pale.

“It was bad?”

“It was worse than that. But maybe they have a better place for the women.”

The remainder of the day was a nightmare to Wilson. He paced the decks until in weariness he dropped into his bunk. Both Danbury and Stubbs kept a watch upon him for fear that he might attempt to go ashore on some wild project for reaching the city. He scarcely slept an hour that night and went with the first boat load to leave the ship.

A full moon lighted the beach like a colorless sun. He stood with the silent group handling their Winchesters. There was not one of them, even though he peered somewhat anxiously into the deep shadows by the roadside, who did not feel more of a man now that he was on shore; this, even with the prospect of danger ahead. They were essentially landsmen–a thing which Stubbs had not understood. They looked upon the ship only as a prison. Now, with their feet on firm ground, they were a different lot of men. Few of them were actual cowards, and still fewer of them objected to the prospective fight, even though they had been drawn into it in what they considered an underhanded way. But the real reason for their good humor lay deeper, so deep that not one man had dared as yet whisper it to another, although each knew the other to be of the same mind. This was the prospect of loot. Whichever side won, there would be a fine confusion in a lawless city, with opportunities galore for plunder.

Most of them had vague notions that these South American cities were fabulously rich in gold. Consequently, if they could not be depended upon afterwards, they could be trusted to do their best to make the city, and to fight so long as their own security was in jeopardy. To rebel before they got there would only place them between two fires, and they feared Stubbs too well to attempt it even if there was a chance. So, take them all in all as they stood there upon dry land, they were about as fair a fighting lot as mercenaries ever average.

The last thing to be brought from the boat was the ammunition, and this was not distributed until the only method left of reaching the ship was by swimming. Wilson sat upon the boxes with a revolver in each hand until the last boat left the shore. Then Stubbs broke open the boxes and made his final speech to the men who in a way he was now placing without his authority.

“Afore I gives you these,” he began, “I wants to remind yer of the little talk we had t’ other night. Each man of yer gits fifty cartridges and with them either he makes Bogova er Hell. There ain’t no other stoppin’ places. Ye may have thought, some of ye, that once yer rifles was loaded ye could do ’bout as ye pleased. But t’ain’t so. Jus’ behin’ you there’ll march one hundred men from the hills. They don’t know much, but they obey orders, an’ their orders is to shoot anybody what ain’t goin’ our way. Ye’ve got a chance, marchin’ straight on an’ takin’ the city; ye ain’t gut the ghost of a chance, if ye don’t take the city er if ye fergits the way and starts back towards the ship. ’Nother thing; hold tergether. It ain’t pleasant fer a man caught by hisself in Bogova. Thet’s all, gents, an’ I hopes it will be my pleasant duty to hand ye soon a five-dollar gold piece fer everyone of these here things I now hands ye.”

Wilson suppressed a shout, and soon there was the confused clicking of the locks as they closed over the full chambers of the rifles. It was music to the ears of Danbury, who from the moment his feet had touched shore was impatient to take the road without further delay. Wilson was just as bad, if not worse, which left Stubbs really the only man of them all able to think calmly and somewhat rationally.

He formed the men into columns of two, hastily inspected each one of them, and finally got them started with Danbury and the guide leading, Wilson, on the right side, and himself on the left and well to the rear where he could watch for possible desertions until the hill men took their place behind them. It was a new world for them all; the strange tropical foliage silhouetted against the vivid night sky, the piercing perfume of new flowers, and the shadow jungle either side made it seem almost unreal. At the junction of this forest path and the main road the hill men fell in behind like ghosts. They were brown, medium-sized men, dressed in cotton trousers and blouses. They were without shoes or hats and were armed with a medley of weapons, from modern rifles to the big, two-edged sword with which their ancestors fought. Save under the leadership of the priest, they were said not to be good fighters, but with him to spur them on they became veritable demons, hurling themselves upon the enemy with a recklessness only possible to religious fanatics. So fiercely had they resisted the attack made upon them in the expedition of the hills that it was said that not within ten years would it be possible to organize again sufficient men with courage to venture to cross the Andes.

The road turned and twisted, wandered up hill and down, beckoning them on through this phantasmal world which but for them would have slept on in aromatic peace. To Wilson this all seemed part of a dream. It was one of those strange visions he had seen between the stars that night after the crash when he had gazed from his study window. Somehow it did not seem to belong in his life at all. The girl did, but nothing else did. It was meant for him to have her, but in the usual ruts of men.

This was some other self which, with holsters and cartridge belt, was marching in the dark with this group of uncouth men. The only thing that made it real was the fact that he was moving towards her. Once he had found her he would go back again and seek his place in the vast machine which weaved cloths of more sober fabric. Then he thought of the map which he had taken from the chest and put into his pocket. That, too, was a part of this dream. It was fitting that in such an atmosphere as this there should be hidden gold and jewels; fitting, too, that this new self of his should be in search of them. But if only he could reach her, if only he could have her fairly within his arms, he would give this up to others who had more need of it. She had said that if ever she were in need of him, she would call and he would come to her. That seemed like an idle phrase at the time, and yet it had come true. She had called and he was now on his way to give her aid. He could not imagine her in the dungeon.

At the end of two hours, a rifle shot spat through the dark branches by the roadside. Then silence–a silence so unbroken that it seemed in a minute as though the noise had never been. Then Otaballo rode up at a gallop and gave a few orders. His men, who led the forces, divided silently and disappeared each side of the road into the dark timber. Then for another half hour the remainder of the men marched on as before. The sky began to brighten in the east. A grayish pink stole from the horizon line and grew ever brighter and brighter as though a breeze were blowing into the embers of an ash-covered fire. The pink grew to crimson and with it the shadows sought their deeper haunts. As the first real beams of the sun shot above the distant hills the angular jumble of distant roof-tops became silhouetted against the clear, blue sky.

A messenger came galloping down the road with orders for Danbury.

“You are to enter by the East Road. Follow your guide.”

The sputtering report of distant rifles came to their ears.

“But, see here,” protested Danbury, “the fighting is straight ahead.”

“Take your orders,” advised Wilson. “There will be enough of that to go around, I guess.”

The rattle directly ahead acted like wine upon Danbury. Wilson heard him shout.

“All right, men. Let’s take it at double-quick.”

But the men could not stand the pace he cut out and so he was forced to fall back to stubborn marching. Their path swung to the right, and past many straggling houses where the good housewives were just up and kindling their fires, with no inkling of what was about. To them nothing was ahead but the meagre routine of another day. Occasionally they caught a glimpse of the passing men and returned, startled, to drag out their sleepy spouses and all the children. The sun had warmed the whole of this little world now and trees and houses stood out clean and distinct as though freshly washed. To the left the dry crackle of the rifles still sounded. It was evident that Otaballo had met with a good-sized force and one evidently prepared. It was not long before the road took them into the city proper. Before they had reached the first paved street Danbury turned to his men.

“Now, come on at a jump. There is a five-hundred-dollar bonus to the first man in the palace.”

He drew a revolver from his holster and, spurring on the guide, encouraged the men to a double-quick. Wilson kept by his side. They ran through the silent streets like phantom ghouls in a deserted city. Every window was tight shut and every door double-barred. The rumor had spread fast and entered the city an hour before them. They made a great rattling as they ran heavily down the narrow alleys and through the silent squares, but they received no more attention than a party of merry-makers returning in the small hours from some country dance. Then they rounded a corner and–a blinding flash from a red line of rifles checked their brisk progress. Wilson staggered back a few steps with his hand over his eyes like a man hit beneath the chin. The noise was deafening. Then he turned slowly in a daze and looked to see what the men were doing. A half dozen of them had lain down as though to sleep, sprawled out in curiously uncomfortable attitudes. The others had paused a moment as if in doubt.

Their frightened eyes brought him to himself.

“Come on,” he growled. “Shoot low and fast.”

A group of the real fighters swept past to the accompaniment of biting snaps like the explosion of firecrackers. Then he fought his way to the front again, elbowing men to one side.

The thing that seemed remarkable to him was that he could face that spitting red line of rifles and yet keep his feet. They must be poor shots, he thought. He himself began to shoot rather deliberately. He did not see the faces of the men at whom he shot, for he always aimed at their breasts. Once, however, he took careful aim at a white face which lay against the breech of a rifle leveled at him. He aimed for the white space between the eyes quite as coolly as though he were facing a target. Yet he jumped a little in surprise as, following his report, he saw a blotch of red appear where he had aimed–saw it for just a second before the man reeled forward heavily and sunk as though he had no backbone.

The powder smoke choked him, but he loved it. He liked the smell of it and the taste of it, because it led to her. He lost all sense of personalities. The forms before him were not men. He forgot all about his comrades; forgot even what it was all about, except that he was hewing a path to her. It was just a noisy medley in which he had but one part to play,–shoot and press on to the dungeon which confined her.

CHAPTER XVI

The Priest Takes a Hand

How long this continued–this pressing forward, following the spitting fire of his hot rifle–Wilson could not tell. From the first he could make nothing out of the choking confusion of it all, finding his satisfaction, his motive, his inspiration in the realization that he was adding the might of his being to the force which was pounding the men who had dared to touch this girl. He was drunk with this idea. He fought blindly and with the spirit of his ancestors which ought long since to have been trained out of him. So foot by foot he fought his way on and knew it not when brought to a standstill. Only when he found himself being pressed back with the mass did he realize that something had happened; reënforcements had arrived to the enemy. But this meant only that they must fight the harder. Turning, he urged the men to stand fast. They obeyed for a moment, but the increased force was too many for them; they were steadily beaten back. For a second it looked as though they were doomed to annihilation, for once they were scattered among those narrow streets they would be shot down like dogs. At this point Wilson became conscious of the presence of a gaunt figure, dressed in a long, black robe, bearing upon back and chest in gold embroidery the figure of a blazing sun.

He stood in front of the men a second gazing up at the sky. Even the enemy paused to watch him. Then turning to the hill men who had wavered in the rear, he merely pointed his outstretched arm towards the enemy. The effect was instantaneous; they swept past the mercenaries, swept past Wilson, yelling and screaming like a horde of maniacs. They waved queer knives and spears, brandished rifles, and then, bending low, charged the frightened line of rifles before them. Wilson paused to look at this strange figure. He recognized him instantly as the priest of whom he had heard so much and who had played in his own life of late so important a part. The man was standing stock still, smiling slightly. Then with some dignity he moved away never even looking back, as confident of the result as though he were an instrument of Fate. If he had seen the man he had struck down in the house of Sorez, he gave no evidence of it. And once again Wilson found himself moving on steadily towards the old palace.

The men from the hills swept everything from before them; the superstitious enemy being driven as much by their fear as by the force of the attack. Behind them came the mercenaries to the very gates of the palace. Here they were checked by a large oaken door. From the windows either side of this puffs of smoke, fire-pierced, darted viciously. The men behind Wilson answered, but their bullets only flattened against the granite surface of the structure. He realized that this was to be the centre of the struggle. They must carry this at any cost. He heard oaths in the rear and turned to see Stubbs whipping on three men who were dragging the small Gatling gun brought from the ship. It looked like a toy. As Stubbs stooped to adjust it, Wilson saw one of the men dart from the line and disappear into the open doorway of a house to the right. Stubbs saw it, too, and now, suddenly turning, put two shots at the fellow’s heels. Then he turned to the gun, with a warning to the others. But he never finished it. He sank to the street. Danbury rushed up from somewhere and bent over him, but Stubbs was already getting to his feet.

“Damned thing only glanced,” he growled, putting his hand to his head, “but–it came from behind!”

As he faced the men for a second, one man slunk back into the rear. Wilson raised his revolver, but Stubbs pushed it to one side.

“Later,” he said.

The gun was wheeled into place and it became the center for all the firing from the palace. In a few seconds it was pouring a steady stream of lead into the oaken door and splintering the lock into a hundred pieces. With a howl the men saw the barrier fall and pressed on. Danbury led them, but halfway he fell. Forty men swarmed over him.

Once within the palace walls, Wilson and Stubbs found their hands full. They realized as they charged through the outer guardroom and down the dark, oak-furnished hall that this gang at their heels would be difficult to control within the intricate mazes of this old building. But their attention was soon taken from this by a volley from the antechamber to the right which opened into the old throne room. The men rallied well and followed at their heels as they pressed through the door. They found here some twenty men. Wilson had emptied his revolver and found no time in which to reload.