The Dust of Conflict

“I don’t quite understand,” said Appleby. “Only a handful of men had actually mutinied.”

“Morales would have shot them, only he is cunning, and had seen the temper of the people. A dead man cannot feel, but one can hold fear over a living one until he crushes him, and those cazadores knew what to expect. One can, however, be too cunning, my friend.”

“The men could have deserted.”

“It is also conceivable that, in spite of the pickets, you could have got out of San Cristoval, but what then? There is only the cane to hide in, starving, until the patrols find one. It was when they heard the Sin Verguenza were coming the affair became simple.”

“Still, they shot three of your friends.”

Maccario’s voice sank a little. “That is counted to Morales, and they will have the opportunity of doing a good deal for us in an hour or two. There will be no fighting when we occupy San Cristoval. Comes a patrol with an order from Morales, and no one is very alert at that hour. The patrol is admitted, there is a seizing of rifles, and the Sin Verguenza, who have crept up behind, are in. With a little contrivance there is no difficulty.”

“One could hold the hacienda with sixty men.”

Maccario laughed. “With six hundred one could be sure; and in a few weeks we shall have a battalion, for our time is coming soon. When the American troops have landed there will be work for those of Spain. You have our felicitations on your clear sight, Don Bernardino. A little thing makes a quarrel when the suspicion and the dislike are there.”

There was a murmur from the rest, and Harper stood up among the cane.

“A little thing!” he said hoarsely. “The devils sunk the ‘Maine’!”

Appleby said nothing. He was worn out and limp from the strain, and fancied he must have gone to sleep, for when he was next conscious of anything the men about him had risen to their feet. It was a little lighter, and a faint cool breeze was blowing, while he shivered as he stood up with his thin damp garments clinging to his limbs.

Maccario spoke sharply, there was a shuffling of feet, and before Appleby quite realized what was happening the Sin Verguenza were once more plodding down the road to San Cristoval. Then he shook the stiffness and lassitude from him, and braced himself to face the work on hand. Maccario’s plan might fail, and he knew it would in that case be no easy task to drive Morales’ cazadores out of the hacienda. The sleep had, however, refreshed him, the vague memories had vanished, and his head was clear, while a faint sense of exhilaration came upon him. There was something inspiriting in the tramp of feet that grew brisker now, and in the thin musical jingle of steel. He had, for what seemed a very long time, played a risky game alone, and it was a relief to face actual visible peril with trusty comrades about him and a good rifle in his hand.

By and by there was another brief stoppage, and the handful of cazadores went on alone when the rest plunged into a path among the cane. Maccario, it was evident, did not care to take the risk of blundering upon a picket, and a man led them by twisting paths until at last the hacienda rose blackly before them. Appleby could see it dimly, a blur of shadowy buildings with the ridge of roof parapet alone cutting hard and sharp against the clearing sky. Beyond it rose the gaunt chimney of the sugar mill, a vague spire of blackness that ran up into the night, but though a few lights blinked in the lower windows there was no sound from the house. The men were standing silent and impassively still, so that he could scarcely distinguish them from the cane, but he made out Maccario few paces away from him.

“We will have to wait. It is farther by the road,” he said “Can you trust the cazadores? They have already deserted one leader.”

Maccario seemed to laugh. “They know what to expect from Morales. It would, of course, not be difficult to warn their comrades, but what then? Comes a sergeant to Morales with a tale that they have led the Sin Verguenza into a trap. Morales is not likely to be grateful, or place much value on the men who change their masters twice in one night. Still, one takes precautions in Cuba, and while they trample down the road a few men who wear no shoes follow close behind them. Then if there is to be another change it is not the cazadores who will walk into the trap.”

Appleby said nothing. He had been afforded another glimpse of the complex Spanish character, which is marked by an intellectual astuteness and a swift cunning that is beyond the attainment of the average Englishman or American, and yet rarely avails the Castilian much when pitted against them. He had seen enough in Cuba to realize that it was seldom shortsighted folly and never lack of valor that had blighted the hopes of Spain, but the apathy and indecision when the eventful moment came, and the instability which when the consummation was almost brought about not infrequently changed the plan. Nor were there many Iberians or Cubans like Maccario who seldom overlooked the trifles that make the difference.

The latter made a little sign with his lifted hand, there was a low rustling, and the Sin Verguenza had vanished among the cane. Appleby smiled as he flung himself down, and realized that a battalion of cazadores might march past without seeing one of them. Then the soft rustling and crackling died away, and it became very still. There was no sound yet from the tram-line which ran between them and the hacienda, and he began to wonder how long the cazadores sent on would be, or if they had after all deceived their new friends and eluded the vigilance of those who watched them. The latter, however, appeared very improbable. In the meanwhile the sky was growing a little lighter, the buildings blacker and sharper in outline, while there was a faint illusory brightness in the east. Still, no sound rose from the hacienda, and there was only silence upon the unseen carretera.

Then he started as a faint rhythmic throbbing came out of it. It suggested marching feet, and grew louder while he listened, until he heard the men stumbling among the sleepers of the tram-line. Maccario said something, and the Sin Verguenza moved in nearer the building by little paths among the cane, while when they stopped again Appleby found himself on the verge of the tram-line with the outer wall of the hacienda close in front of him. A few shadowy objects that stumbled among the sleepers were growing into visibility a little farther along the line. They stopped and stood still a moment when a hoarse shout rose from the building, and then moved on again when somebody flung them a low warning from amidst the cane. Then they stopped close in front of the gate of the patio, and Appleby felt a little quiver run through him as he heard the question of the sentry.

The voice of the man who answered reached him distinctly.

“Friends. Orders from the cuartel! We have come from Santa Marta, and it is a long way. Let us in.”

There was another question, and an answer. The big iron grille grated on its hinges as it swung open, and Appleby fancied that one dim figure detached itself from the rest as they disappeared into the patio. Discipline is seldom unnecessarily rigid among the troops of Spain, and it was not astonishing that a man should stop a moment and speak to the sentry.

Then for a minute or two there was a silence. Now and then a man moved amidst the cane, and the low rustling sounded horribly distinct, but while Appleby wondered what was taking place within the hacienda Maccario touched his shoulder, and rising softly he slipped across the tram-line and into the gloom beneath the high wall, with Harper and a cluster of crouching men close behind him. Moving circumspectly they crept forward nearer the gate, until there was a shout from the sentry followed by a struggle and the sound of a fall, and a man stood in the opening shouting to them.

Then they went on at a run, and sprang through the gate, stumbling over a man who crawled out from among their feet. There was a clamor in a lighted room close by, and a pistol shot rang out. Then a rifle flashed, and as they swept in through a doorway a wisp of acrid smoke met them in the face. They had a brief glimpse of a few figures in uniform flying through another door, and two men who stood alone in a corner with the mutinous cazadores in front of them. One of the latter was by his emphatic gestures apparently urging them to consider the recommendation he was making.

The two men, however, stood grimly still, one, who was young and slim, with delicate olive-tinted face and the blue eyes one finds now and then among the Castilians, clenching a big pistol, while the dusky, grizzled sergeant beside him held a rifle at his hip. A little blue smoke was still curling from the muzzle, and a man with a red smear growing broader down one leg sat looking at him stupidly in the middle of the room. Appleby grasped the meaning of the scene at a glance, and then he was driven forward as the Sin Verguenza poured into the room. Harper sprang past him.

“It’s the fellow I hove over the balustrade at the café,” he said. “You’ve got no use for that pistol, señor.”

There was a bright flash, and a flake of plaster fell from the wall close behind Appleby’s shoulder, but even as the brown fingers tightened on the trigger again Harper gripped the young officer. He hove him bodily off his feet, and there was a yell from the Sin Verguenza as he flung him upon the grizzled sergeant. The man staggered, and the pair went down heavily in the corner. Then Harper, who tore one of his comrade’s rifles away from him, stood in front of them.

“I guess you had better keep moving in case the rest light out,” he said.

There was an angry murmur, and though some of the men had already swept through the room the rest stared at Harper, who grinned at them.

“Well,” he said, “it’s not your fault you’re not Americans. Rustle. Hay prisa. Adelante! Tell them I’ll put this contract through, Appleby.”

Those of the Sin Verguenza who had remained appeared a trifle undecided, until Appleby, who had no desire to witness a purposeless piece of butchery, joined his comrade. Then, with the exception of two or three, they turned and went out to head off any of the defenders who might escape by an outer window from the tram-line. Appleby secured the officer’s pistol, while Harper, apparently with no great effort, dragged him to his feet, and holding him by the shoulder gravely looked him over.

“Well,” he said in English, and his voice expressed approbation, “you have grit in you. Now stand still a little. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

The young officer’s face was dark with passion, but he writhed futilely in his captor’s grasp, while the sergeant, who stood up, handed Appleby his rifle.

“Tell him not to wriggle,” said Harper, grinning. “Oh, let up, you senseless devil!”

Then while the Sin Verguenza laughed he backed his captive against the wall and gravely proceeded to pull his tunic straight and dust him. When this had been accomplished to his satisfaction he stepped back a pace or two, and surveyed his work smiling.

“There’s not much harm done, señor,” he said. “Now, I felt it would have been a pleasure to shake the life out of you a minute or two ago.”

The officer stared at him in blank astonishment, and then looked at the sergeant, who gravely laid a finger on his forehead.

“They are born that way, these Americans,” he said.

The officer made a curious little gesture, and would apparently have unbuckled his sword, but while the men of the Sin Verguenza, unstable even in their fierceness, laughed, Harper seized him by the shoulder, and, signing to the sergeant, propelled him violently to the door.

“Out you go while you’ve got the chance!” he said in English.

The officer turned, and stood still a moment as though undecided, and then vanished into the night, while in another second the sergeant sprang after him. Appleby laughed as he turned to Harper.

“I scarcely fancy that was wise,” he said. “We could have kept him to play off against any of our men who fall into Morales’ hands.”

“Well,” said Harper reflectively, “I don’t quite know why I let him go, but he had grit in him, and it seemed to me that if I hadn’t let up on taking a life or two after getting out of the plaza in Santa Marta it would have been mean of me. Anyway, I don’t figure we’d have kept him. He has the kind of temper that would have stirred up the Sin Verguenza into sticking knives in him.”

Appleby nodded gravely, for he was astonished at very little that Harper did, while though the big skipper’s sentiment were crude there was something in his vague notion of thank-offering that appealed to his fancy. Then Maccario came in.

“The cazadores have left two men behind, but the rest got away, except a few who submitted,” he said. “We will find a place in the stables for them. It will induce Morales to be more considerate with his prisoners.”

Appleby told him about the officer. “It was perhaps a blunder, but we can afford it just now,” he said.

Maccario’s face grew a trifle grim, but in another moment he made a little gesture of resignation.

“If it was the wish of the Senor Harper! It is sometimes a trifle difficult to understand an American,” he said. “Now if we can find any peons they shall cut the cane back from the hacienda. Morales will be here in two or three hours with at least a company.”

XXVII – HARDING’S APPROBATION

THE red sunrise found the Sin Verguenza already toiling with fierce activity about the hacienda. This was significant, because they were not addicted to unnecessary physical effort, but they had reasons for knowing it was advisable for the men who incurred the displeasure of Morales to take precautions, and the cane that rolled close up to the hacienda would in case of an assault afford convenient cover to the cazadores. It went down crackling before the flashing steel, while the perspiration dripped from swarthy faces, and the men gasped as they toiled. Appleby, who stripped himself to shirt and trousers before an hour had passed, wondered how long his arms, unused to labor, would stand the strain as he strove to keep pace with the men he led. Harper, almost naked, led another band, and stirred up the spirit of rivalry by rude badinage in barbarous Castilian. It was characteristic that both found the stress of physical effort bracing, and Maccario, attired in hat of costly Panama and spotless duck, watched them with a little twinkle in his dark eyes. There were, he said, sufficient men to do the work without him, and no gentleman of Iberian extraction toiled with his hands unless it was imperatively necessary.

Pickets came in and took up the machetes, gasping men, dripping with perspiration, flung themselves down in the shadow until their turn came again, the sun climbed higher until it was almost overhead, and the juice exuded hot upon the toilers’ hands from the crackling stems, while the faint breeze seemed to have passed through a furnace, and the brightness was bewildering.

Still, while the space where the stalks stood scarcely knee-high widened rapidly there was no sign of Morales, and the men grew silent, and now and then cast wondering glances at one another. They had expected the cazadores several hours ago, and their uneasiness was made apparent by the stoppages that grew more frequent while they gazed across the cane. Morales was, as they knew, not a man who wasted time, and his dilatoriness troubled them, for they felt certain that he would come.

The hour of the siesta arrived, and it was hotter than ever and dazzlingly bright, but no one laid his machete down; and Appleby’s hands were bleeding, while his head reeled as he staggered towards the tram-line with great bundles of cane. Morales, it seemed evident, was hatching some cunning plan for their destruction, and though arms and backs ached intolerably they toiled on. It was not until the hour of the comida they desisted, and by then sufficient cane had been cut to leave a space round the hacienda that would be perilous for the cazadores to cross, and those of the Sin Verguenza who had magazine rifles surveyed it with grim complacency. Then bags of soil were placed here and there along the parapet of the roof and piled behind the patio gate, and the men trooped in to eat. When Morales came they would at least be in a position to welcome him fittingly.

Still, he did not come, and when the shadows of the building which lay long and black across the cleared space crept into the growing cane a man walked into the patio. Pancho led him up to where Appleby and Maccario sat upon the roof gazing across the green plain towards the wavy thread of carretera.

“There is little news, señor,” he said. “Morales sits close in Santa Marta and has drawn his outposts in. One is not allowed to go into or out of the city without a pass, and the civiles watch the wine-shops.”

Maccario appeared thoughtful, but Appleby said, “You had a pass?”

The man shrugged his shoulders. “It is not always necessary – to me, but as it happens, I have two or three. There are little persuasive tricks known to the friends of liberty, and one can now and then induce a loyal citizen to part with his.”

“In Cuba one does not suggest too much,” said Maccario dryly. “Your good offices will be remembered when we have taken Santa Marta. There are dollars in that city, and they are scarce just now at San Cristoval. Morales has been here, you understand. In the meanwhile it is likely that Don Pancho will find you a bottle of wine and a little comida.”

The man withdrew, and Maccario contemplated the cigar he lighted. “There is a good deal I do not understand,” he said. “Morales does nothing without a motive, and it is quite certain he is not afraid. There is, however, a little defect in his character which has its importance to us.”

“One would fancy that there were several,” said Appleby.

Maccario smiled, and showed himself, like most men of his nationality, willing to moralize. “Strength comes with unity of purpose,” he said. “I am, as an example, anxious only to do what I can to promote Cuban independence, and a very little on behalf of a certain patriot Maccario. The latter, you understand, is permissible, and almost a duty. Morales, one admits, has at heart the upholding of Spanish domination, and it is at least as certain that any opportunity of profiting one Morales is seized by him. It would not, however, become me to censure him, but the defect is this – Morales always remembers the man who has injured him.”

“One would fancy it was a shortcoming which is not unknown among the Sin Verguenza!”

Maccario made a little gesture. “In reason, it is scarcely a defect, but with Morales it is a passion which is apt to betray into indiscretions a man who should have nothing at heart but the good of his country and the good of himself.”

“I think I understand. You mean – ”

“That Morales will endeavor to crush us even if he knows it will cost him a good deal. Cuba is not large enough for a certain three men to live in it together.”

“Then his slowness is the more inexplicable.”

“I have a notion that there may be an explanation which would not quite please me. It is conceivable that our comrades from beyond the mountains are moving, and he fears an assault upon Santa Marta.”

“In that case you could seize the town by joining hands with them.”

Maccario smiled. “If we wait a little we can drive Morales out ourselves; and this district belongs to us, you understand. We have watched over it for a long while, and it would not be convenient that others who have done nothing should divide what is to be gained with us when we have secured its liberty.”

Appleby laughed, for his companion’s naive frankness frequently delighted him. “Then,” he said, “the only thing would be a prompt assault upon the town, but that is apparently out of the question.”

“Who knows!” said Maccario, with a little expressive movement of his shoulders, and sat thoughtfully silent looking down towards Santa Marta across the cane.

Appleby, who asked no more questions, lay still in his chair vacantly watching the strip of road that was growing dimmer now. He had toiled with fierce activity under the burning sun since early morning, and a pleasant lassitude was creeping over him, while the faint coolness and deepening shadow was curiously refreshing after the scorching heat and glare. The sun had dipped behind a hill shoulder far away, the peaks grew sharp in outline against a gleam of saffron, and the long waves of cane were fading to a soft and dusky green. Still though night comes swiftly in that region, the road still showed faintly white where it wound in sinuous curves across the darkening plain, and held his gaze. What he was watching for he did not know, but he was sensible of a vague expectancy. At last, when the road had faded, and the soft darkness closed down, Maccario raised his head suddenly, for a drumming sound rose from the cane.

“Somebody is coming this way, riding hard,” he said.

The sound grew a trifle plainer, sank, and rose again, and the two men strained their ears to listen. The darkness was growing denser, but Appleby glanced at his companion.

“The sound commenced suddenly just beyond the spot where our outer picket is,” he said.

Maccario nodded. “Morales will certainly watch the road. It is a friend who has ridden by one of the paths through the cane with news for us,” he said.

In another few minutes the beat of hoofs was unmistakable, and when it rang loudly down the unseen road the two descended to the big living-room where Pancho had lighted the lamps. Maccario laughed as he sat down, and lighted a cigarette.

“When one assumes the tranquillity it not infrequently comes to him, and if the news is bad we shall hear it soon enough,” he said.

Appleby said nothing, for there were times when he found his comrade’s sage reflections a trifle exasperating, and he was glad when there was a trampling of hoofs in the patio, and he heard Harper greeting somebody. Then he sprang to his feet as a man came in.

“Harding!” he said.

Maccario laughed softly. “Now I think you have a little explanation to make, Don Bernardino, and it is conceivable that the Señor Harding may not be grateful to you,” he said.

Harding evidently understood him, for he stood still just inside the doorway, dressed in white duck, looking at Appleby with a little grim smile in his eyes. The dust was grimed upon his face, which was almost haggard, and his pose suggested weariness.

“Since I find my hacienda in the possession of the Sin Verguenza I fancy Don Maccario is right, but I can wait a little for the explanation,” he said dryly in Castilian. “I have ridden a long way, and as it is twenty-four hours since I had anything worth mentioning to eat, I wonder whether it would be permissable to ask for a little comida?”

Maccario, whose eyes twinkled, summoned Pancho, and sent him for food and wine. Harding ate with an avidity which told its own story, and then turned to Appleby.

“It was not until I reached Havana that I heard about the ‘Maine,’ and then as I had a good deal of business to put through in this country it seemed advisable to get myself up as a Cuban,” he said. “I had evidence that the Administration were watching me, and I would never have got here at all if it hadn’t been for the help of a few friends among the Liberationists. Now, I fancy you and Don Maccario have something to tell me.”

Appleby sat still a moment looking at him gravely, while Harper, who came in, leaned upon a chair. Then he said slowly: “As you may wish for Don Maccario’s corroboration I think I had better tell the story, which is a little involved, in Castilian. You will find patience necessary.”

He commenced with his interview with Morales on the night of the Alcaldes’ ball, and while Harding watched him with expressionless eyes recounted briefly the two attempts upon the papers made by the spies. Then as he came to Morales’ proposition the American’s face grew grim.

“That is a clever man,” he said. “Go on!”

Appleby proceeded quietly, and while his low voice broke monotonously through the silence of the room Harding’s face lost its grimness, and became intent and eager, while a sparkle crept into his eyes.

“So you staked all I had in Cuba on the chance of war and committed me to backing the Sin Verguenza!” he said.

“Yes,” said Appleby. “It was a heavy responsibility, but I could think of no other means of overcoming the difficulty. That I should agree to Morales’ terms was out of the question.”