The Dust of Conflict

While they waited there was a little derisive laughter as, with Harper on the flank of the first four, another band of the Sin Verguenza tramped into the plaza. They had, he explained disgustedly, found a feebly defended entrance by a narrow alley, and had lost their way during the pursuit of the handful of cazadores who had attempted to hold it. He had already left the ranks, and grinned at Maccario suggestively as he laid a bottle of red wine in Tony’s hands.

“The boys struck a place where they sell it, and you’re not an officer, anyway,” he said. “It might come in handy, and if the others are stuck on discipline they needn’t have any.”

The men had refilled the magazines by this time, and were growing impatient when the citizen came back again. He carried a strip of paper torn across the middle, and made a little deprecatory gesture as he passed it to Maccario.

“That is the only answer the Colonel Morales sends,” he said.

Appleby smiled dryly, but a faint flush crept into Maccario’s face.

“It is what one would have expected – and it is evident he understands,” he said. “There is no room in Cuba for him and the Sin Verguenza.”

Then he spoke sharply, there was a passing of orders, and the Sin Verguenza swung forward down the broad highway that led to the cuartel. The street was silent and empty under the scorching sun, with green lattices closed, and doors shut, but the men could see the square mass of the building towering white and grim, with the crimson and gold of Spain flaunting over it on the faint hot breeze. They marched in due formation now, but behind them came a rabble long held down by terror, men with bitter wrongs who carried rifles torn from the fallen cazadores, machetes, and iron bars. They had also a long score against Morales, and their time had come.

They were close on the cuartel, and still the white building was silent, when the Sin Verguenza stopped a moment or two and men with iron bars beat down the door of a house Maccario pointed to. Then the most part of one company vanished within it, and it was not until they poured out on the flat roof the rest went on. It seemed to Appleby that save for the tramp of feet the street was curiously still, though he noticed that now a green lattice was open every here and there.

Then the silence was suddenly broken by a crash of riflery, and the front of the houses was smeared by drifting smoke! Morales, it was evident, did not mean to hold his hand until they reached the cuartel. Here and there a man staggered and reeled from the ranks, there was a sharp snapping upon the stones, but Maccario’s voice rang through the din, and the Sin Verguenza went on at a furious run. They were met by the flash of a volley when they swept into the open space in front of the cuartel, shrank back, and reeled into the sliding smoke again, while the rifles of their comrades swept the windows from the houses opposite. Twice they beat the great door in the archway almost down, but those who swung the hammers and machetes melted away under the rifle flame, and then Harper went shouting at the door with a great iron bar. There were, however, men with grim faces from the alleys of Santa Marta behind him now, striking with torn-up railings, pounding with paving stones, while from roof and windows the rifles crashed.

Then the door bent inwards, and with a shout of triumph and execration the Sin Verguenza poured in across the barricade of stones and soil in cases. The din had grown bewildering, and the men seemed oblivious of sight and sound in their passion, while Appleby, who shouldered his way through the press, noticed only the closed inner door of the patio, and the ruins of the torn-up veranda stairway. Again it cost the Sin Verguenza a heavy price to break that door down, but nothing would have stopped them or those who followed them now, and they fought their way up the wide stairway, driving the cazadores back until they poured out on to the higher veranda where Morales stood with a bright sword in his hand at the foot of the big flagstaff. There was a little cluster of cazadores about him, but Appleby did not know where the rest had gone, for the struggle had become general, and scattered handfuls of men were fighting independently all over the building. He, however, fancied by the shouts and the confused din that most of them and the Sin Verguenza had swept on up the higher stairway to the roof above, for he and Maccario and Tony were almost alone.

Maccario stopped suddenly and swung off his hat.

“The cuartel is ours how, and it would serve no purpose to waste more men. Your sword, señor,” he said.

Morales made him a little punctilious salutation, and glanced at the bright blade in his hand. Then he turned to the men about him, and smiled grimly, as though in answer to the murmur that rose from them.

“Never while I live. It belongs to Spain,” he said.

The little drama scarcely lasted a minute, but it forced itself into Appleby’s memory, and he could long afterwards picture Morales standing very straight with set lips and a gleam in his dark eyes, the handful of men with rifles behind him, and the grim face of the slim young officer Harper had spared at the hacienda. Tony was gasping close at his side, and the flag of Spain streamed, a strip of gold and crimson, above them all.

Then more men grimed with dust and smoke poured into the veranda, and Maccario, who made a little deprecatory gesture, raised his sword.

“Then, with excuses, señor! Comrades, we must have that flag,” he said.

A man beside Morales whose head was bound with a crusted bandage flung up his rifle, there was a flash, and one of the Sin Verguenza reeled and plunged down from the shattered stairway into the patio. Then there was a shout, a crash, and a whirling haze of smoke, and as Appleby sprang towards the flagstaff a cazador lunged at him with his bayonet. His finger closed on the pistol trigger, but there was no answering flash, and another shadowy figure seemed to slip in between him and the soldier. The latter went down with a man upon him, while Appleby pressed on through the acrid haze. A man whom he recognized as Harper seemed to reach the staff simultaneously with himself, a knife flashed, and a hoarse voice cried in English as a rope was thrust into his hand.

“Haul!” it said. “Down she comes.”

A moment or two later the limp folds of red and gold fell into Appleby’s hands, and it was evident that other men on the roofs and in the patio had seen the flag come down, for a shout of exultation rolled across the town. Then Appleby who flung the flag from him, turned and glanced along the veranda with a little shiver.

Save for two or three who lay still in the glaring sunlight the cazadores had melted away, and he fancied they had been driven through the gap in the torn-up balustrade or had flung themselves into the patio. The slim young lieutenant held himself up by a railing, with his face horribly awry, while Maccario stood still looking down on the olive-faced officer who lay close in front of him. His kepi had fallen off, but his brown fingers were still clenched upon his sword, and he stared back at the leader of the Sin Verguenza with sightless eyes. Maccario, who apparently saw Appleby, stooped, and pointed to a little blue mark on the side of the officer’s head.

“It is what one would have expected. A brave soldier!” he said.

Appleby said nothing, but looked round for Tony, and felt suddenly chilly when he did not see him. Then with horrible misgivings he turned towards a man who lay partly upon a fallen cazador with a rifle beside him. Just then the man lifted his head, and it was with a gasp he recognized the drawn, white face as Tony Palliser’s.

“Tony, you’re not hurt?” he said, with hoarse anxiety.

Tony smiled wryly. “I think I am,” he said. “This fellow got his bayonet into me, and I have a notion that I’m bleeding internally. I suppose there is a doctor in Santa Marta.”

Appleby turned and seized Maccario by the shoulder. The latter, leaning over the balustrade, called out sharply, and in a moment or two three or four of the Sin Verguenza came up and lifted Tony. As they moved away with him Maccario stooped and laid Morales’ kepi over his face. Then he touched Appleby gently.

“I have seen a good many wounds, and I think the Señor Palliser will not fight again,” he said.

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.”