ASHLEY TAKES THE FIELD.
The big, white moon that rolls through “heaven’s ebon vault” and pales
the glow of the southern cross looks down upon two young people on the
veranda of El Quinta de Quesada. They have retired to the shadows for
purely healthful reasons, of course, as a baleful influence is
attributed to the direct rays of the tropic moon.
“You leave Santiago to-morrow?” asks Juanita, in tones of real regret.
“At the first streak of daylight,” Ashley replies, lighting the
inevitable Cuban cigar.
“And when shall we see you again?”
“Ah, quien sabe? I attack Spanish quite boldly now you see. As a matter
of fact, I have no definite idea as to when I shall return. Sniffing the
battle afar off has become monotonous. I am impatient to hear the rattle
of musketry and the swish of the machete.”
“You will not expose yourself!” cries the senorita.
Ashley laughs softly. “I shall not lead any desperate charges,” he says.
“For my position demands a show of neutrality, no matter how much I may
sympathize at heart with the patriots. There is fighting all along the
line between here and Havana, and I want a chance to describe a Cuban
battle from personal observation. Besides, I like a good fight, and I
shall probably itch to sail in and help the under dog, if said dog
happens to be on the same side as my sympathies.”
“But when such a chivalrous feeling seizes you, restrain it; think of
your friends, if not of yourself,” adjures Juanita, gravely.
“Ah, well, they would be the only mourners if I stopped a Spanish
bullet. I haven’t a relative in the world except an amiable aunt in the
western states, who threatens to some day turn over to me the
squandering of her small fortune.”
“No relative except an aunt?” repeats Juanita, sympathetically. “No one
to weep for you?”
“Oh, the boys in the office would wear crepe for a week, and—”
“Don’t talk so lightly on such a dreadful subject,” reproves Juanita. “I
am sure I should feel a great deal more distress than ‘the boys in the
office,’ and I have known you only a fortnight.”
“Thank you, senorita. You may feel sure that I shall studiously avoid
being borne off a Cuban battleground upon my shield.”
“You will keep on through to Havana?”
“Unless circumstances bar my way, I shall follow along the line of the
railroad, stopping wherever night overtakes me, and resuming my journey
whenever I feel like it. I have no definite plans. And, now, senorita, I
believe I will say Adios. It is getting along toward 9 o’clock, and the
proprietary genius of my hotel looks upon belated guests somewhat
askance. I have made my adieus to Don Manuel and Don Carlos, and it only
remains to express my regret at saying farewell to you, senorita.”
Juanita watches him while he untethers his horse, and as he turns,
bridle in hand, to lift his hat, she comes from the veranda and puts her
hand in his.
“You will surely return?” she asks.
“As surely as a bad penny.”
“Then I will not say farewell.”
“Au revoir it is, then,” says Jack. He lifts the little hand to his
lips, and then with rather unnecessary abruptness he mounts his horse
and rides away in the moonlight.
“Hang it!” he mutters, when out of sight of the quinta; “that makes at
least half a dozen times that I have pulled myself together just in
season to avoid making a fool of myself. Perhaps my vigilance would be
relaxed if I could ascertain the precise relations existing between
Juanita and Carlos. I never saw two persons more wrapped up in each
other, and yet Juanita—” He stops and repeats the name, dwelling upon
each syllable. “Pshaw! I believe I am getting soft in my head! G’lang,
old nag, or we won’t get to Santiago before midnight.”
It is the 5th of April. Ashley has been in Santiago two weeks, and
during the fortnight he has, in one way or another, kept his paper well
supplied with news. He has also found many opportunities to run out to
the quinta, and the welcome has always been so warm, and the adios so
sincerely regretful, that he has begun to wonder whether his interest in
the beautiful daughter of Don Manuel de Quesada is not lapping over the
shadowy line that separates friendship from a sentiment which poets
contend to be more powerful and philosophers regard as infinitely
weaker.
Ashley has seen Murillo several times since his arrival, and between the
Spanish general and the newspaper man something of friendship has grown.
Murillo left for Havana two days before, to join the captain-general,
who, it is reported, proposed to transfer his headquarters to Santiago.
When Jack reaches his hotel he is informed that a horse has been left
for him at the stables.
“For me?” he inquires in surprise, as he goes out and looks upon a
magnificent iron-gray beast fit for a king on coronation day.
For Senor Ashley, he is assured. It was brought during the afternoon.
Jack looks the acquisition over, and then, turning to the trappings
which hang near by, he discovers a bit of paper attached to the saddle.
On it is written the single word “Navarro” and the mystery is cleared.
“By Jove! This is generous,” he says. “But I’m blessed if I know where
to send my thanks.”
Dawn finds Ashley in the saddle and he makes quite a brave appearance as
he rides away. He is clad in a suit of dark corduroy, with long riding
boots and white-cloth helmet and as he looks his costume over
complacently he remarks: “If my boots were a bit newer and shinier I’d
make a good running mate for the war correspondent in ‘Michael
Strogoff.’ It is a manifest libel to christen this horse Rozinante,”
patting affectionately the neck of his sleek charger, “but as he is a
Spanish steed he must suffer from recollections of Cervantes. So
Rozinante it is.”
Before the sun has become too aggressive to admit of riding in comfort
Ashley has covered some twenty miles and has passed through two
villages, wretched little settlements that have ever existed in their
present squalor for generation upon generation. At the second of these
he stops for breakfast. The meal is no worse than he expected, and after
he has finished his coffee he hunts up a shady spot on the outskirts of
the town, and, hitching his horse, he smokes and dozes until the late
afternoon breezes from the gulf suggest a resumption of his journey. At
night he tarries at the house of a farmer. They call them “farmers” in
Cuba. They burn charcoal, raise a few vegetables and peddle milk and
eggs.
The next day is very much like the first, except that Ashley introduces
the variation of sleeping all the afternoon and riding the greater part
of the night. And when weariness finally overtakes him he camps on the
edge of a vast canefield.
The third day is equally monotonous. He begins to think that his
expedition is to be utterly devoid of adventure. He has seen no signs of
either insurgents or Spanish soldiery, nor have the natives along his
route. As evening approaches he rides into the decent-sized town of
Jibana, on the line of the railway between Havana and Santiago.
Somewhat to his surprise he learns that the only hotel in the place is
kept by an American. Landlord Carter proves to be a decent sort of chap
and his hostelry is clean and inviting. After a really good supper
Ashley turns in early; he is thoroughly tired, having ridden farther
than on either of the previous days.
He wakes moderately early and has a brief ante-breakfast chat with
Landlord Carter.
“Have I heard of any fighting around here?” repeats Carter, in response
to Ashley’s inquiry. “No, but I expect to see some most any day. There
is a report that a large number of insurgents are encamped in the
mountains within a score of miles of Jibana and the natives hereabout
are becoming restless. A rebel victory or two would send the whole of
this part of the province into the insurgent fold. By the way, a party
of three Americans arrived last evening after you had gone to bed.”
“So? What are they doing here and who are they?”
“They are going out to some sugar plantations near here to-day. I
haven’t learned their names yet, as—”
At this moment the newspaper man hears a familiar feminine voice exclaim
in tones of the utmost astonishment. “Why, Mr. Ashley!” and he turns to
see Louise Hathaway standing in the hotel doorway.
Though somewhat dazed mentally, Jack lifts his hat and remarks, as if he
had seen her but yesterday, “Good-morning, Miss Hathaway. You are an
early riser.”
“You don’t appear a bit surprised to see me,” says the young lady, as
she gives him her hand; “while I am completely bewildered at meeting an
American friend in the midst of this wilderness.”
“Oh, this is a very small world,” remarks Ashley.
“Now, do tell me how you happen to be in Cuba. I am dying with
curiosity,” declares Louise.
“Then I will explain in all haste. You should be able to guess from my
military bearing and the fierce aspect which this helmet gives me that I
am a war correspondent. I have been in Cuba a little over a fortnight. I
arrived at Santiago three days after the Semiramis dropped anchor and
was told that you had gone to Havana.”
“But how did you know we sailed from New York on the Semiramis? My note,
left at the St. James hotel, stated that we were going to Cuba on the
steamship City of Havana.”
“Exactly. And I supposed that you had, until I saw you on the deck of
the Semiramis when the yacht was running away from Uncle Sam’s cruiser
off Sandy Hook.”
And now Miss Hathaway relates the effort which she and Mr. Felton made
to reach the pier before the City of Havana sailed from New York. When
she tells Ashley of the adventure of the blockade on West Broadway and
of the subsequent appearance of Phillip Van Zandt and his offer to place
the Vermonters on Cuban soil, Ashley twists his mustache reflectively.
Miss Hathaway’s story is interrupted by the announcement of breakfast,
and five minutes later Ashley makes one of a party of four at a table in
the cozy dining-room.
Cyrus Felton greets the newspaper man with grave surprise, and Jack’s
keen eyes note that the ex-president of the Raymond national bank is
looking bad. He is paler even than when he saw him last, in New York
about a month ago, and in the gray eyes has settled an expression of
vague unrest.
Phillip Van Zandt acknowledges the introduction with his accustomed
reserve, and for an instant the eyes of the two young men meet in a
searching gaze of mutual inquiry.
From the conversation that ensues, Ashley gathers that most of the time
which the trio have spent in Cuba has been passed in and about Havana,
and that they are now en route to Santiago, stopping off at Jibana to
visit a sugar plantation in which Mr. Felton has an interest. And, what
is more to the point, Ashley learns that the Semiramis is not to leave
Santiago for at least another fortnight. This information comes from Van
Zandt. Mr. Felton and Miss Hathaway do not appear to have any definite
plans.
For his part, Ashley tells them that he intends to push on to Havana,
and knows not when he will return to Santiago, if at all.
But as he watches Mr. Felton, Van Zandt and Miss Hathaway set forth,
after breakfast, for the sugar plantation, which lies east of the town,
he tells himself that he will return to Santiago before many days.
“I must keep my eye on those two gentlemen,” he mutters, “and trust to
Providence to throw Barker in my way, if indeed he has not already
struck the trail. By the stars that shine, but there is a strangely
assorted trio, unless I am clear off my reckoning. Nemesis is trailing
his inevitable victim with said victim’s father, and sooner or later
they must meet. What is the town beyond here?” Ashley asks Landlord
Carter.
“Cadoza,” the innkeeper informs him.
“I believe I’ll jog along to that point, anyhow,” Jack decides; “and if
nothing turns up in the line of excitement within twenty-four hours,
then back to Santiago.”
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