EL CALABOZO DE INFIERNO.
An ordinary man, suddenly placed in the position in which Jack Ashley
finds himself, would perhaps exhaust his strength in useless
imprecations upon his oppressors, and finish by sinking into utter
hopelessness as to his fate.
But, as was intimated when the reader first made his acquaintance, Jack
Ashley is not an ordinary man. The practice of self-restraint has
enabled him to retain to a remarkable degree his self-possession at more
than one exciting moment, and his sublime confidence in himself is never
wanting.
Clearly his arrest has been arbitrary and unofficial. He has not even
been searched. His watch and money, his papers, even his revolver, are
upon his person.
“And best of all, they have not deprived me of this incomparable
solace,” he says, as he draws a cigar from his pocket and lights it at
the smoky little lantern in the cell. Then he throws himself on the
wretched straw couch, to think of some way out of the snare into which
he has stumbled.
Isabel Harding has undoubtedly imparted to Truenos all she knows, all
she suspects. But suspicion is not proof. And the strongest suspicion
would not have warranted, much less likely have caused, such an outrage
upon a citizen of the United States.
Plainly there is some private villainy back of it all. Then a light
flashes through his brain.
Juanita! In his selfish though natural consideration of his own
unpleasant position he has forgotten for the nonce the Pearl of the
Antilles, the one woman who has ever stirred his light heart to a love
that, once given, means all of life to him.
He sees it all now. Don Quesada gone, his daughter unprotected, worse
than unprotected as the companion of Isabel Harding, and at the mercy of
Captain Raymon Huerta, who has haunted her for weeks and forced his
unwelcome attentions upon her! The only man who could lend a defending
arm locked fast in a Cuban jail, with the prospect of being garroted
before another sun goes down!
It is infamous! Ashley leaps to his feet and paces the cell like a
raging lion, and shakes the iron door with impotent energy.
“Pshaw!” he cries, and laughs recklessly. “What is the use in wasting my
strength and nerves in this manner? Courage, Jack. If the senorita is to
be saved, and yourself incidentally, you will need all of your strength
and nerve. Let’s take an account of stock.” And he falls to meditating
again.
How come Captain Huerta and his men to be at Santos at this hour of the
night? Sent by Truenos, who perhaps has ordered Don Quesada’s arrest,
or, if he knows of the latter’s flight, has ordered the quinta to be
searched. How came Juanita to leave for home without bidding him adios?
She could not have been so piqued by jealousy or by his good-natured
banter that she would have left the palace without even a cold farewell.
Isabel’s work, without a doubt. Why has he been set upon by a horde of
ruffians and thrust into a cell? Because his presence at Santos would
interfere with some devilish plans afoot. Again Isabel’s work, assisted
by Captain Huerta.
But what vile plot is maturing outside the walls of El Calabozo de
Infierno while he lies helpless here? As he thinks of Juanita he grits
his teeth in suppressed fury and chews his cigar to a pulp.
As for his captor’s gratuitous information, that he is to be executed in
the morning, nonsense! That is what an American would term a cold bluff.
They would not dare to proceed to such an extremity. They have gone to
dangerous lengths already.
At this moment his meditations are broken in upon by a key being
inserted in the cell door. The door swings open and closes behind Father
Hilario, the venerable padre of the little church of San Pedro. At sight
of the priest, Ashley’s composure returns.
“Good-morning, father,” is his salutation. “I noticed you at the
entrance to my lodgings for the night, and I should have spoken, but my
friends rather insisted on my maintaining a strict silence. I believe
‘callese’ means keep your mouth shut, or something of that sort, does it
not?”
“I have but a short time to remain,” says Father Hilario, surveying with
some wonder the composed face of the young man before him.
“Well, whatever your errand may be, I am indebted to you for this
visit,” remarks Jack. “It’s confoundedly lonesome here. I will not
apologize for my apartment, as it is not of my own selection. Now, what
can I do for you, father, or what can you do for me?”
“My son, you are not of the faith of Rome, but I have called to offer
you the consolation which a clergyman can extend in your last hours.”
“Is it as bad as that? Really, I don’t take any stock in this garroting
business. I believe that is thrown in for theatrical effect.”
Father Hilario shakes his head. “Captain Huerta is a desperate man,” he
avows. “There is nothing to prevent his wreaking his enmity upon you.”
“Oh, is there not? Thank you, father, for the offer of your
ministrations, but really, I do not believe I shall need them. Do not
misunderstand me,” Ashley adds, quickly, as a pained expression passes
over the kindly face of the priest. “What I mean is that I have too
healthy an interest in life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness to
pass many hours in such a stuffy, ill-smelling donjon as this.”
Father Hilario holds up a warning finger. “There are listeners about,”
he says.
“Let them listen. If their stock of English is equal to my collection of
Spanish they will be vastly entertained by my remarks.”
“You will attempt to escape?” queries the priest, in a cautious whisper.
“At the first opportunity.”
“The attempt will fail.”
“It will succeed,” retorts Ashley.
“No; it will fail,” repeats Father Hilario. “The carcelero, always
watchful, will be doubly vigilant to-night. He has probably been
bribed.”
“But a larger bribe—”
“Is out of the question. His life would pay the penalty.”
“I don’t believe it. But enough of that,” says Ashley, impatiently. “Now
tell me, father, of the Senorita de Quesada. Have you seen her
to-night?”
The priest is silent. In his muteness, Ashley finds the confirmation of
his worst fears.
“Speak, man!” he cries impatiently. “Do you know that the life and
happiness of the senorita are more to me than my own existence? Speak!”
“She is in the church of San Pedro.”
“In whose company?”
“She is alone.”
“Alone in the church of San Pedro after midnight? What mean you?”
“She is a prisoner.”
“A prisoner? Ten thousand devils!” rages Ashley, striding to and fro in
his narrow cell.
“Calm yourself, my son,” remonstrates Father Hilario. “Nothing can be
accomplished by such wild outbursts.”
“Oh, yes; I’ll be calm!” grits Ashley. “By heaven, I’d give ten years of
my life for ten minutes of liberty!”
“Come. Time flies, and the carcelero will soon be here,” admonishes
Father Hilario. “Is there aught I can do for thee, my son?”
Ashley forces a tranquillity of mind that he little feels. “How came you
to learn of the senorita’s imprisonment?” he asks.
“I was returning from a midnight summons to a deathbed and had nearly
reached my house when Captain Huerta and his men entered the town,
escorting a volante. Suddenly the party were attacked in the darkness.”
“By Huerta’s own men?”
“That was doubtless part of the plot. The two women in the volante were
separated. The senorita was borne fainting into the church and then
quietness reigned again. I lingered about the scene, and was a witness
of your arrest not many minutes afterward. I begged permission to see
you, and the carcelero, in granting it, bade me roughly to tell you that
you die on the morrow.”
“A merry knave,” remarks Ashley. “Well, father, you can be of great
service to me. Will you not bear a message from me to General Truenos?
Or, no; hang Truenos. To General Murillo, then. You know him. My
detention here is without his knowledge, of that I am assured. It is a
vile outrage that he would not brook.”
The priest shakes his head. “It would be useless,” he says. “From the
instant I leave this place I shall be watched, shadowed every step of
the way to my house. An attempt to leave Santos would be at once
frustrated.”
“You believe so?”
“I am positive of it.”
“But the senorita. Can you communicate with her.”
“Ay; and without the knowledge of Captain Huerta.”
“You can?” cries Ashley, eagerly. “But you said you would be watched.”
“Ah,” says the priest, with a faint smile, “there is an entrance to the
church that Captain Huerta knows not of—an entrance from my house
through the little garden intervening.”
“Good. Excellently good,” remarks Ashley, into whose active brain has
flashed an inspiration. “Father Hilario, I have a plan. You must join
the senorita and myself in marriage.”
“Marry you? Impossible!” exclaims the astonished padre. Have the
American’s troubles driven him insane?
“Impossible nothing. Easiest thing in the world if the lady is willing,”
is Ashley’s cheerful response. “Now, listen to me, father. Don Quesada
is a fugitive, and his daughter, being a Cuban, is amenable to the laws
of this country. From the Spanish government she would not likely
receive much earnest protection or reparation for any wrongs she might
suffer. But when she becomes Mrs. Jack Ashley,” says Jack, dramatically,
working up to a mild enthusiasm, “she is then an American citizen and as
such she will be under the protection of a flag that the Spaniard dare
not affront with impunity. You get the idea, eh?”
“Impossible, impossible, I tell you,” repeats Father Hilario. “You are
not a Catholic, Senor Ashley; the senorita is. Besides, the consent of
her father—”
“This is no time for quibbling over technicalities. Would you see a
woman, your friend’s daughter, insulted, perhaps murdered, when a few
words from your lips would save her?”
“I would do my duty,” replies the priest, calmly. “The idea is madness.
I cannot bring the senorita here, and you cannot reach the church.”
“Oh, I’ll be there in season,” is the cool response. “Just leave the way
from your house to the church open to me.”
“If you have any message to send the senorita, you must make haste,”
adjures the priest. “The carcelero is approaching.”
“It will be brief,” replies Ashley. Then hurriedly: “Go to her at once.
Comfort her. Pray with her. And tell her that I will be with her before
the sun rises. Say nothing about the marriage. I prefer to do my own
proposing. But, above all, remain with her until I come.”
Then, in a different tone, as the cell door is swung open by the
carcelero: “Many thanks, dear father, for your kindly visit and
spiritual solace. I have made my peace with heaven, and to-morrow I will
show these Spanish gentry how an American can die—when he gets ready,”
he adds, under his breath, as the iron door clangs to and he is once
more alone.
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