CASSARA SEES A GHOST
Men spent the afternoon in boisterous revelry, for all preparations to
withstand a siege had been made and they awaited the attack, but they
grew silent toward evening, pondering over what might occur.
Their nervousness was apparent. Scarcely one inside the plaza but
had participated in outbreaks before, and scarcely one that had not
sustained wounds. But other revolts had come unexpectedly, as rain from
a clear sky, whereas this was anticipated, of much moment, and naught
could be done to prevent it.
Dusk came, and a heavy fog rolled up the valley from the distant bay
to grow heavier as the hours passed, and shut out moon and stars. Not
a light was to be seen in any of the buildings at the mission; not a
torch burned on the plaza.
Soldiers were at their stations, whispering to one another, striding
back and forth nervously, fumbling at their weapons. Frailes prayed in
the church. Trusted neophytes carried water and cold food, and stood by
to handle ammunition when the time came.
Scouts had been sent out--a small number, since the defenders of the
mission were limited, but experienced men, both white and red, who
could be depended upon. A mile from the plaza, on every side, they
watched for the approach of the foe, ready to sound the warning and
then make their way in to aid in the defence.
Hour after hour passed without event. The _comandante_ and Ensign
Sanchez paced the plaza praying for action, knowing their men could not
endure the suspense much longer without giving way to their feelings
and violating orders as to silence.
In the guest house, Señora Vallejo was upon her knees like a pious
woman, and Señorita Anita stood beside a window looking out at the dark
night, biting her lower lip, clenching her tiny hands, and thinking of
the shame upon the name of Fernandez.
She half regretted that she had not come out openly and told her padre
the truth concerning Rojerio Rocha; yet she had not, hoping against
hope that something would occur to prevent his perfidy becoming known.
Perhaps his Indians would turn upon him and everyone think he had died
a loyal man. Perhaps Captain Fly-by-Night would perform the service he
had promised, and let the soul of Rojerio Rocha from his body before he
actually had engaged in shedding the blood of good and loyal men.
Sergeant Cassara and Gonzales appeared to be the only ones at the
mission not bothered by the waiting. They sat against the adobe wall in
a corner, speaking in whispers of other uprisings, jesting at times,
Gonzales recalling the days of his piracy and Cassara making envious
comments.
Midnight came, but no alarm had been given. Not a sound broke the
monotonous stillness of the night, yet the quiet was in itself
ominous. Frequently the _comandante_ and ensign stopped their pacing
to look toward the north, in the direction of San Luis Rey de Francia,
wondering what was transpiring there, half fearing to see the glare
of flames through the fog, conjecturing as to the whereabouts of the
Governor and his force.
Then a shot--far distant, toward the south! In an instant every
whispering voice was stilled, every man was on his feet holding weapons
ready. Just the one shot, and then the ominous quiet again! Had some
scout fired at a shadow, at some animal moving over the ground? Or, had
he gone down to a quick death as the shot was fired, and so could give
no further warning?
Ten minutes passed--then another shot came, this time some distance to
the right of the first. It was answered by shrieks from half a hundred
throats, shrieks there could be no mistaking. A score of shots sounded
now, and the cries increased in volume.
At the mission there was many a sigh of relief--inaction and
uncertainty were at an end. Sergeant Cassara got up from the ground,
took a hitch at his belt, and turned toward his friend.
“Well, old pirate, let us get to our gruesome business,” he said. “A
plague on these hostiles who have no better sense than to assail men of
our standing and courage! Many I shall kill presently who would have
lived many years had they not listened to a renegade. You take the
left side, Señor Gonzales? Very good!”
Now the scouts were running in, closely pursued, and scattering shots
came from three directions. Yet the scouts stopped long enough to give
the first surprise.
Around the mission at nightfall great heaps of dry grass and wood had
been piled, and now the men running to the protection of wall and
buildings stopped on their way to set these piles afire. Instantly the
flames sprang up, illuminating the ground for a great distance; and in
the glare half-naked forms were revealed.
Gonzales fired the first shot, and a hostile fell. A trooper cheered. A
bedlam of sound answered him. And then the roar of musketry broke out,
and the battle was on.
Charging redskins scattered the dangerous fires as they advanced,
scattered them so that the flames licked at the dry grass and spread
in a great circle around the mission, giving the defenders greater
advantage than they had enjoyed before. The shrieking horde seemed to
be advancing from every side, oblivious of their losses. Volleys of
musket slugs were rained against the wall and against the buildings.
Clouds of arrows fell.
But the defenders, settled now to their work, spent no time in
cheering, but shot methodically and with good aim, cutting down the
number of their foes, crying now and then for ammunition, urging on
comrades in quiet tones.
A hundred of the thousand hostiles met death in the first half-hour of
the attack because of the fires that had been set. But the nine hundred
others rushed on, urged by their chiefs, charging to the very walls,
hurled back again and again, but always returning to the charge. Now
the ground was dotted with dead and wounded men.
Inside the plaza frailes were busy at surgery, for the defenders had
not escaped unscathed. Firebrands had been thrown and extinguished. The
first impulsive, enthusiastic attack had failed.
The hostiles drew away, and the fires died out, and the darkness
descended again.
Now those inside the mission strained eyes to see and ears to hear,
trying to find shadows in the darkness, firing now and then where it
was believed an enemy lurked. Every foot of the high adobe wall was
watched by keen eyes. The quick rustling of a bush in the wind was the
signal for half a score of shots. And the only answer was silence--a
menacing silence charged with promise of death.
An hour passed, during which soldiers felt their nerves at the
breaking-point. Then a chorus of shrieks assailed their ears, coming
from a corner of the plaza. A sudden rush, a fusillade that took toll
of the defenders, and then a hand-to-hand conflict where muskets were
dropped and knives and pistols used!
“Hah! Come on, hostiles!” the voice of Sergeant Cassara roared. “Have
at you, followers of a dog renegade! Charge, will you? Cross blades
with a sergeant of Santa Barbara, eh? There, hound! There, cur! There,
dog! Come on--more! Let us make a quick end of it.”
“At them!” Gonzales was bellowing in his great voice. “Make them
walk the plank, the curs! String them up at the yardarm! No quarter,
wretches! Hah! Try to split open an honest pirate with a blade, will
you? There, misguided imbecile!”
Dead and wounded Indians fell inside the wall. Determined men ran from
other parts of the plaza at the _comandante’s_ command. Foot by foot
they cleared the top of the wall, then caught up muskets and poured
a hot volley into the struggling, frenzied mass below. Side by side,
swords and poniards in their hands, they held their places while the
loyal neophytes behind them reloaded muskets and pistols.
The hostiles were beaten back; they attacked at another point. Like
waves breaking against a rocky shore they surged against wall and
buildings and rolled away again, leaving their dead and wounded behind.
They concentrated an attack against the storehouse, trying to make a
breach in the wall, and failed. They battered at the windows of the
church in vain. Always strong adobe confronted them, every foot guarded
by determined men who shot cheerfully and well and answered not at all
to the frenzied cries, save by discharge of firearms.
Again a retreat and an hour of quiet, and then another rush at the
corner of the adobe wall, a rush more determined than the others, and
that almost won at the outset. Other parts of the plaza were left
unprotected as the entire strength of the garrison gathered to repulse
the charge. Storehouse and church were abandoned for a time, except for
a few men in each place to give alarm if a counter-attack was started.
The hostiles were driven back, but the defenders had sustained heavy
losses. There were dead white men just inside the wall; three wounded
troopers groaned as they staggered across the plaza to receive medical
aid; and Sergeant Cassara howled maledictions upon renegades and
hostiles as Gonzales bandaged a bad cut in the Santa Barbara soldier’s
shoulder.
“Save me my blood, good pirate!” he cried. “Stop its flow, for the love
of the saints, before I lose so much that I am weakened! If I were to
meet this Fly-by-Night and had not the strength to stand up before
him----”
“Hah! I’ll attend to the renegade in your name and my own, comrade!”
Gonzales replied. “You can lose twice this blood and still fight. ’Tis
a clean cut and soon will heal--just a mere prick in the skin. You have
been living too soft; in good condition you scarcely would notice a
slash like this. In my pirate days----”
“Spare me your pirate days!” Cassara cried. “A mere prick in the skin,
eh? Give me my blade!”
“It were best for you to rest here beside the wall for the time being,
comrade, and get back your strength.”
“My strength? A mere prick in the skin? Hah! My blade, good pirate!”
A chorus of shrieks came from the wall; the hostiles were attacking
again. Gonzales turned and ran to his place when he heard the
_comandante_ screeching orders. Sergeant Cassara staggered to his feet,
stood for a time with legs spread wide apart until he could walk
without reeling, then picked up blade and returned to the combat.
Gonzales, firing and using blade by turns, realised that the sergeant
stood beside him again.
“Hah! At them, brave soldier!” he cried. “To your right, man! That cur
almost had you! Easy--easy! You still are weak.”
“Prick in the skin!” Cassara hissed, and sent his blade home again.
Another rush, and for a time the defenders of the wall settled down
to desperate work. The hostiles seemed to be getting the better of
it. Half a score of times they broke over the wall, some to fall
inside dead and wounded, others to fall back before the infuriated
counter-assault of the defenders.
Cassara, cutting and slashing savagely, felt blood flowing from his
wound again and realised that he was growing weak. A film seemed to be
before his eyes, his blows came not so frequent and swift.
“Hah! ’Ware on your left!” he heard Gonzales shout.
As through a screen the sergeant saw a giant hostile swinging at him
with a bludgeon. Cassara drew back and swung his sword, but not in time
to cut down his enemy. He felt a terrific blow on the side of his head,
his senses reeled, and he fell backward off the wall with the vengeful
shriek of Gonzales ringing in his ears as the pirate ran the hostile
through.
For several minutes he remained huddled on the ground while the fight
raged about him, and then he began crawling to one side, following the
wall, trying to get where he would not hinder the others, and remain
away until he recovered strength.
Propped against the wall of the storehouse, he watched the conflict
on the other side of the plaza, too weak to stand, his head swimming,
scarcely able to lift an arm. Shadow-shapes came and went before him;
the shrieks seemed far away.
“By the saints--!” he gasped. “A club--a club to render me senseless!
Carlos Cassara, who has stood up to good fighters, to be beaten down by
a common club in the hands of a gentile cur! A mere club! Hah! I shall
go mad!”
He tried to wipe the film from in front of his eyes and peer at the
wall. It seemed to him that the shrieks had redoubled, and he sensed
that his comrades were giving way before the onslaught of the enemy. He
tried to cry encouraging words, but merely made a rattling noise in his
throat.
“Mere--club--” he gasped.
Someone rushed before him. A firebrand fell in the plaza--and by its
momentary glare Cassara saw a man standing with a pistol a score of
feet away.
“Wha--what--?” he began mumbling. And then, suddenly, realisation came
to him. This man before him was Captain Fly-by-Night, the renegade. He
was here, in the middle of the plaza! What did it mean? Had the attack
on the wall been a subterfuge? Had hostiles invaded the church and now
were attacking the defenders in the rear?
Fear for his comrades clutched at the heart of Sergeant Carlos Cassara.
He gathered his remaining strength and tried to stagger to his feet,
but could not. He still was sick because of the blow he had received,
and from loss of blood. Huddled beside the wall of the storehouse, he
drew air deep into his lungs, and expelled it in a series of shouts
that rang out above the din of battle.
“Ho! Hah! Behind you, comrades! They are behind you! Captain
Fly-by-Night is in the plaza!”
The glare of the firebrand died out, and, as it died, Cassara saw
Fly-by-Night turn and face him for an instant, glance back at the wall,
then flee toward the church and enter it.
“Behind you!” Cassara shouted again. “Fly-by-Night behind you!”
Now some of the men had run from the wall and were gathering around
him, Gonzales at their head.
“He was--there! He ran into--the church!” Cassara went on.
Roaring a challenge, Gonzales rushed across the plaza with half a
dozen men at his heels. Another firebrand struck inside, and its glare
revealed every corner. Gonzales rushed into the church, weapons held
ready. The men with him searched every nook and corner, but none was
there except the two men left on guard. A soldier ran for the firebrand
and carried it into the church contrary to orders; but its light
revealed no renegade crouching and ready for sword play or pistol shot.
Gonzales and his men hurried back to the plaza and stood over Sergeant
Cassara again.
“The blow on your head turned your wit,” the pirate said. “You saw
Fly-by-Night, eh?”
“I swear by the saints he stood before me, watching you on the wall.”
“Take no oath by the saints until your head is better, sergeant mine,
else you perjure yourself. There is no sight of the man in plaza or
chapel--and the men guarding the church saw no one.”
“I tell you he was here! _Dios!_ Cannot a man believe his own eyes?”
“’Twas your imagination. The blow caused you to see this Fly-by-Night
along with stars and meteors.”
“I saw him----”
“Then you saw a ghost!” Gonzales declared. “Rest you easy, sergeant
mine, and frighten us no more with old women’s tales of hostiles at our
back.”
“I tell you----”
“Tell it to the ghost if he comes again!” Gonzales snorted; and hurried
back to the wall, where the hostiles, beaten off again, were retreating
to prepare for another assault.
Sergeant Cassara propped himself up against the wall of the storehouse
and gazed into the darkness, half expecting the sound of a stealthy
step near him. The weakness came again, and his head sank forward. He
struggled in vain to keep his eyes open, keep his senses alert. And
just before he lapsed into unconsciousness he gripped the hilt of his
sword and moaned into the night:
“I shall go mad! By the saints! I shall go mad!”