|WHILE Ricardo watched beside the unconscious Webster one of his aides
galloped up the street, to return presently with a detachment with
stretchers, into which Webster and Don Juan Cafetéro were laid and
carried up the palace driveway into the huge golden reception-hall where
only the night before Sarros had greeted the belles and beaux of his
capital. In the meantime Mother Jenks had succeeded in restoring Dolores
to consciousness; supported by the indomitable old woman the girl slowly
followed the grim procession until, at the door of the reception-room,
they found their further progress barred by a sentry.
“The red-haired man is dead,” he informed them in response to their
eager queries. “If you want his body,” he continued, hazarding a guess
as to their mission, “I guess you can have it. There he is.” And the
sentry pointed to the stretcher which had been set down along the wall
of the reception-hall.
“'Ow about the other?” Mother Jenks demanded. Don Juan Cafetéro had,
unfortunately, been so much of a nuisance to her in life that she
was not minded to be troubled greatly over him in death, although the
Spartanlike manner of his exit had thrilled the British bulldog blood in
her.
“The big fellow isn't quite dead yet, but I'm afraid he's a goner. The
surgeons have him in this room now. Friend of yours, Miss?” he inquired
in tones freighted with neighbourly sympathy.
Dolores nodded.
“Sorry I can't let you in, Miss,” he continued, “but the General ordered
me to keep everybody out until the doctors have finished looking him
over. If I was you, I'd wait in that room across the hall; then you can
get the first news when the doctors come out.”
Mother Jenks accepted his advice and steered her charge into the room
indicated. And as they waited, Ricardo Ruey stood anxiously beside
the table on which John Stuart Webster's big, limp body reposed, while
Doctor Pacheco, assisted by a Sobrantean confrère, went deftly over him
with surgical scissors and cut the blood-soaked clothing from his body.
“He breathes very gently,” the rebel leader said, presently. “Is there
any hope?”
The little doctor shrugged. “I fear not. That bayonet-thrust in the left
side missed his heart but not his lung.”
“But apparently he hasn't bled much from that wound.”
“The hemorrhage is probably internal. Even if that congestion of blood
in the lungs does not prove fatal very shortly, he cannot, in his
weakened state, survive the traumatic fever from all these wounds. It
is bound--hello, how our poor friend still lives with the bayonet broken
off in his body--for here is steel--hah! Not a bayonet, but a pistol.”
He unbuttoned the wounded man's coat and found a strap running
diagonally up across his breast and over the right shoulder, connecting
with a holster under the left arm. The doctor unbuckled this strap
and removed the holster, which contained Webster's spare gun; Ricardo,
glancing disinterestedly at the sheathed weapon, noted a small, new,
triangular hole in the leather holster. He picked it up, withdrew the
pistol, and found a deep scratch, recently made, along the blued steel
close to the vulcanite butt.
When Ricardo glanced at Pacheco after his scrutiny of the pistol and
holster, the doctor's dark eyes were regarding him mirthfully.
“I have been unnecessarily alarmed, my general,” said Pacheco. “Our dear
friend has been most fortunate in his choice of wounds----”
“He's a lucky Yankee; that's what he is, my dear Pacheco. A lucky
Yankee!” Ricardo leaned over and examined the bayonet-wound in Webster's
left side. “He took the point of the steel on this pistol he happened to
be wearing under his left arm,” he went on to explain. “That turned the
bayonet and it slid along his ribs, making a superficial flesh-wound.”
Pacheco nodded. “And this bullet merely burned the top of his right
shoulder, while another passed through his biceps without touching the
bone. His most severe wound is this jab in the hip.”
They stripped every stitch of clothing from Webster and went over him
carefully. At the back of his head they found a little clotted blood
from a small split in the scalp; also they found a lump of generous
proportions. Pacheco laughed briefly but contentedly.
“Then he is not even seriously injured?” Ricardo interrupted that laugh.
“I would die of fright if I had to fight this fine fellow a month
from to-day,” the little doctor chirped. “Look at that chest, _mi
general_--and that flat abdomen. The man is in superb physical
condition; it is the bump on the head that renders him unconscious--not
loss of blood.”
As if to confirm this expert testimony Webster at that moment breathed
long and deeply, screwed up his face and shook his head very slightly.
Thereafter for several minutes he gave no further evidence of an active
interest in life--seeing which Pacheco decided to take prompt advantage
of his unconsciousness and probe the wounds in his arm and shoulder for
the fragments of clothing which the bullets must have carried into them.
After ten minutes of probing Pacheco announced that he was through and
ready to bandage; whereupon John Stuart Webster said faintly but very
distinctly, in English:
“I'm awfully glad you are, Doc'. It hurt like hell! Did you manage to
get a bite on that fishing-trip?”
“Jack Webster, you scoundrel!” Ricardo yelled joyously, and he shook the
patient with entire disregard of the latter's wounds. “Oh, man, I'm glad
you're not dead.”
“Your sentiments appeal to me strongly, my friend. I'm--too--tired to
look--at you. Who the devil--are you?”
“I'm Ricardo.”
Fell a silence, while Webster prepared for another speech. “Where am I?”
“In the palace.”
“Hum-m! Then it was a famous victory.”
“One strong, decisive blow did the trick, old chap. We won pulled-up,
and that forty-thousand-dollar bet of yours is safe. I'll cash the
ticket for you tomorrow morning.”
“Damn the forty thousand. Where's my Croppy Boy?”
“Your what?”
“My wild Irish blackthorn, Don Juan Cafetéro.”
“I hope, old man, he has ere now that which all brave Irishmen and true
deserve--a harp with a crown. In life the Irish have the harp without
the crown, you know.”
“How did he die?” Webster whispered.
“He died hard, with the holes in front--and he died for you.”
Two big tears trickled slowly through Webster's closed lids and rolled
across his pale cheek. “Poor, lost, lonesome, misunderstood wreck,” he
murmured presently, “he was an extremist in all things. He used to sing
those wonderfully poetic ballads of his people--I remember one that
began: 'Green were the fields where my forefathers dwelt.' I think his
heart was in Kerry--so we'll send him there. He's my dead, Ricardo; care
for his body, because I'm--going to plant Don Juan with the--shamrocks.
They didn't understand him here. He was an exile--so I'm going to send
him--home.”
“He shall have a military funeral,” Rocardo promised.
“From the cathedral,” Webster added. “And take a picture of it for
his people. He told me about them. I want them to think he amounted
to something, after all. And when you get this two-by-four republic of
yours going again, Rick, you might have your congress award Don Juan a
thousand dollars _oro_ for capturing Sarros. Then we can send the money
to his old folks.”
“But he didn't capture Sarros,” Ricardo protested. “The man escaped when
the Guards cut their way through.”
“He didn't. That was a ruse while he beat it out the gate where you
found me. I saw Don Juan knock him cold with the but of his rifle after
I'd brought down his horse.”
“Do you think he's there yet?”
“He may be--provided all this didn't happen the day before yesterday. If
I wanted him, I'd go down and look for him, Rick.”
“I'll go right away, Jack.”
“One minute, then. Send a man around to that little back street where
they have the wounded--it's a couple of blocks away from here--to tell
Mother Jenks and the young lady with her I'll not be back.”
“They're both outside now. They must have gone looking for you, because
they found you and Don Juan first and then told me about it.”
“Who told you?”
“Mother Jenks.”
“Oh! Well, run along and get your man.” Ricardo departed on the run,
taking the sentry at the door with him and in his haste giving no
thought to Mother Jenks and her companion waiting for the doctor's
verdict. In the palace grounds he gathered two more men and bade them
follow him; leading by twenty yards, he emerged at the gate and paused
to look around him.
Some hundred feet down the street from the palace gate Sarros's bay
charger lay dead. When Webster's bullet brought the poor beast down, his
rider had fallen clear of him, only to fall a victim to the ferocity of
Don Juan Cafetéro. Later, as Sarros lay stunned and bleeding beside his
mount, the stricken animal in its death-struggle had half risen, only
to fall again, this time on the extended left leg of his late master;
consequently when Sarros recovered consciousness following the
thoughtful attentions of his assailant, it was to discover himself a
hopeless prisoner. The heavy carcass of his horse pinned his foot and
part of his leg to the ground, rendering him as helpless and desperate
as a trapped animal. For several minutes now he had been striving
frantically to release himself; with his sound right leg pressed against
the animal's backbone he tried to gain sufficient purchase to withdraw
his left leg from the carcass.
As Ricardo caught sight of Sarros he instinctively realized that this
was his mortal enemy; motioning his men to stand back, he approached
the struggling man on tiptoe and thoughtfully possessed himself of the
dictator's pistol, which lay in back of him but not out of reach.
Just as he did so, Sarros, apparently convinced of the futility of
his efforts to free himself, surrendered to fate and commenced rather
pitifully to weep with rage and despair.
Ricardo watched him for a few seconds, for there was just sufficient of
the blood of his Castilian ancestors still in his veins to render this
sorry spectacle rather an enjoyable one to him. Besides, he was 50 per
cent. Iberian, a race which can hate quite as thoroughly as it can
love, and for a time Ricardo even nourished the thought of still further
indulging his thirst for revenge by pretending to aid Sarros in his
escape! Presently, however, he put the ungenerous thought from him;
seizing the dead horse by the tail, he dragged the carcass off his
enemy's leg, and while Sarros sat up, tailor-fashion, and commenced to
tub the circulation back into the bruised member, Ricardo seated himself
on the rump of the dead horse and appraised his prisoner critically.
Sarros glanced up, remembered his manners and very heartily and
gracefully thanked his deliverer.
“It is not a matter for which thanks are due me, Sarros,” Ricardo
replied coldly. “I am Ricardo Luiz Ruey, and I have come back to
Sobrante to pay my father's debt to you. You will remember having forced
the obligation upon me in the cemetery some fifteen years ago.”
For perhaps ten horrified seconds Sarros stared at Ricardo; then the
dark blood in him came to his defense; his tense pose relaxed; the
fright and despair left his swarthy countenance as if erased with
a moist sponge, leaving him as calmly stoical and indifferent as a
cigarstore Indian. He fumbled in his coat pocket for a gold cigarette
case, selected a cigarette, lighted it and blew smoke at Ricardo. The
jig was up; he knew it; and with admirable nonchalance he declined
to lower his presidential dignity by discussing or considering it. He
realized it would delight his captor to know he dreaded to face the
issue, and it was not a Sarros practice to give aid and comfort to the
enemy.
“Spunky devil!” Ricardo reflected, forced to admiration despite himself.
Aloud he said: “You know the code of our people, Sarros. An eye for an
eye and a tooth for a tooth.”
Sarros bowed. “I am at your service,” he replied carelessly.
“Then at daylight to-morrow morning I shall make settlement.” Ricardo
beckoned his men to approach. “Take this man and confine him under a
double guard in the arsenal,” he ordered. “Present my compliments to
the officer in charge there and tell him it is my wish that a priest be
provided for the prisoner to-night, and that to-morrow morning, at
six o'clock, a detail of six men and a sergeant escort this man to the
cemetery in the rear of the Catedral de la Cruz. I will meet the detail
there and take command of it.”
Two of Ricardo's imported fighting men stepped to the prisoner's side,
seized him, one by each arm, and lifted him to his feet; supported
between them, he limped away to his doom, while his youthful conqueror
remained seated on the dead horse, his gaze bent upon the ground, his
mind dwelling, not upon his triumph over Sarros but upon the prodigious
proportions of the task before him: the rehabilitation of a nation.
After a while he rose and strolled over toward the gate, where he paused
to note the grim evidences of the final stand of Webster and Don Juan
Cafetéro before passing through the portal..
Ricardo had now, for the first time, an opportunity to look around him;
so he halted to realize his homecoming, to thrill with this, the first
real view of the home of his boyhood. The spacious lawn surrounding the
palace had been plowed and scarred with bursting shrapnel from the field
guns captured in the arsenal, although the building itself had been
little damaged, not having sustained a direct hit because of Ricardo's
stringent orders not to use artillery on the palace unless absolutely
necessary to smoke Sarros out. Scattered over the grounds Ricardo
counted some twenty-odd Government soldiers, all wearing that
pathetically flat, crumpled appearance which seems inseparable from
the bodies of men killed in action. The first shrapnel had probably
commenced to drop in the grounds just as a portion of the palace
garrison had been marching out to join the troops fighting at the
cantonment barracks. Evidently the men had scattered like quail, only to
be killed as they ran.
From this grim scene Ricardo raised his eyes to the palace, the
castellated towers of which, looming through the tufted palms, were
reflecting the setting sun. Over the balustrade of one of the upper
balconies the limp body of a Sarros sharpshooter, picked off from the
street, drooped grotesquely, his arms hanging downward as if in ironical
welcome to the son of Ruey the Beloved. The sight induced in Ricardo a
sense of profound sadness; his Irish imagination awoke; to him that mute
figure seemed to call upon him for pity, for kindness, for forbearance,
for understanding and sympathy. Those outflung arms of the martyred peon
symbolized to Ricardo Ruey the spirit of liberty, shackled and helpless,
calling upon him for deliverance; they brought to his alert mind a
clearer realization of the duty that was his than he had ever had
before. He had a great task to perform, a task inaugurated by his
father, and which Ricardo could not hope to finish in his lifetime.
He must solve the agrarian problem; he must develop the rich natural
resources of his country; he must provide free, compulsory education and
evolve from the ignorance of the peon an intelligence that would built
up that which Sobrante, in common with her sister republics, so woefully
lacked--the great middle class that stands always as a buffer between
the aggression and selfishness of the upper class and the helplessness
and childishness of the lower.
Ricardo bowed his head. “Help me, O Lord,” he prayed. “Thou hast give
me in Thy wisdom a man's task. Help me that I may not prove unworthy.”