Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
RAINBOW'S END
By REX BEACH
Author of "THE AUCTION BLOCK" "THE SPOILERS" "THE IRON TRAIL" Etc.
Illustrated
CONTENTS
I. THE VALLEY OF DELIGHT
II. SPANISH GOLD
III. "THE O'REILLY"
IV. RETRIBUTION
V. A CRY FROM THE WILDERNESS
VI. THE QUEST BEGINS
VII. THE MAN WHO WOULD KNOW LIFE
VIII. THE SPANISH DOUBLOON
IX. MARAUDERS
X. O'REILLY TALKS HOG LATIN
XI. THE HAND OF THE CAPTAIN-GENERAL
XII. WHEN THE WORLD RAN BACKWARD
XIII. CAPITULATION
XIV. A WOMAN WITH A MISSION
XV. FILIBUSTERS
XVI. THE CITY AMONG THE LEAVES
XVII. THE CITY OF BEGGARS
XVIII. SPEAKING OF FOOD
XIX. THAT SICK MAN FROM SAN ANTONIO
XX. EL DEMONIO'S CHILD
XXI. TREASURE
XXII. THE TROCHA
XXIII. INTO THE CITY OF DEATH
XXIV. ROSA
XXV. THE HAUNTED GARDEN
XXVI. HOW COBO STOOD ON HIS HEAD
XXVII. MORIN, THE FISHERMAN
XXVIII. THREE TRAVELERS COME HOME
XXIX. WHAT HAPPENED AT SUNDOWN
XXX. THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT
I
THE VALLEY OF DELIGHT
In all probability your first view of the valley of the Yumuri will be
from the Hermitage of Montserrate, for it is there that the cocheros
drive you. Up the winding road they take you, with the bay at your back
and the gorge at your right, to the crest of a narrow ridge where the
chapel stands. Once there, you overlook the fairest sight in all
Christendom--"the loveliest valley in the world," as Humboldt called
it--for the Yumuri nestles right at your feet, a vale of pure delight,
a glimpse of Paradise that bewilders the eye and fills the soul with
ecstasy.
It is larger than it seems at first sight; through it meanders the
river, coiling and uncoiling, hidden here and there by jungle growths,
and seeking final outlet through a cleft in the wall not unlike a crack
in the side of a painted bowl. The place seems to have been fashioned
as a dwelling for dryads and hamadryads, for nixies and pixies, and all
the fabled spirits of forest and stream. Fairy hands tinted its steep
slopes and carpeted its level floor with the richest of green brocades.
Nowhere is there a clash of color; nowhere does a naked hillside or
monstrous jut of rock obtrude to mar its placid beauty; nowhere can you
see a crude, disfiguring mark of man's handiwork--there are only
fields, and bowers, with an occasional thatched roof faded gray by the
sun.
Royal palms, most perfect of trees, are scattered everywhere. They
stand alone or in stately groves, their lush fronds drooping like
gigantic ostrich plumes, their slim trunks as smooth and regular and
white as if turned in a giant lathe and then rubbed with pipe-clay. In
all Cuba, island of bewitching vistas, there is no other Yumuri, and in
all the wide world, perhaps, there is no valley of moods and aspects so
varying. You should see it at evening, all warm and slumberous, all
gold and green and purple; or at early dawn, when the mists are fading
like pale memories of dreams and the tints are delicate; or again,
during a tempest, when it is a caldron of whirling vapors and when the
palm-trees bend like coryphees, tossing their arms to the galloping
hurricane. But whatever the time of day or the season of the year at
which you visit it, the Yumuri will render you wordless with delight,
and you will vow that it is the happiest valley men's eyes have ever
looked upon.
Standing there beside the shrine of Our Lady of Montserrate, you will
see beyond the cleft through which the river emerges another hill, La
Cumbre, from which the view is almost as wonderful, and your driver may
tell you about the splendid homes that used to grace its slopes in the
golden days when Cuba had an aristocracy. They were classic Roman
villas, such as once lined the Via Appia--little palaces, with mosaics
and marbles and precious woods imported from Europe, and furnished with
the rarest treasures--for in those days the Cuban planters were rich
and spent their money lavishly. Melancholy reminders of this splendor
exist even now in the shape of a crumbled ruin here and there, a
lichened pillar, an occasional porcelain urn in its place atop a
vine-grown bit of wall. Your cochero may point out a certain grove of
orange-trees, now little more than a rank tangle, and tell you about
the quinta of Don Esteban Varona, and its hidden treasure; about little
Esteban and Rosa, the twins; and about Sebastian, the giant slave, who
died in fury, taking with him the secret of the well.
The Spanish Main is rich in tales of treasure-trove, for when the
Antilles were most affluent they were least secure, and men were put to
strange shifts to protect their fortunes. Certain hoards, like jewels
of tragic history, in time assumed a sort of evil personality, not
infrequently exercising a dire influence over the lives of those who
chanced to fall under their spells. It was as if the money were
accursed, for certainly the seekers often came to evil. Of such a
character was the Varona treasure. Don Esteban himself was neither
better nor worse than other men of his time, and although part of the
money he hid was wrung from the toil of slaves and the traffic in their
bodies, much of it was clean enough, and in time the earth purified it
all. Since his acts made so deep an impress, and since the treasure he
left played so big a part in the destinies of those who came after him,
it is well that some account of these matters should be given.
The story, please remember, is an old one; it has been often told, and
in the telling and retelling it is but natural that a certain glamour,
a certain tropical extravagance, should attach to it, therefore you
should make allowance for some exaggeration, some accretions due to the
lapse of time. In the main, however, it is well authenticated and runs
parallel to fact.
Dona Rosa Varona lived barely long enough to learn that she had given
birth to twins. Don Esteban, whom people knew as a grim man, took the
blow of his sudden bereavement as became one of his strong fiber.
Leaving the priest upon his knees and the doctor busied with the
babies, he strode through the house and out into the sunset, followed
by the wails of the slave women. From the negro quarters came the sound
of other and even louder lamentations, for Dona Rosa had been well
loved and the news of her passing had spread quickly.
Don Esteban was at heart a selfish man, and now, therefore, he felt a
sullen, fierce resentment mingled with his grief. What trick was this?
he asked himself. What had he done to merit such misfortune? Had he not
made rich gifts to the Church? Had he not gone on foot to the shrine of
Our Lady of Montserrate with a splendid votive offering--a pair of
eardrops, a necklace, and a crucifix, all of diamonds that quivered in
the sunlight like drops of purest water? Had he not knelt and prayed
for his wife's safe delivery and then hung his gifts upon the sacred
image, as Loyola had hung up his weapons before that other counterpart
of Our Lady? Don Esteban scowled at the memory, for those gems were of
the finest, and certainly of a value sufficient to recompense the
Virgin for any ordinary miracle. They were worth five thousand pesos at
least, he told himself; they represented the price of five slaves--five
of his finest girls, schooled in housekeeping and of an age suitable
for breeding. An extravagance, truly! Don Esteban knew the value of
money as well as anybody, and he swore now that he would give no more
to the Church.
He looked up from his unhappy musings to find a gigantic, barefooted
negro standing before him. The slave was middle-aged; his kinky hair
was growing gray; but he was of superb proportions, and the muscles
which showed through the rents in his cotton garments were as smooth
and supple as those of a stripling. His black face was puckered with
grief, as he began:
"Master, is it true that Dona Rosa--" The fellow choked.
"Yes," Esteban nodded, wearily, "she is dead, Sebastian."
Tears came to Sebastian's eyes and overflowed his cheeks; he stood
motionless, striving to voice his sympathy. At length he said:
"She was too good for this world. God was jealous and took her to
Paradise."
The widowed man cried out, angrily:
"Paradise! What is this but paradise?" He stared with resentful eyes at
the beauty round about him. "See! The Yumuri!" Don Esteban flung a long
arm outward. "Do you think there is a sight like that in heaven? And
yonder--" He turned to the harbor far below, with its fleet of
sailing-ships resting like a flock of gulls upon a sea of quicksilver.
Beyond the bay, twenty miles distant, a range of hazy mountains hid the
horizon. Facing to the south, Esteban looked up the full length of the
valley of the San Juan, clear to the majestic Pan de Matanzas, a
wonderful sight indeed; then his eyes returned, as they always did, to
the Yumuri, Valley of Delight. "Paradise indeed!" he muttered. "I gave
her everything. She gained nothing by dying."
With a grave thoughtfulness which proved him superior to the ordinary
slave, Sebastian replied:
"True! She had all that any woman's heart could desire, but in return
for your goodness she gave you children. You have lost her, but you
have gained an heir, and a beautiful girl baby who will grow to be
another Dona Rosa. I grieved as you grieve, once upon a time, for my
woman died in childbirth, too. You remember? But my daughter lives, and
she has brought sunshine into my old age. That is the purpose of
children." He paused and shifted his weight uncertainly, digging his
stiff black toes into the dirt. After a time he said, slowly:
"Excellency! Now, about the--well--?"
"Yes. What about it?" Esteban lifted smoldering eyes.
"Did the Dona Rosa confide her share of the secret to any one? Those
priests and those doctors, you know--?"
"She died without speaking."
"Then it rests between you and me?"
"It does, unless you have babbled."
"Master!" Sebastian drew himself up and there was real dignity in his
black face.
"Understand, my whole fortune is there--everything, even to the deeds
of patent for the plantations. If I thought there was danger of your
betraying me I would have your tongue pulled out and your eyes torn
from their sockets."
The black man spoke with a simplicity that carried conviction. "You
have seen me tested. You know I am faithful. But, master, this secret
is a great burden for my old shoulders, and I have been thinking--Times
are unsettled, Don Esteban, and death comes without warning. You are
known to be the richest man in this province and these government
officials are robbers. Suppose--I should be left alone? What then?"
The planter considered for a moment. "They are my countrymen, but a
curse on them," he said, finally. "Well, when my children are old
enough to hold their tongues they will have to be told. If I'm gone,
you shall be the one to tell them. Now leave me; this is no time to
speak of such things."
Sebastian went as noiselessly as he had come. On his way back to his
quarters he took the path to the well--the place where most of his time
was ordinarily spent. Sebastian had dug this well, and with his own
hands he had beautified its surroundings until they were the loveliest
on the Varona grounds. The rock for the building of the quinta had been
quarried here, and in the center of the resulting depression,
grass-grown and flowering now, was the well itself. Its waters seeped
from subterranean caverns and filtered, pure and cool, through the
porous country rock. Plantain, palm, orange, and tamarind trees
bordered the hollow; over the rocky walls ran a riot of vines and ferns
and ornamental plants. It was Sebastian's task to keep this place
green, and thither he took his way, from force of habit.
Through the twilight came Pancho Cueto, the manager, a youngish man,
with a narrow face and bold, close-set eyes. Spying Sebastian, he began:
"So Don Esteban has an heir at last?"
The slave rubbed his eyes with the heel of his huge yellow palm and
answered, respectfully:
"Yes, Don Pancho. Two little angels, a boy and a girl." His gray brows
drew together in a painful frown. "Dona Rosa was a saint. No doubt
there is great rejoicing in heaven at her coming. Eh? What do you
think?"
"Um-m! Possibly. Don Esteban will miss her for a time and then, I dare
say, he will remarry." At the negro's exclamation Cueto cried: "So! And
why not? Everybody knows how rich he is. From Oriente to Pinar del Rio
the women have heard about his treasure."
"What treasure?" asked Sebastian, after an instant's pause.
Cueto's dark eyes gleamed resentfully at this show of ignorance, but he
laughed.
"Ho! There's a careful fellow for you! No wonder he trusts you. But do
you think I have neither eyes nor ears? My good Sebastian, you know all
about that treasure; in fact, you know far more about many things than
Don Esteban would care to have you tell. Come now, don't you?"
Sebastian's face was like a mask carved from ebony. "Of what does this
treasure consist?" he inquired. "I have never heard about it."
"Of gold, of jewels, of silver bars and precious ornaments." Cueto's
head was thrust forward, his nostrils were dilated, his teeth gleamed.
"Oh, it is somewhere about, as you very well know! Bah! Don't deny it.
I'm no fool. What becomes of the money from the slave girls, eh? And
the sugar crops, too? Does it go to buy arms and ammunition for the
rebels? No. Don Esteban hides it, and you help him. Come," he cried,
disregarding Sebastian's murmurs of protest, "did you ever think how
fabulous that fortune must be by this time? Did you ever think that one
little gem, one bag of gold, would buy your freedom?"
"Don Esteban has promised to buy my freedom and the freedom of my girl."
"So?" The manager was plainly surprised. "I didn't know that." After a
moment he began to laugh. "And yet you pretend to know nothing about
that treasure? Ha! You're a good boy, Sebastian, and so I am. I admire
you. We're both loyal to our master, eh? But now about Evangelina."
Cueto's face took on a craftier expression. "She is a likely girl, and
when she grows up she will be worth more than you, her father. Don't
forget that Don Esteban is before all else a business man. Be careful
that some one doesn't make him so good an offer for your girl that he
will forget his promise and--sell her."
Sebastian uttered a hoarse, animal cry and the whites of his eyes
showed through the gloom. "He would never sell Evangelina!"
Cueto laughed aloud once more. "Of course! He would not dare, eh? I am
only teasing you. But see! You have given yourself away. Everything you
tell me proves that you know all about that treasure."
"I know but one thing," the slave declared, stiffening himself slowly,
"and that is to be faithful to Don Esteban." He turned and departed,
leaving Pancho Cueto staring after him meditatively.
In the days following the birth of his children and the death of his
wife, Don Esteban Varona, as had been his custom, steered a middle
course in politics, in that way managing to avoid a clash with the
Spanish officials who ruled the island, or an open break with his Cuban
neighbors, who rebelled beneath their wrongs. This was no easy thing to
do, for the agents of the crown were uniformly corrupt and quite
ruthless, while most of the native-born were either openly or secretly
in sympathy with the revolution in the Orient. But Esteban dealt
diplomatically with both factions and went on raising slaves and sugar
to his own great profit. Owing to the impossibility of importing
negroes, the market steadily improved, and Esteban reaped a handsome
profit from those he had on hand, especially when his crop of young
girls matured. His sugar-plantations prospered, too, and Pancho Cueto,
who managed them, continued to wonder where the money went.
The twins, Esteban and Rosa, developed into healthy children and became
the pride of Sebastian and his daughter, into whose care they had been
given. As for Evangelina, the young negress, she grew tall and strong
and handsome, until she was the finest slave girl in the neighborhood.
Whenever Sebastian looked at her he thanked God for his happy
circumstances.
Then, one day, Don Esteban Varona remarried, and the Dona Isabel, who
had been a famous Habana beauty, came to live at the quinta. The
daughter of impoverished parents, she had heard and thought much about
the mysterious treasure of La Cumbre.
There followed a period of feasting and entertainment, of music and
merrymaking. Spanish officials, prominent civilians of Matanzas and the
countryside, drove up the hill to welcome Don Esteban's bride. But
before the first fervor of his honeymoon cooled the groom began to fear
that he had made a serious mistake. Dona Isabel, he discovered, was
both vain and selfish. Not only did she crave luxury and display, but
with singular persistence she demanded to know all about her husband's
financial affairs.
Now Don Esteban was no longer young; age had soured him with suspicion,
and when once he saw himself as the victim of a mercenary marriage he
turned bitterly against his wife. Her curiosity he sullenly resented,
and he unblushingly denied his possession of any considerable wealth.
In fact, he tried with malicious ingenuity to make her believe him a
poor man. But Isabel was not of the sort to be readily deceived.
Finding her arts and coquetries of no avail, she flew into a rage, and
a furious quarrel ensued--the first of many. For the lady could not
rest without knowing all there was to know about the treasure.
Avaricious to her finger-tips, she itched to weigh those bags of
precious metal and yearned to see those jewels burning upon her bosom.
Her mercenary mind magnified their value many times, and her anger at
Don Esteban's obstinacy deepened to a smoldering hatred.
She searched the quinta, of course, whenever she had a chance, but she
discovered nothing--with the result that the mystery began to engross
her whole thought. She pried into the obscurest corners, she questioned
the slaves, she lay awake at night listening to Esteban's breathing, in
the hope of surprising his secret from his dreams. Naturally such a
life was trying to the husband, but as his wife's obsession grew his
determination to foil her only strengthened. Outwardly, of course, the
pair maintained a show of harmony, for they were proud and they
occupied a position of some consequence in the community. But their
private relations went from bad to worse. At length a time came when
they lived in frank enmity; when Isabel never spoke to Esteban except
in reproach or anger, and when Esteban unlocked his lips only to taunt
his wife with the fact that she had been thwarted despite her cunning.
In most quarters, as time went on, the story of the Varona treasure was
forgotten, or at least put down as legendary. Only Isabel, who, in
spite of her husband's secretiveness, learned much, and Pancho Cueto,
who kept his own account of the annual income from the business, held
the matter in serious remembrance. The overseer was a patient man; he
watched with interest the growing discord at the quinta and planned to
profit by it, should occasion offer.
It was only natural under such conditions that Dona Isabel should learn
to dislike her stepchildren--Esteban had told her frankly that they
would inherit whatever fortune he possessed. The thought that, after
all, she might never share in the treasure for which she had sacrificed
her youth and beauty was like to drive the woman mad, and, as may be
imagined, she found ways to vent her spite upon the twins. She widened
her hatred so as to include old Sebastian and his daughter, and even
went so far as to persecute Evangelina's sweetheart, a slave named
Asensio.
It had not taken Dona Isabel long to guess the reason of Sebastian's
many privileges, and one of her first efforts had been to win the old
man's confidence. It was in vain, however, that she flattered and
cajoled, or stormed and threatened; Sebastian withstood her as a
towering ceiba withstands the summer heat and the winter hurricane.
His firmness made her vindictive, and so in time she laid a scheme to
estrange him from his master.
Dona Isabel was crafty. She began to complain about Evangelina, but it
was only after many months that she ventured to suggest to her husband
that he sell the girl. Esteban, of course, refused point-blank; he was
too fond of Sebastian's daughter, he declared, to think of such a thing.
"So, that is it," sneered Dona Isabel. "Well, she is young and shapely
and handsome, as wenches go. I rather suspected you were fond of her--"
With difficulty Esteban restrained an oath. "You mistake my meaning,"
he said, stiffly. "Sebastian has served me faithfully, and Evangelina
plays with my children. She is good to them; she is more of a mother to
them than you have ever been."
"Is that why you dress her like a lady? Bah! A likely story!" Isabel
tossed her fine, dark head. "I'm not blind; I see what goes on about
me. This will make a pretty scandal among your friends--she as black as
the pit, and you--"
"WOMAN!" shouted the planter, "you have a sting like a scorpion."
"I won't have that wench in my house," Isabel flared out at him.
Goaded to fury by his wife's senseless accusation, Esteban cried: "YOUR
house? By what license do you call it yours?"
"Am I not married to you?"
"Damnation! Yes--as a leech is married to its victim. You suck my
blood."
"Your blood!" The woman laughed shrilly. "You have no blood; your veins
run vinegar. You are a miser."
"Miser! Miser! I grow sick of the word. It is all you find to taunt me
with. Confess that you married me for my money," he roared.
"Of course I did! Do you think a woman of my beauty would marry you for
anything else? But a fine bargain I made!"
"Vampire!"
"Wife or vampire, I intend to rule this house, and I refuse to be
shamed by a thick-lipped African. Her airs tell her story. She is
insolent to me, but--I sha'n't endure it. She laughs at me. Well, your
friends shall laugh at you."
"Silence!" commanded Esteban.
"Sell her."
"No."
"Sell her, or--"
Without waiting to hear her threat Esteban tossed his arms above his
head and fled from the room. Flinging himself into the saddle, he
spurred down the hill and through the town to the Casino de Espanol,
where he spent the night at cards with the Spanish officials. But he
did not sell Evangelina.
In the days that followed many similar scenes occurred, and as
Esteban's home life grew more unhappy his dissipations increased. He
drank and gambled heavily; he brought his friends to the quinta with
him, and strove to forget domestic unpleasantness in boisterous revelry.
His wife, however, found opportunities enough to weary and exasperate
him with reproaches regarding the slave girl.
II
SPANISH GOLD
The twins were seven years old when Dona Isabel's schemes bore their
first bitter fruit, and the occasion was a particularly uproarious
night when Don Esteban entertained a crowd of his Castilian friends.
Little Rosa was awakened at a late hour by the laughter and shouts of
her father's guests. She was afraid, for there was something strange
about the voices, some quality to them which was foreign to the child's
experience. Creeping into her brother's room, she awoke him, and
together they listened.
Don Mario de Castano was singing a song, the words of which were lost,
but which brought a yell of approval from his companions. The twins
distinguished the voice of Don Pablo Peza, too--Don Pablo, whose
magnificent black beard had so often excited their admiration. Yes, and
there was Col. Mendoza y Linares, doubtless in his splendid uniform.
These gentlemen were well and favorably known to the boy and girl, yet
Rosa began to whimper, and when Esteban tried to reassure her his own
voice was thin and reedy from fright.
In the midst of their agitation they heard some one weeping; there came
a rush of feet down the hallway, and the next instant Evangelina flung
herself into the room. A summer moon flooded the chamber with radiance
and enabled her to see the two small white figures sitting up in the
middle of the bed.
Evangelina fell upon her knees before them. "Little master! Little
mistress!" she sobbed. "You will save me, won't you? We love each
other, eh? See then, what a crime this is! Say that you will save me!"
She was beside herself, and her voice was hoarse and cracked from
grief. She wrung her hands, she rocked herself from side to side, she
kissed the twins' nightgowns, tugging at them convulsively.
The children were frightened, but they managed to quaver: "What has
happened? Who has harmed you?"
"Don Pablo Peza," wept the negress. "Your father has sold me to
him--lost me at cards. Oh, I shall die! Sebastian won't believe it. He
is praying. And Asensio--O God! But what can they do to help me? You
alone can save me. You won't let Don Pablo take me away? It would kill
me."
"Wait!" Esteban scrambled out of bed and stood beside his dusky nurse
and playmate. "Don't cry any more. I'll tell papa that you don't like
Don Pablo."
Rosa followed. "Yes, come along, brother," she cried, shrilly. "We'll
tell Don Pablo to go home and leave our Evangelina."
"My blessed doves! But will they listen to you?" moaned the slave.
"Papa does whatever we ask," they assured her, gravely. "If he should
growl we'll come back and hide you in the big wardrobe where nobody
will ever find you." Then hand in hand, with their long nightgowns
lifted to their knees, they pattered out into the hall and down toward
the living-room, whence came the shouting and the laughter.
Don Mario de Castano, who was facing the door, stopped in the midst of
a ribald song to cry: "God be praised! What's this I see?"
The others looked and then burst into merriment, for across the litter
of cards and dice and empty glasses they saw a dimpled girl and boy, as
like as two peas. They were just out of bed; they were peering through
the smoke, and blinking like two little owls. Their evident
embarrassment amused the guests hugely.
"So! You awaken the household with your songs," some one chided Don
Mario.
"Two cherubs from heaven," another exclaimed.
And a third cried, "A toast to Esteban's beautiful children."
But the father lurched forward, a frown upon his face. "What is this,
my dears?" he inquired, thickly. "Run back to your beds. This is no
place for you."
"We love Evangelina," piped the twins. "You must not let Don Pablo have
her--if you please."
"Evangelina?"
They nodded. "We love her. ... She plays with us every day. ... We want
her to stay here. ... She belongs to us."
Accustomed as they were to prompt compliance with their demands, they
spoke imperiously; but they had never seen a frown like this upon their
father's face, and at his refusal their voices grew squeaky with
excitement and uncertainty.
"Go to your rooms, my sweethearts," Don Esteban directed, finally.
"We want Evangelina. She belongs to us," they chorused, stubbornly.
Don Pablo shook with laughter. "So! She belongs to you, eh? And I'm to
be robbed of my winnings. Very well, then, come and give me a kiss,
both of you, and I'll see what can be done."
But the children saw that Don Pablo's face was strangely flushed, that
his eyes were wild and his magnificent beard was wet with wine;
therefore they hung back.
"You won your bet fairly," Esteban growled at him. "Pay no heed to
these babies."
"Evangelina is ours," the little ones bravely repeated.
Then their father exploded: "The devil! Am I dreaming? Where have you
learned to oppose me? Back to your beds, both of you." Seeing them
hesitate, he shouted for his wife. "Ho, there! Isabel, my love! Come
put these imps to rest. Or must I teach them manners with my palm? A
fine thing, truly! Are they to be allowed to roam the house at will and
get a fever?"
Mere mention of their stepmother's name was enough for Rosa and
Esteban; they scuttled away as fast as they could go, and when Dona
Isabel came to their rooms, a few moments later, she found them in
their beds, with their eyes deceitfully squeezed shut. Evangelina was
cowering in a corner. Isabel had overheard the wager, and her soul was
evilly alight; she jerked the slave girl to her feet and with a blow of
her palm sent her to her quarters. Then she turned her attention to the
twins. When she left them they were weeping silently, both for
themselves and for Evangelina, whom they dearly loved.
Meanwhile Don Mario had resumed his singing.
Day was breaking when Esteban Varona bade his guests good-by at the
door of his house. As he stood there Sebastian came to him out of the
mists of the dawn. The old man had been waiting for hours. He was half
crazed from apprehension, and now cast himself prone before his master,
begging for Evangelina.
Don Pablo, in whom the liquor was dying, cursed impatiently: "Caramba!
Have I won the treasure of your whole establishment?" he inquired.
"Perhaps you value this wench at more than a thousand pesos; if so, you
will say that I cheated you."
"No! She's only an ordinary girl. My wife doesn't like her, and so I
determined to get rid of her. She is yours, fairly enough," Varona told
him.
"Then send her to my house. I'll breed her to Salvador, my cochero.
He's the strongest man I have."
Sebastian uttered a strangled cry and rose to his feet. "Master! You
must not--"
"Silence!" ordered Esteban. Wine never agreed with him, and this
morning its effects, combined with his losses at gambling, had put him
in a nasty temper. "Go about your business. What do you mean by this,
anyhow?" he shouted.
But Sebastian, dazed of mind and sick of soul, went on, unheeding. "She
is my girl. You promised me her freedom. I warn you--"
"Eh?" The planter swayed forward and with blazing eyes surveyed his
slave. Esteban knew that he had done a foul thing in risking the girl
upon the turn of a card, and an inner voice warned him that he would
repent his action when he became sober, but in his present mood this
very knowledge enraged him the more. "You warn me? Of what?" he growled.
At this moment neither master nor man knew exactly what he said or did.
Sebastian raised his hand on high. In reality the gesture was meant to
call Heaven as a witness to his years of faithful service, but,
misconstruing his intent, Pablo Peza brought his riding-whip down
across the old man's back, crying:
"Ho! None of that."
A shudder ran through Sebastian's frame. Whirling, he seized Don
Pablo's wrist and tore the whip from his fingers. Although the Spaniard
was a strong man, he uttered a cry of pain.
At this indignity to a guest Esteban flew into a fury. "Pancho!" he
cried. "Ho! Pancho!" When the manager came running, Esteban explained:
"This fool is dangerous. He raised his hand to me and to Don Pablo."
Sebastian's protests were drowned by the angry voices of the others.
"Tie him to yonder grating," directed Esteban, who was still in the
grip of a senseless rage. "Flog him well and make haste about it."
Sebastian, who had no time in which to recover himself, made but a weak
resistance when Pancho Cueto locked his wrists into a pair of clumsy,
old-fashioned manacles, first passing the chain around one of the bars
of the iron window-grating which Esteban had indicated. Sebastian felt
that his whole world was tumbling about his ears. He thought he must be
dreaming.
Cueto swung a heavy lash; the sound of his blows echoed through the
quinta, and they summoned, among others, Dona Isabel, who watched the
scene from behind her shutter with much satisfaction. The guests looked
on approvingly.
Sebastian made no outcry. The face he turned to his master, however,
was puckered with reproach and bewilderment. The whip bit deep; it drew
blood and raised welts the thickness of one's thumb; nevertheless, for
the first few moments the victim suffered less in body than in spirit.
His brain was so benumbed, so shocked with other excitations, that he
was well-nigh insensible to physical pain. That Evangelina, flesh of
his flesh, had been sold, that his lifelong faithfulness had brought
such reward as this, that Esteban, light of his soul, had turned
against him--all this was simply astounding. More his simple mind could
not compass for the moment. Gradually, however, he began to resent the
shrieking injustice of it all, and unsuspected forces gathered inside
of him. They grew until his frame was shaken by primitive savage
impulses.
After a time Don Esteban cried: "That will do, Cueto! Leave him now for
the flies to punish. They will remind him of his insolence."
Then the guests departed, and Esteban staggered into the house and went
to bed.
All that morning Sebastian stood with his hands chained high over his
head. The sun grew hotter and ever hotter upon his lacerated back: the
blood dried and clotted there; a cloud of flies gathered, swarming over
the raw gashes left by Cueto's whip.
Before leaving for Don Pablo's quinta Evangelina came to bid her father
an agonized farewell, and for a long time after she had gone the old
man stood motionless, senseless, scarcely breathing. Nor did the other
slaves venture to approach him to offer sympathy or succor. They passed
with heads averted and with fear in their hearts.
Since Don Esteban's nerves, or perhaps it was his conscience, did not
permit him to sleep, he arose about noon-time and dressed himself. He
was still drunk, and the mad rage of the early morning still possessed
him; therefore, when he mounted his horse he pretended not to see the
figure chained to the window-grating. Sebastian's affection for his
master was doglike and he had taken his punishment as a dog takes his,
more in surprise than in anger, but at this proof of callous
indifference a fire kindled in the old fellow's breast, hotter by far
than the fever from his fly-blown scores. He was thirsty, too, but that
was the least of his sufferings.
Sometime during the afternoon the negro heard himself addressed through
the window against the bars of which he leaned. The speaker was Dona
Isabel. She had waited patiently until she knew he must be faint from
exhaustion and then she had let herself into the room behind the
grating, whence she could talk to him without fear of observation.
"Do you suffer, Sebastian?" she began in a tone of gentleness and pity.
"Yes, mistress." The speaker's tongue was thick and swollen.
"La! La! What a crime! And you the most faithful slave in all Cuba!"
"Yes, mistress."
"Can I help you?"
The negro raised his head; he shook his body to rid himself of the
insects which were devouring him.
"Give me a drink of water," he said, hoarsely.
"Surely, a great gourdful, all cool and dripping from the well. But
first I want you to tell me something. Come now, let us have an
understanding with each other."
"A drink, for the love of Christ," panted the old man, and Dona Isabel
saw how cracked and dry were his thick lips, how near the torture had
come to prostrating him.
"I'll do more," she promised, and her voice was like honey. "I'll tell
Pancho Cueto to unlock you, even if I risk Esteban's anger by so doing.
You have suffered too much, my good fellow. Indeed you have. Well, I
can help you now and in the future, or--I can make your life just such
a misery as it has been to-day. Will you be my friend? Will you tell me
something?" She was close to the window; her black eyes were gleaming;
her face was ablaze with greed.
"What can I tell you?"
"Oh, you know very well! I've asked it often enough, but you have lied,
just as my husband has lied to me. He is a miser; he has no heart; he
cares for nobody, as you can see. You must hate him now, even as I hate
him." There was a silence during which Dona Isabel tried to read the
expression on that tortured face in the sunlight. "Do you?"
"Perhaps."
"Then tell me--is there really a treasure, or--?" The woman gasped; she
choked; she could scarcely force the question for fear of
disappointment. "Tell me there is, Sebastian." She clutched the bars
and shook them. "I've heard so many lies that I begin to doubt."
The old man nodded. "Oh yes, there is a treasure," said he.
"God! You have seen it?" Isabel was trembling as if with an ague. "What
is it like? How much is there? Good Sebastian, I'll give you water;
I'll have you set free if you tell me."
"How much? I don't know. But there is much--pieces of Spanish gold,
silver coins in casks and in little boxes--the boxes are bound with
iron and have hasps and staples; bars of precious metal and little
paper packages of gems, all tied up and hidden in leather bags."
Sebastian could hear his listener panting; her bloodless fingers were
wrapped tightly around the bars above his head.--
"Yes! Go on."
"There are ornaments, too. God knows they must have come from heaven,
they are so beautiful; and pearls from the Caribbean as large as plums."
"Are you speaking the truth?"
"Every peso, every bar, every knickknack I have handled with my own
hands. Did I not make the hiding-place all alone? Senora, everything is
there just as I tell you--and more. The grants of title from the crown
for this quinta and the sugar-plantations, they are there, too. Don
Esteban used to fear the government officials, so he hid his papers
securely. Without them the lands belong to no one. You understand?"
"Of course! Yes, yes! But the jewels--God! where are they hidden?"
"You would never guess!" Sebastian's voice gathered strength. "Ten
thousand men in ten thousand years would never find the place, and
nobody knows the secret but Don Esteban and me."
"I believe you. I knew all the time it was here. Well? Where is it?"
Sebastian hesitated and said, piteously, "I am dying--"
Isabel could scarcely contain herself. "I'll give you water, but first
tell me where--where! God in heaven! Can't you see that I, too, am
perishing?"
"I must have a drink."
"Tell me first."
Sebastian lifted his head and, meeting the speaker's eyes, laughed
hoarsely.
At the sound of his unnatural merriment Isabel recoiled as if stung.
She stared at the slave's face in amazement and then in fury. She
stammered, incoherently, "You--you have been--lying!"
"Oh no! The treasure is there, the greatest treasure in all Cuba, but
you shall never know where it is. I'll see to that. It was you who sold
my girl; it was you who brought me to this; it was your hand that
whipped me. Well, I'll tell Don Esteban how you tried to bribe his
secret from me! What do you think he'll do then? Eh? You'll feel the
lash on your white back--"
"You FOOL!" Dona Isabel looked murder. "I'll punish you for this; I'll
make you speak if I have to rub your wounds with salt."
But Sebastian closed his eyes wearily. "You can't make me suffer more
than I have suffered," he said. "And now--I curse you. May that
treasure be the death of you. May you live in torture like mine the
rest of your days; may your beauty turn to ugliness such that men will
spit at you; may you never know peace again until you die in poverty
and want--"
But Dona Isabel, being superstitious, fled with her fingers in her
ears; nor did she undertake to make good her barbarous threat,
realizing opportunely that it would only serve to betray her desperate
intentions and put her husband further on his guard. Instead she shut
herself into her room, where she paced the floor, racking her brain to
guess where the hiding-place could be or to devise some means of
silencing Sebastian's tongue. To feel that she had been overmatched, to
know that there was indeed a treasure, to think that the two who knew
where it was had been laughing at her all this time, filled the woman
with an agony approaching that which Sebastian suffered from his flies.
As the sun was sinking beyond the farther rim of the Yumuri and the
valley was beginning to fill with shadows. Esteban Varona rode up the
hill. His temper was more evil than ever, if that were possible, for he
had drunk again in an effort to drown the memory of his earlier
actions. With him rode half a dozen or more of his friends, coming to
dine and put in another night at his expense. There were Pablo Peza,
and Mario de Castano, once more; Col. Mendoza y Linares, old Pedro
Miron, the advocate, and others of less consequence, whom Esteban had
gathered from the Spanish Club. The host dismounted and lurched across
the courtyard to Sebastian.
"So, my fine fellow," he began. "Have you had enough of rebellion by
this time?"
"Why did you have him flogged?" the advocate inquired.
Esteban explained, briefly, "He dared to raise his hand in anger
against one of my guests."
Sebastian's face was working as he turned upon his master to say: "I
would be lying if I told you that I am sorry for what I did. It is you
have done wrong. Your soul is black with this crime. Where is my girl?"
"The devil! To hear you talk one would think you were a free man." The
planter's eyes were bleared and he brandished his riding-whip
threateningly. "I do as I please with my slaves. I tolerate no
insolence. Your girl? Well, she's in the house of Salvador, Don Pablo's
cochero, where she belongs. I've warned him that he will have to tame
her unruly spirit, as I have tamed yours."
Sebastian had hung sick and limp against the grating, but at these
words he suddenly roused. It was as if a current of electricity had
galvanized him. He strained at his manacles and the bars groaned under
his weight. His eyes began to roll, his lips drew back over his blue
gums. Noting his expression of ferocity, Esteban cut at his naked back
with the riding-whip, crying:
"Ho! Not subdued yet, eh? You need another flogging."
"Curse you and all that is yours," roared the maddened slave. "May you
know the misery you have put upon me. May you rot for a million years
in hell." The whip was rising and falling now, for Esteban had lost
what little self-control the liquor had left to him. "May your
children's bodies grow filthy with disease; may they starve; may they--"
Sebastian was yelling, though his voice was hoarse with pain. The lash
drew blood with every blow. Meanwhile, he wrenched and tugged at his
bonds with the fury of a maniac.
"Pablo! Your machete, quick!" panted the slave-owner. "God's blood!
I'll make an end of this black fiend, once for all."
Esteban Varona's guests had looked on at the scene with the same mild
interest they would display at the whipping of a balky horse: and, now
that the animal threatened to become dangerous, it was in their view
quite the proper thing to put it out of the way. Don Pablo Peza stepped
toward his mare to draw the machete from its scabbard. But he did not
hand it to his friend. He heard a shout, and turned in time to see a
wonderful and a terrible thing.
Sebastian had braced his naked feet against the wall; he had bowed his
back and bent his massive shoulders--a back and a pair of shoulders
that looked as bony and muscular as those of an ox--and he was heaving
with every ounce of strength in his enormous body. As Pablo stared he
saw the heavy grating come away from its anchorage in the solid
masonry, as a shrub is uprooted from soft ground. The rods bent and
twisted; there was a clank and rattle and clash of metal upon the
flags; and then--Sebastian turned upon his tormentor, a free man, save
only for the wide iron bracelets and their connecting chain. He was
quite insane. His face was frightful to behold; it was apelike in its
animal rage, and he towered above his master like some fabled creature
out of the African jungle of his forefathers.
Sebastian's fists alone would have been formidable weapons, but they
were armored and weighted with the old-fashioned, hand-wrought irons
which Pancho Cueto had locked upon them. Wrapping the chain in his
fingers, the slave leaped at Esteban and struck, once. The sound of the
blow was sickening, for the whole bony structure of Esteban Varona's
head gave way.
There was a horrified cry from the other white men. Don Pablo Peza ran
forward, shouting. He swung his machete, but Sebastian met him before
the blow could descend, and they went down together upon the hard
stones. Again Sebastian smote, with his massive hands wrapped in the
chain and his wrists encased in steel, and this time it was as if Don
Pablo's head had been caught between a hammer and an anvil. The negro's
strength, exceptional at all times, was multiplied tenfold; he had run
amuck. When he arose the machete was in his grasp and Don Pablo's
brains were on his knuckles.
It all happened in far less time than it takes to tell. The onlookers
had not yet recovered from their first consternation; in fact they were
still fumbling and tugging at whatever weapons they carried when
Sebastian came toward them, brandishing the blade on high. Pedro Miron,
the advocate, was the third to fall. He tried to scramble out of the
negro's path, but, being an old man, his limbs were too stiff to serve
him and he went down shrieking.
By now the horses had caught the scent of hot blood and were plunging
furiously, the clatter of their hoofs mingling with the blasphemies of
the riders, while Sebastian's bestial roaring made the commotion even
more hideous.
Esteban's guests fought as much for their lives as for vengeance upon
the slayer, for Sebastian was like a gorilla; he seemed intent upon
killing them all. He vented his fury upon whatever came within his
reach; he struck at men and animals alike, and the shrieks of wounded
horses added to the din.
It was a frightful combat. It seemed incredible that one man could work
such dreadful havoc in so short a time. Varona and two of his friends
were dead; two more were badly wounded, and a Peruvian stallion lay
kicking on the flagging when Col. Mendoza y Linares finally managed to
get a bullet home in the black man's brain.
Those who came running to learn the cause of the hubbub turned away
sick and pallid, for the paved yard was a shambles. Pancho Cueto called
upon the slaves to help him, but they slunk back to their quarters,
dumb with terror and dismay.
All that night people from the town below came and went and the quinta
resounded to sobs and lamentations, but of all the relatives of the
dead and wounded, Dona Isabel took her bereavement hardest. Strange to
say, she could not be comforted. She wept, she screamed, she tore her
hair, tasting the full nauseousness of the cup her own avarice had
prepared. Now, when it was too late, she realized that she had
overreached herself, having caused the death of the only two who knew
the secret of the treasure. She remembered, also, Sebastian's statement
that even the deeds of patent for the land were hidden with the rest,
where ten thousand men in ten thousand years could never find them.
Impressed by her manifestations of grief, Esteban's friends reasoned
that the widow must have loved her husband dearly. They told one
another they had wronged her.
III
"THE O'REILLY"
Age and easy living had caused Don Mario de Castano, the sugar
merchant, to take on weight. He had, in truth, become so fat that he
waddled like a penguin when he walked; and when he rode, the springs of
his French victoria gave up in despair. They glued themselves together,
face to face, and Don Mario felt every rut and every rock in the road.
Nor was the merchant any less heavy in mind than in body, for he was
both very rich and very serious, and nothing is more ponderous than a
rich, fat man who takes his riches and his fatness seriously. In
disposition Don Mario was practical and unromantic; he boasted that he
had never had an illusion, never an interest outside of his business.
And yet, on the day this story opens, this prosaic personage, in spite
of his bulging waistband and his taut neckband, in spite of his short
breath and his prickly heat, was in a very whirl of pleasurable
excitement. Don Mario, in fact, suffered the greatest of all illusions:
he was in love, and he believed himself beloved. The object of his
adoration was little Rosa Varona, the daughter of his one-time friend
Esteban. At thought of her the planter glowed with ardor--at any rate
he took it to be ardor, although it might have been the fever from that
summer rash which so afflicted him--and his heart fluttered in a way
dangerous to one of his apoplectic tendencies. To be sure, he had met
Rosa only twice since her return from her Yankee school, but twice had
been enough; with prompt decision he had resolved to do her the honor
of making her his wife.
Now, with a person of Don Mario's importance, to decide for himself is
to decide for others, and inasmuch as he knew that Dona Isabel, Rosa's
stepmother, was notoriously mercenary and had not done at all well
since her husband's death, it did not occur to him to doubt that his
suit would prosper. It was, in fact, to make terms with her that he
rode forth in the heat of this particular afternoon.