on]. Imagine it! A bohio, hidden away far up the Yumuri, and so
insignificant as to escape attention. We are no longer people of
consequence or authority; our safety depends upon our
inconspicuousness. We hide as do the timid animals, though nature has
not given us their skill in avoiding danger. I do not like the
wilderness; it frightens me. At night I hear things rustling through
the thatch above my head; in the morning my feet touch a bare earthen
floor. We live on fruits and vegetables from Evangelina's garden, with
now and then a fowl or a bite of meat when Asensio is fortunate.
Esteban does not seem to mind, but I cannot accommodate myself to these
barbarous surroundings. Sometimes I bite my tongue to keep from
complaining, for that, I know, would grieve him.
The whole country is in chaos. There is no work--nothing but suspicion,
hatred, and violence. Oh, what desolation this war has wrought! Esteban
has already become a guerrillero. He has stolen a cow, and so we have
milk for our coffee; but there is only a handful of coffee left, and
little hope of more. Marauding bands of Spaniards are everywhere, and
the country people tell atrocious tales about them. How will it end?
How long before they will discover us and the worst will happen?
Soon after our arrival Esteban went to the camp of Colonel Lopez to
arrange for us to join his army, but returned heart-broken. It was
impossible, it seems, on my account. Conditions with the patriots are
worse than with us here, and the colonel acknowledged frankly that he
could not be burdened with a woman in his command. So Esteban has given
up for the present his dream of fighting, and devotes himself to
protecting me. You see there is no sanctuary, no help but his right
arm. The towns are in Spanish hands, the manigua is infested with
lawless men, and there is no place in which to hide me. So I feel
myself a burden. Esteban has plans to arm a band of his own. I am numb
with dread of what it may lead to, for his hatred is centered upon
Cueto, that false servant whose wickedness reduced us to this
extremity. Esteban is so young and reckless. If only you were here to
counsel him.
If only you were here--Oh, my dearest Juan! If only you were here--to
take me in your arms and banish this ever constant terror at my heart.
If only you were here to tell me that you love me still in spite of my
misfortune. See! The tears are falling as I write. My eyes are dim, my
fingers trace uncertain letters on the sheet, and I can only steady
them when I remember that you promised to return. You WILL return, will
you not? I could not write like this if I were sure that you would read
these lines. My nightly prayer--But I will not tell you of my prayers,
for fate may guide this letter to you, after all, and the hearts of men
do change. In those dark hours when my doubts arise I try to tell
myself that you will surely come and search me out.
Sometimes I play a game with Evangelina--our only game. We gather wild
flowers. We assort the few belongings that I managed to bring with me
and I array myself for you. And then I smile and laugh for a little
while, and she tells me I am beautiful enough to please you. But the
flowers fade, and I know that beauty, too, will fade in such
surroundings. What then? I ask myself.
When you return to Cuba--see, my faith is strong again--avoid Matanzas,
for your own sake and mine. Don Mario wanted to marry me to save me
this exile. But I refused; I told him I was pledged to you, and he was
furious. He is powerful; he would balk you, and there is always room
for one more in San Severino. Pancho Cueto, too, living in luxury upon
the fruits of his crime, would certainly consider you a menace to his
security. You see how cunning my love for you has made me?
If I could come to you, I would, but I am marked. So if you still
desire me you must search me out. You will? I pin my faith to that as
to the Cross. To doubt would be to perish. If we should have to find
another hiding-place, and that is always likely, you can learn of our
whereabouts from Colonel Lopez.
Alas! If you had asked me to go with you that day! I would have
followed you, for my heart beat then as it beats to-day, for you alone.
The candle is burning low and it will soon be daylight, and then this
letter must begin its long, uncertain journey. I must creep into my bed
now, to pray and then to dream. It is cold, before the dawn, and the
thatch above me rustles. I am very poor and sad and lonely, O'Reilly,
but my cheeks are full and red; my lips could learn to smile again, and
you would not be ashamed of me.
Asensio is rising. He goes to find his horse and I must close. God
grant this reaches you, some time, somehow. I trust the many blots upon
the paper will not give you a wrong impression of my writing, for I am
neat, and I write nicely; only now the ink is poor and there is very
little of it. There is little of anything, here at Asensio's house,
except tears. Of those I fear there are too many to please you, my
Juan, for men do not like tears. Therefore I try to smile as I sign
myself,
Your loving and your faithful
ROSA.
O God! Come quickly, if you love me.
VI
THE QUEST BEGINS
When O'Reilly had finished his second reading of the letter there were
fresh blots upon the pitifully untidy pages. "I write nicely, only the
ink is poor--" "There is little of anything here at Asensio's house--"
"It is cold before the dawn--" ... Poor little Rosa! He had always
thought of her as so proud, so high-spirited, so playful, but another
Rosa had written this letter. Her appeal stirred every chord of
tenderness, every impulse of chivalry in his impressionable Irish
nature. She doubted him; she feared he would not come' to her. Well, he
would set her doubts at rest. "O God! Come quickly, if you love me." He
leaped to his feet; he dashed the tears from his eyes.
Mr. Slack looked up astonished at the apparition which burst in upon
him. He was accustomed to O'Reilly's high head of steam and disapproved
of it, but he had never seen the fellow so surcharged as now. He was
positively jumpy; his voice was sharp; his hands were unsteady; his
eyes were bright and blue and hard.
"I want my salary, quick," Johnnie began.
Mr. Slack resented emotion, he abominated haste; he had cultivated what
he considered to be a thorough commercial deliberation.
"My dear man," he said, "I'd advise you--"
"I don't want advice; I want money," snapped the other. "I've quit,
resigned, skipped, fled."
"Indeed? When does your resignation take effect?"
"Immediately, and if you don't move like lightning it will take effect
upon your person."
"Mr. Carter would never--"
"Bother Mr. Carter! Now stiffen your spine long enough to write my
check. If you don't--" O'Reilly compressed his lips and breathed
ominously through his nostrils. He laid a heavy and persuasive hand
upon the secretary's shoulder. "Hump yourself, old jellyfish!"
There was a queer, wild light in O'Reilly's eye and for once Mr. Slack
took orders from an underling. He humped himself.
Johnnie's other preparations were conducted with equal vigor and
promptitude; within two hours his belongings were packed. But for all
his haste his mind was working clearly. Rosa's warning not to come to
Matanzas was no doubt warranted, and his own unpleasant experiences
with the customs men at Havana were still fresh enough to be vivid. The
Spaniards were intensely suspicious of all Americans, especially
incoming ones, as he had reason to know, and since he was nearly as
well acquainted in the one place as in the other it seemed to be the
part of wisdom to slip into the country through a side door. The seat
of war was in the east. The rebels held that part of the island. Once
there and in touch with them it would surely be no difficult task to
evade the local authorities and join Colonel Lopez.
O'Reilly pondered these thoughts briefly, then seized his hat and
hastened down-town to the office of the Cuban Junta.
At this time the newspapers of the United States were devoting much
space to the insular uprising; the first stories of Spanish atrocities
later, alas! destined to become all too familiar, were gaining public
attention, and there were few readers who did not know something about
the activities of that body of patriots who made their headquarters at
56 New Street. It was from this place that the revolution was largely
financed, so the papers said. It was there that the filibustering
expeditions supplying arms and ammunition originated. To 56 New Street
O'Reilly went.
There was nothing martial about the atmosphere of the Junta's offices;
there were no war maps on the walls, no stands of arms nor recruiting
officers in evidence--not even a hint of intrigue or conspiracy. The
place was rather meanly furnished, and it was disappointingly
commonplace. A business-like young man inquired O'Reilly's errand.
Johnnie made known a part of it, and then asked to see some one in
authority. In consequence, perhaps, of his Irish smile or of that
persuasiveness which he could render almost irresistible when he
willed, it was not long before he gained admittance to the presence of
Mr. Enriquez, a distinguished, scholarly Cuban of middle age.
"You say you have important business with me?" the latter inquired,
speaking with an accent of refinement.
O'Reilly plunged boldly into the heart of the matter which had brought
him thither. When he had finished his tale Mr. Enriquez inquired:
"But how do you expect me to help you?"
"I want your advice more than your help, although you might tell me
where I can find Colonel Lopez."
Enriquez eyed his caller keenly. "That information would be very well
worth having," said he. "But, you understand, we know little about what
is going on in Cuba--far less than the Spaniards themselves. I'm afraid
I can't help you."
"You don't take me for a spy, do you?" Johnnie asked, with his friendly
grin.
"Ah! You don't look like one, but we never know whom to trust. This
young lady in whom you are interested, who is she?"
"Her name is Varona; Miss Rosa Varona."
"So?" Enriquez raised his brows. "Not by any chance the heiress to that
famous Varona treasure?"
"Exactly!--if there is such a thing." There ensued a pause while the
Cuban drummed softly upon his desk with his finger-tips. "Her brother
Esteban told me that he was working for your cause. I warned him to be
careful, but--" O'Reilly's voice grew suddenly husky. "Here! Read this.
I want you to believe me." Reverently he laid Rosa's letter before her
countryman. "I'm not in the habit of showing my letters to strangers,
but--I guess that'll convince you I'm not a spy."
He sat silently while the letter was being read; nor was he
disappointed in the result. Mr. Enriquez raised dark, compassionate
eyes to his, saying:
"This is a touching letter, sir. I thank you for allowing me to see it.
No, I don't doubt you now. Poor Cuba! Her sons must be brave, her
daughters patient."
"Well! You understand why I must go quickly, and why I can't chance
delay by going either to Matanzas or to Havana. I want to land
somewhere farther east, and I want you to help me to find Colonel
Lopez."
Mr. Enriquez frowned thoughtfully. "What I just told you is literally
true," he said at last. "We work in the dark up here, and we don't know
the whereabouts of our troops. We are suspicious of strangers, too, as
we have reason to be. But--I have a thought." He excused himself and
left the room. When he returned he explained: "I don't have to tell you
that we are watched all the time, and that for us to assist you openly
would be liable to defeat your purpose. But I have just telephoned to a
man I can trust, and I have told him your story. He has relatives in
Cuba and he agrees to help you if he can. His name is Alvarado."
Writing an address upon a card, he handed it to O'Reilly. "Go to him,
tell him what you have told me, and do as he directs. Another thing,
don't return here unless it is necessary; otherwise when you land in
Cuba you may have cause to regret it." Mr. Enriquez extended his hand,
and when O'Reilly tried to thank him he shook his head. "It is nothing.
I wish you success, but--I fear you have tackled a big proposition."
Dr. Alvarado, a high type of the Cuban professional man, was expecting
O'Reilly. He listened patiently to his caller's somewhat breathless
recital.
"You do well to avoid the cities where you are known," he agreed. "It
would be madness, under the circumstances, even to be seen in Matanzas:
those enemies of--your friends--would have you deported. But just how
to reach the Insurrectos--"
"If you'd merely give me a letter saying I'm a friend--"
The doctor promptly negatived this suggestion. "Surely you don't think
it can be done as easily as that?" he inquired. "In the first place,
wherever you land, you will be watched and probably searched. Such a
letter, if discovered, would not only end your chances, but it would
bring certain disaster upon those to whom it was written. I have no
right to jeopardize the lives of those I hold dear. These are perilous
times for all good Cubans, Mr. O'Reilly. Enriquez told me about that
poor girl. She bears a famous name and--I want to help her." He removed
his glasses and wiped them, absent-mindedly. "There are three Alvarados
living," he resumed. "My two brothers, Tomas and Ignacio, reside in
Cuba, and we all work for the cause of independence in our own ways. I
am fortunately situated, but they are surrounded by dangers, and I must
ask you to be extremely careful in communicating with them, for I am
placing their lives in your hands and--I love them dearly."
"I shall do exactly as you say."
"Very well, then! Go to Neuvitas, where Tomas lives--there is a steamer
leaving in three of four days, and you can arrange passage on her. He
is a dentist. Meet him, somehow, and make yourself known by repeating
this sentence: 'I come from Felipe. He told me how you whipped him to
keep him from going to the Ten Years' War!' That will be enough; he
will ask you who you are and what you want."
"I see. It's a sort of password."
"No. I've never had reason to communicate with him in this way." Noting
the bewilderment in O'Reilly's face, Alvarado smiled. "You won't need
to say anything more. No living soul, except Tomas and I, knows that he
thrashed me, but it is true. I was young, I wanted to go to the war,
but he took it out of me with a bamboo. Later we bound ourselves never
to mention it. He will understand from the message that I trust you,
and he will help you to reach the rebels, if such a thing is possible.
But tell me, when you have found Miss Varona, what then?"
"Why, I'll bring her out."
"How? Do you think you can walk into any seaport and take ship? You
will be tagged and numbered by the authorities. Once you disappear into
the manigua, you will be a marked man."
"Well, then, I'll marry her right there. I'm an American citizen--"
"Don't build too much on that fact, either," the doctor warned.
"Spanish jails are strong, and your country has never compelled that
respect for its nationals which other countries insist upon."
"Perhaps! But the first thing is to find Miss Varona and learn that
she's safe. I don't much care what happens after that."
Alvarado nodded and smiled. "Good! What would this world be without
sentiment? It loves a lover. I like your spirit and I hope soon to have
the pleasure of again seeing you and meeting your--wife."
O'Reilly flushed and stammered, whereupon the good Cuban patted him on
the shoulder. "Come and see me when you get back, and bring me news of
Tomas. Now, adios, compadre."
"Adios, senor! I am deeply grateful!"
O'Reilly had no difficulty in securing passage direct to Neuvitas on
the English steamer Dunham Castle, and a few days later he saw the
Atlantic Highlands dissolve into the mists of a winter afternoon as the
ship headed outward into a nasty running sea.
It proved to be a wretched trip. Off Hatteras the Dunham Castle labored
heavily for twelve hours, and bad weather followed her clear into the
old Bahama Channel. Not until she had thrust her nose into the narrow
entrance of Neuvitas harbor did she wholly cease her seasick plunging,
but then the weather changed with bewildering suddenness.
Cuba, when it came fairly into sight, lay bathed in golden sunshine,
all warmth and welcome, like a bride upon an azure couch. The moist
breath from her fragrant shores swept over the steamer's decks and
Johnnie O'Reilly sniffed it joyfully.
He had brought little luggage with him, only an extra suit of khaki, a
few toilet articles, and a Colt's revolver, the companion of his
earlier Cuban days. He was holding the weapon in his hand, debating how
and where to conceal it, when the first officer paused in the
state-room door and, spying it, exclaimed:
"Hello! Smuggling arms to the Insurrectos, eh?"
O'Reilly laughed. "It's an old friend. I don't know just what to do
with it."
"I'll tell you," the mate volunteered. "Lead your old friend out here
to the rail, shake hands with him, and drop him overboard before he
gets you into trouble."
"Really?"
"I mean it. They won't let you land with that hardware. Take my tip."
But Johnnie hesitated. Though his intentions were far from warlike, he
could not bring himself, in view of his secret plans, to part with his
only weapon. He examined his extra pair of khaki trousers, and
discovering a considerable surplus of cloth at each inside seam, he
took needle and thread and managed to sew the gun in so that it hung
close against the inside of his right leg when he donned the garment.
It felt queer and uncomfortable, but it did not appear to be noticeable
so long as he stood upright. With some pride in his stratagem, he laid
off his winter suit and changed into lighter clothing.
Neuvitas was scorching under a midday sun when he came on deck. Its
low, square houses were glaring white; here and there a splotch of
vivid Cuban blue stood out; the rickety, worm-eaten piling of its
water-front resembled rows of rotten, snaggly teeth smiling out of a
chalky face mottled with unhealthy, artificial spots of color. Gusts of
wind from the shore brought feverish odors, as if the city were sick
and exhaled a tainted breath. But beyond, the hills were clean and
green, the fields were rich and ripe. That was the Cuba which O'Reilly
knew.
A Spanish transport, close by, was languidly discharging uniformed
troops; lighters of military supplies were being unloaded; the sound of
a bugle floated from the shore. Moored to the docks or anchored in the
harbor were several shallow-draught "tin-clad" coast-patrol craft from
the staffs of which streamed the red and yellow bars of Spain.
Although there were but a few passengers on the Dunham Castle, they
were subjected to a long delay during which suspicious customs men
searched their baggage and questioned them. Finally, however, O'Reilly
found himself free to go ashore. He had passed the ordeal handily, and
now he was eager to reach some lodging-place where he could remove that
revolver which knocked against his leg so awkwardly at every step. Once
on the dock, he gave his bag to a negro and led the way toward the
street. At the last moment, however, just as he was about to plant his
feet upon solid earth, he was halted by two men who rose from a bench
where they had been idling. They carried the tasseled canes of the
Secret Service, and O'Reilly felt his heart jump.
With a murmured apology one of them relieved the negro of the valise
while the other began to search O'Reilly's person for concealed
weapons. He began at Johnnie's shoulders and patted one pocket after
another, "fanning" him in the fashion approved of policemen. Now, too
late, the American regretted his refusal to heed the mate's warning. It
seemed certain that he was in for trouble, but he drew his heels
together and stood with the revolver pressed between his legs, praying
that those exploratory palms would not encounter it. When the officer
had slapped every pocket, ending at the hips, he nodded; his companion
snapped shut the valise, and handed it back to the porter.
O'Reilly paused a moment or two later to wipe the abundant perspiration
from his face; even yet his pulse was pounding erratically. He hoped
the future held no more surprises of this sort, for he feared that his
nerve might fail him.
El Gran Hotel Europea, Neuvitas's leading hostelry, belied its name. It
was far from large, and certainly it was anything but European, except,
perhaps, in its proprietor's extravagant and un-American desire to
please, at any cost. The building was old and dirty, the open cafe,
fronting upon the sidewalk of the main street, was full of flies, and
dust from the unclean roadway lay thick upon its stone-topped tables;
moreover, a recognizable odor of decay issued from the patio--or
perhaps from the kitchen behind it. After O'Reilly's first meal he was
sure it came from the latter place; even suspected that the odor
flattered actual conditions. But it was the best hotel the place
afforded, and Senor Carbajal was the most attentive of hosts.
He was a globular, unctuous little man, this Carbajal; he reminded
O'Reilly of a drop of oil. He evinced an unusual interest in the
affairs of his American guest, and soon developed a habit of popping
into the latter's room at unexpected moments, ostensibly to see that
all was as it should be. Now there was very little in the room to need
attention--only a bed with a cheese-cloth mosquito-net, a wash-stand,
and a towering, smelly clothes-press of Spanish architecture, which
looked as if it might have a dark and sinister history. When, for the
third time, he appeared without knocking, O'Reilly suspected something.
"You have everything, eh?" Mr. Carbajal teetered upon the balls of his
feet while his small black eyes roved inquisitively.
"Everything in abundance."
"There is water, eh?" The proprietor peered dutifully into the pitcher,
incidentally taking stock of O'Reilly's toilet articles.
"A veritable ocean of it."
"One never knows. These servants are so lazy. But--your other baggage,
your trunk?"
"I have no trunk."
"So? I took you to be a great traveler."
"I am."
"Selling goods, eh?"
"No."
"Indeed? Then you are a pleasure traveler? You see the sights, is that
it? Well, Cuba is beautiful."
"Most beautiful, judging from what I have seen."
Mr. Carbajal wagged a pudgy forefinger at his guest. "Tut! Tut! You
know Cuba. You speak the language better than a native. You can't fool
me, sly one!" He wrinkled his face and winked both eyes. It was an
invitation to further confidence, and he was disappointed when it
passed unnoticed. "Well, you Americans are a brave people," he
continued, with an obvious effort to keep the conversation going. "You
like to be where the fighting is."
"Not I. I'm a timid man."
"Ho! Ha! Ha!" the proprietor cackled. Then he became pensive. "There is
nothing here at Neuvitas to interest a tourist--except the war."
"I'm not a tourist."
"Indeed? Now that is interesting." Mr. Carbajal seated himself on the
edge of the bed, where he could look into O'Reilly's traveling-bag.
"Not a tourist, not a traveling-man. Now what could possibly bring you
to Cuba?"
O'Reilly eyed his inquisitor gravely; a subtle melancholy darkened his
agreeable countenance. "I travel for my health," said he.
"You--Health--!" Carbajal's frame began to heave; his bulging abdomen
oscillated as if shaken by some hidden hand. "Good! Ha! There's another
joke for you."
"I'm a sick man," O'Reilly insisted, hollowly.
"From what malady do you suffer?" inquired the hotel-keeper.
"Rheumatism."
"Rheumatism? That is no more than a pain in the joints, a stiffness--"
"There! I knew it!" O'Reilly exclaimed in triumph. Rising, he seized
his host's moist hands and shook them violently. "You give me courage!
You make a new man of me. These doctors enjoy a fellow's agony; they'd
like to bury him. They'd never recommend this climate. No! 'Pain in the
joints,' you say, 'stiffness.' That proves the abominable affliction is
practically unknown here. I thank you, sir."
"You don't look sick," mumbled Carbajal. "Not like the other American."
"What other American?"
"A peculiar fellow. He went on to Puerto Principe. What a cough! And he
was as thin as a wire. He bled at the mouth, too, all the time, when he
was not reviling my hotel. You'll see him if you go there, provided he
hasn't come apart with his coughing. I believe he writes for
newspapers. Well, it is my pleasure to serve you. Command me at any
hour." Mr. Carbajal rose reluctantly and went wheezing down-stairs to
his grimy tables and the flies.