hotel man was in close touch with the Spanish authorities, and he began
to feel the need of some better excuse, some valid business reason, for
being here, such as would allay suspicion once for all. But he could
think of nothing better than his rheumatism, and to that he determined
to cling.
VII
THE MAN WHO WOULD KNOW LIFE
Later that day O'Reilly set out to reconnoiter the city of Neuvitas. He
was followed, of course--he had expected as much, and the circumstances
amused rather than alarmed him. But when he returned to his hotel and
found that his room had been visited during his absence he felt a hint
of uneasiness. Evidently, as Doctor Alvarado had forecast, the
authorities were interested in him; and he had further evidence of the
fact when he learned that the room next him was occupied by the very
man who had shadowed him on the street. Inasmuch as the intervening
wall was no more than a thin partition, through which his very
breathing could be heard, while his every movement could doubtless be
spied upon, O'Reilly saw the need of caution, and he began to cast
about for a place to hide that Colt's revolver, the presence of which
was assuming the proportions of a menace. Now that his belongings had
been examined three times that day, the next step would probably be
another search of his person. Unless in the mean time he could
definitely establish his innocence of purpose, which was unlikely, it
behooved him to rid himself of the weapon without delay. This, however,
was a problem. He could not bring himself to throw the thing away, and
his bare bedroom offered no place of concealment. Late that evening he
called Mr. Carbajal and asked him if it were possible to take a bath.
Mr. Carbajal assured him that it was. El Gran Hotel Europea was first
class in every respect; no expense had been spared in its equipment.
Senor O'Rail-ye had indeed done well in patronizing it, for it boasted
the best cuarto de bano in the whole city--a room, moreover, which was
devoted exclusively to the purposes of bathing. And it was a large
room--large enough to accommodate a dozen guests at once. To be sure,
it would require, say, half an hour to make it ready, for it was stored
with hay for the horses which drew the 'bus to and from the depot, but
if the senor would have patience it could soon be restored to its
original purpose. Mr. Carbajal himself would see that there was a river
of hot water.
O'Reilly thanked him. An hour later he paraded, bare-foot, down the
hall, wrapped in a blanket. He had purposely left his clothes behind
him, and the door of his room unlocked, but under his naked left arm he
carried the revolver.
He was a long time in his bath. When he returned to his chamber he
found his garments very nearly as he had left them. He smiled as he
crept into bed and tucked the netting under his thin mattress. They
could search him now, whenever they pleased, for the revolver and its
box of precious cartridges reposed on a duty beam over the bathroom,
where no one would ever think of looking.
During breakfast, and afterward throughout an aimless morning stroll,
O'Reilly felt watchful eyes upon him. When he returned to his hotel he
found Mr. Carbajal in the cafe concocting refrescos for some military
officers, who scanned the American with bold, hostile glances. O'Reilly
complained to the proprietor of a toothache.
At once Mr. Carbajal was sympathetic; he was also admonitory, blaming
the affliction upon that bath of the previous evening. Excessive
bathing, he declared, was injurious, particularly in the winter season;
it opened one's pores, and it dried one's skin and rendered one liable
to the attacks of every disease. Heat? Perspiration? Was it wise to
resort to unnatural and artificial means in order to rid oneself of a
trifling annoyance? If perspiration were injurious, nature would not
have provided it. In fact, it was nature's method of keeping the body
clean, and if people were unreasonably fastidious about such things a
little cologne would render them even more agreeable to the senses than
any number of baths. That was the purpose of cologne. This habit of
bathing at fixed intervals of a week or two, regardless of conditions,
might be, and probably was, responsible for all of O'Reilly's
rheumatism. Mr. Carbajal, for one, knew better than to overdo the
thing. He had never suffered an ache or a pain in his life and his
teeth were perfectly sound, as he demonstrated by beating vigorously
upon them with his mixing-spoon.
O'Reilly was impressed by this argument, he acknowledged, but
unfortunately it did not remedy the pain which was killing him. During
the hottest part of the day, when he knew the town would be asleep, he
reappeared in the cafe, his cheek in his hand. He declared that
something had to be done, at once, and inquired the name and address of
the best local dentist.
Mr. Carbajal named several, among them Dr. Tomas Alvarado, whereupon
his guest hurried away, followed at a respectful distance by the secret
agent.
Finding Doctor Alvarado's office was closed, as he had anticipated,
O'Reilly proceeded to the doctor's residence. There was some delay when
he rang the bell, but eventually the dentist himself appeared. O'Reilly
recognized him from his resemblance to his brother. He addressed him in
English.
"I come from Felipe," he began. "He well remembers the day you whipped
him to keep him from going to the Ten Years' War."
The languor of Doctor Alvarado's siesta vanished. He started, his eyes
widened.
"Who are you?" he muttered.
"My name is O'Reilly. I am an American, a friend, so don't be alarmed.
The man you see approaching is following me, but he thinks I have come
to you with a toothache."
"What do you want?"
"I want your help in joining the Insurrectos."
By this time the detective had come within earshot. Making an effort at
self-possession, the dentist said: "Very well. I will meet you at my
office in a half-hour and see what can be done." Then he bowed.
O'Reilly raised his hat and turned away.
Doctor Alvarado's dentist's chair faced a full-length window, one of
several which, after the Cuban fashion, opened directly upon the
sidewalk, rendering both the waiting-room and the office almost as
public as the street itself. Every one of these windows was wide open
when Johnnie arrived; but it seemed that the dentist knew what he was
about, for when his patient had taken his seat and he had begun an
examination of the troublesome tooth, he said, under his breath:
"I, too, am watched. Talk to me in English. When I press, thus, upon
your gum, you will know that some one is passing. Now then, what is the
meaning of your amazing message from Felipe?"
While Doctor Alvarado pretended to treat a perfectly sound molar,
Johnnie managed, despite frequent interruptions, to make known the
reason and circumstances of his presence.
"But there are no rebels around here," Alvarado told him. "You could
escape to the country, perhaps, but what then? Where would you go? How
would they know who you are?"
"That's what I want to find out."
The Cuban pondered. "You'll have to go to Puerto Principe," he said, at
length. "Our men are operating in that neighborhood, and my brother
Ignacio will know how to reach them. I'll give you a message to him,
similar to the one you brought me from Felipe." Then he smiled. "I've
just thought of the very thing. Years ago I lent him a book which I
particularly prized, and one of his children damaged it. I was furious.
I declared I would never lend him another, and I never have. Now then,
I'll give you that very volume; hand it to him and say that I asked you
to return it to him. I'd like to see his face when he receives it."
O'Reilly thanked him, promising to use every precaution in delivering
the message. The very care necessary in communicating between brother
and brother made him realize more clearly than hitherto that he was
among enemies.
The next morning he paid Carbajal's score and took the train to the
interior. In his bag was Tomas Alvarado's precious volume, and in the
same coach with him rode the Secret Service man.
In its general features Puerto Principe differed little from the other
Cuban cities O'Reilly knew. It was compactly built, it was very old and
it looked its centuries. Its streets were particularly narrow and
crooked, having been purposely laid out in labyrinthian mazes, so the
story goes, in order to fool the pirates. In some ways it was quaint
and unusual. For instance, here and there were queer tinajones, vast
venerable earthen jars for holding rain-water, each inscribed with the
date when it left the potter's wheel; then, too, there was a remarkable
number of churches--massive structures, grayed by time--and in the
northern distance, blue against the sky, O'Reilly had a glimpse of the
Cubitas range, where he knew the insurrectos were in camp. That was his
goal: it seemed almost within his grasp. He was tempted to abandon
caution and make a dash for it, until he discovered that the city was
well guarded. One needed a pass to enter or to leave Puerto Principe,
and, moreover, the city had no suburbs, no scattered residences outside
its boundaries: when one came to the end of a street one found oneself
in an open field faced by a barbed-wire barrier, and on every road
leading from the town stood a fortina, a little fort of brick or logs,
in which were stationed Spanish soldiers. The streets were alive with
uniformed men, patrols were everywhere, and martial law prevailed. For
the first time O'Reilly began to perceive the strength of that mailed
hand which held the island so tightly. Judging from the preparations
here, one must conclude that Spain had no intention of relinquishing
her last New World possession.
After a stroll through the city, during which he carefully used his
eyes, Johnnie asked himself how the ill-drilled, ill-equipped, loosely
organized Insurrectos could hope to overthrow so solid a power as this,
backed as it seemed to be by unlimited means and unlimited armies of
trained troops. It looked like a hopeless undertaking. No seaport, no
city, scarcely a hamlet, in fact, so far as O'Reilly knew, was held by
the rebels; they lurked in the woods or rode the savannas in ragged
bands, here to-day, there to-morrow. To aid or comfort them was
treason. They appeared out of the jungles at unexpected moments; they
faded like the mists of the dawn. Theirs was an apparitional warfare,
and even their biggest victories were signals for retreat. How could
they think to win?
It seemed impossible that such resistance as they offered could wear
down and conquer the resources of Spain, yet the very numbers and
alertness of the Spanish troops argued a somewhat formidable
opposition. Did it not also argue an all-pervading restlessness which
might some day escape control? O'Reilly, of course, had no part in this
quarrel: but it struck him as a wicked waste to destroy, to ravage, and
to slay when settlement was so easy. The motive behind this prodigal
extravagance of blood and gold was nothing but foolish resistance of a
principle. A little yielding, a little diminution of harshness, a
little compassion on the part of the mother country, and these men who
were killing one another would embrace and proclaim their blood
brotherhood.
Pondering such thoughts as these, O'Reilly returned to his hotel. As he
sat in the cafe, sipping an orangeade, he heard some one speaking in
atrocious Spanish, and looked up to see that another American had
entered. The stranger was a tall, funereal young man, with pallid
cheeks and hollow, burning eyes: he was asking for ice-water, but what
he said resembled anything except the language of the country.
"Hey, George!" he cried. "Try gimme a vasso of agwa con yellow." He
pronounced the words with elaborate pains. "Make it a long one."
A waiter eyed him tolerantly, but with no faintest sign of
understanding.
"Agwa con yellow--agwa with ice. Ice! ICE!" the man repeated loudly.
Still failing of a response, he shouted, "Don't you know what 'ice'
is?" He wrapped his long, lean arms about himself and shivered. "Cold!
Icie! Freezum! Br-r-r! Savvy?"
Inspiration came to the waiter; a smile irradiated his countenance, and
with a murmured apology for his stupidity he hurried away.
O'Reilly stepped over to the stranger's table and introduced himself.
"The hotel-keeper in Neuvitas told me I'd find you here," he said.
"Your name is--"
"Branch; Leslie Branch. So Carbajal said you'd find me here, eh? Oh,
the greasy little liar. He didn't believe it. He thought his cooking
would have killed me, long ago, and it nearly did." This time Mr.
Branch's bony frame underwent a genuine shudder and his face was
convulsed with loathing. "Did you try his butter? 'Made in Denmark'
during the early Victorian period. I hate antiques--can't eat anything
oily. Carbajal's in the Secret Service. Nice fat little spy."
"So I suspected."
Mr. Branch's beverage appeared at this moment. With a flourish the
waiter placed a small glass and a bottle of dark liquid before him.
Branch stared at it, then rolled a fiercely smoldering eye upward.
"What's that?" he inquired.
O'Reilly read the label. "It's bitters," said he.
"BITTERS! And I asked for 'yellow'--a glass of agwa with yellow."
Branch's voice shook. "I'm dying of a fever, and this ivory-billed
toucan brings me a quart of poison. Bullets!" It was impossible to
describe the suggestion of profanity with which the speaker colored
this innocuous expletive. "Weak as I am, I shall gnaw his windpipe." He
bared his teeth suggestively and raised two talon-like hands.
The waiter was puzzled, but not alarmed. He embraced himself as his
customer had done, and shuddered; then pointing at the bitters, he
nodded encouragingly.
O'Reilly forestalled an outburst by translating his countryman's wants.
"Un vaso de agua con hielo," said he, and the attendant was all
apologies.
"So, you speak the lingo?" marveled Mr. Branch. "Well, I can't get the
hang of it. Don't like it. Don't like anything Spanish. Hell of a
country, isn't it? where the ice is 'YELLOW' and the butter is 'MEANT
TO KILL YOU,' and does."
O'Reilly laughed. "You've been studying a guide-book, 'with complete
glossary of Spanish phrases.' By the way, Carbajal said you are a
writer."
Mr. Branch nodded listlessly. "I'm supposed to report this
insurrection, but the Spaniards won't let me. They edit my stuff to
suit themselves. I'm getting tired of the farce."
"Going home?"
"Don't dare." The speaker tapped his concave chest. "Bum lungs. I came
down here to shuffle off, and I'm waiting for it to happen. What brings
you to Cuba?"
"I'm here for my health, too." The real invalid stared. "I have
rheumatism."
"Going to sweat it out, eh? Well, there's nothing to do but
sweat"--Branch was racked by a coughing spasm that shook his reedy
frame--"sweat and cough. Bullets! No mistake about that hospital bark,
is there?" When he had regained his breath he said: "See here! I'm
going to take a chance with you, for I like your looks. My newspaper
work is a bluff: I don't send enough stuff to keep me alive. I come
here to cure my lungs, and--I want you to help me do it."
O'Reilly stared at the man in surprise. "How can I help you?" he asked.
"By taking me with you."
"With me? Where?"
"To the Insurrectos, of course."
The men eyed each other fixedly. "What makes you think--" O'Reilly
began.
"Oh, don't say it! I've got a hunch! I don't know what your game
is--probably dynamite: there's a story that the rebels have sent for
some American experts to teach them how to use the stuff, and God knows
they need instruction! Anyhow, I can't swallow that rheumatism talk. I
thought you might give me a lift. Take me along, will you?"
"And how would that benefit your cough?" Johnnie inquired, curiously.
Mr. Branch hesitated. "Well, I'll tell you," he said, after a moment.
"I'm afraid to die this way, by inches, and hours. I'm scared to
death." It seemed impossible that the sick man's cheeks could further
blanch, but they became fairly livid, while a beading of moisture
appeared upon his upper lip. "God! You've no idea how it gets on a
fellow's nerves to see himself slipping--slipping. I'd like to end it
suddenly, like that!" He voiced the last sentence abruptly and snapped
his fingers. "I've tried to bump off, but--no courage! Funny, isn't it?
Well, the doctors told me another New York winter would put me in a
rosewood show-case. I've tried Colorado and it's no good. See? So I
decided to join the Cubans and--let a bullet do the trick. I never did
like the Spaniards--their cooking is too greasy. Then, too, I'd like to
have a thrill before I cash in--taste 'the salt of life,' as somebody
expressed it. That's war. It's the biggest game in the world. What do
you think of the idea?"
"Not much," O'Reilly said, honestly.
"Difference in temperament. I suppose it IS a sick fancy, but I've got
it. Unfortunately, now that I'm here, these Romeos won't let me get out
of town. If you're what I think you are, give me a hand. I'm a rotten
coward, but I'll fight if the Cubans will take me."
"Where are the Cubans?"
"Oh, they're out yonder in the hills. I know all about 'em. Come over
to my quarters, and I'll show you a map, if you're interested."
"I am," said O'Reilly, and, rising, he followed his new acquaintance.
VIII
THE SPANISH DOUBLOON
On the whole, Pancho Cueto's plans had worked smoothly. After
denouncing the Varona twins as traitors he had managed to have himself
appointed trustee for the crown, for all their properties, consummation
for which he had worked from the moment he read that letter of
Esteban's on the morning after Dona Isabel's death. To be sure, the
overseer had acquired title, of a sort, to the plantation by paying the
taxes over a period of years, but it was the quinta itself which he
desired, the Quinta de Esteban with its hidden gold. That there was a
treasure Cueto had never doubted, and, once the place was his to do
with as he chose, he began his search.
Cueto was a tireless, thorough-going man, therefore he did not set
about his explorations in the haphazard manner of Dona Isabel.
Commencing at the lower edge of the grounds, he ripped them up with a
series of deep trenches and cross-cuts. It was a task that required the
labor of many men for several weeks, and when it was finished there was
scarcely a growing thing left upon the place. Only a few of the larger
trees remained. Cueto was disappointed at finding nothing, but he was
not discouraged. Next he tore down the old slave barracoons and the
outbuildings, after which he completely wrecked the residence itself.
He pulled it apart bit by bit, brick by brick. He even dug up its
foundations, but without the reward of so much as a single peseta.
Finally, when the villa was but a heap of rubbish and the grounds a
scar upon the slope of La Cumbre, he desisted, baffled, incredulous,
while all Matanzas laughed at him. Having sacrificed his choicest
residence, he retired in chagrin to the plantation of La Joya.
But Cueto was now a man with a grievance. He burned with rage, and his
contempt for the boy and girl he had wronged soured into hatred. Such
time as he did not spend in racking his brain to explain the
disappearance of the dead Esteban's riches, he devoted to cursing the
living Esteban and his sister, who, it seemed to him, were somehow to
blame for his wrecked hopes.
In time he began to realize also that so long as they lived they would
jeopardize his tenure of their property. Public feeling, at present,
was high; there was intense bitterness against all rebels; but the war
would end some day. What then? Cueto asked himself. Sympathy was ever
on the side of the weak and oppressed. There would come a day of
reckoning.
As if to swell his discomfiture and strengthen his fears, out from the
hills at the head of the Yumuri issued rumors of a little band of
guerrilleros, under the leadership of a beardless boy--a band of blacks
who were making the upper valley unsafe for Spanish scouting parties.
Cursing the name of Varona, Pancho Cueto armed himself. He did not
venture far alone, and, like Dona Isabel before him, he began to have
bad dreams at night.
One day a field of Cueto's cane was burned, and his laborers reported
seeing Esteban and some negroes riding into the wood. The overseer took
horse within the hour and rode pell-mell to Matanzas. In the city at
this time was a certain Colonel Cobo, in command of Spanish Volunteers,
those execrable convict troops from the Isle of Pines whose atrocities
had already marked them as wolves rather than men, and to him Pancho
went with his story.
"Ah yes! That Varona boy. I've heard of him," Cobo remarked, when his
caller had finished his account. "He has reason to hate you, I dare
say, for you robbed him." The Colonel smiled disagreeably. He was a
disagreeable fellow, so dark of skin as to lend credence to the gossip
regarding his parentage; a loud, strutting, domineering person, whose
record in Santa Clara Province was such that only the men discussed it.
Cueto murmured something to the effect that the law had placed him in
his position as trustee for the crown, and should therefore protect
him; but Colonel Cobo's respect for the law, it seemed, was slight. In
his view there was but one law in the land, the law of force.
"Why do you come to me?" he asked.
"That fellow is a desperado," Pancho declared. "He should be destroyed."
"Bah! The country is overrun with desperadoes of his kind, and worse.
Burning crops is nothing new. I'd make an end of him soon enough, but
nearly all of my men are in Cardenas. We have work enough to do."
"I'd make it worth while, if you could put an end to him," Pancho said,
hesitatingly. Then, recalling some of those stories about Colonel Cobo,
he added, "There are two of them, you know, a boy and a girl."
"Ah yes! I remember."
"I can direct you to the house of Asensio, where they live."
"Um-m!" Cobo was thoughtful. "A girl. How old is she?"
"Eighteen."
"Ugly as an alligator, I'll warrant."
"Ha! The most ravishing creature in all Matanzas. All the men were mad
over her." Cueto's eyes gleamed craftily, for he believed he had
measured Cobo's caliber. "She should have married old Castano and all
his money, but she was heart and soul in the revolution. She and the
boy were spying on us, you know, and sending the information to that
rebel, Lopez."
"Lopez! Spies, were they?"
"The worst kind. You'd scarcely believe it of a beautiful girl, with
her culture and refinement. I tell you it broke more than one heart. De
Castano, for instance, has never recovered. He sits all day in the
Casino and grieves for her. Such hair and eyes, such skin--as white as
milk--and flesh as pure as the petals of a flower. Well, you wouldn't
believe such charms existed."
Colonel Cobo, the guerrilla, licked his full, red lips and ran a
strong, square hand over his curly, short-cropped hair. "You say you
know where she--where they are living?"
"Ah, perfectly! It's less than a night's ride. There's no one except
the boy to reckon with."
"How much is he worth to you?" bluntly inquired the soldier, and Cueto
sat down to make the best terms possible.
"Do you think he received my letter?" Rosa asked of her brother one
evening as they sat on the board bench by Asensio's door. It was a
familiar question to Esteban; he had answered it many times.
"Oh yes!" he declared. "Lopez's messenger got through to Key West."
"Then why doesn't he come?"
"But, my dear, you must be patient. Think of his difficulties."
The girl sighed. "I do. I think of nothing else. Sometimes I feel that
he is here--I seem to feel his presence--then again the most terrible
doubts assail me. You know there was another woman. Perhaps."
"What an idea!" Esteban exclaimed. "As if he could think of any one
after knowing you. Did he not assure you that he was going to New York
for the sole purpose of breaking off that affair? Well, then!" This
subject always distressed young Varona; therefore he changed it. "Come!
You haven't heard of my good fortune. I captured another fine snake
to-day, a big, sleepy fellow. Believe me, he'll wake up when I set fire
to his tail. He'll go like the wind, and with every foot he goes away
will go more of Pancho Cueto's profits."
"You intend to burn more of his fields?" absently inquired the girl.