were lush with grass, but no herds grazed upon them; villages were
deserted and guano huts were falling into decay, charred fields growing
up to weeds and the ruins of vast centrales showing where the
Insurrectos had been at work. This was the sugar country, the heart of
Cuba, whence Spain had long drawn her life blood, and from the first it
had been the policy of the rebel leaders to destroy the large estates,
leaving undamaged only the holdings of those little farmers whose
loyalty to the cause of freedom was unquestioned.
Food became a problem immediately after the travelers had crossed the
trocha. Such apprehensive families as still lurked in the woods were
liberal enough--Antonio, by the way, knew all of them--but they had
little to give and, in consequence, O'Reilly's party learned the taste
of wild fruits, berries, and palmetto hearts. Once they managed to kill
a small pig, the sole survivor of some obscure country tragedy, but the
rest of the time their meat, when there was any, consisted of
iguanas--those big, repulsive lizards--and jutias, the Cuban field-rats.
Neither the lizards nor the rats were quite as bad as they looked or
sounded; the meat of the former was tender and white, while the latter,
although strong, was not unpalatable. To hungry men both were muy
sabrosa, as Jacket put it. This was not the boy's first experience with
such a diet; having campaigned before in the west, he was accustomed to
the taste of juita, and he told O'Reilly how his troop had once lived
so long upon these rats that it became impossible to surprise a Spanish
enemy, except by approaching up the wind, as a hunter stalks his game.
Jacket gravely assured his friend that the Spaniards could smell him
and his brother patriots from a distance of five kilometers--a
statement, by the way, which the American by this time was ready to
believe.
Fortunately there was no shortage of food for the horses, and so,
despite the necessity of numerous detours, the party made good time.
They crossed into Matanzas, pushed on over rolling hills, through
sweeping savannas, past empty clearings and deserted villages, to their
journey's end. A fortunate encounter with a rebel partida from General
Betancourt's army enabled them to reach headquarters without loss of
time, and one afternoon, worn, ragged and hungry, they dismounted in
front of that gallant officer's hut.
General Betancourt read the letter which O'Reilly handed him, then
looked up with a smile.
"So! You are one of Gomez's Americans, eh? Well, I would never have
known it, to look at you; the sun and the wind have made you into a
very good Cuban. And your clothes--One might almost mistake you for a
Cuban cabinet officer."
O'Reilly joined in the laughter evoked by this remark. He was quite as
tattered as the poorest of Betancourt's common soldiers; his shoes were
broken and disreputable; his cotton trousers, snagged by barbed wire
and brambles, and soiled by days in the saddle and nights in the grass,
were in desperate need of attention. His beard had grown, too, and his
skin, where it was exposed, was burnt to a mahogany brown. Certainly
there was nothing about his appearance to bespeak his nationality.
The general continued: "I am directed in this letter to help you in
some enterprise. Command me, sir."
As briefly as possible Johnnie made known the object of his journey.
The officer nodded his comprehension, but as he did so a puzzled
expression crossed his face.
"Yes, I reported that Miss Varona had gone into the city--I took some
pains to find out. Do you have reason to doubt--"
"Not the least, sir."
"Then--why have you come all this way?"
"I came to find her and to fetch her to her brother."
"But--you don't understand. She is actually inside the lines, in
Matanzas--a prisoner."
"Exactly. I intend to go into Matanzas and bring her out."
General Betancourt drew back, astonished. "My dear man!" he exclaimed.
"Are you mad?"
O'Reilly smiled faintly. "Quite probably. All lovers are mildly mad, I
believe."
"Ah! Lovers! I begin to see. But--how do you mean to go about
this--this--impossible undertaking?"
"You told me just now that I could pass for a Cuban. Well, I am going
to put it to the test. If I once get into the city I shall manage
somehow to get out again, and bring her with me."
"Um-m!" The general appraised O'Reilly speculatively. "No doubt you can
get in--it is not so difficult to enter, I believe, and especially to
one who speaks the language like a native. But the return--I fear you
will find that another matter. Matanzas is a place of pestilence,
hunger, despair. No one goes there from choice any more, and no one
ever comes out."
"So I should imagine." The speaker's careless tone added to General
Betancourt's astonishment. "Bless me!" he exclaimed. "What an
extraordinary young man! Is it possible that you do not comprehend the
terrible conditions?" A sudden thought struck him and he inquired,
quickly: "Tell me, you are not by any chance that hero they call El
Demonio? I have heard that he is indeed a demon. No? Very well! You say
you wish to visit Matanzas, and I am instructed to help you. How can I
do so?"
O'Reilly hesitated an instant. "For one thing, I need money. I--I
haven't a single peseta."
"You are welcome to the few dollars I possess."
Johnnie expressed his gratitude for this ready assistance. "One thing
more," said he. "Will you give my boy, Jacket, a new pair of trousers
and send him back to the Orient at the first opportunity?"
"Of course. It is done." The general laid a friendly hand upon
O'Reilly's shoulder, saying, gravely: "It would relieve me intensely to
send you back with him, for I have fears for the success of your
venture. Matanzas is a hell; it has swallowed up thousands of our good
countrymen; thousands have died there. I'm afraid you do not realize
what risks you are taking."
O'Reilly did not allow this well-meant warning to influence him, nor
did he listen to the admonitions of those other Cubans who tried to
argue him out of his purpose, once it became generally known. On the
contrary, he proceeded with his preparations and spent that afternoon
in satisfying himself that Rosa had indeed left the Pan de Matanzas
before Cobo's raid.
Among Betancourt's troops was a man who had been living in the hills at
the time Asensio and his family had abandoned their struggle for
existence, and to him O'Reilly went. This fellow, it seemed, had
remained with his family in the mountains some time after Asensio's
departure. It was from him that O'Reilly heard his first authentic
report of the atrocities perpetrated by Cobo's Volunteers. This man had
lost his wife, his little son, and all the scanty belongings he
possessed. With shaking hands upstretched to heaven, the fellow cursed
the author of his misfortunes.
"I live for one thing!" he cried, shrilly. "To meet that monster, and
to butcher him, as he butchers women and children."
O'Reilly purposely left his most unpleasant task to the last. When his
arrangements had been completed and he had acquainted himself as far as
possible with the hazards he was likely to encounter, he took Jacket
aside and broke the news to him that on the following morning they must
part. As he had expected, the boy refused to listen to him. O'Reilly
remained firm and Jacket adopted those tactics which had proved so
potent with General Gomez. He began to weep copiously. He worked
himself up to a hysterical crescendo which threatened to arouse the
entire encampment. But O'Reilly was unmoved.
"Be quiet," he told the boy. "I won't let you go with me, and that ends
it."
"You dassent leave me," sobbed the youngster. "I got no friend but you."
"It will be hard enough for one man to slip through; two would be sure
to fail."
"Those Spaniards will skill you!" Jacket wailed.
"So much the more reason for you to stay here."
At this the boy uttered a louder cry. He stamped his bare feet in a
frenzy of disappointment. "You dassent leave me--you dassent!"
"Listen, people are starving in Matanzas; they are sick; they are dying
in the streets."
"I don't eat much."
When Johnnie shook his head stubbornly Jacket launched himself into a
torrent of profanity the violence of which dried his tears. His
vocabulary was surprising. He reviled the Spaniards, O'Reilly, himself,
everybody and everything; he leveled anathemas at that woman who had
come between him and his beloved benefactor. The latter listened
good-naturedly.
"You're a tough kid," he laughed, when Jacket's first rage had worn
itself out. "I like you, and I'd take you if I could. But this isn't an
enterprise for a boy, and it won't get you anything to keep up this
racket."
Jacket next tried the power of argument. He attempted to prove that in
a hazardous undertaking of this sort his assistance would be
invaluable. He was, so he declared, the one person in all Cuba in every
respect qualified to share O'Reilly's perils. To begin with, he was not
afraid of Spaniards, or anything else, for that matter--he dismissed
the subject of personal courage with a contemptuous shrug. As for
cunning, sagacity, prudence, resource, all-around worth, he was,
without doubt, unequaled in any country. He was a veritable Spartan,
too, when it came to hardship--privation and suffering were almost to
his liking. He was discreet--discretion was something he had inherited;
he was a diplomat--diplomacy being one of his most unique
accomplishments. As for this talk about hunger, O'Reilly need not
concern himself in the least on that score, for Jacket was a small
eater and could grow fat on a diet of dead leaves. Disease? Bah! It
made him laugh. His experience with sickness was wider than most
fisicos, and he was a better nurse than Miss Evans would ever be.
Jacket did not wish to appear in the least boastful. On the contrary,
he was actually too modest, as his friends could attest, but truth
compelled him to admit that he was just the man for O'Reilly. He found
it impossible to recommend himself too highly; to save his soul, he
could think of no qualification in which he was lacking and could see
no reason why his benefactor would not greatly profit by the free use
of his amazing talents. The enterprise was difficult; it would
certainly fail without him.
Johnnie remained carefully attentive during this adjuration. He felt no
desire even to smile, for the boy's earnestness was touching and it
caused the elder man's throat to tighten uncomfortably. Johnnie had not
realized before how fond he had become of this quaint youngster. And
so, when the little fellow paused hopefully, O'Reilly put an arm around
him.
"I'm sure you are everything you say you are, Jacket, and more, too,
but you can't go!"
With that Jacket flung off the embrace and, stalking away, seated
himself. He took a half-smoked cigar from the pocket of his shirt and
lit it, scowling the while at his friend. More than once during the
evening O'Reilly detected his sullen, angry eyes upon him.
General Betancourt and several members of his staff were up early the
following morning to bid their visitor good-by. In spite of their
efforts to make the parting cheerful it was plain that they had little
hope of ever again seeing this foolhardy American.
Johnnie's spirits were not in the least affected by this ill-concealed
pessimism, for, as he told himself, he had money in his pockets and
Matanzas was not many miles away. But when he came to part from Jacket
he experienced a genuine disappointment. The boy, strangely enough, was
almost indifferent to his leaving; he merely extended a limp and dirty
hand, and replied to O'Reilly's parting words with a careless "Adios!"
In hurt surprise the former inquired, "Don't we part good friends?"
"Sure!" Jacket shrugged, then turned away.
Jacket was a likable youngster; his devotion was thoroughly unselfish;
it had not been easy to wound him. With keener regrets than he cared to
acknowledge O'Reilly set out upon his journey, following the guide whom
General Betancourt had provided.
It was a lovely morning, sufficiently warm to promise a hot midday; the
air was moist and fresh from a recent shower. This being the rainy
season, the trails were soft, and where the rich red Cuban soil was
exposed the travelers sank into it as into wet putty.
Crossing a rocky ridge, O'Reilly and his guide at last emerged upon an
open slope, knee-high in grass and grown up to bottle-palms, those
queer, distorted trees whose trunks are swollen into the likeness of
earthen water-jars. Scattered here and there over the meadows were the
dead or fallen trunks of another variety, the cabbage-palm, the green
heart of which had long formed a staple article of diet for the
Insurrectos. Spanish axes had been at work here and not a single tree
remained alive. The green floor of the valley farther down was dotted
with the other, the royal kind, that monarch of tropic vegetation which
lends to the Cuban landscape its peculiar and distinctive beauty.
"Yonder is the camino," said the countryman, pointing into the valley;
"it will lead you to the main road; and there"--he turned to the
northward--"is Matanzas. Go with God, and don't drink the well water,
which is polluted from the rains." With a smile and a wave of the hand
the man turned back and plunged into the jungle.
As O'Reilly descended the slope he realized keenly that he was alone
and in hostile territory. The hills and the woods from Pinar del Rio to
Oriente were Cuban, or, at most, they were disputed ground. But here in
the plains and valleys near the cities Spain was supreme. From this
moment on O'Reilly knew he must rely entirely upon himself. The success
of his enterprise--his very life--hinged upon his caution, his powers
of dissimulation, his ability to pass as a harmless, helpless pacifico.
It gave him an unaccustomed thrill, by no means pleasant.
The road, when he came to it, proved to be a deep gutter winding
between red-clay banks cut by the high wheels of clumsy cane-carts.
Inasmuch as no crops whatever had been moved over the road during the
past season, it was now little more than an oozy, sticky rut. Not a
roof, not a chimney, was in sight; the valley was deserted. Here was a
fertile farming country--and yet no living thing, no sound of bells, no
voices, no crowing cocks, no lowing cattle. It was depressing to
O'Reilly, and more, for there was something menacing and threatening
about it all.
Toward noon the breeze lessened and it became insufferably hot. A bank
of clouds in the east promised a cooling shower, so Johnnie sought the
nearest shade to wait for it, and took advantage of the delay to eat
his slender lunch. He was meditatively munching a sweet-potato when a
sound at his back caused him to leap to his feet in alarm. He whirled,
then uttered an exclamation of amazement. Seated not fifty feet away
was a bare-legged boy, similarly engaged in eating a sweet-potato. It
was Jacket. His brown cheeks were distended, his bright, inquisitive
eyes were fixed upon O'Reilly from beneath a defiant scowl.
"Jacket!" cried the man. "What the devil are you doing here?"
"You goin' to let me come along?" challenged the intruder.
"So! You followed me, after I said I didn't want you?" O'Reilly spoke
reproachfully; but reproaches had no effect upon the lad. With a mild
expletive, Jacket signified his contempt for such a weak form of
persuasion.
"See here now." O'Reilly stepped closer. "Let's be sensible about this."
But Jacket scrambled to his feet and retreated warily, stuffing the
uneaten portion of the sweet-potato into his mouth. It was plain that
he had no confidence in O'Reilly's intentions. Muttering something in a
muffled voice, he armed himself with a stout stick.
"Come here," commanded the American.
Jacket shook his head. He made a painful attempt to swallow, and when
his utterance became more distinct he consigned his idol to a warmer
place than Cuba.
"I'm a tough kid," he declared. "Don't get gay on me."
The two parleyed briefly; then, when satisfied that no violence was
intended him, the boy sat down to listen. But, as before, neither
argument nor appeal had the slightest effect upon him. He denied that
he had followed his benefactor; he declared that he was a free agent
and at liberty to go where he willed. If it so chanced that his fancy
took him to the city of Matanzas at the same time O'Reilly happened to
be traveling thither, the circumstance might be put down to the long
arm of coincidence. If his company were distasteful to the elder man,
O'Reilly was free to wait and follow later; it was a matter of complete
indifference to Jacket. He had business in Matanzas and he proposed to
attend to it. The boy lied gravely, unblushingly. Nevertheless, he kept
a watchful eye upon his hearer.
"Very well," O'Reilly told him, finally. "I give in."
Jacket's face instantly lit up. He radiated good humor; he hitched his
body closer.
"By----! I get my own way, don't I?" he laughed.
"Indeed you do." O'Reilly laid a hand fondly upon his loyal follower.
"And I don't mind telling you that I'm more than half glad of it. I--I
was getting lonesome. I didn't know how much I could miss you. But now
we must make some plans, we must have an understanding and decide who
we are. Let me see--your real name is Narciso--"
"Narciso Villar."
"Well, then, I shall be Juan Villar, your brother. Henceforth we shall
speak nothing but Spanish. Tell me now, what was our father's name,
where was our home, and what are we doing together?"
During the breathless interval before the shower the two sat with their
heads together, talking earnestly. As the wind came and the cooling
rain began to rattle on the leaves overhead they took up their bundles
and set out. The big drops drenched them quickly. Their thin garments
clung to them and water streamed down their bodies; overhead the sky
was black and rent by vivid streaks of fire, but they plodded onward
cheerfully.
Jacket was himself again; he bent his weight against the tempest and
lengthened his short strides to O'Reilly's. He tried to whistle, but
his teeth chattered and the wind interfered, so he hummed a song, to
drive the chill out of his bones and to hearten his benefactor. Now
that he was at last accepted as a full partner in this enterprise, it
became his duty not only to share its perils, but to lessen its
hardships and to yield diversion.
The rain was cold, the briers beside the overgrown path were sharp, and
they scratched the boy's bare legs cruelly; his stomach clamored for a
companion to that solitary sweet-potato, too, but in his breast glowed
ardor and pride. Jacket considered himself a fortunate person--a very
fortunate person, indeed. Had he not found a brother, and did not that
brother love him? There was no doubt about the latter, for O'Reilly's
eyes, when he looked down, were kind and smiling, his voice was
friendly and intimate. Here was a man to die for.
The downpour lasted but a short time, then the sun came out and dried
the men's clothes; on the whole, it had been refreshing. When evening
came the Villar brothers sought refuge in an old sugar-mill, or rather
in a part of it still standing. They were on the main calzada, now, the
paved road which links the two main cities of the island, and by the
following noon their destination was in sight.
O'Reilly felt a sudden excitement when Matanzas came into view. From
this distance the city looked quite as it did when he had left it,
except that the blue harbor was almost empty of shipping, while the
familiar range of hills that hid the Yumuri--that valley of delight so
closely linked in his thoughts with Rosa Varona--seemed to smile at him
like an old friend. For the thousandth time he asked himself if he had
come in time to find her, or if fate's maddening delays had proved his
own and the girl's undoing.
O'Reilly knew that although Matanzas was a prison and a pesthole, a
girl like Rosa would suffer therein perils infinitely worse than
imprisonment or disease. It was a thought he could not bear to dwell
upon.
Signs of life began to appear now, the travelers passed small
garden-patches and occasional cultivated fields; they encountered
loaded carts bound into the city, and once they hid themselves while a
column of mounted troops went by.
O'Reilly stopped to pass the time of day with a wrinkled cartman whose
dejected oxen were resting.
"Going into the city, are you?" the fellow inquired. "Starved out, I
suppose. Well, it's as pleasant to starve in one place as another."
Jacket helped himself to a stalk of cane from the load and began to
strip it with his teeth.
"Will the soldiers allow us to enter?" Johnnie inquired.
"Of course. Why not?" The old man laughed mirthlessly; then his voice
changed. "Go back," he said, "go back and die in the fields. Matanzas
stinks of rotting corpses. Go back where the air is clean." He swung
his long lash over the oxen, they leaned against the load, and the cart
creaked dismally on its way.
It is never difficult to enter a trap, and Matanzas was precisely that.
There were soldiers everywhere, but beyond an indifferent challenge at
the outer blockhouse, a perfunctory question or two, Narciso and Juan
Villar experienced no trouble whatever in passing the lines.
Discipline, never strict at best, was extremely lax at the brick
fortinas along the roads, and, since these two refugees were too poor
to warrant search, they were waved onward by the sentries. They obeyed
silently; in aimless bewilderment they shuffled along toward the heart
of the city. Almost before they realized it they had run the gauntlet
and had joined that army of misery, fifteen thousand strong. The hand
of Spain had closed over them.
XXIV
ROSA
"Look!" Jacket clutched at O'Reilly and pointed a shaking finger. "More
beggars! Cristo! And those little children!" The boy tried to laugh,
but his voice cracked nervously. "Are they children, or gourds with
legs under them?"
O'Reilly looked, then turned his eyes away. He and Jacket had reached
the heart of Matanzas and were facing the public square, the Plaza de
la Libertad it was called. O'Reilly knew the place well; every building
that flanked it was familiar to him, from the vast, rambling Governor's
Palace to the ornate Casino Espanol and the Grand Hotel, and time was
when he had been a welcome visitor at all of them. But things were
different now. Gone were the customary crowds of well-dressed, well-fed
citizens; gone the rows of carriages which at this hour of the day were
wont to circle the Plaza laden with the aristocracy of the city; gone
was that air of cheerfulness and substance which had lent distinction
to the place. Matanzas appeared poor and squalid, depressingly
wretched; its streets were foul and the Plaza de la Libertad--grim
mockery of a name--was crowded with a throng such as it had never held
in O'Reilly's time, a throng of people who were, without exception,
gaunt, listless, ragged. There was no afternoon parade of finery, no
laughter, no noise; the benches were full, but their occupants were
silent, too sick or too weak to move. Nor were there any romping
children. There were, to be sure, vast numbers of undersized figures in
the square, but one needed to look twice to realize that they were not
pygmies or wizened little old folks. It was not strange that Jacket had
compared them to gourds with legs, for all were naked, and most of them
had bodies swollen into the likeness of pods or calabashes. They looked
peculiarly grotesque with their spidery legs and thin faces.
O'Reilly passed a damp hand across his eyes. "God!" he breathed.
"She--she's one of these!"
He had not penetrated even thus far into the city without receiving a
hint of what conditions must be, for in the outlying streets he had
seen sights and smelled odors that had sickened him; but now that he
was face to face with the worst, now that he breathed the very breath
of misery, he could scarcely credit what he saw. A stench,
indescribably nauseating, assailed him and Jacket as they mingled with
the crowd, for as yet their nostrils were unused to poverty and filth.
It was the rancid odor that arises from unwashed, unhealthy bodies, and
it testified eloquently to the living-conditions of the prisoners.
Hollow eyes and hopeless faces followed the two new-comers as they
picked their way slowly along.