stone. One little fish, no longer than your finger. Just one?"
"Not so much as a fin!" cried the man. "Can I feed all the rebels in
Matanzas?"
"One little fish," Jacket wheedled, "for the sake of Miguelito, who is
bravely fighting in the manigua, to the shame of his miserly old
father, fattening on the groans of good patriots like me! Must I remind
you again that Miguelito was my brother? That I have robbed my own
belly in order to give him food?"
"Liar!"
"It is true."
"You never saw him."
"Miguel Morin? With a scar on his neck? The bravest boy in all the
Orient? Ask him about Narciso Villar. Come, give me my fish! Or must I
lie down and die before your very eyes to prove my hunger?"
"What a nuisance!" grumbled the marketman. He reached into a basket and
flung a mackerel upon the table. "There! I saved it for you, and sent
the good women of Matanzas away empty-handed. But it is the very last.
Annoy me again and I shall open you with my knife and put salt on you."
"Ah! You ARE my good captain!" Jacket cried in triumph, possessing
himself of the prize. "Where would I have been but for you?" Turning to
O'Reilly, who had looked on from a distance at this artificial quarrel,
he said, "Captain Morin, this is that brother Juan of whom I have told
you."
Morin smiled at Johnnie and extended his dirty palm. "The little fellow
can speak the truth when he wishes, it seems. I began to doubt that he
had a brother. What a boy, eh?" Leaning closer, he whispered, hoarsely:
"It is cheaper to give him a fish than to have him steal a whole
basketful. But he is a great liar. Even yet I'm not sure that he knows
my Miguelito."
"You have a son with the Insurrectos?"
"Yes." The fisherman cast a furtive glance over his shoulder. "He is a
traitor of the worst sort, and I don't approve of him, but he's a brave
boy and he loves fighting. Sometimes I get hungry to see him."
"Why don't you go and fight by his side?" Jacket demanded.
"God forbid!" Morin flung up his hands. "I'm a loyal subject."
"Well, we are going back to fight. We are going to escape and join
Gomez once more!" Jacket made the announcement calmly.
"'S-SH! What talk!" Morin was in a nervous panic lest they be
overheard. "As if anybody could escape from Matanzas! What made you
come here if you are so eager to fight?"
"I'll tell you." O'Reilly assumed direction of the conversation. "There
are three of us brothers, we two and Esteban, a pretty little fellow.
He was captured by Cobo's men and driven in, and we came to find him."
"You came HERE--here to Matanzas?" Old Morin was incredulous. He
muttered an oath. "That was a very nice thing to do. And did you find
him?"
"Oh yes! That was easy enough, for the lad is deformed."
"Tse! Tse! What a pity!"
"But he is sick--dying--"
"Of course. They're all dying--the poor people! It is terrible."
"We--" O'Reilly faltered slightly, so much hung upon the manner in
which Morin would take what he was about to say. "We want to get him
out of here--we MUST do so, or we'll lose him."
Sensing some hidden significance, some obscure purpose behind this
confession, the Spaniard looked sharply at the speaker. His leathery
countenance darkened.
"Why are you telling me this?" he inquired. "What makes you think I
won't betray you?"
"Something tells me you won't. You have a good heart, and you have kept
Narciso from starving, for the sake of your own boy."
"Well?"
"Will you help us?"
"_I_? In Heaven's name, how?"
"By taking us away in your charcoal-schooner."
"You're mad!" Morin cast another apprehensive look over his shoulder.
"I'm a poor man. All I have is my two boats, the vivero, which brings
fish, and the volandra, which sails with charcoal. Do you think I'd
forfeit them and my life for strangers?"
"There wouldn't be much risk."
"Indeed? Perhaps I know something about that."
O'Reilly leaned closer. "You say you're a poor man, I will pay you
well."
Morin eyed the ragged speaker scornfully; it was plain that he put no
faith in such a promise, and so O'Reilly took a piece of gold from his
pocket, at sight of which the fisherman started.
"What kind of pacificos are you?" Morin queried. His mouth had fallen
open, his eyes protruded.
"I, too, am a poor man, but I'm willing to buy freedom for my little
brothers and myself."
"How many coins like that have you?"
"Um--m--more than one; enough to pay you for several cargoes of coal."
"And I have given you fish to eat!" Morin rolled his eyes at Jacket. He
pondered the marvel of what he had seen, he muttered something to
himself.
"For the sake of Miguelito," Jacket urged. "CARAMBA! What a
hard-hearted father begot that boy!"
"Hush!" The fisherman was scowling. To O'Reilly he said, "You do wrong
to tempt a poor man."
"My brother Esteban is sick. He is a frail little lad with a crooked
back. God will reward you."
"Perhaps! But how much will YOU pay?"
"Ten Spanish sovereigns like this--all that I have."
"No! It is not enough."
O'Reilly took Jacket's hand and turned away. "I'm sorry," said he. "I
wish I might offer you more." He had taken several steps before Morin
hailed him.
"Come back to-morrow," the fisherman cried, crossly. "We will try to
talk like sensible people."
The brothers Villar were back at Morin's fish-stand on the following
afternoon and they returned daily thereafter until they at last
prevailed over the Spaniard's fears and won his promise of assistance.
That much accomplished, they made several cautious purchases, a coat
here, a shirt there, a pair of trousers in another place, until they
had assembled a complete boy's outfit of clothing.
At first Rosa refused absolutely to desert her two faithful negro
friends, and O'Reilly won her consent to consider his plan of escape
only after he had put the matter squarely up to Asensio and his wife
and after both had refused to enter into it. Asensio declared that he
was too sick to be moved, and asserted that he would infinitely prefer
to remain where he was, provided he was supplied with sufficient money
to cover his needs. Evangelina agreed with him.
Then, and not until then, did Rosa begin her preparations. First she
made Evangelina cut her hair, a sacrilege that wrung sighs and tears
and loud lamentations from the black woman, after which she altered the
suit of boy's clothing to fit her figure, or rather to conceal it.
When at last she put it on for O'Reilly's approval she was very shy,
very self-conscious, and so altogether unboylike that he shook his head
positively.
"My dear, you'll never do," he told her. "You are altogether too
pretty."
"But wait until I put that hideous hump upon my back and stain my face,
then you will see how ugly I can look."
"Perhaps," he said, doubtfully. A moment, then his frown lightened.
"You give me a thought," said he. "You shall wear the jewels."
"Wear them? How?"
"On your back, in that very hump. It will be the safest possible way to
conceal them."
Rosa clapped her hands in delight. "Why, of course! It is the very
thing. Wait until I show you."
Profiting by her first moment alone--Evangelina and her husband being
still in ignorance of the contents of the treasure-box--Rosa made a
bundle out of the jewels and trinkets and fastened it securely inside
her coat. After a few experiments she adjusted it to her liking, then
called O'Reilly once more. This time he was better satisfied; he was,
in truth, surprised at the effect of the disfigurement, and, after
putting Rosa through several rehearsals in masculine deportment, he
pronounced the disguise as nearly perfect as could be hoped for. An
application of Evangelina's stain to darken her face, a few tatters and
a liberal application of dirt to the suit, and he declared that Rosa
would pass anywhere as a boy.
There came a night when the three of them bade good-by to their black
companions and slipped away across the city to that section known as
Pueblo Nuevo, then followed the road along the water-front until they
found shelter within the shadows of a rickety structure which had once
served as a bath-house. The building stood partially upon piles and
under it they crept, knee-deep in the lapping waves. To their left was
the illumination of Matanzas; to their right, the lights of the Penas
Alias fort; ahead of them, empty and dark save for the riding-lights of
a few small coasting-vessels, lay the harbor.
The refugees waited a long time; they were beginning 'to fear that old
Morin's nerve had weakened at the eleventh hour, when they beheld a
skiff approaching the shore. It glided closer, entered the shade of the
bathhouse, then a voice cried:
"Pset! You are there?" It was Morin himself.
Hastily the three piled aboard. Morin bent to his oars and the skiff
shot out. "You were not observed?" he inquired.
"No."
Morin rowed in silence for a time, then confessed: "This business is
not to my liking. There is too much risk. Think of me putting my neck
in peril--"
"Ho!" Jacket chuckled. "It is just the sort of thing that I enjoy. If
Miguelito was captain of his father's boat we'd been in Cardenas by
daybreak."
"When do you sail?" O'Reilly asked.
"At dawn, God permitting. You will have to remain hidden and you
mustn't even breathe. I have told my men that you are members of my
wife's family--good Spaniards, but I doubt if they will believe it."
"Then you are to be my uncle?" Jacket inquired from his seat in the
bow. "Caramba! That's more than I can stand! To be considered a
Spaniard is bad enough, but to be known as the nephew of an old miser
who smells of fish! It is too much!"
Badinage of this sort did not displease the fisherman. "It is not often
they board us nowadays," he said, more hopefully, "but of course one
never can tell. Perhaps we will sail out under their very noses."
He brought the skiff alongside a battered old schooner and his
passengers clambered aboard. There was a tiny cabin aft and on it,
sheltered from the night dew by a loose fold of the mainsail, were two
sleeping men. The new-comers followed Morin down into the evil little
cabin, where he warned them in a stertorous whisper:
"Not a sound, mind you. If any one comes aboard, you must shift for
yourselves. Creep into the hold and hide. Of course, if we are
searched--" He muttered something, then groped his way out on deck, and
closed the hatch behind him.
It was inky dark in the cabin; the occupants dared not move about for
fear of waking the sailors overhead. Time passed slowly. After a while
Jacket yawned and sighed and grumbled under his breath. Finally he
stretched himself out upon a narrow board bench and fell asleep.
O'Reilly drew Rosa to him and she snuggled comfortably into his
embrace, resting her head upon his shoulder. It was their first real
moment alone.
Now that they had actually embarked upon this enterprise and the girl
had given herself entirely into his hands, now that an imminent peril
encompassed them both, Johnnie felt that Rosa belonged to him more
absolutely, more completely, than at any time heretofore, so he held
her close. He caressed her gently, he voiced those tender, intimate,
foolish thoughts which he had never dared express. This velvet
darkness, this utter isolation, seemed to unite them; to feel the
girl's heart beating against his own and her breath warm upon his cheek
was intensely thrilling. An exquisite ardor inflamed him, and Rosa
responded to it. They resisted briefly, prolonging the delights of this
moment, then her arms crept about him, her lips met his in absolute
surrender.
They began to whisper, cautiously, so as not to disturb the sleeping
boy; they became unconscious of the flight of time. Rosa lay relaxed
against her lover's shoulder and in halting murmurs, interrupted many
times by caresses, she told O'Reilly of her need for him, and her utter
happiness. It was the fullest hour of their lives.
Sometimes he thought she must be dozing, but he was never sure, for she
answered to his lightest touch and awoke to the faintest pressure of
his lips. The night wore swiftly on, and it was not long enough for
either of them.
With daylight, Morin routed out his men. There was a sleepy muttering,
the patter of bare feet upon the deck above, then the creak of blocks
as the sails were raised. From forward came the sound of some one
splitting wood to kindle the charcoal fire for breakfast. Other
sailing-craft seemed to be getting under way, and a fishing-boat,
loaded with the night's catch, came to anchor alongside.
The three brothers Villar felt the schooner heel slightly and knew that
she was stealing toward the Spanish gunboat which was supposed to be on
guard against precisely such undertakings as this. A few moments, then
there came a hail which brought their hearts into their throats. Morin
himself answered the call.
"Good morning, countryman! Have you caught any of those accursed
filibusters since I saw you last? So? Cayo Romano, eh? Well, they come
in the night and they go in the night. If I were the pilot of your ship
I'd guarantee to put you where they'd fall into your arms, for I know
these waters. What have I aboard?" Morin laughed loudly. "You know very
well--cannon and shot for the rebels, of course. Will you look? ... No?
... Then a cup of coffee perhaps?"
O'Reilly peeped through a dirt-stained cabin window and saw that the
volandra was slipping past the stern of the ironclad, so he withdrew
his head quickly.
In spite of his hospitable invitation, Captain Morin made no move to
come about, but instead held his schooner on its course, meanwhile
exchanging shouts with the unseen speaker. It seemed incredible that
Spanish discipline could be so lax, that the schooner would be allowed
to depart, even for a coastwise run, without some formalities of
clearance; but so it seemed. Evidently the Spaniards had tired of
examining these small craft. It was typical of their carelessness.
Of course this was but one danger past and there were many more ahead,
for Morin's schooner was liable to be stopped by any of the numerous
patrol-boats on duty to the eastward. Nevertheless, when an anxious
hour had gone by and she was well out toward the harbor mouth, the
refugees told one another they were safe.
Morin shoved back the companionway hatch and thrust a grinning face
into view. "Ho, there! my lazy little cousins!" he cried. "Wake up, for
I smell Pancho's coffee boiling."
XXVIII
THREE TRAVELERS COME HOME
Esteban Varona made slow progress toward recovery. In the weeks
following O'Reilly's departure from Cubitas his gain was steady, but
beyond a certain point he seemed unable to go. Then he began to lose
strength. Norine was the first to realize the truth, but it was some
time before she would acknowledge it, even to herself. At last,
however, she had to face the fact that Esteban's months of prison fare,
the abuse, the neglect he had suffered in Spanish hands, had left him
little more than a living corpse. It seemed as if fever had burned him
out, or else some dregs of disease still lingered in his system and had
all but quenched that elusive spark which for want of a better name we
call vitality.
Esteban, too, awoke to the fact that he was losing ground, and his
dismay was keen, for a wonderful thing had come into his life and he
spent much of his time in delicious contemplative day dreams concerning
it, waiting for the hour when he would dare translate those dreams into
realities. It seemed to him that he had always loved Norine; certainly
she had enshrined herself in his heart long before his mind had
regained its clarity, for he had come out of his delirious wanderings
with his love full grown. There had been no conscious beginning to it;
he had emerged from darkness into dazzling glory, all in an instant.
Not until he found himself slipping backward did he attempt to set a
guard upon himself, for up to that hour he had never questioned his
right to love. He found his new task heavy, almost too much for him to
bear. That he attempted it spoke well for the fellow's strength of
character.
The time came finally when he could no longer permit the girl to
deceive herself or him with her brave assumption of cheerfulness.
Norine had just told him that he was doing famously, but he smiled and
shook his weary head.
"Let's be honest," he said. "You know and I know that I can't get well."
Norine was engaged in straightening up the interior of the bark hut in
which her patient was installed; she ceased her labors to inquire with
lifted brows:
"Tut! Tut! Pray what do you mean by that?"
"There's something desperately wrong with me and I realized it long
ago. So did you, but your good heart wouldn't let you--"
Norine crossed quickly to the hammock and laid her cool hand upon the
sick man's forehead.
"You mustn't be discouraged," she told him, earnestly. "Remember this
is a trying climate and we have nothing to do with. Even the food is
wretched."
Esteban's smile became wistful. "That isn't why my fever lasts. If
there were any life, any health left in me you would rekindle it. No,
there's something desperately wrong, and--we're wasting time."
"You simply MUSTN'T talk like this," she cried. Then at the look in his
eyes she faltered for the briefest instant. "You'll--undo all that
we've done. Oh, if I had you where I could take proper care of you! If
we were anywhere but here you'd see."
"I--believe you. But unfortunately we are not elsewhere."
"I'm going to take you away," she exclaimed, forcefully.
Esteban stroked her hand softly. "You can't do that, Miss Evans. You
have been wonderful to me and I can't begin to express my gratitude--"
Norine stirred, but he retained his grasp of her fingers, gaining
courage from the contact to proceed. "I have been trying for a long
time to tell you something. Will you listen?"
Norine possessed a dominant personality; she had a knack of tactfully
controlling and directing situations, but of a sudden she experienced a
panic-stricken nutter and she lost her air of easy confidence.
"Not now," she exclaimed, with a visible lessening of color. "Don't
bother to tell me now."
"I've waited too long; I must speak."
Norine was amazed at her own confusion, which was nothing less than
girlish; she had actually gone to pieces at threat of something she had
long expected to hear.
"I know how tired of this work you have become," the man was saying. "I
know you're eager to get back to your own work and your own life."
"Well?"
"You have stayed on here just to nurse me. Isn't that true?"
She nodded somewhat doubtfully.
"Now then, you must stop thinking about me and--make your arrangements
to go home."
Norine eyed the speaker queerly. "Is THAT what you have been trying so
long to tell me?" she inquired.
"Yes."
"Is that--all?"
There was a moment of silence. "Yes. You see, I know how tired you are
of this misery, this poverty, this hopeless struggle. You're not a
Cuban and our cause isn't yours. Expeditions come from the United
States every now and then and the Government will see that you are put
safely aboard the first ship that returns. I'll manage to get well
somehow."
Norine's color had returned. She stood over the hammock, looking down
mistily. "Don't you need me, want me any more?" she inquired.
Esteban turned his tired eyes away, fearing to betray in them his utter
wretchedness. "You have done all there is to do. I want you to go back
into your own world and forget--"
A sudden impulse seized the girl. She stopped and gathered the sick man
into her young, strong arms. "Don't be silly," she cried. "My world is
your world, Esteban dear. I'll never, never leave you."
"Miss Evans! NORINE!" Varona tried feebly to free himself. "You
mustn't--"
Norine was laughing through her tears. "If you won't speak, I suppose I
must, but it is very embarrassing. Don't you suppose I know exactly how
much you love me? Why, you've told me a thousand times--"
"Please! PLEASE!" he cried in a shaking voice. "This is wrong. I won't
let you--you, a girl with everything--"
"Hush!" She drew him closer. "You're going to tell me that you have
nothing, can offer me nothing. You're going to do the generous, noble
thing. Well! I hate generous people. I'm selfish, utterly selfish and
spoiled, and I don't propose to be robbed of anything I want, least of
all my happiness. You do love me, don't you?"
Esteban's cry was eloquent; he clasped his arms about her and she held
him fiercely to her breast.
"Well, then, why don't you tell me so? I--I can't keep on proposing. It
isn't ladylike."
"We're quite mad, quite insane," he told her after a while. "This only
makes it harder to give you up."
"You're not going to give me up and you're not going to die. I sha'n't
let you. Think what you have to live for."
"I--did wrong to surrender."
"It was I who surrendered. Come! Must I say it all? Aren't you going to
ask me--"
"What?"
"Why, to marry you, of course."
Esteban gasped; he looked deeply into Norine's eyes, then he closed his
own. He shook his head. "Not that," he whispered. "Oh, not that!"
"We're going to be married, and I'm going to take you out of this
miserable place."
"What happiness!" he murmured. "If I were well--But I won't let you
marry a dying man."
Norine rose, her face aglow with new strength, new determination. She
dried her eyes and readjusted her hair with deft, unconscious touch,
smiling down, meanwhile, at the man. "I brought you back when you were
all but gone. I saved you after the others had given you up, and now
you are mine to do with as I please. You belong to me and I sha'n't
consult you--" She turned, for a figure had darkened the door; it was
one of her English-speaking convalescents who was acting as a sort of
orderly.
"Senorita," the man said, with a flash of white teeth, "we have another
sick man, and you'd never guess who. It is that American, El Demonio--"
"Mr. Branch?"
"Si! The very same. He has just come from the front."
"Is he sick or wounded?" Esteban inquired.
"Shot, by a Spanish bullet. He asked at once for our senorita."
"Of course. I'll come in an instant." When the messenger had gone
Norine bent and pressed her lips to Esteban's. "Remember, you're mine
to do with as I please," she said; then she fled down the grassy street.
Branch was waiting at Norine's quarters, a soiled figure of dejection.
His left arm lay in a sling across his breast. He looked up at her
approach, but she scarcely recognized him, so greatly changed was he.
Leslie had filled out. There was a healthy color beneath his deep tan,
his flesh was firm, his eyes clear and bright.
"Hello, Norine!" he cried. "Well, they got me."
Norine paused in astonishment. "'Way, LESLIE! I was so frightened!
But--you can't be badly hurt."
"Bad enough so that Lopez sent me in. A fellow gets flyblown if he
stays in the field, so I beat it."
"Has your arm been dressed?"
"No. I wouldn't let these rough-and-tumble doctors touch it. They'd
amputate at the shoulder for a hang-nail. I don't trust 'em."
"Then I'll look at it."
But Leslie shrugged. "Oh, it's feeling fine, right now! I'd rather
leave it alone. I just wanted to see you--"
"You mustn't neglect it; there's danger of--"
"Gee! You're looking great," he interrupted. "It's better than a
banquet just to look at you."
"And YOU!" Norine scanned the invalid appraisingly. "Why, you're
another man!"
"Sure! Listen to this." He thumped his chest. "Best pair of bellows in
Cuba. The open air did it."
"What a pity you were hurt just at such a time. But you would take
insane risks. Now then, let's have a look at your wound." She pushed
him, protesting, into her cabin.
"It doesn't hurt, really," he declared. "It's only a scratch."
"Of course you'd say so. Sit down."
"Please don't bother. If you don't mind--"
"But I do mind. If you won't trust me I'll run for a doctor."
"I tell you I can't stand 'em. They'll probe around and give a fellow
gangrene."
"Then behave yourself." Norine forced the patient into a chair and
withdrew his arm from the sling. Then, despite his weak resistance, she
deftly removed the bandage. From his expression she felt sure that she
must be hurting him, but when the injury was exposed she looked up in
wonderment.
"Leslie!" she exclaimed. "What in the world--"
"Well! You insisted on seeing it," he grumbled. "I told you it wasn't
much." He tried to meet her eyes, but failed.
There was a moment's pause, then Norine inquired, curiously: "What is
the trouble? You'd better 'fess up."