you probably know, there is a venturesome countryman of yours who
carries our despatches by that way. He devised the scheme, to keep us
in touch with our friends in New York, and he has done us great
service. He comes and goes in a small boat, but how or when nobody
knows. The Spanish patrols are on the lookout for him, and there's a
price on his head, so you won't find it easy or safe to cross. Beware
that you are not mistaken for him."
"Do you mean that we may go?" Branch eagerly inquired.
The general hesitated, whereupon O'Reilly spoke up: "For my part, I'll
agree to come back if you so desire."
Gomez shook his white head. "No! You came to find and to save your
fiancee, and you volunteered to serve with us while you were doing so.
We have no desire to keep any man against his will. Some one must
escort Miss Evans, who is our guest. Why not you two? She has every
confidence in you, and if she chooses to risk this enterprise rather
than wait until we can guarantee her an easier trip we shall not
restrain her. I shall see that you reach the coast safe and sound;
beyond that you must trust in God."
Branch was immensely relieved; he joined volubly in O'Reilly's thanks
and became careless of his arm, which no longer appeared to pain him.
Peace with honor, it seemed, was all that he desired.
"I was looking forward to an interesting ceremony this afternoon,"
Gomez went on. "Has your arrival changed the plans?"
"Oh no, sir!" O'Reilly said, quickly. "I'd like to make it doubly
interesting, if Miss Varona will consent to such short notice."
"Bravo! You have a way of doing the unexpected. Twin births, a double
wedding! Why not? The sight of a little happiness will be good for all
of us; we're apt to forget that life and the big world are going on as
usual. I don't think Miss Varona will have it in her heart to refuse
you anything."
The old soldier was right. Rosa did not gainsay her lover, and toward
sundown the city among the leaves witnessed an unaccustomed scene.
The women of the camp, delighted at an opportunity of serving Norine,
had transformed Esteban's poor quarters into a tiny bower of wild
blossoms and green leaves; they likewise gathered flowers for the two
brides-to-be, then joined with nimble fingers in adorning their
costumes. When the girls came down the street, hand in hand, they
received an ovation from men and women alike. Norine was pleased; she
smiled and blushed and ran the gantlet bravely enough. But Rosa, sadly
overwrought by the day's excitement, was upon the verge of a collapse.
Nevertheless she was happy; her eyes were shining, her face was
transfigured, her hand, when she took O'Reilly's, was cold and
tremulous, but it warmed and grew steady under his grasp.
Many people--all Cubitas, in fact--had assembled to witness the
romantic double wedding, but few actually succeeded, for Esteban's hut
was too small to accommodate more than the highest officials of the
Provisional Government, so the others were forced to wait outside in
the gathering dusk. And those Ministers, those secretaries of
departments, those generals and colonels, what a motley crowd they
formed! There was scarcely a whole garment among them. They were
sunburnt, wind-browned, earnest men, the old ones grayed and grizzled
from worry, the younger ones wasted from hardships in the field. But
out of their rags and poverty shone a stately courtesy and
consideration. They were gentlemen, men of culture and refinement, the
best and oldest blood of Cuba. Both Norine and Johnnie had learned
their gratitude, and the story of the Varona twins was typical of the
island, nowadays, so they unbent and there were warm congratulaitons,
well-turned Latin pleasantries, elaborate compliments upon the beauty
of the brides.
Then, afterward, there was a surprise--a genuine surprise--in the form
of a banquet at the big mess shelter, with an orchestra concealed
behind a screen of fresh-cut palm-leaves stuck into the soft earth.
This was the men's part of the celebration, the official compliment to
Cuba's guest. It was a poorly furnished banquet, with a service of tin
and granite ware and chipped china, and there was little to eat, but
the true spirit of festivity was present. The Lone Star emblem of the
new Republic was draped with the Stars and Stripes, and there were many
speeches.
Norine's protests at leaving Esteban went unheeded, and Leslie Branch
escorted her in place of the bridegroom, who lay blissfully dreaming in
his hammock. Her amazement passed all bounds when, from the hidden
recess behind the palm-leaves, came not the music of mandolins and
guitars, but the strains of a balanced orchestra under the leadership
of Cuba's most eminent bandmaster. Whence the players had come, where
they had found their instruments, was a mystery, but they played well,
divinely, so it seemed to the music-hungry diners. Such a banquet as
that was! Some one had contributed a demijohn of wine, and there was
coffee, too, at the last, made from the berries of some jungle plant.
The chef, once famous at the Inglaterra, was forced to appear and take
homage for this final triumph.
Rosa, very dainty in her borrowed nurse's uniform, was round-eyed,
timid; she evoked much admiration, but when she was addressed as Senora
O'Reilly she blushed to the roots of her hair and shrank close to her
husband's side. To feel herself secure, to see on all sides friendly
faces, to know that these fine men and women--there were numerous good
Cuban matrons present--were her own people and meant her well, was
almost unbelievable. She had so long been hidden, she had so long
feared every stranger's glance, it was not strange that she felt ill at
ease, and that the banquet was a grave ordeal for her.
Branch proved to be a happy choice as Esteban's proxy, for he relieved
Norine's anxiety and smothered her apprehensions. When called upon to
speak he made a hit by honestly expressing his relief at escaping the
further hazards of this war. Prompted by some freakish perversity, and
perhaps unduly stimulated by the wine he had drunk, he made open
confession of his amazing cowardice.
O'Reilly interpreted for him and well-nigh every sentence evoked
laughter. El Demonio's heroic reputation had preceded him, therefore
his unsmiling effort to ridicule himself struck the audience as a new
and excruciatingly funny phase of his eccentricity. Encountering this
blank wall of disbelief, Branch waxed more earnest, more convincing; in
melancholy detail he described his arrant timidity, his cringing fear
of pain, his abhorrence of blood and steel. His elongated face was
genuinely solemn, his voice trembled, his brow grew damp with
unpleasant, memories; he seemed bent upon clearing his conscience once
for all. But he succeeded only in convulsing his hearers. Women
giggled, men wiped tears from their eyes and declared he was a
consummate actor and the rarest, the most fantastic humorist they had
ever listened to. They swore that Cuba had lost, in him, a peerless
champion. When he had finished they cheered him loudly and the
orchestra broke into a rousing military march.
Leslie turned to voice his irritation and surprise to Norine, but she
had slipped away, so he glared at O'Reilly, wondering how the latter
had so artfully managed to mistranslate his remarks.
When Rosa and O'Reilly returned to Esteban's cabin they found Norine
ahead of them. She was kneeling beside the sick man's hammock, and
through the doorway came the low, intimate murmur of their voices. Rosa
drew her husband away, whispering, happily:
"He will get well. God and that wonderful girl won't let him die."
XXX
THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT
The journey to the coast was made by easy stages and Esteban stood it
fairly well. The excitement wore upon him, to be sure, and the jolting
of his litter was trying, but Norine was always at his side where he
could see her, and Rosa joined in the tender care of him. Guides,
horses, and a tent for the sick man had been supplied, and over these
O'Reilly exercised a jealous watchfulness, ably seconded by Branch. For
once, at least, the latter lent himself to useful ends and shirked no
duties. His wounded arm recovered miraculously and he exercised it
freely; he skirmished industriously for food and he enlivened the
journey by a rare display of good spirits.
Jacket, of course, went along. Upon the announcement of O'Reilly's
intended departure for the States he had promptly abandoned Cuba to her
fate. He foreswore her utterly and declared himself a loyal American
citizen. He made it plain once more, and for the last time, that where
O'Reilly went, there went he, for they were one and indivisible. It
dismayed him not at all to turn his feet to new pathways, his face
toward new adventures.
Relying upon the best information obtainable at Cubitas, O'Reilly had
counted upon securing a sailboat from a certain fisherman whose
sympathies were known to be loyal, but in this he was disappointed. The
party arrived at its destination, a tiny clearing on an unfrequented
part of the north shore, only to find it deserted and already grown to
weeds. The house was empty, the boats were gone--all but one old hulk,
too rotten to warrant moving, which lay high up on the sand, its planks
worm-eaten, its seams wide spread by the sun.
Having established Esteban in the hut, O'Reilly took counsel with his
Cubans, but gained little satisfaction from them. They knew of no other
fisherman in this vicinity; the nearest towns were in Spanish hands;
they advised a return to Cubitas at once. This O'Reilly would not
listen to. Sending them in one direction, he took Leslie and Jacket and
rode away in the other. The trio followed the beach for several miles
until they came to a vast mangrove swamp which turned them inland. This
they skirted until the jungle became impassable and they were in danger
of losing themselves; they returned at dusk, having encountered no
human being and having discovered neither roads nor houses.
The other expedition reported slightly better successes; it had located
a small plantation some distance to the east, the owner of which had
warned them against exploring farther, inasmuch as a strong Spanish
patrol, on the lookout for that American despatch-bearer from Nassau,
was operating in his neighborhood. It was these very troops, he
announced, who had driven the fisherman from his home; he was sure
there were no boats anywhere within reach.
O'Reilly was in a quandary. He gravely doubted Esteban's ability to
stand the rough return journey, and when he spoke to Norine of turning
back she was panic-stricken at the suggestion.
"No, no!" she cried, anxiously. "We MUST get him away. Oh, Johnnie,
every day we lose by waiting lessens his chances! His heart is set on
going through and it would--kill him to go back."
"Then I guess we'll have to go through," he smiled.
For the first time in their acquaintance Norine lost control of herself.
"We simply MUST find a boat. All he needs is proper care, proper food,
and medical attention. Here we can get nothing. Why, the disappointment
alone--" Her voice failed her, tears started to her eyes, and she began
to tremble wretchedly. "If he--If I--lose him I'll die, too," she
sobbed.
O'Reilly tried to comfort her and she bowed her head upon his shoulder.
"Promise that you won't go back," she implored him.
"Very well, if you'll consent to risk this miserable tub we found on
the beach--"
"I'll risk anything--a raft, even."
"It is large enough to carry us if we can manage to make it hold water,
but it won't be safe. The weather is good at this season and it
shouldn't take us long to run across to Andros if we have luck. If we
don't have luck--"
Norine dried her eyes. "What would you do if you were alone? Would you
dare try it?"
He hesitated, then confessed, "I think I would, but--"
"Is there an even chance of our getting across?"
"Perhaps. It all depends upon the weather."
"Can't we--build a boat?"
He shook his head. "Even if we had lumber and tools it would take too
long. Ten miles to the east there are Spaniards. We must do one thing
or the other quickly, before they learn we're here."
"Then let's go on. I'm sure Rosa will agree."
Rosa did agree. When her husband put the question fairly to her she
showed by the pallor of her cheeks and by the rekindling light of
terror in her eyes how desperately she feared remaining longer in this
land of hate and persecution. "Don't turn back," she cried. "I'm not
the girl I was. I've endured so much here that--I'm always in fear.
Anything would be better than going back."
When morning came O'Reilly made a closer examination of the abandoned
boat. The result was not encouraging, and when he told Leslie of his
intention to make use of it the latter stared at him in open amazement.
"Why, we'll all be drowned!" Branch declared.
"You can return to Cubitas if you wish."
"Yes, and fight some more! No, thank you! I've got a hunch that I'll be
killed by the very next gun I see."
"Then you'd better risk the sharks."
Jacket, who was conducting an independent examination of the craft,
made an encouraging report. "Ho! I'd go 'round the world in this boat,"
said he. "She's rotten, and you can stick your finger through her, but
fish have no fingers. When the water comes in we'll dip it out."
"Do you want to go with us?" Johnnie eyed the newspaper man curiously.
"I--Y--yes!" Branch gasped. "I'll go, but it's a shame to lose all of
Rosa's diamonds."
O'Reilly and one of the guides rode away to the farmhouse discovered on
the previous afternoon, and returned in a few hours with all the tools
they could find, together with a bucket of tar and a coil of galvanized
wire. Then work began.
The wire, cut into short pieces, served as nails and staples with which
to draw together the gaping seams. Old rags from the house and parts of
the men's clothing supplied calking, upon which the tar was smeared.
While one man shaped mast and oars, another cut Esteban's shelter tent
into a sail, and fitted it. A stiff, sun-dried cowhide was wet, then
stretched and nailed to the gunwales at the bow, forming a sort of
forward deck to shelter the sick man from the sun and rain. Jacket
climbed the near-by cocoa-palms and threw down a plentiful supply of
nuts for food and water on the voyage.
With so many hands the work went fast, and late that evening the crazy
craft was launched. It was necessary to handle her gingerly, and when
she took the water she leaked abominably. But during the night she
swelled and in the morning it was possible to bail her out.
O'Reilly had to acknowledge himself but poorly pleased with the boat.
Branch called her a coffin and declared it was suicide to venture to
sea in her, an opinion shared by the Cubans, but the girls were
enchanted. To them this fragile bark looked stout and worthy; they were
in a fever to be gone.
On the second afternoon the trade-wind died to a gentle zephyr, so the
cocoanuts and other food were quickly put aboard, a bed of bows was
rigged beneath the rawhide forecastle and Esteban was laid upon it.
Then adieux were said and a start was made.
From the point of leaving it was perhaps five miles across the sound to
the fringe of keys which in this neighborhood bordered the old Bahama
Channel with its unplumbed depths of blue water. Here it was calm, so
the run was soon made. The boat handled well enough, all things
considered; nevertheless, to O'Reilly, her navigator, it was an anxious
hour. Not only was he forced to keep a sharp lookout for blockading
gunboats, but he feared he was doing wrong in committing his precious
freight to the uncertainties of the Atlantic. Even had he been alone,
with a crew of able sailors under him, this voyage would have daunted
him, for it was without doubt the wildest adventure in which he had
ever participated. When he hinted at these fears and put the matter
before his companions for a final test, Branch refused to speak, but
Esteban and the girls were earnestly in favor of pushing on. Jacket, of
course, loudly seconded them.
At sunset they entered a pass and ran between low mangrove banks. The
tide was ebbing and it hurried them through and out into the open sea,
where they felt the lift of the mighty ocean swell. Over these slow
undulations the sailboat plowed, heading toward the empty northern
horizon, with the kindling Pole Star as a beacon. The sky was clear,
the sea was gently roughened by the night breeze, the constellations
grew bright and appeared to hang low.
When the coast-line of Cuba had become a blur astern Rosa crept back
and seated herself beside her husband.
"I breathe freely for the first time since that day when Don Mario came
to offer me marriage," she told him. "The past is beginning to seem
like a bad, bad dream and I feel a great hope, a great gladness. I am
reborn, O'Rail-ye."
"A few hours more and we can all breathe easy." He smiled down at her.
She laid her small palm over his fingers which grasped the
steering-oar, whereupon he cried with pretended sternness: "Avast
there! Don't distract the attention of the skipper or he'll sail his
boat in circles. Look out or he'll send you below."
Rosa persisted mutinously, so he punished her with a kiss planted
fairly upon her pouting lips, whereupon she nestled closer to him. "How
much I love you," she whispered. "But I never can tell you, for we are
never alone. Was there ever such a courtship, such a marriage, and such
a wedding journey as ours?"
"We're the owl and the pussy-cat who went to sea in a beautiful
pea-green boat, 'With plenty of honey and lots of money, wrapped up in
a ten-pound note.' Some day when we've settled down in our Harlem flat,
and I'm working hard, we'll look back on this and consider it romantic,
thrilling. Maybe we'll long for excitement."
"Not I," Rosa shivered. "To be safe, to have you all to myself where I
can spoil you, that will be excitement enough."
"We'll rent that little apartment I looked at, or one just like it."
"But, O'Rail-ye, we're rich."
"I--I'd forgotten that. Then let's pretend to be poor. Think how our
neighbors would talk about that pretty Mrs. O'Reilly on the fourth
floor, and her magnificent jewels. They'd swear I was a smuggler."
As the evening lengthened and the boat forged steadily ahead the two
sat murmuring happily. Forward, another bride and groom were similarly
engaged. Branch and Jacket took turns bailing.
It proved to be a long, long night, for the boat, though roomy, was
uncomfortable. O'Reilly steered as straight a course as he could
without compass, but toward morning he saw that the sky was growing
overcast and his apprehensions stirred anew. Daylight brought an
increased breeze which heeled the boat further. She made better speed,
but she likewise took more water through her seams and it became
necessary to lend Leslie and Jacket a hand with the bailing. The deep
channel was far behind now, and they were on the shallow Bahama Banks;
beneath them they could glimpse beds of sponges, patches of coral,
white bottom with occasional forests of brilliant-hued sea fans. The
horizon still remained vacant and the tip of Andros lay far to the
north.
Fortunately the haze was not thick enough to wholly obscure the sun and
so O'Reilly was enabled to hold his course. But he did not like the
look of things.
By ten o'clock the sea was tumbling and the worm-eaten hulk was
laboring. It became necessary to shorten sail. Soon the bottom of the
boat was awash and Esteban lay in a pool of brine. Even when the girls
helped to dip it out they could not lower its level. The wind freshened
steadily; all hands worked desperately, wet to the skin.
In time there came a spiteful drizzle which completely hid the sun and
left no indication of the course except the direction whence drove the
rain.
No one spoke now. Even Esteban lay silent, shivering miserably upon his
sodden bed. In obedience to O'Reilly's command Jacket flung overboard
all but a half-dozen of the remaining cocoanuts. Rosa finally
straightened her aching back and smiled at her husband.
"Are we going down?" she asked.
"Oh no! This is merely a squall," he told her, with an assumption of
confidence he was far from feeling.
Johnnie tried to reason himself into a more hopeful frame of mind. He
assured himself that he and his companions had survived too many perils
to become the prey of an idle breeze like this; he argued that no fate
could be so cruel as to cheat them when they were so close to safety.
But this manful effort brought him little comfort in the face of the
chilling rain and with the whitecaps curling higher.
Deliverance came suddenly, and from the least-expected quarter. Out of
the mist to starboard there materialized a shape, a schooner driving
ahead of the wind. The refugees descried her simultaneously and stood
ankle deep in the wash, waving their hats and their calabashes, and
shouting crazily until she saw them and fetched up.
Intense thanksgiving, a melting relief, robbed O'Reilly of half his
strength; his hands were shaking, his muscles weak; he could barely
bring his craft alongside. He saw black faces staring down, he heard
cries of amazement and surprised inquiries, then a heaving-line came
aboard and the leaky tub was drawn close.
There was a babble of voices, shouted questions, hysterical answers.
Rosa was weeping softly; Norine had lifted Esteban and now clutched him
tight, while her tears fell upon his face.
The schooner was a sponger bound for Nassau; its blackbird crew spoke
English and they willingly helped the strangers overside, laughing and
shouting in a child-like display of excitement. How firm, how grateful
was the feel of that stout deck! How safe the schooner's measured roll!
O'Reilly's knees gave way, he clutched with strained and aching fingers
at the rigging to support himself, leaving Branch and Jacket to tell
the surprising story of their presence here. Soon there was hot food
and coffee, dry beds and blankets for those who needed them.
Johnnie tucked his bride snugly into one of the hard berths, then
stooped and kissed her. Rosa's teeth were chattering, but she smiled
happily.
"God's hand directed us," she said. "One only needs to pray long enough
and strong enough and He will hear."
It was a month later. Quaint old Nassau lay dozing under an
afternoon sun. Its wide shell streets, its low houses, the beach
against which it crowded, were dazzling white, as if the town had been
washed clean, then spread out to bleach. Upon the horizon Jay tumbled,
foamy cloud masses, like froth blown thither from the scene of the
cleansing. A breeze caused the surface of the harbor to dance and
dimple merrily, the sound of laughter came from the water-front where
barefoot spongers and fishermen were busy with their boats and gear.
Robust negresses with deep bosoms and rolling hips balanced baskets and
trays upon their heads and stood gossiping with one another or
exchanging shouts with their men across the water. There was noise
here, but the town as a whole was somnolent, peaceful. It sprawled
beside the sea like a lazy man lost in day dreams and lulled by the
lapping surf and the hum of insects.
Up from the beach came O'Reilly and his youthful alter ego, Jacket.
They were clad in clean white clothes; a month of rest had done them
good. Jacket was no longer wizened; he was plump and sleek and as full
of mischief as a colt, while O'Reilly's leanness had disappeared and he
filled his garments as a man should. They had spent the day fishing on
the reefs and now bore home the choicest part of their catch.
They turned in through a picket gate and up a walk flanked by
flower-beds and outlined between rows of inverted glass bottles set
side by side, the Bahama idea of neatness and beauty. At the end of the
walk stood a cottage with wide porches hidden beneath jasmine and
honeysuckle and morning-glory vines.
O'Reilly's eyes were shining with anticipation; he yodeled loudly. But
there was no need for him to advertise his return, for at the first
click of the gate-latch a figure had started from the fragrant bower
and now came flying to meet him.
"Look, Rosa!" Jacket lifted the heavy string of fish. "We had
stupendous luck." But Rosa was in her husband's arms and neither she
nor O'Reilly had eyes for anything but each other.
"You were gone for ages," pouted the bride.
"You missed me, eh?"