Canalejos was no exception to the general rule that all Venezuelan
cities function upon a war basis. At the entrance of a _calle_,
just outside the city wall, stood a faded green sentry-box. As the
motor drove up, a sentry popped out of the box, with a briskness and
precision unusual in Venezuela. He stood chin up, heels together, quite
as if he were under some German martinet. With a snap he handed the
motorists the police register and jerked out, from somewhere down in
his thorax, military fashion:
"Hup ... your names ... point of departure ... destination ...
profession...."
It amused Strawbridge to see a South American performing such military
antics. It was like a child playing soldier. He was moved to mimic the
little fellow by grunting back in the same tones, "Hup ... Strawbridge
... Caracas ... Canalejos ... sell guns and ammunition...." Then he
wrote those answers in the book.
An anxious look flitted across the face of the sentry at this
jocularity. His stiff "eyes front" flickered an instant toward the
sentry-box. While the negro and the bull-fighter were filling in the
register, a peon came riding up on a black horse. He stopped just
behind the motor and with the immense patience of his kind awaited his
turn.
While his two companions were signing, Strawbridge yielded to that
impulse for horse-play which so often attacks Americans who are young
and full-blooded. He leaned out of the motor very solemnly, lifted
the cap of the sentry, turned the visor behind, and replaced it on
his head. The effect was faintly but undeniably comic. The little
soldier's face went beet-colored. At the same moment came a movement
inside the sentry-box and out of the door stepped a somewhat corpulent
man wearing the epaulettes, gold braid, and stars of a general. He
was the most dignified man and had the most penetrating eyes that
Strawbridge had ever seen in his life. He had that peculiar possessive
air about him which Strawbridge had felt when once, at a New York
banquet, he saw J. P. Morgan. By merely stepping out of the sentry-box
this man seemed to appropriate the _calle_, the motor and men, and
the llanos beyond the town. Strawbridge instantly knew that he was in
the presence of General Adriano Fombombo, and the gaucherie of having
turned around the little sentry's cap set up a sharp sinking feeling in
the drummer's chest. For this one stupid bit of foolery he might very
well forfeit his whole order for munitions.
Gumersindo leaped out of the car and, with a deep bow, removed his hat.
"Your Excellency, I have the pleasure to report that I accomplished
your mission without difficulty, that I have procured an American
gentleman whom, if you will allow me the privilege, I will present.
General Fombombo, this is Señor Tomas Strawbridge of New York city."
By this time Strawbridge had scrambled out of the motor and extended
his hand.
The general, although he was not so tall as the American, nor, really,
so large, drew Strawbridge to him, somehow as if the drummer were a
small boy.
"I see your long journey from Caracas has not quite exhausted you," he
said, with a faint gleam of amusement in his eyes.
Strawbridge felt a deep relief. He glanced at the soldier's cap and
began to laugh.
"Thank you," he said; "I manage to travel very well."
The general turned to the negro.
"Gumersindo, telephone my _casa_ that Señor Strawbridge will occupy the
chamber overlooking the river."
The drummer put up a hand in protest.
"Now, General, I'll go on to the hotel."
The general erased the objection:
"There are no hotels in Canalejos, Señor Strawbridge; a few little
eating-houses which the peons use when they come in from the llanos,
that is all."
By this time Strawbridge's embarrassment had vanished. The general
somehow magnified him, set him up on a plane the salesman had never
occupied before.
"Well, General," he began cheerfully, using the American formula,
"how's business here in Canalejos?"
"Business?" repeated the soldier, suavely. "Let me see, ... business.
You refer, I presume, to commercial products?"
"Why, yes," agreed the drummer, rather surprised.
"_Pues_, the peons, I believe, are gathering balata. The cocoa
estancias will be sending in their yield at the end of this month;
tonka-beans--"
"Are prices holding up well?" interrupted Strawbridge, with the affable
discourtesy of an American who never quite waits till his question is
answered.
"I believe so, Señor Strawbridge; or, rather, I assume so; I have
not seen a market quotation in...." He turned to the editor: "Señor
Gumersindo, you are a journalist; are you _au courant_ with the market
reports?"
The negro made a slight bow.
"On what commodity, your Excellency?"
"What commodity are you particularly interested in, Señor Strawbridge?"
inquired the soldier.
"Why ... er ... just the general trend of the market," said
Strawbridge, with a feeling that his little excursion into that
peculiar mechanical talk of business, markets, prices, which was so
dear to his heart, had not come off very well.
"There has been, I believe, an advance in some prices and a decline in
others," generalized Gumersindo; "the usual seasonal fluctuations."
"_Sí, gracias_," acknowledged the general. "Señor Gumersindo, during
Señor Strawbridge's residence in Canalejos, you will kindly furnish him
the daily market quotations."
"_Sí_, señor."
The matter of business was settled and disposed of. Came that slight
hiatus in which hosts wait for a guest to decide what shall be the
next topic. The drummer thought rapidly over his repertoire; he
thought of baseball, of Teilman's race in the batting column; one or
two smoking-car jokes popped into his head but were discarded. He
considered discussing the probable Republican majority Ohio would show
in the next presidential election. He had a little book in his vest
pocket which gave the vote by states for the past decade. In Pullman
smoking-compartments the drummer had found it to be an arsenal of
debate. He could make terrific political forecasts and prove them
by this little book. But, with his very fingers on it, he decided
against talking Ohio politics to an insurgent general in Rio Negro. His
thoughts boggled at business again, at the prices of things, when he
glanced about and saw Lubito, who had been entirely neglected during
this colloquy. The drummer at once seized on his companion to bridge
the hiatus. He drew the _espada_ to him with a gesture.
"General Fombombo," he said with a salesman's ebullience, "meet Señor
Lubito. Señor Lubito is a bull-fighter, General, and they tell me he
pulls a nasty sword."
The general nodded pleasantly to the torero.
"I am very glad you have come to Canalejos, Señor Lubito. I think I
shall order in some bulls and have an exhibition of your art. If you
care to look at our bull-ring in Canalejos, you will find it in the
eastern part of our city." He pointed in the direction and apparently
brushed the bull-fighter away, for Lubito bowed with the muscular
suppleness of his calling and took himself off in the direction
indicated.
At that moment the general observed the peon on the black horse, who
as yet had not dared to present himself at the sentry-box before the
_caballeros_.
"What are you doing on that horse, _bribon_?" asked the general.
"I was waiting to enter, your Excellency," explained the fellow,
hurriedly.
"Your name?"
"Guillermo Fando, your Excellency."
"Is that your horse?"
"_Sí_, your Excellency."
"Take it to my cavalry barracks and deliver it to Coronel Saturnino. A
donkey will serve your purpose."
Fando's mouth dropped open. He stared at the President.
"T-take my _caballo_ to the ... the cavalry...."
A little flicker came into the black eyes of the dictator. He said in a
somewhat lower tone:
"Is it possible, Fando, that you do not understand Spanish? Perhaps a
little season in La Fortuna...."
The peon's face went mud-colored. "_P-pardon, su excellencia!_" he
stuttered, and the next moment thrust his heels into the black's side
and went clattering up the narrow _calle_, filling the drowsy afternoon
with clamor.
The general watched him disappear, and then turned to Strawbridge.
"_Caramba!_ the devil himself must be getting into these peons!
Speaking to me after I had instructed him!"
The completely proprietary air of the general camouflaged under a
semblance of military discipline the taking of the horse from the
peon. It was only after the three men were in Gumersindo's car and
on their way to the President's palace that the implications of the
incident developed in the drummer's mind. The peon was not in the army;
the horse belonged to the peon, and yet Fombombo had taken it with a
mere glance and word.
Evening was gathering now. The motor rolled through a street of dark
little shops. Here and there a candle-flame pricked a black interior.
Above the level line of roofs the east gushed with a wide orange light.
The dictator and the editor had respected the musing mood of their
guest and were now talking to each other in low tones. They were
discussing Pio Barajo's novels.
In the course of their trip the drummer had that characteristic
American feeling that he was wasting time, that here in the car he
might get some idea of the general's needs in the way of guns and
ammunition. In a pause of the talk about Barajo, he made a tentative
effort to speak of the business which had brought him to Canalejos, but
the general smoothed this wrinkle out of the conversation, and the talk
veered around to Zamacois.
The drummer had dropped back into his original thoughts about the
injustice and inequalities of life here in Rio Negro, and what the
American people would do in such circumstances, when the motor turned
into Plaza Mayor and the motorists saw a procession of torches marching
beneath the trees on the other side of the square. Then the drummer
observed that the automobile in which he rode and the moving line of
torches were converging on the dark front of a massive building. He
watched the flames without interest until his own conveyance and the
marchers came to a halt in front of the great spread of ornamental
stairs that flowed out of the entrance of the palace. A priest in a
cassock stood at the head of the procession, and immediately behind
him were two peons, a young man and a girl, both in wedding finery.
They evidently had come for the legal ceremony which in Venezuela must
follow the religious ceremony, for as the car stopped a number of
voices became audible: "There is his Excellency!" "In the motor, not in
the _palacio_!" The priest lifted his voice:
"Your Excellency, here are a man and a woman who desire--"
While the priest was speaking, a graceful figure ran up the ornamental
steps and stood out strongly against the white marble.
"Your Excellency," he called, "I must object to this wedding! I require
time. I represent the father of the bride. It is my paternal duty, your
Excellency, to investigate this suitor."
Every one in the line stared at the figure on the steps. The priest
began in an astonished voice:
"How is this, my son?"
"I represent the father of this girl," asserted the man on the steps,
warmly. "I must look into the character of this bridegroom. A father,
your Excellency, is a tender relation."
A sudden outbreak came from the party:
"Who is this man?" "What does he mean by 'father'? Madruja's father is
with the 'reds.'"
General Fombombo, who had been watching the little scene passively,
from the motor, now scrutinized the girl herself. It drew Strawbridge's
attention to her. She was a tall pantheress of a girl, and the wavering
torchlight at one moment displayed and the next concealed her rather
wild black eyes, full lips, and a certain untamed beauty of face. Her
husband-elect was a hard, weather-worn youth. The coupling together of
two such creatures did seem rather incongruous.
General Fombombo asked a few questions as he stepped out of the car:
Who was she? What claim had the man on the steps? He received a chorus
of answers none of which were intelligible. All the while he kept
scrutinizing the girl, appraising the contours visible through the
bridal veil. At last he waggled a finger and said:
"_Cá! Cá!_ I will decide this later. The señorita may occupy the west
room of the palace to-night, and later I will go into this matter more
carefully. I have guests now." He clapped his hands. "Ho, guards!" he
called, "conduct the señorita to the west room for the night."
Two soldiers in uniform came running down the steps. The line of
marchers shrank from the armed men. The girl stared large-eyed at this
swift turn in her affairs. Suddenly she clutched her betrothed's arm.
"Esteban!" she cried. "Esteban!"
The groom stood staring, apparently unable to move as the soldiers
hurried down the steps.
By this time General Fombombo was escorting the drummer courteously up
the stairs into the deeply recessed entrance of the palace. Strawbridge
could not resist looking back to see the outcome of this singular
wedding. But now the torchbearers were scattering and all the drummer
could see was a confused movement in the gloom, and now and then he
heard the sharp, broken shrieks of a woman.
His observations were cut short by General Fombombo who, at the top of
the stairs, made a deep bow:
"My house and all that it contains are yours, señor."
Strawbridge bowed as to this stereotype he made the formal response,
"And yours also."