THE night was pleasantly cool when Cyrus Harding sat with his daughter
and the Colonel Morales on the veranda which ran round the patio of the
"Four Nations" hostelry in Santa Marta. The hotel was, as usual, built
in the shape of a hollow square, and the space enclosed formed a
pleasant lounging place when the only light was furnished by the soft
glow from the latticed windows surrounding it. That night it fell upon
pink-washed walls, clusters of purple Bougainvillea that climbed the
trellis, the white blossoms of a magnolia, and a row of carved pillars,
while the square of indigo above was set with silver stars. It is true
that the stables opened into the patio, as did the kitchen, next door to
them, but that was not unusual, and the curious musky smell that hangs
over most Spanish towns was tempered by the scent of flowers.
Harding lay in a cane chair, with the blue cigar smoke drifting about
him and a little thoughtful smile in his lean face. He was a widower,
and though he now enjoyed a very respectable competence, desired a
fortune to bequeath his daughter, which was why he had sunk good money
in what his friends considered reckless ventures in Cuba. Harding had,
however, taken risks all his life, and knew there is not usually very
much to be made by the business man who follows the beaten track. He
looked further ahead than his fellows, and taking the chances as they
came played for heavier stakes.
His daughter sat a little apart, daintily fresh and cool, in a long
white dress, with the soft light of the lamp above her gleaming on her
hair, which was of warm brown, and emphasizing the little sparkle in her
eyes. The cold of New York did not suit her, and she had accompanied her
father to Cuba before. Opposite Harding, across the little table on
which stood a flask of wine, sat a spare, olive-faced officer, with a
sword girt to his waist. He had keen dark eyes with a hint of sternness
in them, and a straight, thin-lipped mouth; while he was already known
in that country as El Espada, Morales the Sword. His mission was to put
down the insurrection in that district, and the means he employed were
draconic.
"You ask a good many questions, senor," he said in Castilian. "There is
no difficulty with respect to some of them and the information in my
possession is at your service; but it is different with those that
concern the situation political. We are not sure yet who you Americans
sympathize with; and I am, you understand, an officer of Spain."
Harding made a little deferential gesture, but he also smiled. "One can
usually obtain political information of importance in my country--when
one is rich enough," he said, as it were, reflectively. "Of course, one
avoids hurting anybody's feelings, but it seems to me that the best
guarantee we can give of our good will is the fact that some of us are
investing our money here."
Morales shook his head. "It is not quite enough," he said. "There are
men without money in your country, my friend, and it is those who have
nothing that love the revolution. I have also a little affair with two
of your estimable countrymen."
Nettie Harding, who understood him, looked up. "Now," she said, "that is
interesting! You will tell us about it?"
Morales nodded. "It is a month since we marched east with a strong
company and a little machine-gun," he said. "We march by night, and it
is sunrise when we climb the Alturas gorge. Above, three leagues away,
hides a company of the Sin Verguenza, and the Captain Vincente who
marches round will take them in the rear. I have scouts thrown forward,
and we march silently, but by and by the front files come running back
and there is firing in the pass. The Sin Verguenza, it seems, are upon
us, but that is not wise of them. Figure you the place--the rock one
cannot climb above us, a barranco, very deep, below, and the machine-gun
to sweep the track. Pouf! It is swept. The Sin Verguenza melt away, and
we go forward to conclude the affair."
"Well," said Harding a trifle impatiently, "where do the Americans come
in?"
Morales' face grew wicked. "Down the rock, my friend. Perhaps they are
sailors; for where there is no footing for any man they slide down the
lianas, and others follow them. The cazadores do not look above; there
is still firing, and they do not hear me. The Americans are upon the
gun, and more of the Sin Verguenza arrive behind them. I see one
American who is young with his shoulder at the wheel of the gun, and in
another minute it is gone, and there is a crash in the barranco. Then
the Sin Verguenza come back again, and we go home, my friend; but it is
not all my company who come out of Alturas Pass. One waits, however, and
by and by my turn comes."
Nettie Harding said nothing, but there was a significant sparkle in her
blue eyes, while her father's nod was deprecatory.
"They are not friends of mine, and I have a good deal to lose," he said.
"What I want to know is, if you had money to spare would you buy the San
Cristoval hacienda? There should be a profit in it at the price, but not
if the patriots are likely to burn the sugar mill, or the administration
to quarter troops there. You are responsible for this district!"
"Money is very scarce with me, my friend," said Morales dryly.
Harding nodded sympathetically, and dropped his voice to a lower tone.
"One would be content with a little less profit if it meant security,"
he said. "It would pay me to make certain that the hacienda would not be
meddled with--by the Sin Verguenza."
There was a little gleam of comprehension in the officer's eyes, and he
thoughtfully flicked the ash from his cigar. "I think I could promise
that," he said. "We will talk again, senor, but now--if I have your
excuses--I think I will be wanted at the cuartel."
He rose, made Miss Harding a little punctilious inclination, and moved
away, while the lamplight flung his shadow black upon the pink-washed
walls. It seemed to the girl suggestively sinister.
"I do not like that man," she said. "He has wicked eyes, and his face is
cruel!"
Harding laughed. "Anyway, it's evident he has his price, and I think
I'll buy the hacienda, though I'll want a man to run it, since I can't
stay here. He will have to be the right kind of man."
Nettie Harding appeared reflective. "I wonder what has become of Mr.
Broughton whom we met on board the 'Aurania'?" she said.
"The folks I gave him letters to told me he was here in Cuba; but I'm
not quite sure his name was Broughton. He had got himself mixed up in
some kind of trouble in England."
"Then," said the girl decisively, "somebody else made the trouble."
"It's quite likely. I don't think there's any meanness in that man; but
I wouldn't worry about him. It wouldn't please Julian."