A FAINT light was creeping in through the narrow window when Appleby
awoke in a little upper room in the cuartel at Santa Marta. Worn out by
the tense anxiety he had undergone he had at last slept restlessly, and
for a moment or two he was only sensible that his surroundings were
unfamiliar. Simply as he had lived at San Cristoval the room seemed
unusually bare, while his limbs ached a little, and he wondered why he
was lying on a thin strip of matting, and what Harper, who lay close
beside him, apparently asleep, was doing there.
Then he shook himself into wakefulness as memory came back, and the
events of the preceding night arranged themselves before him. He
remembered his brief trial by Morales and a handful of officers, who
deferred to him--for Santa Marta was under martial law--the written
process declaring his offences, and the smile in Morales' dark eyes when
he admitted that he had nothing to urge in extenuation. One point alone
he contested, and that was that he and Harper had supplied the
insurgents with arms from San Cristoval, but the process proved that
rifles had been carried into the factory, and his assertion that it was
done without his knowledge only called forth a smile of incredulity.
Then came the sentence, which Appleby listened to with the unconcern of
desperation, and Harper, standing with great hands clenched and face
dark with passion, answered with a torrent of furious invective in
luminous American and Castilian, until two cazadores dragged him away.
Appleby shivered, and rising softly walked to the window as he
remembered that the day that was breaking was the last he would ever
see. He flung the lattice open, and his face grew grim as he looked out
upon the town. It was as yet, for the most part, dim and shadowy, and
two square church towers rose blackly against a sky of paling indigo,
but here and there a white wall glimmered faintly, and a pearly lustre
suffused the east. While he watched it became streaked with crimson, for
in the tropics dawn comes suddenly, and by and by a long shaft of
brightness streamed up into the sky. Then the city emerged from the
shadow, and once more shone dazzlingly white in the morning sun.
It awoke as suddenly, for men rise early in that country to work while
it is cool, and a ringing of bugles rose from beyond the flat roofs
clear and musical, while the white walls flung back the patter of feet,
and the hum of voices became audible. Appleby listened with a dull
hopelessness that was too intense for bitterness to the stir of
reawakening life, though the contrast between his lot and that of the
men whose voices he heard had its effect on him. They were going out to
their toil, and would in due time sleep again, but before that day was
over he would be at rest forever. Then as somebody went by below singing
a little light-hearted song he turned away with a groan, and saw that
Harper was watching him.
"You haven't much use for singing," he said.
Appleby sat down with his back against the wall, and laughed somewhat
hollowly. "No," he said. "The only appropriate music would be a
requiem."
"Well," said Harper reflectively, "I don't quite know, though I'm free
to admit that I'm feeling a good deal more anxious than I care about. I
was thinking, and didn't sleep much last night, and it kind of seems to
me the Spaniards have about enough on their backs just now."
Appleby shook his head. "The trouble is that Morales will take care that
all anybody of consequence knows is that two of the Sin Verguenza were
extinguished in Santa Marta," he said.
"Still, there's another point. Morales doesn't let up too easily on
anything he means to put through, and he wouldn't get very much out of
either of us when we're dead."
Appleby turned upon him almost savagely. "Stop," he said. "You know the
thing is decided as well as I do. Yesterday took a good deal of the
stiffening out of me--and in another hour or two we shall have a
tolerably difficult part to play."
Harper's face grew suddenly grim. "Well," he said a trifle hoarsely, "I
guess we can face what is coming as well as a Spaniard can, and--I've got
to admit it--nobody could expect any more from any man."
Appleby made no answer, but it was by an effort that, feeling his
comrade's eyes upon him, he sat still, when the door opened and a
cazadore came in. He laid down a piece of bread and a bottle of thin red
wine, and then glanced at them compassionately.
"When will it be?" asked Appleby very quietly.
The man made a little gesture. "Soon, I think. There is a parade fixed
in an hour from now."
He went out, and Harper's hands quivered a little as he held up the wine
and glanced at Appleby.
"It's not often I don't feel inclined to eat, but I don't seem to have
much use for breakfast now," he said. "Here's to the folks who'll wonder
what has happened to us back there in the country we came from!"
He drank, and handed the wine to Appleby, who stood up as he put the
bottle to his lips. It was, however, not Tony Palliser or Nettie
Harding, but a woman with grave gray eyes, that now when the shadows
were closing round him he drank to as it were reverently. She would, as
Harper had suggested, never even know what had befallen him, but she
seemed very near him then, and he felt the influence of her serenity
upon him.
He laid down the bottle, and Harper took out two cigars. "Now," he said,
"I guess when they come for me I'll be ready."
The hour that followed seemed interminable, but at last there was a
tramp of feet on the stairway, and a sergeant of cazadores who came in
made a sign to them. They rose in silence, and were thrust amidst a
cluster of other prisoners in the patio, while an officer reading from a
paper called their names aloud. Then a guard with bayonets fixed closed
in about them, and they passed out through an archway into the street.
Appleby blinked about him with half-closed eyes, for he had come out of
the shadow, and the white walls were dazzlingly bright, while from out
of the press of close-packed humanity beneath them came the flash of
steel.
Then the crowd opened up, and a company of cazadores, that filed out of
another opening halted a moment to wait for the prisoners' guard.
Appleby was driven forward and took his place among the rest, there was
a ringing of bugles that drowned the hum of voices from the crowd, and
they had started on their last journey to the doleful tapping of the
drums. Morales, it seemed, understood his countrymen, and meant to
gratify the Iberian lust of sensation which finds vent in the bull-ring,
and is akin to that which packed the amphitheatres in the days of
ancient Rome. Still, Appleby noticed vacantly that the loyalist city
seemed curiously unresponsive for the shout that went up when the troops
moved forward died away, and the tapping of the drums broke sharply
through a brief silence that was almost portentous.
It was followed by a low murmuring that suggested the sound of the sea,
and gazing at the rows of intent faces Appleby noticed that hats were
swept off as the prisoners passed, and that here and there a man crossed
himself. Once a burst of Vivas went up, but the murmurs that answered
them were hoarse and angry, and for a space of minutes there was once
more a heavy silence that seemed intensified by the beat of marching
feet and the tapping of the drums.
Appleby saw the faces at the windows and upon the roofs, swept a glance
along the crowd that lined the pavement, and with a little tingling of
his nerves turned his eyes away. He felt a horror of these men who had
come to watch him die, and set his lips and struggled with an almost
overwhelming impulse to fling bitter jibes or anathemas at them as he
stared straight before him. Harper was walking quietly at his side, and
a pace or two in front were four of their companions in misfortune--a lad
who limped, an old man, and two peons who laughed now and then. Beyond
them he could see a forest of wavering rifles crested with flashing
steel, and the figure of a mounted officer silhouetted sharply against a
strip of sky.
Way was made for them, and the march went on. The trampling feet clashed
rhythmically upon the stones, the rows of crowded windows and long white
walls slid behind, and then while a blast of the bugles rang across the
town Appleby found himself plodding into the smaller plaza. There was a
long flash of sunlight on steel, the leading company split up and
wheeled, and while the files tramped past he and the guard were left
standing with a double rank of cazadores behind them at one end of the
plaza. In another two or three moments it was lined two deep by men with
bayonets holding back the crowd; but the church with the two towers
closed the opposite end, and Appleby noticed vacantly how dazzlingly
white the empty space shone in the sun, save where the long black shadow
of the cross above fell athwart it. The church door was, as usual, open,
and the sound of an organ came out from it dolefully. Except for that,
there was for almost a minute a silence that grew horribly oppressive.
Then a voice was raised, and read what appeared to be a list of the
prisoners' offences, but Appleby could attach no meaning to it, and set
his lips when the man with the paper called three names aloud. It was
with a revulsion of feeling that left him very cold he realized that
none of them was his or Harper's, but next moment he almost wished that
they had been included in the summons. He had no hope now, and found the
task of standing there unmoved before those swarming faces becoming
insuperably difficult.
The lad who limped shuffled forward across the plaza, with the two peons
and a guard behind, until they stopped and turned again a foot or two
from the church wall. The peons were men with patient brown faces
dressed simply in white cotton and unstarched linen, and Appleby fancied
that their offence was in all probability the smuggling of arms or
communications for the insurgents. Then he became aware by a sudden hum
of voices that something unexpected was going on, and turning his eyes
saw two priests appear in the porch of the church, and a sergeant
standing somewhat sheepishly before them. One was little and portly, in
shabby cassock, but he spoke in a shrill vehement voice, and his face
was flushed; the other stood on the step above him, a tall man in ornate
vestments that made a blaze of color in the porch, and he held one arm
up commandingly.
Appleby could not hear what they said, for only his visual senses seemed
to have retained their efficiency, but he fancied they were protesting
when the sergeant moved slowly back across the plaza. Appleby turned and
watched him stop with lifted hand before the colonel, but Morales did
what few other men in that country would have ventured on when, making a
contemptuous gesture, he sent the sergeant back with his answer, and sat
still in his saddle with one hand his hip.
Still, the priests persisted, and would apparently have moved forward
from the church, when there was a flash of steel and tramp of feet, and
four or five files of infantry who had evidently little liking for their
task halted in front of the porch. This time there was a hoarse
portentous note in the murmurs of the crowd, and Appleby had another
token of Morales' courage when he saw him glance at the hemmed in
priests with a little sardonic smile.
He made a sign with his gloved hand, somebody called out sharply, a line
of men moved forward a pace or two, and there was a jingle and clatter
as the rifles went up to the hip. Appleby saw the lame lad shrink back
towards the wall, and one of the peons with bound hands awkwardly pull
forward his hat over his eyes, but the other stood bolt upright with his
at his side.
Once more a voice rang sharply through the stillness, the rifles went up
to the shoulder, and Appleby, who set his lips and clenched his hands,
turned his eyes aside. For a second or two it was horribly and intensely
still, and then a hoarse, strained voice, one of the peons' Appleby
fancied, cried, "Viva la libertad!"
It was followed by a crash, a whisp of smoke drifted past him, there was
an inarticulate cry from the crowd, and he dimly saw the firing party
moving through the smoke. Beyond them he had a blurred glimpse of a
figure that swayed upon its knees, and another lying full length clawing
at the stones. Then he shivered and gazed up at the crowded housetops
and dazzling sky, and by a grim effort held himself stiffly erect.
Harper's voice reached him through the murmur of horror from the crowd.
"Lord!" he said hoarsely. "They've bungled it!"
Again the rifles crashed, and the men came back, two of them, Appleby
noticed, walking a trifle unsteadily. The faces of the rest were set and
grim, and he braced himself for an effort as the man with the paper
moved forward again. His turn and Harper's was coming now, but what he
had seen had stirred him to a fierce anger that drove out physical fear,
and it was impotent fury he strove to hold in check. Then he saw Morales
apparently conferring with one or two of his officers who seemed to be
glancing towards him and Harper, while the latter gripped his shoulder
until he winced.
"Why can't they be quick?" he said. "I'll take one of those soldiers'
rifles and empty the magazine into them in another minute."
Then there was a louder hum of voices and a surging of the crowd, for
the men of the firing party, waiting no order, brought their rifles down
with a crash. They were young men of the Barremeda company, which, as
Appleby had heard, was not above suspicion, though that was, perhaps,
why Morales had appointed them the task. A lieutenant appeared to be
gesticulating in front of them, but the men stood immovable, with
ordered rifles and set brown faces, and there was now a murmur from the
ranks behind them, while a great cry went up from the crowd.
Santa Marta was a loyalist town, that is, the men who had anything to
lose supported the rule of Spain, but they were for that reason mostly
men of position and refinement, and what they had seen had proved almost
too much for them. The rest who had nothing were, for the most part,
insurgents at heart, even if they refrained from actively expressing
their sympathies, which was not certain, and the last cry of the
butchered peon coupled with the affront put upon the priests had stirred
them to fury. When the hot Iberian blood takes fire events are apt to
happen somewhat rapidly, and Morales, it seemed, had gone a trifle too
far.
He flung himself from the saddle, and moved forward with gleaming sword,
which he brandished in front of the flank man of the firing party, but
the set faces were resolutely turned upon him, and now the brown fingers
were convulsively tightening on the rifles. The tumult was growing
louder, and shouts of "Libertad!" and "Viva la revolution!" came out of
the clamor. In one place the double line of men with bayonets bent in,
and a section of the Barremeda company broke their ranks.
"Lord!" said Harper hoarsely. "With ten of the Sin Verguenza I'd take
Santa Marta now."
It was not altogether an empty boast. The Iberian is impulsive and
unstable, and a word spoken in season will stir to any rashness a Latin
crowd. The troops were disaffected, part of them, at least, openly
mutinous, but Morales the Sword could grapple with a crisis. He was in
the saddle in a moment, his voice rang clear and commanding above the
tumult, and the men who wavered, uncertain what course to take, obeyed.
The ranks wheeled, broke up, and grouped again in fours, the bugles rang
shrilly, there was a roll of drums, and almost before Appleby quite
realized what was happening the head of the leading company was filing
out of the plaza, and Morales' swift decision had saved the situation.
Then a man touched Appleby's shoulder, and he and Harper and another man
stepped into an opening between the files.
"You are to be felicitated. There are few who offend Morales he does not
crush," said the sergeant of the guard.
Appleby made no answer. He was a trifle dazed, and his thoughts were in
a whirl, but he noticed vacantly that there was a curious portentous
silence as the troops marched back to the cuartel, and was glad when
they reached it and he and Harper were thrust into the same room again.
He sat down, somewhat limply, on the floor.
"It was a trifle horrible--and I'm sorry we drank all the wine. Still, of
course, no one could have guessed," he said.
He felt that his face was a little colorless, for his forehead was
clammy and his lips were cold, but Harper's was flushed, and he paced up
and down the room until he stopped in front of Appleby.
Then he said hoarsely, "I had a notion. That man never meant to wipe us
out to-day. We were to taste death, and live with the grit crushed out
of us, because he figured we would be of some use to him. If I could get
my hands on him I'd kill him."
Appleby had felt much the same anger, but he was calmer now. What he had
witnessed had filled him with horror, and while he could have blamed
Morales little for his sentence, since his life was a risk of the game,
the attempt to crush his manhood by making him taste the anguish of
death was unforgivable and an abomination.
"Well," he said very quietly, "our turn may come."
Harper once more strode up and down the room, and then stopped abruptly
with a little laugh. "It's kind of senseless talking just now," he said.
"We're not going to worry Morales much while he has got us here. I
wonder if anybody will remember to bring us our dinner."
Appleby smiled, and the tension relaxed, but his hands were trembling,
and it cost him two or three matches to light the cigar Harper threw
him.