IT was with difficulty a handful of the Sin Verguenza cleared a way for
Tony's bearers through the clamorous mob below, and an hour had passed
when Appleby, who had seen his comrade safely bestowed there, came out,
grave in face, from the Spanish banker's house. The doctor Maccario sent
had, it was evident, no great hope of his patient's recovery, though he
insisted that he should be left in quietness.
A messenger from Maccario was waiting when Appleby reached the patio,
and it was a relief to find that he had in the meanwhile work to do.
Still, he stood almost a minute blinking about him with eyes that were
dazzled by the change from the dimness of the hot room behind the closed
lattices where Tony lay. The patio was flooded with glaring sunlight,
and a confused din rose from every corner of Santa Marta. The hot walls
flung back the tramp of feet and the exultant vivas of the mob, while
from the tall church towers the clash of jangling bells rang across the
town drowning the occasional crackle of riflery, for it was evident that
scattered handfuls of the cazadores were fighting still.
Then the brown-faced man beside him made a little gesture of impatience
when there was a crash of firing louder than the rest.
"Those cazadores are obstinate, and Don Maccario waits," he said.
Appleby went with him vacantly, for now the strain had slackened he felt
limp and his thoughts were in a whirl. Tony, it seemed, was dying, and
the almost brotherly affection Appleby had once cherished for his
comrade came back to him. As yet he could only realize the one painful
fact with a poignant sense of regret.
Maccario, however, had work waiting him, and the day dragged through,
though Appleby never remembered clearly all that happened during it. It
was noon when they had cleared the town of the last of the cazadores,
and bestowed those who had the wisdom to yield themselves in the
cuartel. The rest leapt to destruction from windows and roofs, or went
down, grimly clenching their hot rifles, in barricaded patios and on
slippery stairways. Appleby was thankful when the work was done, though
he had taken no part in it for Maccario, with a wisdom his comrade had
not expected, bade him organize a guard, and see that there was no
purposeless destruction of property. It was not, he said, a foray the
Sin Verguenza had made, but an occupation they had effected, and there
was nothing to be gained by pushing the wealthy loyalists to
desperation. He also observed dryly that their dollars might fail to
reach the insurgent treasury at all if collected independently by the
rank and file.
The task was more to Appleby's liking than the one he had anticipated,
and it was necessary, since the smaller merchants in Cuba and also in
parts of Peninsular Spain have no great confidence in bankers, and
prefer a packet of golden onzas or a bag of pesetas to the best
accredited check. He also contrived to accomplish it with success,
somewhat to the astonishment of those whose property he secured to them,
when they found he demanded nothing for himself, while he fancied there
was reason in his companion's observation as they went back to report to
Maccario when there was quietness in the town. Harper sighed as they
came out of the last loyalist's house.
"I guess Maccario knew what he was about when he sent you to see this
contract through," he said.
"Well," said Appleby, "it was a trifle more pleasant than turning out
the cazadores."
Harper grinned somewhat ruefully. "That's not quite what I mean. Any one
else with our opportunities would have been rich for life. Now, you
didn't seem to notice the diamond brooch the senora took out from her
laces when she asked you to keep the rabble out of the house. It would
have brought two hundred dollars in New York."
Appleby looked at him with a little dry smile. "I have asked you no
questions, but your pockets are suspiciously bulky."
"Cigars," said Harper disgustedly, pulling out a handful.
"Worth a dollar a piece in my country by the smell of them, but I'm not
setting up a tobacco store! If I ever get hold of another contract of
this kind I'll take somebody else along."
Appleby laughed a little, but his face grew grave again as they turned
towards the banker's house to inquire how Tony was progressing. There
was no change, they were told, but the doctor, who was busy elsewhere,
had left imperative instructions that no one was to see him.
Appleby was glad he had little leisure for reflection during the rest of
the day, which was passed in strenuous activity. There were defences to
be improvised, and ambulance corps to organize, barricades built, and
men driven to their posts from the wine-shops, for Candotto's
Peninsulares would shortly arrive. They never came, however, but instead
of them two hundred dusty men with rifles from Brena Abajo marched in,
and a horde of peons from every aldea in the vicinity armed with staves
and machetes followed them when dusk was closing down. Then once more
the bells clashed exultantly above the clamorous town.
The soft darkness had descended upon Santa Marta, and there was
quietness again, when Appleby and Harper took their places at the
banquet in the Alcalde's house where Maccario had decided he would
establish the provisional administration. The great room blazed with
light, the tables were piled with such luxuries as could be found in the
city, fruits and flasks of wine, and Appleby, who was seated at
Maccario's right hand, gazed with a vague interest down the long rows of
faces. They were exultant, eager, inscrutable, and anxious, for the
loyalist citizens had evidently considered it advisable to comply with
the leader of the Sin Verguenza's invitation.
Maccario was now dressed immaculately, and the handful of loyalists with
Castilian taste and precision, but there were also men with the grime of
conflict still upon their brown faces, and garments foul with smoke and
dust. It seemed to Appleby that he would never again sit down with so
incongruous a company. At last, when all had eaten or made a pretence of
it, there was a curious stillness as Maccario stood up at the head of
the table. Every eye was turned upon him, and the olive-tinted faces
grew intent, for among those who watched him were men who knew that
their ruin or prosperity depended upon what he had to say.
"What we have accomplished to-day will last," he said "The flag of Spain
will never float over Santa Marta again."
There was a murmur from the Sin Verguenza, and Appleby saw the faces of
one or two of the loyalists harden, while the rest grew anxious.
Maccario, however, smiled as he proceeded.
"A wise man yields to the inevitable," he said. "The Sin Verguenza hold
this town, and you have seen that from here to the mountains the country
has declared for liberty. Men are flocking in, and there are rifles to
arm the battalions we are raising in the cuartel. War with the Americans
is now certain, and there can be only one result of that war, my
friends, while Santa Marta stands alone, a place of no importance to the
Spanish generals, who will be too busy to trouble about what happens
there. Now you comprehend the position."
He stopped, and it was evident that none of the loyalists could
controvert him, though one rose to his feet.
"It is admitted, senor," he said gravely. "What follows?"
"That," said Maccario, "is for you and the others to decide. Martial law
that will grind those who rebel against it into the dust, or, I think,
prosperity, with due submission to a provisional administration. You see
before you the head of it, and, at least, there will not be anarchy
while he has two or three strong battalions to do his bidding. In the
meanwhile the direction of affairs will be placed in the hands of ten
men. Five will be nominated by myself, and I will ask your Alcalde to
summon four others when he has consulted the wishes of the citizens."
There was a murmur of relief and astonishment, for this was apparently
the last thing the loyalists had expected, while Appleby, who glanced at
Maccario, was sensible of a slight embarrassment, when he saw the little
dry smile on his comrade's face. The leader of the Sin Verguenza had, it
seemed, guessed his thoughts, and he was glad when the Alcalde, a gray-
haired, courtly man, stood up.
"It is not what we looked for, senor, and on behalf of Santa Marta you
have our gratitude," he said. "Still, while others may be willing, I, at
least, can hold no office under an insurgent usurpation."
There was an angry murmur from the Sin Verguenza, but the Alcalde stood
very erect, gazing at them disdainfully, and Maccario raised his hand.
"The Alcalde is, I think, scarcely wise, but he is a loyal gentleman,"
he said. "We will pass over him. The Senor Sanchez who, I am told, is
regarded with respect in Santa Marta, will, perhaps, recommend five
citizens of integrity."
A slight, olive-faced gentleman in white duck stood up. "Since we have
been beaten I agree," he said. "One has, however, questions to ask.
There will be an amnesty to those who have supported Morales, and their
possessions will be made secure to them?"
A little grim twinkle crept into Maccario's eyes. "Every citizen of
means will be required to contribute to the equipment of the new
battalions to be raised and the cost of administration, in proportion to
his income, as the council shall decide. If there are any who desire to
show their contrition for past hostility by being generous now they will
have an opportunity. There are also one or two to whom such a course is
recommended."
More than one of the company glanced at his neighbor uneasily, but the
man who had spoken turned to Maccario with a little expressive gesture.
"Then I will go now to consult with and spread the good news among the
citizens," he said.
Maccario laughed softly. "They will no doubt be astonished. To them the
Sin Verguenza have been as wolves, but that was the fault of Morales,
who made them so. Now they are the bloodhounds who, while the household
sleep in peace, keep watch in the patio. Still, the bloodhound is a
beast that one would do well to beware of, my friend. Well, I will not
keep the gentlemen who have honored us with their company, but there is
a toast to drink, and you who have made plantations and built
warehouses, and we who have marched and fought, can join in it equally.
To the prosperity of Cuba!"
The men rose as one, the loyalists with evident relief that nothing more
had been asked of them, and as they swung, up their glasses the building
rang with the shout.
Then in the silence that followed the Alcalde filled his glass again.
"And," he said, "to Spain!"
Maccario made him a little ceremonious inclination. "Senor," he said,
"with ten such men on the council one would have no fear concerning the
prosperity of Santa Marta."
Then the citizens went out, and Maccario smiled as he turned to Appleby.
"It seems that the time of the friends of liberty has come," he said.
"There will no doubt be preferment for those who have fought well, but
the promise you made us was to hold only until Santa Marta had fallen."
Appleby was almost astonished to find himself troubled by a keen sense
of regret. "I take it back," he said quietly. "You will now find plenty
of other men willing to take my place with the Sin Verguenza."
"It is likely, but none that one could trust so well. Still, you will
not be hasty. It is a good life, Bernardino--ours of the march and
bivouac. Would you be happier counting the dollars in American cities
than watching the Cuban highways or lying on the hillsides by the red
fires? To gain one thing one must always give up another, and would not
such a man as you are prefer to decide the fate of cities and battalions
than haggle over a bargain? It is command, the stress of effort, and the
untrammelled joy of life, sunshine, and wine, we offer you, while one
lives in bonds and sadly in your Northern cities."
Appleby sighed a little, for the temptation was alluring, but he knew
the shadowy side of the life the Sin Verguenza led, and he kept his
head.
"I have made my decision, and the Senor Harding waits for me," he said.
Maccario smiled. "Then I shall gain nothing by objecting. After all, it
is of no great importance whether a man trades as a merchant or fights
as a soldier. That will be as fate arranges it for him. He is born what
he is."
"The Senor Appleby will leave us?" asked one of the men.
"Yes," said Maccario, who stood up, "when it pleases him, and I think it
is scarcely likely we shall sit at meat with him again. You will pledge
a faithful comrade and a valiant soldier, without whom we might never
have been the masters of Santa Marta."
The men were on their feet in a moment, and Appleby felt his heart throb
as he glanced down the long row of faces. Many were still grimed with
dust, and the brown hands that held the glasses stained with the black
fouling from the rifles, but there was no mistaking the good will in the
dark eyes. Then the glasses went up with a shout that filled the great
room and rang out through the open windows across the silent town, and
Appleby, who never remembered what he said, found himself speaking
hoarsely.
He sat down while the shouting broke out again, and saw a man in the
doorway signing to him.
"The Senor Palliser is permitted to see you. It is recommended that you
lose no time," he said when there was silence.
Maccario laid his hand sympathetically upon Appleby's arm. "It is well
to be prepared," he said. "I am afraid that by to-morrow there will be
another of your countrymen struck off the roll of the Sin Verguenza."
Appleby rose and followed the man with his heart beating painfully, and
it was only by an effort he retained his tranquillity when he was led
into a room in the banker's house where a lamp was burning. Its flame
flickered in the draught, for the lattices were open wide, but it showed
the drawn white face that was turned expectantly towards the door.
"I am glad you have come," said the wounded man. "I don't think I
realized what was going to happen, or where I was, until an hour ago,
and then I was horribly afraid the man wouldn't find you. You see, I
don't suppose there's more than another hour or two left me now."
Appleby set his lips as he glanced down at the white face, and felt that
this was true. Then his eyes grew a trifle dim as he laid his hand on
Tony's arm.
"Why," he said hoarsely, "did I ever let you go?"
Tony smiled. "There is no necessity to reproach yourself. You know just
as well as I do that you could not have stopped me, and I'm not sure
that after all I'm very sorry. There is nobody who will not get on just
as well without me."
"You are wrong. There is not a man at Northrop who will not feel the
blow--and there is Violet."
Tony's fingers seemed to quiver. "Still!" he said very slowly, "I think
she will get over it."
Appleby said nothing for a few moments, for there was something he could
not understand in his comrade's face Then he said softly, "How did it
happen, Tony?"
Tony shook his head. "I can't quite remember. I saw that cazador with
the bayonet, and went for him with the butt," he said. "The only thing I
am sure about is that he got me instead."
Appleby gasped as the vague memories of the struggle on the veranda grew
clearer. "Tony, you thrust yourself in between him and me?"
Tony smiled a little. "Well," he said slowly, "it seemed even chances
that I could reach him with the butt, and I owed you a good deal, you
see."
Appleby clenched one hand, and turned his face away, and there was for a
full minute silence in the dimly lighted room while he looked out
through the square of open casement at the dusky blueness of the night.
Then through the hum of voices in the street below there came a rhythmic
tramp of feet and a thin jingle of steel, while as it grew louder the
glare of waving torches shone into the room. Tony watched it flicker
upon the wall.
"What is going on?" he said.
"They are carrying Morales to his burial," said Appleby. "Maccario has
sent a half-company of the Sin Verguenza."
Tony smiled curiously. "That man has good taste. I liked him," he said.
"Well, there is one of the Sin Verguenza who will never march again. I
wonder if you remember that two of our family once fought with the
Legitimatists in Spain. Still, I think they would have looked down upon
the Sin Verguenza."
Again Appleby, struggling with tense emotion, found words failed him,
and sat silent until Tony laid his hand on his.
"It might have been better if I had never fallen in love with Violet,"
he said.
"Why?" said Appleby, who fancied that Tony was watching him curiously.
"She was in love with you."
"I think not," and Tony feebly shook his head. "It isn't necessary to
discuss that again."
He stopped with a little shiver, and Appleby's fingers closed tightly on
his hand.
"If I could only bring you back to her you would find out how mistaken
you are."
"That is evidently out of the question. Nobody could, and I think if a
little longer life had been granted me I would have tried to give her
up. I know now that she would never have been happy with me. Still, you
will tell her, Bernard--what has happened to me."
Appleby only pressed his hand, and it was a minute or two later when
Tony spoke again.
"There is one man who would please Violet--and I don't think I would
mind," he said.
Again Appleby felt the blood in his forehead. "She never thought of me,
and I have nothing to offer her," he said.
"No," said Tony with a visible effort. "Still, I think, Bernard--if you
saw much of her she would. You have both done a good deal for me."
He stopped with a gasp, and seemed to sink into sleep or partial stupor,
while Appleby sat very still listening to the voices in the street below
while half an hour dragged by. Then Tony opened his eyes, and looked
about him vacantly.
"I think I've been dreaming, and that song Hester was fond of is running
in my head," he said. "The one about the gates--it got hold of my fancy--I
think they were of precious stones. She and Violet were out on the lawn
of Low Wood--where you look down into the valley, you know--and Nettie was
trying to convince the vicar those gates could be stormed. There was
something I couldn't quite understand about the marble knight in
Northrop church."
Appleby saw that Tony's thoughts were wandering.
"Of course!" he said soothingly, though his voice was strained. "I
wouldn't worry about it, Tony."
Tony looked at him as though he scarcely recognized him, and smiled.
"I think you're wrong, and perhaps it isn't necessary. That song is
jingling in my head again. 'If you but touch with your finger tips those
ivory gates and golden.' It sounds easy," he said.
His head sank back on the pillow, and for five long minutes there was
silence in the room. Then Tony sighed, and his fingers closed feebly on
Appleby's hand.
"It's very hot in the sun here, and it was yesterday when I had a meal,"
he said. "Still, I shall find Bernard. Now they're marching on Santa
Marta in open fours. They're going in--nothing could stop the Sin
Verguenza--but you can't open those gates with a volley. It isn't
necessary."
He said nothing more, and when another half-hour had dragged by Appleby
rose, and with gentle force drew his hand away. Then he went out,
shivering a little and treading softly, for he knew that the soul of
Tony Palliser, who had sinned and made such reparation as was permitted
him, was knocking at the gates which are made of precious stones.