THE NEW ERA
A swaggering officer and a man habited like a beggar landed unobserved
at a coal wharf, moored a ship's boat to a bolt, and passed swiftly
through a silent town till they reached the closed gates of an infantry
barrack perched on a hill that rose steeply above the clustering roofs
of Maceio.
Though the seeming mendicant limped slightly, his superior stature
enabled him to keep pace with the officer. The pair neither lagged nor
hesitated. The officer knocked loudly on a small door inset in the big
gates. After some delay it was opened. A sentry challenged.
"Capitão San Benavides," announced the officer, and the man stood to
attention.
"Enter, my friend," said San Benavides to his ragged companion. The
latter stepped within; the wicket was locked, and the click of the bolt
was suggestive of the rattle of the dice with which Dom Corria De Sylva
was throwing a main with fortune. Perhaps some thought of the kind
occurred to him, but he was calm as if he were so poor that he had
naught more to lose.
"Who is the officer of the guard?" San Benavides asked the soldier.
"Senhor Tenente [Lieutenant] Regis de Pereira, senhor capitão."
"Tell him, with my compliments, that I shall be glad to meet him at the
colonel's quarters in fifteen minutes."
The queerly-assorted pair moved off across the barrack square. The
sentry looked after them.
"My excellent captain seems to have been brawling," he grinned. "But
what of the _mendigo_?"
What, indeed? A most pertinent question for Brazil, and one that would
be loudly answered.
The colonel's house was in darkness, yet San Benavides rapped
imperatively. An upper window was raised. A voice was heard, using
profane language. A head appeared. Its owner cried, "Who is
it?"--with additions.
"San Benavides."
"Christo! And the other?"
"One whom you expect."
The head popped in. Soon there was a light on the ground floor. The
door opened. A very stout man, barefooted, who had struggled into a
pair of abnormally tight riding-breeches, faced them.
"Can it be possible?" he exclaimed, striking an attitude.
Dom Corria spoke not a word. He knew the value of effect, and could
bide his time. The three passed into a lighted apartment. De Sylva
placed himself under a chandelier, and took off a frayed straw hat
which he had borrowed from someone on board the _Unser Fritz_. The
colonel, a grotesque figure in his present _deshabillé_, bowed low
before him.
"My President!--I salute you," he murmured.
"Thank you, General," said Dom Corria, smiling graciously. "I knew I
could depend on you. How soon can you muster the regiment?"
"In half an hour, Excellency."
"See that there is plenty of ammunition for the machine guns. What of
the artillery?"
"The three batteries stationed here are with us heart and soul."
"Colonel San Benavides, as chief of the staff, is acquainted with every
detail. You, General, will assume command of the Army of Liberation.
Some trunks were sent to you from Paris, I believe?"
"They are in the room prepared for your Excellency."
"Let me go there at once and change my clothing. I must appear before
the troops as their President, not as a jail-bird. For the moment I
leave everything to you and San Benavides. Let Senhor Pondillo be
summoned. He will attend to the civil side of affairs. You have my
unqualified approval of the military scheme drawn up by you and my
other friends. There is one thing--a gunboat lies in the harbor. Is
she the _Andorinha_?"
The newly-promoted general smote his huge stomach with both
hands--"beating the drum," he called it--and the rat-tat signified
instant readiness for action.
"The guns will soon scare that bird," he exclaimed. As _Andorinha_
means "swallow" in English there was some point to the remark. Nor was
he making a vain boast. The most astounding feature of every
revolution in a South American republic is the alacrity with which the
army will fire on the navy, _et vice versâ_. The two services seem to
be everlastingly at feud. If politicians fail to engineer a quarrel,
the soldiers and sailors will indulge in one on their own account.
It was so now at Maceio. Dawn was about to peep up over the sea when
twelve guns lumbered through the narrow streets, waking many startled
citizens. A few daring souls, who guessed what had happened, rushed
off on horseback or bicycle to remote telegraph offices. These
adventurers were too late. Every railway station and post-office
within twenty miles was already held by troops. Revolts are conducted
scientifically in that region. Their stage management is perfect, and
the cumbrous methods of effete civilizations might well take note of
the speed, thoroughness, and efficiency with which a change of
government is effected.
For instance, what could be more admirable than the scaring of the bird
by General Russo? He drew up his three batteries on the wharf opposite
the unsuspecting _Andorinha_, and endeavored to plant twelve shells in
the locality of her engine-room without the least hesitation. There
was no thought of demanding her surrender, or any quixotic nonsense of
that sort. In the first place, no man would act as herald, since he
would be shot or stabbed the instant his errand became known; in the
second, as Hozier had explained to Iris, the gunboat could slip her
cable very quickly, and Russo's artillerists might miss a moving object.
As it was, every gun scored, though the elevation was rather high. The
shells made a sad mess of the superstructure, but left the engines
intact. The sailors, on their part, knew exactly what had happened.
Every man who escaped death or serious injury from the bursting
missiles ran to his post. A wire hawser and mooring rope were severed
with axes, the screw revolved, and the _Andorinha_ was in motion.
Though winged, she still could fly. The second salvo of projectiles
was less damaging; again the gunners failed to reach the warship's
vitals. Her commander got his own armament into action, and managed to
demolish a warehouse and a grain elevator. Then he made off down the
coast toward Rio de Janeiro.
The sudden uproar stirred Maceio from roof to basement. Its
inhabitants poured into the Plaza. Every man vied with his neighbor in
yelling: "The revolution is here! _Viva Dom Corria_! _Abajo São
Paulo_!"
That last cry explained a good deal. The State of São Paulo had long
maintained a "corner" in Brazilian Presidents. De Sylva, a native of
Alagoas, was the first to break down the monopoly. Hence the cabal
against him; hence, too, the readiness of Maceio, together with many of
the smaller ports and the whole of the vast interior, to espouse his
cause.
For the purposes of this story, which is mainly concerned with the
lives and fortunes of a few insignificant people unknown to history, it
is not necessary to follow in detail the trumpetings, proclamations,
carousals, and arrests that followed Dom Corria's first success. It is
a truism that in events of international importance the very names of
the chief actors ofttimes go unrecorded. Future generations will ask,
perhaps:--Who blew up the _Maine_? Who persuaded the Tsar to break his
word anent Port Arthur? Who told Paul Kruger that the Continent of
Europe would support the Boers against Great Britain? Such instances
could be multiplied indefinitely, and the rule held good now in Brazil.
If any polite Pernambucano, Maceio-ite, or merchant of Bahia were
informed that President De Sylva's raid was alone rendered possible by
the help of a truculent British master-mariner and a dozen or so of his
hard-bitten crew, he (the said Brasileiro) might be skeptical, or, at
best, indifferent. But let the name of some puppet politician hailing
from São Paulo be mentioned, and his eyes would flash with angry
recognition; yet the _Andromeda's_ small contingent achieved more than
a whole army of conspirators.
The one incident, then, of a political nature, in which the victors of
the tussle on Fernando Noronha were publicly concerned, was the outcome
of a message cabled by Dom Corria while the smoke of Russo's cannon
still clung about the quay.
It was written in German, addressed to a Hamburg shipping firm, and ran
as follows: "Have sold _Unser Fritz_ to Senhor Pondillo of this port as
from September 1st, for 175,000 marks. If approved, cable
confirmation, and draw on Paris branch Deutsche Bank at sight. Franz
Schmidt, care German Consul, Maceio."
This harmless commercial item was read by many officials hostile to De
Sylva, yet it evoked no comment. Its first real effect was observable
in the counting-house of the Hamburg owners. There it was believed
that Captain Schmidt had either become a lunatic himself or was in
touch with a rich one. Schmidt was so well known to them that they
acted on the latter hypothesis. They cabled him their hearty
commendation, "drew" on the Paris bank by the next post, and awaited
developments. To their profound amazement, the money was paid. As
they had obtained 8,750 pounds for a vessel worth about one-quarter of
the sum, they had good reason to be satisfied. It mattered not a jot
to them that the sale was made "as from September 1st," or any other
date. They signed the desired quittance, cabled Schmidt again to ask
if Senhor Pondillo was in need of other ships of the _Unser Fritz_
class, and the members of the firm indulged that evening in the best
dinner that the tip-top restaurant of Hamburg could supply.
They were puzzled next day by certain statements in the newspapers, and
were called on to explain to a number of journalists that the ship had
left their ownership. She was at Maceio. Where was Maceio? Somewhere
in South America.
"_Es ist nicht von Bedeutung_," said the senior partner to his
associates. "Schmidt will write full particulars; when all is said and
done, we have the money."
Yet it did matter very greatly, as shall be seen. Here, again, was an
instance of an humble individual becoming a cog in the wheel of world
politics. Within less than a month Schmidt was vituperated by half the
chancelleries of Europe. A newspaper war raged over him. He became
the object of an Emperor's Jovian wrath. "What's the matter with
Schmidt? He's--all--right!" thundered the whole press of the United
States. And all because he had made a good bargain at a critical
moment!
But no one on board the _Unser Fritz_ was vexed by aught save present
tribulations when De Sylva and his _aide_ quitted the ship. Be sure
that not a soul thought of sleep. Every man, and the one woman whom
chance had thrown in their midst, remained on deck and watched the
slumbering town. It was only a small place. The _Andorinha_ lay at
one end of the harbor, the _Unser Fritz_ at the other. They were
barely half a mile apart, and Maceio climbed the sloping shore between
the two points.
Hozier, of course, had forgiven Iris for her aloofness, and Iris, with
that delightful inconsistency which ranks high among the many charms of
her sex, found that "Philip dear," though she might not marry him, was
her only possible companion. He, having acquired an experience
previously lacking, took care to fall in with her mood. She, weary of
a painful self-repression, cheated the frowning gods of "just this one
night." So they looked at the twinkling lights, spoke in whispers lest
they should miss any tokens of disturbance on shore, elbowed each other
comfortably on the rails of the bridge, and uttered no word of love or
future purpose.
They were discussing nothing more important than the sufferings of
Watts--whom Coke would not allow to go out of his sight--when a
lightning blaze leaped from the somber shadows of some buildings on the
quay lower down the river. Again, and many times again, the sudden
jets of flame started out across the black water. Iris, or Hozier, for
that matter, had never seen a field-piece fired by night, but before
the girl could do other than grip Philip's arm in a spasm of fear, the
thunder of the artillery rolled across the harbor, and the worn plates
of the _Unser Fritz_ quivered under the mere concussion.
"By jove, they're at it!" cried Philip.
Iris felt the thrill that shook him. She could not see his face, but
she knew that his blue eyes were shining like bright steel. She was
horrified at the thought of red war being so near, yet she was proud of
her lover. At these mortal crises, the woman demands courage in the
man.
"Oh!" she gasped, and clung to him more tightly.
Under such circumstances it was only to be expected that his arm would
clasp her round the waist; Disraeli's famous epigram was coined for
diplomacy, not for love-making.
Hozier strained his eyes through the gloom to try and discover the
effect of the cannonade on the gunboat. He was quickly alive to the
significance of the answering broadside. Then the black hull grew dim
and vanished. His sailor's sympathies went with the escaping ship.
"She has got away! I am jolly glad of it," he cried. "It was a dirty
trick to open fire on her in that fashion. Just how they served the
_Andromeda_, the hounds, only we had never a gun to tickle them up in
return."
"Do you think that many of the poor creatures have been killed?" asked
Iris tremulously. The din of ordnance and bursting shells had ceased
as suddenly as it began. Lights appeared in nearly every house.
Shouting men were running along the neighboring wharf. Maceio, never a
heavy sleeper in bulk, dreamed for a second of earthquakes, leaped out
of bed, and ran into the streets in the negligent costume which the
Italians describe by the delightful word, _confidenza_.
"I don't suppose so," Hozier reassured her. "If the artillery had made
good practice at that short range the gunboat must have sunk at her
moorings. Her men naturally couldn't miss the town. There was a rare
old rattle among the crockery behind the soldiers. Did you hear it? I
wonder what went over?"
He was as excited as a schoolboy, almost jubilant. Poor Iris! Though
she was now a veteran in scenes of death and disaster, she realized
that fate had erred in choosing her as a heroine.
Coke and Watts drew near.
"Dom Wot's-'is-name wasn't long in gettin' busy," chuckled Coke. "Gev'
her a dose of the _Andromeda's_ physic, eh? I'm sorry the blighters
managed to 'ook it."
Though he had just uttered an opinion directly contrary to his
captain's, Hozier deemed it wise to be non-committal.
"The guns must have been laid badly," he said.
"Mebbe, an' wot's more, d--n 'em, they knew there was something in
front that could shoot back."
So Coke was at least impartial. He cared not a jot how the Brazilians
slaughtered each other so long as De Sylva established the new regime
speedily.
"I never was a fightin' man meself," murmured Watts weakly. "That sort
of thing gives me a sinkin' sensation in me innards."
"Wot you want is a drink, me boy," said Coke.
Watts brightened. He drew a deep breath.
"I reelly believe that's wot's wrong with me," he said.
"Then I'll just ax the cook to 'urry up with the corfee," guffawed the
unfeeling skipper. "We'll all be the better for a snack an' somethink
'ot."
Iris managed to choke down an hysterical laugh. Coke was incorrigible,
yet she was conscious of a growing appreciation of his crude chivalry.
He boasted truly that he feared neither man nor devil. His chief
defect lay in being born several centuries too late. Had he flourished
during the Middle Ages, Coke would have carved out a kingdom.
Even while the men were thus callously discussing the tragedy that had
been enacted before their eyes, the miracle of the dawn was
transforming night into day. In the tropics there is no hesitancy
about sunrise. The splendid imagery of Genesis is literally exact.
"Let there be light; and there was light . . . and God divided the
light from the darkness." Long before the _Andorinha_ had crept round
the southern headland of the Macayo estuary she became visible again.
About six o'clock a grand review was held in the Plaza, or chief
square. Dom Corria, a resplendent personage on horseback, made a fine
speech. He was vociferously applauded, by both troops and populace.
General Russo, also mounted, assured him that Brazil was pining for
him. In effect, when he was firmly established in the Presidency, the
people would be allowed to vote for him.
"We have borne two years of misrule," vociferated the
commander-in-chief, "but it has vanished before the fiery breath of our
guns. We hail your Excellency as our liberator. Long live Dom Corria!
Down with----"
The fierce "Vivas" of the mob, combined with the general's weight,
proved too much for his charger, which plunged violently. Russo was
held on accidentally by his spurs. There was a lively interlude until
an orderly seized the bridle, and the general was able to disengage the
rowels from the animal's ribs. When tranquillity was restored, the
soldiers marched off to their quarters, and Colonel San Benavides
boarded the _Unser Fritz_. He invited Iris, Schmidt, Coke, and Hozier
to breakfast with the President at the principal hotel.
Watts was not included in the list of guests. Being indignant, he
expressed himself freely.
"Nice thing!" he said to Norrie. "We're not good enough to be axed.
It was a bit of all right w'en we 'elped 'im out of quod, but now 'e's
a bloomin' toff we're low-down sailormen--that's wot we are."
"Man, ye're fair daft," growled the Scot. "It's as plain as the neb on
yer face that he canna dae wi' a', so he just picked the twa skippers
and the lassie; he kent weel she wadna stir an inch withoot Hozier."
Norrie was right, as it happened, but Watts added another grudge to his
score against De Sylva.
Now, though dynasties totter and empires crash, the first thing a woman
thinks of when bidden to a public gathering is her attire. Iris
declared most emphatically that to expect her to go ashore and meet
certain military and civic dignitaries while she was wearing a costume
originally purchased for mountaineering, which had endured the rough
usage of the past two days, was "for to laugh." She was speaking
French, and that was the literal phrase she used. The courteous San
Benavides smiled away her protest. His Excellency had foreseen the
difficulty. Those who knew Dom Corria best would not credit that he
should forget anything. The Senhora Pondillo awaited Iris at the hotel
with a supply of new clothing. Captain Schmidt, of course, could
depend on his own wardrobe, but Captain Coke and the Senhor Hozier
would find a tradesman in their rooms who had guaranteed to equip them
suitably. Moreover, the same outfitter would visit the ship during the
morning and make good the lost raiment and boots of the other officers
and men of the _Andromeda_. San Benavides spoke like the ambassador of
a prince, and, in the sequel, there was no stint of deeds to give
effect to his promises.
On the way to the hotel Iris saw a large building labeled "Casa do
Correio e Telegraphia." It was not surprising that she had not thought
earlier of the necessity of cabling to Liverpool. She blushed, and
looked involuntarily at Hozier.
"I must send a message to my uncle," she said.
Were Philip a professed spiritualist, the spectral shapes of David
Verity and Dickey Bulmer could not have been more effectually
"projected" into his astral plane at Maceio than they were at that
instant. He had not set eyes on either of the men, but the girl's
words conjured them into being, and the vision was vastly disagreeable.
San Benavides, of course, was anxious to oblige Iris in this as in
every other respect. He procured the requisite form, told her the
cost, which led to a condensed version of the original draft, smoothed
away the slight hindrance of foreign money tendered in payment, and
arranged the due delivery of a reply. Perhaps he smiled when he read
what she had written. The words were comprehensible even to one who
did not understand English:
"_Andromeda_ lost. Arrived here safely. Address, Yorke, Maceio."
There was a space at the foot of the form on which it was necessary to
subscribe her name and local address. So she wrote, "Iris Yorke,
steamship _Unser Fritz_, Maceio harbor." Hozier was standing by her
side as she printed the words legibly. She looked up at him with a
curiously tense expression that he did not fathom immediately. They
were in the busy main street again ere its meaning occurred to him.
The cable committed her irrevocably. She felt that she was signing her
own condemnation!
Among the four people, therefore, who entered the Hotel Grande in the
Rua do Sul there were two whose feelings were the reverse of cheerful.
But convention is stronger than the primal impulses--sometimes it
triumphs over death itself--and convention was all-powerful now. It
led Iris away captive in the train of the smiling and voluble Senhora
Pondillo, and it immersed Hozier in a tangle of fearsome words which
turned out to be the stock in trade of a clothier. The mere male of
Maceio decks himself with gay plumage. Philip was hard put to it
before he secured some garments which did not irresistibly recall the
heroes of certain musical comedies popular in England.
Coke experienced worse vicissitudes. Even the variety and richness of
a master mariner's vocabulary was taxed to its utmost resources when he
was coaxed into "trying on" a short jacket apparently intended for a
toreador. Such minor troubles, however, were overcome in time. A
razor and a hot bath were by no means the least important items of the
rejuvenating process, and when the two men entered the salon where Dom
Corria was holding an impromptu reception they looked like a couple of
coffee-planters from the Argentine. Schmidt was there already. For
some reason, the new President seemed to be so fond of the _Unser
Fritz's_ commander that he refused to be parted from him. It was not
until long afterward that Hozier discovered the reason of this mushroom
friendship. The German consul was in the room.
The appearance of Iris caused something akin to a sensation. The Dona
Pondillo could not create English clothes, nor bad copies of French,
but her own daughters dressed in the height of local fashion, and Dom
Corria's earnest request had made them generous. The dark-eyed,
olive-complexioned women of Alagoas are often exceedingly beautiful,
but few of those present had ever seen a brown-haired, brown-eyed,
fair-faced Englishwoman. Iris was remarkably good-looking, even among
the pretty girls of her own county of Lancashire. Her large, limpid
eyes, well-molded nose, and perfectly formed mouth were the dominant
features of a face that had all the charm of youth and health. Her
smooth skin, brown with exposure to sun and air, glowed into a rich
crimson when she found herself in the midst of so many strangers. The
slightly delicate semblance induced by the hardships and loss of rest
which fell to her lot since the _Andromeda_ went to pieces on the
Grand-père rock in no wise detracted from her appearance. She wore the
elegant costume of a Maceio belle with ease and distinction. If she
was flurried by the undisguised murmur of admiration that greeted her,
she did not show it beyond the first rush of color.
Dom Corria, dragging Schmidt with him, hurried to meet her. Surprise
at his gala attire helped to conquer her natural timidity, for the
President was gorgeous in blue and gold.
"My good wishes are soon changed into congratulations, Senhor," she
said.
"Ah, my dear young lady, I am overjoyed that you should be here to
witness my success," he cried. Then, as if he had waited for this
moment, he turned to the assembled company and delivered an eloquent
panegyric of the _Andromeda's_ crew and their _deusa deliciosa_--for
that is what he called Iris--a delightful goddess. He had made many
speeches already that day, but none was more heartfelt than this. His
eulogy was unstinted. Luckily for Iris, she was so conscious of the
attention she attracted that she kept her eyes steadfastly fixed on the
carpet. Otherwise, having a well-developed sense of humor, she must
have laughed outright had she seen Coke's face.
He, of course, understood no word that was said. But De Sylva's
animated gestures and flashing eyes were enough. Ever and anon, the
excitable citizens of Maceio would turn and gaze at one or other of the
three, while loud cries of "Bravo!" punctuated the President's oratory.
When Coke's turn came for these demonstrations, he tried to grin, but
was only able to scowl. For once in his stormy life he was nonplused.
His brick-red countenance glowed with heat and embarrassment. At the
close of the speech he muttered to Hozier:
"Wish I'd ha' known wot sort of beano I was comin' to. Dam if I ain't
meltin'."
This ordeal ended, déjeuner was served. The President took in Iris and
the Dona Pondillo. They were the only ladies present. The three
sailors, some staff officers, and a few local celebrities, made up the
rest of the company.
Hozier, though by no means indifferent to the good fare provided, was
wondering how many hours would elapse before Iris's cablegram reached
Verity's office, when some words caught his ear that drove all other
considerations from his mind.
"I am sorry to say that, in my opinion, there is not the slightest
chance of your message reaching England to-day, Miss Yorke," the
President was saying.
"But why not?" she asked, with an astonishment that was not wholly the
outcome of regret.
"The cable does not land here, and the transmitting stations will be
closely watched, now that my arrival in Brazil is known. Even the
simplest form of words will be twisted into a political significance.
No, I think it best to be quite candid. Until I control Pernambuco,
which should be within a week or ten days, you may rest assured that no
private cablegrams will be forwarded."
"Oh, dear, I fully expected a reply to-day," she said, and now that she
realized the effect of a further period of anxiety on the Bootle
partnership she was genuinely dismayed.
"You may be sure it will not come," said Dom Corria. "Indeed I may as
well take this opportunity of explaining to you--and to my other
English friends"--with the interpolated sentence his glance dwelt
quietly on Hozier and Coke--"the exact position locally. You see,
Maceio is a small place, and easily approached from the sea. A hostile
fleet could knock it to pieces in half an hour, and it would be a poor
reward for my supporters' loyalty if my presence subjected them to a
bombardment. I have no strong defenses or heavy guns to defy attack,
and my troops are not more than a thousand men, all told. It is
obvious that I must make for the interior. There, I gather strength as
I advance, the warships cannot pursue, and I can choose my own
positions to meet the half-hearted forces that Dom Miguel will collect
to oppose me. In fact, I and every armed man in Maceio march
up-country this afternoon."
Iris, by this time, was thoroughly frightened, and Hozier, who read
more in De Sylva's words than was possible in her case, was watching
the speaker's calm face with a fixity that might have disconcerted many
men. Dom Corria seemed to be unaware of either the girl's distress or
Philip's white anger.
"You naturally ask how I propose to safeguard the companions of my
flight from Fernando Noronha," he went on. "I answer at once--by
taking them with me. The Senhora Pondillo and her family will
accompany her husband to my _quinta_ at Las Flores. A special train
will take all of us to the nearest railway station this afternoon.
Thence my estate is but a day's march. You and my other friends from
both ships will be quite safe and happy there until order is restored.
You must come. The men's lives, at any rate, would not be worth an
hour's purchase if my opponent's forces found them here, and I feel
certain that one or more cruisers will arrive off Maceio to-night. For
you, this excursion will be quite a pleasant experience, and you can
absolutely rely on my promise to send news of your safety to England at
the very first opportunity."
Iris could say nothing under the shock of this intelligence. She
looked at Philip, and their eyes met. They both remembered the glance
they had exchanged at the post-office. Preoccupied by their own
thoughts, neither of them had noticed the smile San Benavides indulged
in on that occasion, nor did they pay heed to the fact that he was
smiling again now, apparently at some story told him by General Russo.
But San Benavides was sharp-witted. He needed no interpreter to make
clear the cause of the chill that had fallen on the President's end of
the table.
"He has told them," he thought, perhaps. And, if further surmise were
hazarded as to his views, they might well prove to be concerned with
the wonderful things that can happen within a week or ten
days--especially when things are happening at the rate taken by events
just then in Brazil.
Of course, as a philosopher, San Benavides was right; it was in the
role of prophet that he came to grief, this being the pre-ordained fate
of all false prophets.