The passing of the fugitive _insurrectos_; their mad turning at bay
for one savage rally; their wavering and breaking; their disorganized
stampede spurred on by a decimating fire and the bayonet's point:
these were all incidents of a sudden squall that swept violently
through the narrow street, to leave it again empty and quiet. It was
empty except for the grotesque shapes that stretched in all the
undignified awkwardness of violent death and helplessness, feeding
thin lines of red that trickled between the cobblestones. It was
silent except for echoes of the stubborn fighting coming from the
freer spaces of the plazas and _alamedas_, where the remnants of the
invading force clung to their positions behind improvised barricades
with the doggedness of men for whom surrender holds no element of hope
or mercy.
Into the canyon-like street where the frenzy of combat had blazed up
with such a sudden spurt and burned itself out so quickly, Saxon had
walked around the angle of a wall, just in time to find himself
precipitated into one of the fiercest incidents of the bloody
forenoon.
Vegas and Miraflores had not surrendered. Everywhere, the insistent
noise told that the opposing forces were still debating every block of
the street, but in many outlying places, as in this _calle_, the
revolutionists were already giving back. The attacking army had
counted on launching a blow, paralyzing in its surprise, and had
itself encountered surprise and partial preparedness. It had set its
hope upon a hill, and the hill had failed. A prophet might already
read that _Vegas y Libertad_ was the watchword of a lost cause, and
that its place in history belonged on a page to be turned down.
But the narrow street in which Saxon lay remained quiet. An occasional
balcony window would open cautiously, and an occasional head would be
thrust out to look up and down its length. An occasional shape on the
cobbles would moan painfully, and shift its position with the return
of consciousness, or grow more grotesque in the stiffness of death as
the hours wore into late afternoon, but the great iron-studded
street-doors of the houses remained barred, and no one ventured along
the sidewalks.
Late in the day, when the city still echoed to the snapping of
musketry, and deeper notes rumbled through the din, as small
field-pieces were brought to bear upon opposing barricades, the thing
that Saxon had undertaken to bring about occurred of its own
initiative. Word reached the two leaders that the representatives of
the foreign powers requested an armistice for the removal of the
wounded and a conference at the American Legation, looking toward
possible adjustment. Both the government and the _insurrecto_
commanders grasped at the opportunity to let their men, exhausted with
close-fighting, catch a breathing space, and to remove from the zone
of fire those who lay disabled in the streets.
Then, as the firing subsided, some of the bolder civilians ventured
forth in search for such acquaintances as had been caught in the
streets between the impact of forces in the unwarned battle. For this
hour, at least, all men were safe, and there were some with matters to
arrange, who might not long enjoy immunity.
Among them was Howard Rodman, who followed up the path he fancied
Saxon must have taken. Rodman was haggard and distrait. His plans were
all in ruins, and, unless an amnesty were declared, he must be once
more the refugee. His belief that Saxon was really Carter led him into
two false conclusions. First, he inferred from this premise that
Saxon's life would be as greatly imperiled as his own, and it followed
that he, being in his own words "no quitter," must see Saxon out of
the city, if the man were alive. He presumed that in the effort to
reach the legation Saxon had taken, as would anyone familiar with the
streets, a circuitous course which would bring him to the "_Club
Nacional_," from which point he could reach the house he sought over
the roofs. He had no doubt that the American had failed in his
mission, because, by any route, he must make his way through streets
where he would encounter fighting.
Rodman's search became feverish. There was little time to lose. The
conference might be brief--and, after that, chaos! But fortune favored
him. Chance led him into the right street, and he found the body.
Being alone, he stood for a moment indecisive. He was too light a man
to carry bodily the wounded friend who lay at his feet. He could
certainly not leave the man, for his ear at the chest, his finger on
the pulse, assured him that Saxon was alive. He had been struck by a
falling timber from a balcony above, and the skull seemed badly hurt,
probably fractured.
As Rodman stood debating the dilemma, a shadow fell across the
pavement. He turned with a nervous start to recognize at his back a
newcomer, palpably a foreigner and presumably a Frenchman, though his
excellent English, when he spoke, was only slightly touched with
accent. The stranger dropped to his knee, and made a rapid
examination, as Rodman had done. It did not occur to him at the moment
that the man standing near him was an acquaintance of the other who
lay unconscious at their feet.
"The gentleman is evidently a non-combatant--and he is badly hurt,
monsieur," he volunteered. "We most assuredly cannot leave him here to
die."
Rodman answered with some eagerness:
"Will you help me to carry him to a place where he'll be safe?"
"Gladly." The Frenchman looked about. "Surely, he can be cared for
near here."
But Rodman laid a persuasive hand on the other's arm.
"He must be taken to the water front," he declared, earnestly. "After
the conference, he would not be safe here."
The stranger drew back, and stood for a moment twisting his dark
mustache, while his eyes frowned inquiringly. He was disinclined to
take part in proceedings that might have political after-effects. He
had volunteered to assist an injured civilian, not a participant, or
refugee. There were many such in the streets.
"This is a matter of life and death," urged Rodman, rapidly. "This man
is Mr. Robert Saxon. He had left this coast with a clean bill of
health. I explain all this because I need your help. When he had made
a part of his return journey, he learned by chance that the city was
threatened, and that a lady who was very important to him was in
danger. He hastened back. In order to reach her, he became involved,
and used the _insurrecto_ countersign. Mr. Saxon is a famous artist."
Rodman was giving the version of the story he knew the wounded man
would wish to have told. He said nothing of Carter.
At the last words, the stranger started forward.
"A famous painter!" His voice was full of incredulous interest.
"Monsieur, you can not by any possibility mean that this is Robert A.
Saxon, the first disciple of Frederick Marston!" The man's manner
became enthused and eager. "You must know, monsieur," he went on,
"that I am Louis Herve, myself a poor copyist of the great Marston. At
one time, I had the honor to be his pupil. To me, it is a pleasure to
be of any service to Mr. Saxon. What are we to do?"
"There is a small sailors' tavern near the mole," directed Rodman; "we
must take him there. I shall find a way to have him cared for on a
vessel going seaward. I have a yacht five miles away, but we can
hardly reach it in time."
"But medical attention!" demurred Monsieur Herve. "He must have that."
Rodman was goaded into impatience by the necessity for haste. He was
in no mood for debate.
"Yes, and a trained nurse!" he retorted, hotly. "We must do the best
we can. If we don't hurry, he will need an undertaker and a coroner.
Medical attention isn't very good in Puerto Frio prisons!"
The two men lifted Saxon between them, and carried the unconscious man
toward the mole.
Their task was like that of many others. They passed a sorry
procession of litters, stretchers, and bodies hanging limply in the
arms of bearers. No one paid the slightest attention to them, except
an occasional sentry who gazed on in stolid indifference.
At the tavern kept by the Chinaman, Juan, and frequented by the
roughest elements that drift against a coast such as this, Rodman
exchanged greetings with many acquaintances. There were several
wounded officers of the Vegas contingent, taking advantage of the
armistice to have their wounds dressed and discuss affairs over a
bottle of wine. Evidently, they had come here instead of to more
central and less squalid places, with the same idea that had driven
Rodman. They were the rats about to leave the sinking ship--if they
could find a way to leave.
The tavern was an adobe building with a corrugated-iron roof and a
large open _patio_, where a dismal fountain tinkled feebly, and one or
two frayed palms stood dusty and disconsolate in the tightly trodden
earth. About the walls were flamboyant portraits of saints. From a
small perch in one corner, a yellow and green parrot squawked
incessantly.
But it was the life about the rough tables of the area that gave the
picture its color and variety. Some had been pressed into service to
support the wounded. About others gathered men in tattered uniforms;
men with bandaged heads and arms in slings. Occasionally, one saw an
alien, a sailor whose clothes declared him to have no place in the
drama of the scene. These latter were usually bolstering up their
bravado with _aguardiente_ against the sense of impending uncertainty
that freighted the atmosphere.
The Frenchman, sharing with Rodman the burden of the unconscious
painter, instinctively halted as the place with its wavering shadows
and flickering lights met his gaze at the door. It was a picture of
color and dramatic intensity. He seemed to see these varied faces,
upon which sat defeat and suffering, sketched on a broad canvas, as
Marston or Saxon might have sketched them.
Then, he laid Saxon down on a corner table, and stood watching his
chance companion who recognized brother intriguers. Suddenly, Rodman's
eyes brightened, and he beckoned his lean hand toward two men who
stood apart. Both of them had faces that were in strong contrast to
the swarthy Latin-American countenances about them. One was thin and
blond, the other dark and heavy. The two came across the _patio_
together, and after a hasty glance the slender man bent at once over
the prostrate figure on the table. His deft fingers and manner
proclaimed him the surgeon. His uniform was nondescript; hardly more a
uniform than the riding clothes worn by Saxon himself, but on his
shoulders he had pinned a major's straps. This was Dr. Cornish, of the
Foreign Legion, but for the moment he was absorbed in his work and
forgetful of his disastrously adopted profession of arms.
He called for water and bandages, and, while he worked, Rodman was
talking with the other man. Herve stood silently looking on. He
recognized that the dark man was a ship-captain--probably commanding a
tramp freighter.
"When did you come?" inquired Rodman.
"Called at this port for coal," responded the other. "I've been down
to Rio with flour, and I have to call at La Guayra. I sail in two
hours."
"Where do you go from Venezuela?"
"I sailed out of Havre, and I'm going back with fruit. The Doc's had
about enough. I'm goin' to take him with me."
For a moment, Rodman stood speculating, then he bent eagerly forward.
"Paul," he whispered, "you know me. I've done you a turn or two in the
past."
The sailor nodded.
"Now, I want you to do me a turn. I want you to take this man with
you. He must get out of here, and he can't care for himself. He'll be
all right--either all right or dead--before you land on the other
side. The Doc here will look after him. He's got money. Whatever you
do for him, he'll pay handsomely. He's a rich man." The filibuster was
talking rapidly and earnestly.
"Where do I take him?" asked the captain, with evident reluctance.
"Wherever you're going; anywhere away from here. He'll make it all
right with you."
The captain caught the surgeon's eyes, and the surgeon nodded.
Rodman suddenly remembered Saxon's story, the story of the old past
that was nothing more to him than another life, and the other man upon
whom he had turned his back. Possibly, there might even be efforts at
locating the conspirators. He leaned over, and, though he sunk his
voice low, Herve heard him say:
"This gentleman doesn't want to be found just now. If people ask about
him, you don't know who he is, _comprende_?"
"That's no lie, either," growled the ship-master. "I ain't got an idea
who he is. I ain't sure I want him on my hands."
A sudden quiet came on the place. An officer had entered the door,
his face pale, and, as though with an instantaneous prescience that he
bore bad tidings, the noises dropped away. The officer raised his
hand, and his words fell on absolute silence as he said in Spanish:
"The conference is ended. Vegas surrenders--without terms."
"You see!" exclaimed Rodman, excitedly. "You see, it's the last
chance! Paul, you've got to take him! In a half-hour, the armistice
will be over. For God's sake, man!" He ended with a gesture of appeal.
The place began to empty.
"Get him to my boat, then," acceded the captain. "Here, you fellows,
lend a hand. Come on, Doc." The man who had a ship at anchor was in a
hurry. "Don't whisper that I'm sailing; I can't carry all the people
that want to leave this town to-night. I've got to slip away. Hurry
up."
A quarter of an hour later, Herve stood at the mole with Rodman,
watching the row-boat that took the other trio out to the tramp
steamer, bound ultimately for France. Rodman seized his watch, and
studied its face under a street-lamp with something akin to frantic
anxiety.
"Where do you go, monsieur?" inquired the Frenchman.
"Go? God knows!" replied Rodman, as he gazed about in perplexity. "But
I've got to beat it, and beat it quick."
A moment later, he was lost in the shadows.