"You knew I'd fire you!"
"_Si!_"
The American tempered his indignant glare with a hint of curiosity. "You
must love that San Blas girl."
"What do you say?"
"You must love her--better than your job at least?"
"_Si_, señor. I suppose so."
"What is she like, Inocencio?"
"Well, she is just like other women. All women are alike--only some are
fat. One time I had a female from Martinique, and she acted just the
same as this one."
"Humph! If she is like all the others, what the devil made you--do it?"
"Señor, you have plenty of money, and yet one night I saw you bet two
thousand pesos on the _rouge_. Why did you do that, eh?"
"That is altogether different."
The Haytian smiled. "I am tired of these females at Colon. They are
common people--very common. Then, too, those San Blas people, they are
so scared that somebody is going to steal a woman! Maybe if they had
left me asleep on shore I would never have noticed no woman at all. But
they don't trust me, so, sure enough--I steal one."
"And you say she came willingly?" queried Williams, incredulously.
"Oh yes! When her people commanded her to jump from my schooner she
refused them. I did not understand at the time, but by an' by she told
me." He swelled his chest with pride. "I guess she never seen so brave a
man as me before. Eh, señor?"
"Humph! I guess I never will _sabe_ you niggers," acknowledged the
American.
Inocencio corrected his recent employer, but without show of the
slightest heat:
"I am no nigger, señor; I am Haytian. She is San Blas Indian. My father
was not even so dark as me. Black men have thick heads and you have to
beat them, but nobody ever beat me, not even a white man. When those
niggers sleep I lie awake and study; I make schemes. That is why I left
Hayti."
"Do you understand that you've got me into a hell of a fix? I've got to
take a trip down there myself to square things."
Inocencio lighted a black cigarette and blew the smoke through his nose.
Evidently other people's troubles did not concern him. Recognizing the
futility of reproach or indignation, the former speaker continued:
"But see here, now! This girl! You can't keep her."
"Eh? Who's going to take her away?" interrogated the Haytian, quickly.
"Bah! One man tried that, and--I killed him with my machete." His thin
lips drew back at the memory, and for an instant his yellow face showed
a hint of what had made his reputation.
"She won't stay with you."
"Oh yes, she will. She was wild, very wild at first, but--she will
stay."
"And how about her people? They're bad _hombres_. Even the government
lets them alone--fortunately for you."
"They won't make no trouble about that Markeeña. He is quite dead, I
think."
"By Jove! You're a cold-blooded brute!"
"Señor! You told me once that nobody had ever married a San Blas female,
eh?"
"Yes. Even the old Spaniards tried it, but the blood is clean, so far;
something unusual, too, in this country."
Inocencio began to laugh silently, as if at a joke. "Some day, maybe,
you will see a San Blas half-breed playing in the streets of Colon,"
said he.
"I don't believe it."
"I'll bet you my wages--two hundred pesos. Come! I'll show you."
"You get out of here," said the American, roughly. "That's something I
don't allow anybody to joke about." And, when the mulatto had gone, he
continued aloud: "By Heaven! this is sure a tough country for a white
man!"
Inocencio strode through the streets toward the swamp that lies behind
the town, oblivious to the grilling midday heat that smote him from
above, from the concrete walks beneath, and from the naked walls on
every side. It was before the days of the American occupation, and the
streets were nothing more than open cesspools, the stench from which
offended sorely. Buzzards flapped among the naked children at play in
the mire beside the sewer ditches.
The place was filled with everything unhealthy, and had long been known
as the earth's great festering sore. Neither the Orient nor the farthest
tropics boasted another spot like Colon, or Aspinwall, as it had been
called, with its steaming, hip-deep streets and its brilliant flowering
graveyards. So hateful had it proved, in fact, that when seamen signed
articles binding themselves to work their ships into any corner of the
globe they inserted a clause exempting them from entering Aspinwall.
Now, however, the town was lively, for this was the dry season, when the
fever was at its lowest, and the resorts were filled with the flotsam
and jetsam of a tropic world. It was a polyglot town, moreover, set upon
a fever-ridden mangrove isle serving as one terminus of the world's
short cut, and in it had collected all the parasites that live upon the
moving herd.
The French work of digging had but served to augment the natural
population by a no less desperate set from overseas, and now from the
open doors of their cubbyholes women of every color greeted the
passer-by.
Inocencio, whose last exploit was already a thing of gossip, received
unusual attention, there being no color line in Colon town. White,
yellow, and black women fawned upon him and bade him tarry, but he
merely paused to listen or to fan their admiration by a word, then idled
onward, pleased at the notice he evoked.
Once fairly out of the pest-hole, he threaded his way through the swamp
toward the other shore of the island. Blue land-crabs scuttled among the
mangrove roots at his approach; the place was noisy with the hum of
insects; on every hand the heated mud gave forth a sound like the smack
of huge moist lips. But on the other side he came into a different
domain. Here the sea-breeze banished the hovering miasma, the shore was
of powdered coral sand, a litter of huts drowsed beneath a grove of
cocoa palms, while a fleet of _cayucas_ lay moored to stakes inside the
breakers or bleaching in the sun.
Captain Inocencio was a person of some importance here, for, besides his
occupation as a trader, he exacted toll from a score or more of lazy
blacks. They were a lawless crew, gathered from the remotest corners of
the Indies, composed of Jamaicans, 'Bajans, and Saint Lucians, all
reared to easy life and ripe for such an occasional crafty pilgrimage as
Inocencio might devise. They had gathered around him naturally, paying
him scant revenue, to be sure, yet offering a certain loyalty that had
its uses. Although the village was but a mile from the town itself,
Inocencio's word was law; when the Colombian soldiers were called upon
to visit the spot, they came in numbers, never singly.
The girl was seated on the rickety porch of his cabin, her feet drawn
under her, her chin upon her knees. The other women were gossiping
loudly, staring at her from a distance, but her black eyes only
smoldered sullenly. He swore at the curious negro wenches and sent the
girl about her household duties, then stretched himself in the shade and
eyed her complacently until he fell asleep.
It was a week later that one of his men came to him breathlessly to
announce that the San Blas Indians were in the town.
"How many?" queried Inocencio.
"Four boat-loads."
"Did they come to trade?"
"Oh yes, boss."
This was no unusual thing, for they often displayed their little cargoes
of nuts and fruits and vegetables upon the water-front. Inocencio rose
lazily and stretched, then, calling the woman, explained the tidings to
her.
"I will go see them," he announced, finally.
"Oh, boss," cried the black man, "they will kill you!"
He shrugged his brawny shoulders and, thrusting the machete beneath his
arm, took the trail out through the mangrove swamp.
Straight to the Colon water-front he went, and there flaunted himself
before the men from down the coast. Here and there he strolled, casting
back their looks of hatred with a bravado that attracted all the idlers
in the neighborhood. Wenches nudged one another and tittered nervously,
pointing him out and telling anew the story of his daring. Men watched
him with wondering admiration, and he heard them murmuring:
"Ah, that Inocencio!"
"_El diabolo!_"
"And so brave! He would fight an army."
"See the great arms of him, and the eye like a tiger."
It was the keenest pleasure he had ever tasted.
As for his enemies, they kept their silence. They bartered their stock
and, having made their purchases, raised sail and scudded away down the
coast whence they had come.
Inocencio got drunk that night--for who could withstand the lavish
flattery that poured from every _cantina_ up and down the length of
Bottle Alley? Who could resist the smiles of the chalk-faced females of
Cash Street, all eager to laud his bravery. Some time before morning he
reeled into his shack beneath the palms, to find the woman waiting
fearfully. He cursed at her for staring at him so, and fell upon his
bed.
In the months that followed he seldom lost an opportunity of showing
himself to the San Blas men when they came to town, but in time this
pleasure palled as all others had, for the woman's kindred seemed
incapable of resentment. Gradually, also, he became accustomed to her
presence, and spent much of his time among the women of Cash Street. On
one occasion he returned from an orgy of this sort to find her talking
to one of his men, a young Barbadian with a giant's frame. It was only
by accident, due to the liquor in him, that his hand went wild and he
missed killing the fellow; then he beat the woman unmercifully.
Chancing to meet the Señor Williams on the street some time later, he
said: "_Buenas dias_, señor! You see, Captain Inocencio is still alive
and the woman has not run away."
His former employer grunted, as if neither phenomenon were worthy of
comment.
"I've heard how you rub it into those San Blas fellows," Williams
remarked. "I can't understand why they never avenged Markeeña."
"Bah! They have heard of me," said the Haytian, boastfully; then, with a
grin, "You remember our bet, señor?"
"I never made you a bet," the American denied, hotly. "But I've a mind
to. I've been here ten years, and I think I know those people."
"Two hundred pesos!"
"You'll never have a child by her. They won't allow it. They'll get her
and you, too, in ample time. I tell you, their blood is clean."
"Two hundred pesos that she brings me a San Blas half-breed within two
months," smiled the mulatto, insolently.
And Williams exclaimed: "I'll do it. It's worth two hundred 'silver' to
see a miracle."
"_Bueno!_ I'll bring him to you when he comes."
Thereafter Inocencio gave over beating the woman.
Back at the little settlement beyond the swamp the coming event did not
pass without comment, and although the black women were kind to their
straight-haired neighbor, she never made friends with them, nor did she
ever accompany Inocencio to town. On the contrary, she seemed obsessed
by an ever-present dread, and whenever she heard that her own people
were near she concealed herself and did not appear again until they were
gone. Bred into her deepest conscience was the certainty that her tribe
would make desperate attempt to preserve its most sacred tradition, and
hence, as the days dragged on and her condition became more pronounced
her fears increased likewise. She began to look forward to the birth of
the child as the crisis upon which her own life hinged. Inocencio did
his best to dissipate her fears, explaining boastfully that the mere
mention of his name was ample protection for her, and, did he wish it,
not even the army of the Republic could take her from him. But still she
would not be convinced.
And then, in the dark of the December moon, the expected came. It was
that season when the rains were at their heaviest, when rust and rot
might be felt by the fingers. A gray mold had crept over all things
indoors; a myriad of insect pests burdened the air.
In the rare intervals between showers every faintest draught deluged the
huts from the dripping palm leaves overhead. From the swamp arose a
noxious vapor whenever the sun exposed itself; tree-toads shrilled
incessantly. Outside, the surf maintained its sullen murmur; through the
gloom of starless nights its phosphorescent outlines rushed across the
reef like phantom serpents in parade.
In the dead of a night like this the visitors arrived.
Even the heavy animal slumber of the blacks was broken by the scream
that issued from the hut of Captain Inocencio. And then the sound of
such fighting! The negroes might have rushed to the assistance of their
leader had it not been for the echo of that awful woman-cry hovering
over the village like a shadow. It filled the air and hung there,
saturating the breathless night with such unnamable terror that the
wakened children began to whimper and the women buried their heads in
the ragged bedding to keep it out. Death was among them and the bravest
cowered while through the quivering silence there came the sounds of a
mighty combat lasting for such an interminable time that the listeners
became hysterical.
At length they discovered that the night was dead again, save for the
sudden patter of raindrops on the thatches when the palm fronds stirred.
One of them called shrilly, another answered, but they did not venture
forth. Afterward they fancied they had heard the thrust of paddles in
the lagoon and strange voices dwindling away to seaward, but they were
not sure. Eventually, however, the stillness got upon them more
fearfully than the former noises, and they stirred. Then, in time, they
heard the voice of Inocencio himself cursing faintly, as if from a great
distance. A light showed through the cracks of a hut, and Nicholas, the
least timid, emerged with a lantern held on high. He summoned the rest
around him, then went toward the black shadow of Inocencio's dwelling
with a score of white-eyed, dusky faces at his shoulder.
The door was down, and from the threshold they could see what the front
room contained. It was Nicholas who, with clattering teeth and nerveless
fingers, dragged a blanket from the bed and covered the woman's figure.
It was he who traced the feeble voice to the wreck of a room behind, and
strove to lift Inocencio out of the welter in which he lay. But the
Haytian blasted him with curses for opening his wounds; so they propped
him against the wall by his direction, and bound him about with strips
torn from the mattress. Then he called for a cigarette, and its ashes
were upon his breast when the French doctor arrived from the hospital on
the Point.
When the white man's work was done, the mulatto addressed him weakly:
"Will m'sieu' do me a great favor?"
"Certainly."
"M'sieu' is acquainted with the American, Señor Williams?"
"_Oui._"
"Will _m'sieu' le docteur_ please to tell him that Captain Inocencio has
won his wager?"
"I don't understand."
"Listen! In the room yonder, under the bed, m'sieu' will find a little
boy baby rolled up in a blanket. The woman heard them at the door, and
she was just in time. Oh, she knew they would be coming."
The French doctor nodded his comprehension. "But--your wife herself?"
said he. "Perhaps when you are well again you can have your vengeance.
The soldiers will--"
"Bah! What is the use?" interrupted Inocencio. "The world is full of
women." Then, strangely enough, he bared his yellow teeth in a smile of
rarest tenderness. "But this boy of mine! They came to kill him,
m'sieu', and to show that the San Blas blood cannot be crossed; but the
woman was too quick of wit. They did not find him, praise God! _Le
docteur_ has seen many children, perhaps, but never a child like this."
He ran on with a father's tender boastfulness. "M'sieu' will note the
back and the legs of him. And see, he did not even cry, poor little man!
Oh, he is like his father for bravery! He will be my vengeance, for he
has the San Blas blood in him; he will be a man like me, too. Bring him
to me quickly; I must see him again." He was still babbling fondly to
the negroes about him when the doctor reappeared, empty-handed.
"The child is dead," said the white man, simply.
In the silence Inocencio rose to a sitting posture. His fierce eyes grew
wild with a fright that had never been there until this moment. Then,
before they could prevent him, he had gained his feet. He waved them
aside and went into the room of death, walking like a strong man. A
candle guttering beside the open window betrayed the utter nakedness of
the place. With one movement of his great, bony hands he ripped the
planks of the bed asunder and stared downward. Then he turned to the
east and, raising his arms above his head, gave a terrible cry. He began
to sway, and even as the doctor leaped to save him he fell with a crash.
It was Nicholas who told the priest that the French doctor would not let
them move him; for he lay upon his face at the feet of the San Blas
woman, his arms flung outward like the arms of a cross.