GUESTS OF TITO ROZA
Captain Fosdes, who appeared to have been constituted their guide and
mentor, appeared shortly after the commander’s departure and suggested
a stroll. The sentinel watched them go with sullen indifference and
made no move to accompany them. Nor, save for the captain, was any
guard placed about them.
“Guess Roza knows,” said Hugh as they followed the captain along the
road, “that we’re safe enough. Look at that desert out there, will you?
A fat chance we’d have of getting away!”
“With horses,” began Jack in low tones.
“They’d catch us. We don’t know the trails. Guess the only way we’ll
get out of this forsaken hole is the way we came, by air.”
“We didn’t; we came on horseback.”
“Oh, well, you know what I mean. Gee, I’m beginning to get a little bit
warm for the first time since last night. Who’d ever think it could be
as cold as this in Mexico!”
“I suppose you can be cold anywhere if you get three or four thousand
feet up.”
“Wish I was up three thousand more. I wouldn’t mind the cold a bit!”
They wandered around the little town for most an hour, the captain
striving heroically to entertain them. They saw the tiny church and
shook hands with the derby-hatted priest, who knew a few words of
English and was delighted to use them. They visited the market place
and squandered a few silver coins for green oranges, prickly pears,
nuts and villainous tasting cheeses. Considering the size of the town,
it was remarkable how many tattered, dirty merchants sat on the ground
with their wares spread before them on squares of cloth or ragged
baskets or, failing these, on a flat stone. They were a sad, dull lot,
those Indians and half-breeds; scantily clad, unwashed, unshaven,
starved-looking. There were many women and young girls among them, bare
of head, their black hair plastered flat; bare of foot as well in spite
of the cold ground, and clothed in rags. Jack was glad to see the last
of them.
More cheering was the sight of the _F 8_, securely moored to a wizened
tree and guarded by a score or so of Roza’s soldiers. They walked
around her and were vastly relieved to find that everything appeared
to be all right.
“We might get that rudder in place while we’re marking time here,” said
Lieutenant Gandell. “I don’t believe the general would object. She’s
not much use without it.”
To this the captain agreed. “We will see the general and ask him,” he
said. “No doubt he will be most willing, señors. And the soldiers shall
help.”
From there they worked back through the lazy village to the drill
ground where several companies of Roza’s infantry were going through
the daily evolutions. Save that they were well armed and displayed a
certain listless, careless response to the commands of their khaki-clad
officers, one might more readily have taken them for a crowd of
picturesque beggars. Asked how many soldiers comprised General Roza’s
army, Captain Fosdes was very vague. “Many thousands,” was his most
explicit reply. He led them to infer that only a very small portion of
the army was quartered at Perdero, although where the balance was he
did not say. A battery of machine-guns and a small troop of cavalry
dashed out of the village while they were still looking on, and these
supplied more interest. But, at the best, discipline seemed lax and
morale low, and Lieutenant Gandell confided to Hugh and Jack on the
way back that he could lick Tito Roza’s whole army with a handful of
Uncle Sam’s gobs and three marines!
Mr. Weeks was awaiting them when they reached their quarters. Two
murderous-looking brigands in immense straw sombreros and ridiculously
tight trousers were with him, and they were formally presented as
Colonel Rodas and Major Demedina. The officers were both wide and
short, swarthy of skin, black-haired. Each wore a fierce mustache,
waxed and pointed. But Colonel Rodas had a sharp, pointed beak of a
nose and Major Demedina’s features looked as if they had been treated
with a steam-roller at an early age. Villains in a musical comedy were
what they reminded Jack of, and yet they proved to be _caballeros_
with charming manners and fine white teeth that flashed frequently
under their fierce mustaches. As greatly as they desired to hear the
result of the commander’s visit to General Roza, Jack’s companions were
forced to wait until, after more than an hour, the likeable brigands
took their departure. Major Demedina spoke English fluently but far
from correctly, and his mistakes amused him quite as much as they did
the others. He had, it seemed, fought in many lands and under many
flags, and he frankly admitted that he was less interested in Roza’s
cause than in his exchequer. Colonel Rodas and Captain Fosdes smiled
humoringly, apparently wishing to convey the idea that the Major was
not to be taken too seriously, but Jack felt that the leather-hued
soldier-of-fortune was speaking no more than the truth. When the three
officers took themselves off it was with flattering expressions of
regard and numerous bows, leaving the Americans unable for the moment
to realize that they were virtually prisoners of war. Wason, gazing
after the retreating forms of the Mexicans, muttered inaudibly.
“What’s that, Dan?” asked Mr. Weeks.
The mate shifted his weight from one big foot to the other in
embarrassment. “I――I said it seemed like we were the life of the
party,” he stammered.
“Yes,” laughed the commander, “I wonder how they got along down here
without us! We’ve made a hit all around, it seems,” he went on with
mock gravity, “for the general has kindly offered us all commissions in
the Army of Liberty.”
“Get out!” scoffed Mr. Gandell.
“Fact, though. Very flattering, isn’t it? I gathered that we’d all get
an advanced rating and the pay is really not to be sneezed at. Two
hundred and fifty pesos a month, I think he said.”
“How much is a peso?” asked Mr. Jordan.
“One dollar.”
“American or Mex.?”
“Mex.”
“Oh! That means about a hundred and twenty-five in real money, then,
doesn’t it?”
“Something like that, I suppose. But you’ve got to acknowledge that it
sounds well! Also, he has offered to buy the _F 8_ at a fair price,
to be determined by a board of appraisement. That is to be paid for,
though, when the shindig is over and he’s got his fist in the coffers
at Mexico City. Meanwhile we get a note signed by the general and the
President of the Free State of Coahuila and the Treasurer and Secretary
of State and a few others, all of which he is. Don’t see but what we’ve
hit it pretty soft, gentlemen!”
“Soft is right,” agreed Mr. Jordan, grinning. “What did you say to him,
Bob?”
“Why, I wanted to be tactful, you know, and so I told him that we were
navy men and would hardly fit into the army. But he sure is obliging,
I’ll tell the world! Said that would be all right. Said he’d been
thinking for some time of having a navy and he might as well start now.
So we’re admirals and commodores and such, the moment we give the word.
Wouldn’t wonder if you were a lieutenant commander, at least, Dan.”
“Much good that’d do me if I had to live on the sort of chow we get
here, sir,” answered Wason.
“I hope you told him where to get off!” said Mr. Traine hotly.
“N-no, I didn’t――exactly, Ben. I thought there was no use riling him. I
just told him we were quite satisfied with our present jobs, and that
we couldn’t very well sell the _Fate_ since it unfortunately belonged
to Uncle Sam. He didn’t think a heap of that last argument, though.
I could see that. I sort of dropped in his estimation right then and
there. Well, that completed the proceedings for that time. We exchanged
avowals of life-long friendship and parted.”
“I’d like to part him――with a cutlass!” growled Mr. Gandell. “He didn’t
say anything about letting us go?”
“He did not. In fact, I gathered that letting us go at present is far
from his scheme of things, Sam. Guess he’s getting fonder of us every
day. Sort of embarrassing, isn’t it?”
“You might say that,” agreed the other dryly. “I say, can that greaser
there understand what we say?” He nodded at the sentry by the door.
“_Muchacho_,” said Mr. Weeks, “_habla usted Ingles_?”
The sentry awoke from his doze and shook his head, glowering.
“That’s all right, then,” said Mr. Weeks cheerfully.
“Well, he shook his head, but maybe he meant that he didn’t understand
what you asked him,” jeered Mr. Gandell. “Anyway, he looks like a liar,
and so the chances are that he savvys everything we say. Let’s talk
lower, anyway. Now, Bob, what’s the program?”
“Sit tight, Sam.”
“Sit tight! Hang it, we’ve been sitting tight and it hasn’t got us
anything. I’m for action! Let’s――let’s do something, Bob! We’ve still
got our popguns. Let’s shoot up the place and start something. And
let’s start on that little runt of a general!”
The commander smiled and shook his head. “We’re in a country where
haste is considered bad form, Sam. If you give one of those ‘Do It Now’
signs to a Mexican he turns it over and writes ‘_Mañana_’ on the back
of it and then hangs it over his desk wrong side to! I’ll bet that if
Tito Roza took us out and stood us up in front of a nice whitewashed
wall to-morrow morning we wouldn’t get shot until the next day! Joking
aside, though, what I want to do first of all is to deliver the _F
8_ back to Camp Stanton, safe and sound. If I can deliver the rest
of us along with her, all the better. But my first duty, and yours,
fellows, is to the ship. We’re Navy men still, even if we sail the air
instead of the water, and you know what that means. I propose to give
Roza plenty of time and plenty of rope. In my opinion nothing is to be
gained by forcing his hand. He’s got us dead to rights. We can talk
all we please about indignities and reprisals, and it won’t bother him
a mite. What he wants to do now is to get the balloon and us to sail
her, and he’s willing to act square, according to his lights. Failing
that――well, that remains to be seen. He will probably try to keep the
balloon, though. As for us, he may give us safe conduct, or he may keep
us cooling our heels right here until he gets tired of us.”
“Fine!” growled Mr. Jordan. “Then what?”
The commander smiled, shrugged and twirled an imaginary mustache.
“_Quien sabe_, as our linguistic friend Ben would say!”
“Well, anyway,” said Mr. Gandell, impatiently, “what’s to keep us from
getting that rudder fixed? The old girl isn’t much use to any one until
it is. I’ve got to do something besides watch the cactus grow or I’ll
go nutty and bite the sentry!”
“And get poisoned and die in agony,” said Mr. Jordan.
“Right-o, Sam,” answered the commander. “I spoke of that and my friend
the general agreed that it would be an excellent idea. He offered all
his resources, including the entire Army of Liberty――to-morrow!”
“Hang to-morrow! Besides, we don’t want a lot of those greasy peons
messing around underfoot. Three of us can do the job in a couple of
hours. Let’s get at it, Bob!”
“I’m agreeable. Goodness knows I’m not crazy about this elegant
leisure. Come on, then; let’s go!”
At first there was difficulty in getting access to the dirigible,
for the ragged _sargento_ in charge of the squad suspected a plot to
recapture the balloon. He was smiling, voluble, unintelligible and very
firm. Ensued a half-hour during which Lieutenant Weeks returned to
headquarters, General Roza summoned Captain Fosdes, an orderly tracked
the captain from one end of the village to the other before he found
him, and during which Lieutenant Gandell addressed his companions
eloquently on the subject of Mexico and the Mexicans. Eventually,
however, the amiable Captain Fosdes appeared, apologetic for delay, and
the sergeant was persuaded. The American señors were to be allowed to
make repairs to the planes but were not to enter the hull. Such, said
the captain, were the general’s orders. For his part, it was sufficient
that the señors should give their word not to attempt to leave,
but――with an eloquent shrug――orders were orders, _si_?
That the general’s wishes should be observed, the sergeant himself
mounted into the boat with eight of his command and remained there,
with rifles suggestively evident, during the time of repairs. Had it
been in the minds of the Americans to attempt an escape they would have
reconsidered, for a dozen or so other soldiers lounged in the shade,
and, as Hugh confided to Jack, several of them looked very much as if
they would derive a lot of satisfaction from putting a bayonet or a
bullet into a _Yanké_! To Mr. Gandell’s satisfaction, though, there
was no headlong rush on the part of the guard to give assistance. The
soldiers appeared quite content to leave the labor to the Gringoes.
The most they offered was criticism, and as that was in Spanish it
was not vastly helpful. As for Captain Fosdes, he was all eagerness
to aid. He declared the fact many, many times and proved it by being
forever in the way. That his offers of assistance were not accepted
seemed, however, to sadden him but little. He rolled his interminable
cigarettes and smoked them with apparent enjoyment.
At last the task was done, and well done, and by that time it was past
noon and the captain was hinting of _comida_, which meant dinner. As
breakfast had been sketchy, they were all quite ready for a hearty
meal, and so returned to their quarters filled with pleasurable
anticipations. What they found, however, was a very small quantity
of stewed tripe, faintly redolent of onions, and some of the eternal
_tortillas_. And that was all. Hugh and Jack sought the market place
later and partly satisfied their hunger with bananas and some sticky
candy like “fudge.”
The second day of their enforced sojourn in Perdero drew finally toward
its end. Commander Weeks and Lieutenants Traine and Jordan dined with
the General and a number of his officers at headquarters, but the
others ate again around the small table in front of the smoldering
faggots, their fare much the same as on the preceding evening. Later,
as none offered to interfere, the quartette sallied forth for a walk in
the purple twilight. The village was indoors to the last inhabitant,
and no more deserted a scene could well be imagined than Perdero after
dark. To be sure, at intervals a soldier, wrapped against the chill
of evening in a frayed _serape_, his two-foot _sombrero_ pulled down
over his eyes, leaned in some sheltered corner, and a squad of the
Army of Liberty still guarded the dirigible. But for the rest, only
flea-ridden, cringing dogs disputed their way. A half-hour of such
amusement was enough, and they were all glad of the comparative warmth
of the hut when they returned to it. It was necessary to step over the
recumbent form of the sentry, for that noble patriot had fallen fast
asleep with his rifle clutched to his breast. The commander and his
two fortunate companions returned after awhile and were suspiciously
non-communicative as to their entertainment. But Mr. Gandell was
persistent and the truth came out.
“We didn’t want to talk about it, Sam,” said Mr. Weeks, “for it seemed
a bit rough on the rest of you, what? Fact is, though, we had one swell
dinner: chicken, sausages, tomatoes, rice――er――quite a lot of truck. We
certainly wished you fellows had been there.”
Mr. Gandell only groaned.