The Camera Chap did not linger long at Puerto Cabero. He had decided
to make Santa Barbara, the capital, his headquarters, that city being
only ten miles away from the seaport. It is situated on a highland
three thousand feet above the sea level, and, as Hawley traveled on
the antiquated railroad, he marveled at the manner in which the line
twisted and turned like a huge corkscrew.
When he arrived at his journey’s end he found the city in gala attire.
The streets and shops were decorated with flags and bunting, and a band
was playing in the plaza. At the Hotel Nacional, where he registered,
he inquired whether he had struck town on a national holiday, and was
informed that the festivities were the result of the extraordinary
scene he had witnessed at Puerto Guerra the previous day.
“You see, señor,” explained the hotel clerk, who spoke very good
English, “President Portiforo has ordered a day of public rejoicing
because of the defeat of General Rodriguez.”
“Rodriguez!” exclaimed Hawley, who recalled that he had heard the man
whom he had known as Juan Cipriani hailed by that name by the group of
wild-looking horsemen on the pier. “What was he trying to do? Was he
starting a revolution?”
The clerk nodded, and proceeded to tell Hawley a story which fully
enlightened him as to the significance of the drama he had seen enacted
at the customhouse at Puerto Guerra. The Camera Chap learned that the
big packing cases which the steamship _Colombia_ had brought, and
which were invoiced as containing farming implements, had in reality
contained machine guns intended for the use of the new revolutionary
party which General Emilio Rodriguez, alias Juan Cipriani, had come to
Baracoa to lead.
Rodriguez, Hawley was informed, was a native of Baracoa, but had been
in Europe for the past ten years. He had held a commission in the
French army, which he had resigned in order to come back and attempt to
overthrow the Portiforo government; which attempt, however, had been
rendered futile by the alertness of President Portiforo.
“But you don’t mean to tell me that that chap was going to have the
nerve to buck against the government forces with that handful of men
I saw at the pier?” the Camera Chap exclaimed in astonishment. “Why,
there couldn’t have been more than fifty of them in all.”
The clerk smiled deprecatingly. “That was only the beginning, señor.
If Rodriguez’s plans had not miscarried, he was to have taken to the
hills with that escort, and there proclaimed the revolution. He had
been assured that the people would flock by thousands to his banner,
and that as soon as he gave the word the army was prepared to revolt
and go over to him. But things didn’t go just as he expected. President
Portiforo learned of the plot in time to nip the revolution in the
bud. A few days ago he raised the pay of everybody in the federal army,
from the commander in chief down to the newest recruit, and thereby
kept the troops loyal to him. He set a trap for Rodriguez, and when
that unhappy man stepped off the boat at Puerto Guerra yesterday,
expecting the whole country to be ready to respond to his call to arms,
he was seized and thrown into jail.” The clerk grinned. “One has to get
up very early in the morning in order to catch our President Portiforo
napping, señor,” he said.
“So I have heard,” the Camera Chap responded dryly. “What do you
suppose will happen to Cipriani--I mean Rodriguez?”
The clerk shrugged his shoulders. “There is only one fate for those
who conspire against the government of Baracoa,” he said quietly. “I
understand that the president has already signed his death warrant.”
Hawley was silent for a while after that. “Do you happen to know,” he
inquired suddenly, “whether your former president, Francisco Felix, was
mixed up in any way with this revolutionary plot?”
The clerk stared at him in astonishment. “If such is the case, it is
the first time I have heard of it!” he declared. “Might I inquire what
put such a thought in your head, señor? Have you any information to
that effect?”
“I?” exclaimed Hawley, with a deprecating smile. “I arrived at Baracoa
only a few hours ago. What should I know about the affairs of your
interesting country?”
Later that day, Hawley got his first sight of Miguel Portiforo,
President of Baracoa. There was a big military parade in honor of “the
overthrow of the revolution,” and the president rode at the head of
his troops in an open carriage, flanked on each side by an escort of
cavalry.
Standing in front of the Hotel Nacional, the Camera Chap gazed with
great interest upon the man with whom he realized he must expect to
match wits in order to carry out the delicate and difficult errand
which had been intrusted to him. At first sight the president did not
impress him as being a man of formidable personality. Although he wore
a glittering uniform of scarlet and gold, he was far from presenting
a military appearance. He was undersized and exceedingly fat, and his
bloated face was as round as a pumpkin. As he smiled in acknowledgment
of the plaudits of the crowds, he looked like an easy-going, jovial
old boy, who would have been more at home at a banquet table proposing
a toast to “the ladies--God bless ’em,” than ruling with an iron hand
over the political destinies of a turbulent South American republic.
That was the first impression which the Camera Chap formed of Miguel
Portiforo, but just then an incident happened which quickly caused him
to change his estimate of that dignitary. As the president’s carriage
was passing, a man in the front rank of the crowd on the sidewalk
outside the Hotel Nacional stepped forward, and, gesticulating wildly,
began to abuse Portiforo in a tone loud enough to reach the latter’s
ears. The man was staggering as though intoxicated. Hawley learned
later that he was a humble shoemaker of Santa Barbara, who, when in a
normal condition, was as meek and law-abiding a citizen as was to be
found in all Baracoa, but who now had been celebrating the overthrow of
the revolution to such an extent that he was not responsible for what
he said or did. Although the fellow’s condition was obvious, Portiforo
made no allowance for it. Glancing at the latter, the Camera Chap was
appalled by the change which had come over him as the drunken man’s
abuse fell upon his ears. The jovial smile had disappeared. In its
stead had come an expression terrible to behold. The beady eyes were
snapping with rage. The thin lips were parted in a snarl. Curiously the
president’s plump face seemed suddenly to have lost all its roundness,
and to have been remolded into lines sinister and cruel. It was not
until he had seen several soldiers rush forward, seize the offender,
and drag him off, struggling and screaming, that his features relaxed,
and the jovial smile returned.
“I wonder what will happen to the poor beggar,” said a dapper,
good-looking young man who was standing close behind Hawley. “I suppose
they’ll give him the limit, eh?”
“I am afraid so,” replied his companion, a blond-haired, blue-eyed
young woman. “Inasmuch as the city has been put under martial law,
Portiforo can do as he pleases with him, and that brute isn’t likely
to show much clemency to a man who has publicly insulted him.”
“Be careful,” entreated the young man nervously. “Aren’t you taking
an awful chance, Virginia, talking like that in public? There may be
people around us who understand English, and even though you are the
daughter of the United States minister, you can’t--well for the love of
Methusaleh! If it isn’t old Frank Hawley, of the _Sentinel_!”
Regretting the impulse which had caused him to turn his head at this
hint of the girl’s identity, Hawley stared at the speaker in some
consternation, for the recognition was mutual. The Camera Chap was
well acquainted with Miss Throgmorton’s dapper companion. The latter’s
name was Gale, and he was a reporter on the New York _Daily News_, the
_Sentinel’s_ most bitter rival. Incidentally he was the last man in the
world whom Hawley would have desired to meet in Baracoa.