A BRUISING OF ARMS FOR JACQUELINE
"Then John bent up his long bende-bowe,
And fetteled him to shoote."
--_Robin Hood._
Into the crowd before the cafe, the Storm Centre pushed the argument of
shoulders, and quickly gained for himself the place which his pseudonym
indicated. Then he stopped, and looked puzzled. Which side to take? The
French, being outnumbered, offered the larger contract.
"What's the row?" Driscoll inquired of Ney. But he was ignored. "Might
answer," he suggested insidiously, "for it's only a toss-up anyhow which
way I enlist. Look here, Sky-Blue, if you don't understand Spanish, just
say so, and tell me why you don't start the game."
Ney shoved him aside impatiently, but he calmly stepped back again.
"Come now," he argued plaintively, "let me in, don't be selfish?
But--goodness gracious, man, why don't you draw your gun?"
"Because, my good fellow, I haven't any."
The mystery cleared at once, for now Driscoll understood the strategic
outlay. Its key was Fra Diavolo, with a pistol at Ney's head, and quite
statuesque the romantic Mexican looked. But out of the tail of his eye
Fra Diavolo noted the American, at first with contemptuous amusement
only. Then, as though such had been the situation from the start, he
grew aware of an ugly black muzzle under his chin. For very safety he
froze rigid, and dared not turn his own weapon from Ney to his new
aggressor. But he wondered how the ugly black muzzle came there. He had
not seen the American move. But for those who did see, the action seemed
deliberate, with no hint of the actual panther-like turn of the wrist
from the waist outward.
With his left hand Driscoll next drew forth the second of the brace, and
held it out to Ney in his palm. The Chasseur seized the weapon joyfully.
He straightened as the humiliation of a disarmed soldier fell from him.
But at once his face clouded, and with an oath he handed back the
navy-six.
"W'y, what's the matter?" asked Driscoll.
"You are trifling, man. That thing has no trigger."
Much as an artisan would explain the peculiarities of a favorite tool,
Driscoll said, "Now look here, you strip it--this way--so."
And as he explained, he illustrated. He raised the hammer under his
thumb, he released it on the cartridge, and Fra Diavolo's sombrero flew
off.
Fra Diavolo threw up his hand involuntarily, and there was a second
report. Fra Diavolo's pistol twisted out of his grasp. The brace of
navies had not gone higher than the American's waist.
"So," Driscoll concluded.
At the same moment one of the sailors, a bullet-headed lad of Normandy,
was observed to do a very peculiar thing. Jumping in front of Fra
Diavolo he drew up one knee, for all the world like a dancer who meant
then and there to cut a pigeon's wing. His foot described a circle under
the knee, then the performer turned partly round, and as a lightning
bolt his leg straightened out full against Fra Diavolo's stomach. The
ranchero dropped like a bag of sand, except that he groaned. Ney
captured the fallen pistol. A musket blazed, and a sailor cursed. And
forthwith the maelstrom began. It went swirling round, with weird
contortions and murderous eddies, but always its seething vortex was the
lone trooper.
Luckily, firearms were out of the question where both sides were so
mixed together. But Mexicans and sailors plied their knives instead, so
that there was much soppy red spreading over the yellowish white of
shirts, and over the blue of jackets. The pigeon-wing diversion, called
the savate, also played its bizarre role, for wherever a Frenchman found
space for the straightening out of a leg, in that instant a little
native shot from him as a cat from the toe of a boot. Fra Diavolo was
deposited flat on his back each time he tried to rise, till the sole of
a foot took on more terror than a cannon's mouth. As for Michel Ney, he
was beautiful and gallant, now that what he had to do came without
thinking. He achieved things splendidly with the butt of his enemy's
revolver, and exhorted his men the while to the old, brilliant daring of
Frenchmen.
The Storm Centre, though, was merely workmanlike. He put away the
six-shooters, and strove barehanded with joy and vigor, which was
delightful; yet so systematic, that it was anything rather than romance.
It might have been geometry, in that a foe is safer horizontal than
perpendicular, and the theorem he applied industriously, with simple
faith and earnest fists.
Yet, all told, it was a highly successful affair. Din Driscoll objected
to the brevity, but that could hardly be altered for his sake. The
little demons of Mexicans crawled from the outskirts of the mess, here
one, there two or three, and now many, limping and nursing heads, and
rubbing themselves dubiously, with hideous grimaces.
Suddenly the cafe door opened, and Jacqueline emerged, tripping lightly.
Din Driscoll was filling his cob pipe, but he paused with a finger over
the bowl. "If there isn't a woman in it!" he muttered. He felt imposed
upon. The game was a man's game, and now its flavor was gone.
Jacqueline had seen nothing of the fray, but now she saw Fra Diavolo's
Contra Guerrillas skulking away and the sardonic captain himself fuming
in ignoble soreness on his back. "Indeed," with fine scorn she demanded
of Ney, "and how did you manage it?"
"Looks like the wrong side won out," mused Driscoll, feeling a little
uncomfortable.
"Permit me to congratulate you--sergeant," she went on. "It's a good
beginning for promotion. If you only knew how hard Maximilian tries to
win over these natives, and here the very first thing you--Helas! poor
Prince Max!"
Driscoll caught one word from her French. "What's that about
Maximilian?" he interrupted. He had to repeat, and then Jacqueline only
glanced at him over her shoulder. Some mule driver, she imagined, and
turned again to the abashed Chasseur.
But the pseudo mule driver moved squarely in front of her. He was
embarrassed and respectful, but determined. Jacqueline lifted her brows.
"My good man, this is effrontery!" But her good man did not quail. She
noticed him a little then. He was ruddy and clean, with a stubble growth
on his jaw. Since the civilization of Mobile, Lieutenant Colonel Jno. D.
Driscoll had backslided into his old campaign ease. His first genuine
stiff beard had found him sabre in hand, so that his knowledge of
cutting instruments and of arched brows was limited. He said that he
would be much obliged to have his question answered. Whereat Jacqueline
thought, by her faith, "What a round, wholesome voice these rustics
sometimes have!" The one she heard possessed the full rich quality of an
Irishman's brogue, with the brogue worn off.
"You know Spanish, do you not, senorita?"
"Mais--why, better than I thought," she returned in English; and in
English that was piquant because it could not help being just the least
bit French as well. "Much better--because, I comprehend even yours,
sir."
"Con-_grat_-ulate you," Driscoll returned. "But what's this about
Maximilian?"
An eagerness in his manner caught her attention. But she answered with
her old irony. "His Imperial Majesty seems to concern you profoundly,
monsieur?"
"H'm'm--oh no! Only it's curious how he gets mixed up in this shindy of
ours."
"If--if you are asking about Maximilian, senor," a heavy voice began.
Fra Diavolo at least was not indifferent to the American's questioning,
and now he explained that the lady was the Marquesa d'Aumerle, and that
she was on her way from Paris to the Mexican court. But a storm having
brought her to Tampico, she wished to finish her journey overland. He,
the Capitan Morel of His Majesty's Contra Guerrillas, had offered her
escort for the trip. But the French caballero had presumed to force her
to continue by water.
"By water?" Driscoll repeated, glaring at Ney. "That poor little
girl!--And make her sick again!"
Jacqueline's chin tilted. "Ma foi, monsieur, I was not sick."
Driscoll noted her fragile dainty person, and recalling his own
experience, had grave doubts about the consistency of Nature. But this
was apart. There was still the mystery of his having blundered into a
business that somehow concerned the Emperor of Mexico. And it was a
matter that must be set right.
"You say you are an officer," he demanded of the ranchero, "but your
Greaser clothes, that's not a uniform?"
Uniforms were not necessarily a part of the contra-guerrilla service,
said the Mexican; and besides, there might be reasons for a disguise.
But as to his own identity, he reproduced the order signed by Colonel
Dupin.
"Correct," said Driscoll, and handed back the paper.
"Now then," he added to Ney, "what do you say for yourself?"
Unconsciously the French soldier replied as to a superior officer. "I've
just been transferred to the service of His Excellency, Marshal Bazaine,
in the City of Mexico, and am on my way there now."
"You are in the French service?"
"Of course I am."
"Your rank?"
"Sergeant."
Here, in a caprice of kind heart, as well as of mischief, Jacqueline
interposed. "Your sergeant, Monsieur the American, is the Duke of
Elchingen." But she might have called Ney a genus homo, for all the
impression it made.
"Too bad, sergeant," said Driscoll, "but a captain ranks first, you
know, and--well, I reckon I'll have to change sides. I know it's tough,"
and his brow knitted with droll perplexity, "but I'm afraid we'll just
have to do this thing all over again, unless--well, unless you give in,
sergeant."
Jacqueline had been waxing more and more agog, and her boot had tapped
impatiently. Now she gave way, and declared that it was too much. What,
she demanded, had monsieur to do with the matter in the first place?
Driscoll took off his slouch hat and ran his fingers through his hair to
grope for an answer. It had never been brought to him before that
fighting might be a private preserve. But his face cleared straightway.
In this second skirmish, due momentarily, he would be a legitimate
belligerent and not a trespasser, because since he had stumbled amuck of
Maximilian's authority, another joust was needed to correct the first.
It all depended on whether Miss--Miss--if the senorita--still wished to
go by land.
"If monsieur will have the condescension," returned Jacqueline.
Then out came the brace of navies once more, as naturally as the order
book of the grocer's clerk on your back porch. Involuntarily Ney reached
for his cap.
"Now captain," said Driscoll.
Fra Diavolo took the cue instantly. "A-i, mis muchachos!" he called, and
the little demons came hurrying back, like a damned host with a new hope
of heaven.
If there were any police about, or had been, they were mysteriously
indifferent. But Jacqueline did just as well. No one had thought to put
her back in the cafe, and she promptly took a hand in the man's game.
"Michel Ney," she commanded, "do you hear me; lower that pistol!"
"You, you wish me to surrender, mademoiselle?"
"You know I don't! If anyone even asks it, I will go back to the ship
with you, at once."
"But I, I don't understand."
"You understand that I want your escort overland. Is it gallant, then,
to disappoint me by getting yourself killed?"
"But all your trunks are on the ship."
Jacqueline turned to her Fra Diavolo. He could answer that? To be sure
he could, and he was honored. He suggested, with her permission, that
she spend the night on shore, she and her maid, since the cafe was also
a hotel. Meantime, the sailors could bring what she needed from the
boat.
As he listened, Ney's slow thoughts came to a focus. And when Jacqueline
turned to him again, he gave way graciously, which brought on him a
sharp scrutiny from the ranchero. However, the truce between the two
antagonists was patched up with a readiness on both sides. Ney restored
to Fra Diavolo his pistol, and had his own weapons back in exchange.
Next he took the ship's steward aside, apparently to instruct him about
bringing the trunk. "And steward," he whispered, "don't forget to make
it urgent. The skipper must land all the troops on board at once." He
decided that meantime he would stroll up to the fort on his own account,
and bring down more aid from there.
"Now then," reflected the beaming young Gaul, "our _spirituelle_
little marquise will find that one may have wits, and not read her dense
old poets, either."
He opened the cafe door for her and both joined the maid Berthe, who was
still clinging to sanctuary inside.
The American lieutenant-colonel and the Mexican capitan looked at one
another. They felt deserted. Fra Diavolo's teeth bared. "Ai, que mal
educados," he observed. "They're ill-bred, I say. They kick a gentleman
in the stomach--in the stomach, senor!"
Driscoll turned to go. It was enough of satisfaction to reflect that, if
any mention of the affair reached Maximilian, his own part therein would
not injure his errand to Mexico. As for the rest, Mexicans and French
could go their own ways--he had amused himself. "Well, adios, captain,"
he said, and swung on his heel.
"Wait! Which direction, senor?"
"To this meson here, around the corner."
"If Your Mercy is not in a hurry----"
Driscoll nodded, and the capitan stopped to say a few words to two of
his vagabonds. One of these immediately hurried off in the direction of
the river. The other was still loafing outside the cafe when his chief
rejoined Driscoll.
"Looks like you were interested in His Resplendent Majesty," Fra Diavolo
began with weighty lightsomeness. "Mustn't hurt his feelings, eh,
caballero?"
Driscoll laughed easily, "It was all on the girl's account," he said.
The ranchero glanced at him quickly, sideways, a dark look of suspicion.
"On her account, senor, not Maximilian's?" he repeated. "Dios mio,
caballero, I'll wager you have forgotten her already." Which, to tell
the truth, was fairly exact.
At the meson Don Anastasio regarded the American with much more respect
to see him returning in such company. But to Fra Diavolo he addressed
himself in his thin obsequious voice, "You see I am waiting, as you
wished. But on my, my daughter's account, I----"
"So, captain," Driscoll interrupted, "you're the one that's holding back
Murgie! Just tell him, Murgie, that I am in a rush."
Fra Diavolo smiled and bade his American have patience, for he quite
believed that the Senor Murguia would be starting in the morning.
"Si senor," he went on in a different tone, when Driscoll had left him
alone with the trader, "you set out to-morrow, and you are to have two
extra horses ready. But for whom, do you suppose? Bien, they are for La
Senorita Jacqueline and her maid."
Murguia's countenance changed strangely, a most inexplicable contortion.
His little rat eyes focused on the ranchero, and he drew back in a sort
of fear. Convoy her whom people called Jacqueline through the lawless
Huasteca, at the bidding of this man! "No, no, no!" he cried, and
shuddered too.
Trying to read a meaning behind the capitan's dark scowl, he knew only
too well the meaning that was there. He moaned at the thought.
Maximiliano would have him shot, or burned, or tortured. He would lose
his ranch, his cotton mill. He would be poor. It was vague, what would
happen, but it was horrible, horrible!
"Hush, you fool!" growled Fra Diavolo. "The entire meson will hear you,
including that Gringo."
"That Gringo? He, he is one of your friends?"
"Friend! For Dios, he nearly ruined my little plans for Jacqueline.
Listen, he has business of some kind with Maximiliano."
"Yes, yes. And there's a--a mystery in his business."
"What do you mean?"
"If I knew, would it be a mystery?"
"Who is he?"
"He won't tell. I only know that he is a Confederate officer."
"A Confederate officer?" The capitan whistled low and softly. "Come to
the Plaza, there you can tell me what you think."
And in the solitude of the Plaza they planned according to their
suspicions.