THE CAMP AMONG THE HILLS.
A sound of voices! eager voices of men, calling to one another. The
tread of hasty feet, the noise of breaking bushes, of men sliding,
jumping, running, hurrying, coming every instant nearer and nearer. What
had Rita done, indeed? Manuela crouched on the mouldering floor at her
mistress's feet, too terrified even to cry out now; Rita Montfort drew
her dagger, and waited.
Next instant the narrow doorway was thronged with men; swarthy
black-browed men, ragged, hatless, shoeless, but all armed, all with
rifle cocked, all pressing forward with eager, wondering looks.
"Who rang the bell? what has happened?"
A babel of voices arose; Rita could not have made herself heard if she
would; and, indeed, for the moment no words came to her lips. But there
was one to speak for her. Chiquito, the old gray parrot, raised his head
from her shoulder, where he had been quietly dozing, and flapped his
wings, and cried aloud:
"_Viva Cuba Libre! viva Garcia! viva Gomez! a muerto Espana!_" There was
a moment's silence; then the voices broke out again in wild cries and
cheers.
"Ah, the Cuban bird! the parrot of freedom! Welcome, senorita! You bring
us good luck! Welcome to the Cuban ladies and their glorious bird! _Viva
Cuba Libre! viva Garcia! viva el papageno!_ long life to the illustrious
lady!"
Rita, herself again, stepped from the chapel, erect and joyous, holding
the parrot aloft.
"I thank you, brothers!" she said. "I come to seek freedom among you; I
am a daughter of Cuba. Does any among you know Don Carlos Montfort?"
The babel rose again. Know Don Carlos? but surely! was he not their
captain? Even now he was at the General's quarters, consulting him about
the movements of the next day. What joy! what honour for the poor sons
of Cuba to form the escort of the peerless sister of Don Carlos to
headquarters! But the distance was nothing. They would carry the
senorita and her attendant; they would make a throne, and transport them
as lightly as if swans drew them. Ah, the fortunate day! the lucky omen
of the blessed parrot!
They babbled like children, crowding round Chiquito, extolling his
beauty, his wisdom, the miracle of his timely utterance. Chiquito seemed
to think, for his part, that he had done enough. He paid no attention to
the blandishments of his ragged admirers, but turned himself upside
down, always a sign of contempt with him, said "Caramba!" and would say
nothing more.
A little procession was formed, the least ragged of the patriots leading
the way, Rita and Manuela following. The others crowded together behind,
exclaiming, wondering, pleased as children with this wonderful
happening. Thus they crossed a ragged hill, threaded a grove of palms,
and finally came upon an open space, roughly cleared, in the middle of
which stood a tent, with several rude huts around it. The soldiers
explained with eager gestures. Behold the tent of the illustrious
General. Behold the dwelling of Don Rodrigo, of Don Uberto, of Don
Carlos; behold, finally, Don Carlos himself, emerging from the General's
tent. The gallant ragamuffins drew back, and became on the instant
spectators at a play. A slender young man came out of the tent,
evidently to inquire the meaning of the commotion. At what he saw he
turned apparently to stone, and stood, cigarette in hand, staring at the
vision before him. But for Rita there was no hesitation now. Running to
her brother, she threw her arms around his neck with unaffected joy.
"Carlos!" she cried. "I have come to you. I had no one else to go to.
They were taking me to the convent, and I would have died sooner. I have
come to you, to live or die with you, for our country."
Manuela wept; the soldiers were moved to tears, and brushed their ragged
sleeves across their eyes. But Carlos Montfort did not weep.
"Rita!" he said, in English, returning his sister's caress
affectionately, but with little demonstration of joy. "What is the
meaning of this? what induced you--how could you do such a thing as
this? where do you come from? how did you find your way?" And he added
to himself, "And what the mischief am I to do with you now you are
here?"
Rita explained hastily; gave a dramatic sketch of her adventures, not
forgetting the unfortunate peasants, who must, she said, be rescued that
instant from their wretched plight; and wound up with a vivid
description of the bell-ringing, the gathering of the patriot forces,
and the magnificent behaviour of her beloved Chiquito.
"Good gracious! you have brought the parrot, too!" cried poor Carlos.
"Rita! Rita! this is too much."
At this moment a new person appeared on the scene. A tall old man,
stooping his head, came out from the tent, and greeted the wandering
damsel with grave courtesy.
Perhaps the General had seen too much of life and of war to be surprised
at anything; perhaps he was sorry for the embarrassment of his young
lieutenant, and wished to make things easier for him; however it was, he
apparently found it the most natural thing in the world for a young
lady and her maid to be wandering in the wilderness in search of the
Cuban army. The first thing, he said, was to make the senorita
comfortable, as comfortable as their limited powers would allow. She
would take his tent, of course; it was her own from that instant; but
equally of course neither Rita nor Carlos would hear of this. A friendly
dispute ensued; and it was finally decided that Rita and Manuela were to
make themselves as comfortable as might be in Carlos's own tent, while
he shared that of his commander. The General yielded only under protest
to this arrangement; yet he did yield, seeing that resistance would
distress both brother and sister. Since the senorita would not take his
tent, he said, the next best thing was that she should accept his
hospitality, such as he could offer her, within it; or rather, before
it, since the evening was warm. His men were even now preparing the
evening meal; when the senorita was refreshed and rested, he hoped she
and Don Carlos would share it with him.
Rita withdrew into the little hut, in a glow of patriotism and
enthusiasm. "Manuela," she cried, "did you ever see such nobleness, such
lofty yet gracious courtesy? Ah! I knew he was a man to die for. How
happy we are, to be here at last, after dreaming of it so long! I
thrill; I burn with sacred fire--what is the matter, Manuela? you look
the spirit of gloom. What has happened?"
Manuela was crouching on the bare earthen floor, her shoulders shrugged
up to her ears, her dark eyes glancing around the tiny room with every
expression of marked disapproval. It was certainly not a luxurious
apartment. The low walls were of rough logs, the roof was a ragged piece
of very dingy canvas, held in place by stones here and there. In one
corner was a pile of dried grass and leaves, with a blanket thrown over
it,--evidently Don Carlos's bed. There was a camp-stool, a rude box set
on end, that seemed to do duty both for dressing and writing table,
since it was littered with papers, shaving materials, cigarette-cases,
and a variety of other articles.
Manuela spread out her arms with a despairing gesture. Was this, she
asked, the place where the senorita was going to live? Where was she to
hang the dresses? where was she to lay out the dressing things? As to
making up the bed,--it would be better to die at once, in Manuela's
opinion, than to live--Here Manuela stopped suddenly, for she had seen
something. Rita, whose back was turned to the doorway of the hut, was
rating her severely. Was this Manuela's patriotism, she wished to know?
had she not said, over and over again, that she was prepared to shed the
last drop of blood for their country, as she herself, Rita, was longing
to do? and now, when it was simply a question of a little discomfort,
of a few privations shared with their brave defenders, here was Manuela
complaining and fretting, like a peevish child. Well! and what was the
matter now?
Manuela had risen from her despairing position, and was now bustling
about the hut, brushing, smoothing, tidying up, with an air of smiling
alacrity. But indeed, yes! she said; the senorita put her to shame. If
the senorita could endure these trials, it was not for her poor Manuela
to complain. No, indeed, sooner would she die. And after all, the hut
was small, but that made things more handy, perhaps. The beautiful table
that this would become, if she might remove the Senor Don Carlos's
cigar-ashes? There! a scarf thrown over it--ah! What fortune, that she
had brought the crimson satin scarf! Behold, an exhibition of beauty! As
for the bed, she had heard from--from those who were soldiers
themselves, that no couch was so soft, so wooing to sleep, as one of
forest boughs. It stood to reason; there was poetry in the thought, as
the senorita justly remarked. Now, with a few nails or pegs to hang
things on, their little apartment would be complete. Let the senorita of
her goodness forget the foolishness of her poor Manuela; she should hear
no more of it; that was a promise.
Rita looked in amazement at her follower; the girl's eyes were
sparkling, her cheeks flushed, and she could not keep back the smiles
that came dimpling and rippling over her pretty face.
"But what has happened to you, Manuela?" cried Rita. "I insist upon
knowing. What have you seen?"
What had Manuela seen, to produce such a sudden and amazing change?
Nothing, surely; or next to nothing. A ragged soldier had strolled past
the door of the hut; a black-browed fellow, with a red handkerchief tied
over his head, and a black cigar nearly a foot long; but what should
that matter to Manuela?
Rita looked at her curiously, but could get no explanation, save that
Manuela had come to her senses, owing to the noble and glorious example
set her by her beloved senorita.
"Well!" said Rita, turning away half-petulantly. "Of course I know you
are as changeable as a weathercock, Manuela. But as you were saying, if
we had a few nails, we should do well enough here. I will go ask the
Senor Don Carlos--"
"Pardon, dearest senorita!" cried Manuela, hastily. "But what a pity
that would be, to disturb the senor during his arduous labours. Without
doubt the illustrious Senor Don Generalissimo (Manuela loved a title,
and always made the most of one) requires him every instant, in the
affairs of the nation. I--I can find some one who will get nails for us,
and drive them also."
"You can find some one?" repeated Rita. "And whom, then, can you find,
pray?"
"Only Pepe!" said Manuela, in a small voice.
Was the name a conjuring-spell? It had hardly been spoken when Pepe
himself stood in the doorway, ducking respectfully at the senorita, but
looking out of the corners of his black eyes at Manuela. Rita smiled in
spite of herself. Was this ragamuffin, barefoot, tattered, his hair in
elf-locks,--was this the once elegant Pepe, the admired of himself and
all the waiting-maids of Havana? He had once been Carlos's servant, when
the young Cuban had time and taste for such idle luxuries; now he was
his fellow soldier and faithful follower.
"Well, Pepe," said Rita; "you also are here to welcome us, it appears.
That is well. If you could find us a few nails, my good Pepe? the Senor
Don Carlos is occupied with the General at present, and you can help
us, if you will."
Where had Rita learned this new and gracious courtesy? A few months ago,
she would have said, "Pepe! drive nails!" and thought no more about it.
Indeed, she could have given no explanation, save that "things were
different." Perhaps our Rita is growing up, inside as well as outside?
Certainly the pretty airs and graces have given way to a womanly and
thoughtful look not at all unbecoming to any face, however beautiful.
The thoughtful look deepened into anxiety, as a sudden recollection
flashed into her mind. "Oh!" she cried. "And here I sit in peace, and
have done nothing about those poor creatures in the hut! I must go to
the General! But stay! Pepe, do you know--is there a man in the camp
called Pedro Valdez?"
But, yes! Pepe said. Assuredly there was such a man. Did the senorita
require him?
"Oh, please bring him!" said Rita. "Tell him that I have something of
importance to tell him. Quick, my good Pepe!"
Pepe vanished, and soon returned, dragging by the collar a lean
scarecrow even more dilapidated than himself. Apparently the poor fellow
had been asleep, and had been roughly clutched and hauled across the
camp, for his hair was full of leaves and grass, and he was rubbing his
eyes and swearing softly under his breath, vowing vengeance on his
captor.
"Silence, animal!" said Pepe, admonishing him by a kick of the presence
of ladies; "Behold the illustrious senorita, who does you the honour to
look at you. Attention, Swine of the Antilles!"
Thus adjured, poor Pedro straightened himself, made the best bow he
could, and stood sheepishly before Rita, trying furtively to brush a few
of the sticks and straws off his ragged clothing.
"You are Pedro Valdez?" asked Rita.
At the service of the illustrious senorita. Yes, he was Pedro Valdez; in
no condition to appear in such company, but nevertheless her slave and
her beast of burden.
"Oh, listen!" cried Rita, her eyes softening with compassion and
anxiety. "You have a wife, Pedro Valdez,--a wife and a dear little
child, is it not so? and your mother--she is old and weak. When have you
seen them all, Valdez? Where did you leave them?"
The man looked bewildered. "Leave them, senorita? I left them at home,
in our village. They were well, all was well, when I came away. Has
anything befallen them?"
"They are safe! All is well with them now, or will be well, when you go
to them. They are near here, Valdez. The Spaniards broke up the village,
do you see? Dolores and your mother fled with the little one. The
village was burned, and many souls perished; but Dolores was so strong,
so brave, that she got the old mother away alive and safe, and the child
as well. They have suffered terribly, my poor man; you must look to find
them pale and thin, but they are alive, and all will be well when once
they have found you."
Seeing Valdez overcome for the moment, Rita hastened to the General's
tent and told her story, begging that the husband and father might be
allowed to go at once to the relief of his suffering family.
"And he shall bring them here, shall he not?" she cried, eagerly. "They
cannot be separated again, can they, dear Senor General? you will make
room for Dolores--that is the wife; oh, such a brave woman! and the old
mother, and the dear little child!"
The General looked puzzled; a look half quizzical, half sad, stole over
his fine face; while he hesitated, Carlos broke out hastily: "Rita! you
are too unreasonable! Do you think we are in a city here? do you think
the General has everything at his command, to maintain an establishment
of women and children? It is not to be thought of. We have no room, no
supplies, no conveniences of any kind; they must go elsewhere."
"They can have my house!" cried Rita, "Your house, brother Carlos, which
you have given to me. I will sleep in a hammock, under a tree. What
matter? I will live on bread and water; I will--"
"My dear young lady!" said the General, interrupting her eager speech
with a lifted hand. "My dear child, if an old man may call you so, if
only we had bread for all, there would be no further question. We would
gladly take these poor people, and hundreds of other suffering ones who
fill the hills and valleys of our unhappy country. But--Carlos is right,
alas! that I must say it. Here in the mountain camp, it is impossible
for us to harbour refugees, unless for a night or so, while other
provision is making. Let Valdez bring his family here for the night--we
can make shift to feed and shelter them so long. After that--"
He shook his head sadly. Rita clasped her hands in distress. To be
brought face to face with the impossible was a new experience to the
spoiled child. There was a moment's silence. Then:
"Senor General," she cried, "I know! I see! all may yet be managed. They
shall go to our house."
"To--"
"To our house, Carlos's and mine, in Havana. There are servants, troops
of them; there is food, drink, everything, in abundance, in wicked,
shameful abundance. Julio shall take care of them; Julio shall treat
them as his mother and his sister. I will write commands to him; this
instant I will write."
Snatching a sheet of paper from the table, she wrote furiously for a
moment, then handed the paper to the General with a look of
satisfaction. The General--oh, how slow he was!--adjusted his glasses,
and read the paper carefully; looked at Rita; looked at Carlos, and read
the paper again. Rita clenched her little hands, but was calm as marble,
as she assured herself. "Have I the senorita's permission to read this
aloud?" asked the old man at last. "It may be that Don Carlos's
advice--a thousand thanks, senorita." He read:
"JULIO:--The bearer of this is the wife of
Pedro Valdez. You are to take her and her
family in, and give them the best the house
contains; the best, do you hear? put them in
the marble guest-chamber, and place the house
at their disposal. Send for Doctor Blanco to
attend them; let Teresa wait upon them, and let
her furnish them with clothes from my wardrobe.
If you do not do all this, Julio, I will have
you killed; so fail not as you value your life.
"MARGARITA DE SAN REAL MONTFORT.
"P.S. The Senor Don Carlos is here with me, and
echoes what I say. We are with the brave
General Sevillo, and if you dare to disobey,
terrible revenge will be taken."
"The ardent patriotism of the senorita," said the General, cautiously,
"is beautiful and inspiring; nevertheless, is it not possible that a
more conciliatory tone might--I would not presume to dictate, but--"
"Oh, Rita!" cried Carlos. "Child, when will you learn that we are no
longer acting plays at home? This is absurd!"
With an impatient movement that might have been Rita's own, he snatched
the paper and tore it in two. "The General cannot be troubled with such
folly!" he said, shortly. "Go to your room, my sister, and repose
yourself after your fatigues."
"By no means!" cried the kindly General, seeing Rita's eyes fill with
tears of anger and mortification. "The senorita has promised to make my
tea for me this evening. Give orders, I pray you, Don Carlos, that
Valdez bring his family to us for the night; the rest can well wait for
to-morrow's light. The senorita is exhausted, I fear, with her manifold
fatigues, and she must have no more anxieties to-day. Behold the tea at
this moment! Senorita Rita, this will be the pleasantest meal I have had
since I left my home, two years ago."
No anger could stand against the General's smile. In a moment Rita was
smiling herself, though the tears still stood in her dark eyes, and one
great drop even rolled down her cheek, to the General's great distress.
Carlos, seeing with contrition his sister's effort at self-control, bent
to kiss her cheek and murmur a few affectionate words. Soon they were
all seated around the little table, Rita and the General on
camp-stools, Carlos on a box. The tea was smoking hot; what did it
matter that the nose of the teapot was broken? Rita had never tasted
anything so delicious as that cup of hot tea, without milk, and with a
morsel of sugar-cane for sweetening. The camp fare, biscuits soaked in
water and fried in bacon fat, was better, she declared, than any food
she had ever tasted in her life. To her delight, a small box of
chocolate still remained in her long-suffering bag; this she presented
to the General with her prettiest courtesy, and he vowed he was not
worthy to taste such delicacies from such a hand. So, with interchange
of compliments, and with a real friendliness that was far better, the
little feast went on gaily; and when, late in the evening, Rita withdrew
to her tent, she told Manuela that she had never enjoyed anything so
much in her life; never!