THE LAST STRAW.
The discovery appalled me at first.
Had they all been borne down by that last cannon discharge, even as I
was, and failed to rise again? I glanced hither and yon about the open
square, seeking piles of mangled bodies; but, strange to say, they were
not visible.
The mystery increased--I could swear the men had started out all right
when I did--what, then, had become of them?
It is hard to break through established custom, and as soon as the
rifles of the besieged began to spit out fire, habit compelled my
followers to seek some sort of refuge--they were not there to be
killed, if such a thing could be averted.
Consequently, some dropped behind the band stand in the center of the
square, while others ran helter-skelter to either side, seeking shelter
under the protecting walls of neighboring buildings.
I could not blame them, for it had been pretty warm out there.
When these valorous souls saw me beating upon the door of the citadel
with a rude battering ram I had picked up, they grasped the situation,
and began to run in my direction, always bending low, as if in fear of
sudden shots.
They are a cautious race, these citizens of Bolivar, which accounts for
their living through so many revolutions.
Speedily I found I had at my beck and call a devoted little band, at
least half a score in number, with which I might accomplish wonders.
We laid out to smash that door in a hurry, and though it was supposed
to be made in a very substantial way, it could not withstand so
vigorous an assault as the beam, rushed by ten pairs of arms, brought
against it.
I had made a pleasing discovery.
Among the many shouts that went to make up the chorus all around, I
distinguished plain English huzzas, and made out that Robbins was
leading a party in a desperate charge upon the rear of the citadel.
Well, that was a hot time in Bolivar, an occasion never to be
forgotten in any change of administration the future might bring.
Never had so desperate a battle been waged between the opposing forces,
never such a charge made as our rush across the open.
Guerrilla tactics must be relegated to the past in Bolivar; henceforth
one would hear of Gatling guns and Mauser rifles, and the party in
power would be hard to dislodge; and perhaps with the increased
slaughter the desire to revolutionize might weaken.
Thus would Robbins and his Gringo comrade have played the part of
missionaries.
That door--how it hung on.
We battered for all we were worth--why, the men had by this time become
so enthused that they forgot the respect they had formerly entertained
for hot lead, forgot to dodge when a shot of vivid fire shot out from
the wall, and in consequence several were knocked over.
Others arriving, eager to be in at the death, were ready to take their
places.
And the door was already a sad wreck.
I encouraged them by precept and example.
It was really fine to see how they caught the spirit of the
affair--they looked to me for orders as though I had been a god sent
down from above to win their cause, which had seemed forlorn enough up
to the time of my appearance.
I really enjoyed the experience--it does not come to every man to be
suddenly elevated to the top of the heap.
A few more affectionate taps and that tenacious old door must let go;
who would have thought it could have maintained such obstinacy after
starting so easily?
And then--well, unless the brave garrison quickly ran up the white
flag there was bound to be serious trouble in store for them--my
hearties had reached that fever pitch where no mercy would be shown an
unyielding foe.
The door gave way with a crash, just as the gun boomed for the last
time.
I could hear Robbins shouting still, and this told me he was in the
land of the living--I also had reason to believe he had succeeded
almost as well in the rear as we had in front, which complication must
convince the government forces their cause was in a bad way.
When the last push sent the battered door in, we gave a fierce shout of
joy, and sprang forward to storm the citadel.
Having gone through such a whirl of excitement, I had no longer any
thought concerning myself or my personal safety; men under these same
conditions lead forlorn hopes into the jaws of death, either to lay
down their lives or come out heroes for history’s pages.
I did neither, but, all the same, I had the experience, and would
always cherish the memory of what was the most remarkable sensation of
my life.
We went in.
I was the first man to cross the smashed door.
The interior was dim with powder smoke that almost choked me with its
suffocating fumes.
Never mind, we had made a breach through which it could escape readily
enough.
Through this haze human figures appeared but dimly, though they loomed
up giant-like in size.
“Surrender!” I bawled, in Spanish. “You are brave men, but the day is
ours. We would spare your lives! Surrender!”
“Toreado! Toreado!” howled my followers, as they scrambled wildly over
the broken door.
That was a shibboleth with which to conjure, now that the revolution
had been won, and I was not in the least surprised to hear it echoed by
the soldiers of the citadel.
They had done their duty; they had stood by their guns as long as
any hope remained, and now that they found themselves up against the
inevitable, it was only the part of policy to accept it with a fair
degree of equanimity.
So they, too, shouted for the pompous old general, proving that they
were as ready to serve him as they had the late president, Salvator.
It was charming, idealistic, this change of front--“the king has run
away! Long live the king!”
I was somewhat out of breath, which could not be much wondered at,
considering all I had gone through in the past half an hour.
Now that the fierce conflict was over, and the shouts of anger changing
to those of triumph, I discovered how weak I was, and that my knees
actually knocked together, such was the baneful effect of the intense
nervous strain.
So I leaned up against the still warm cannon to recover a little of my
lost powers.
I found time now to be astonished at myself, and to consider how it was
this wonderful battle spirit, inherited from worthy ancestors, had lain
dormant in me all these years, its presence unsuspected.
My work was done.
I felt that I had surely repaid my debt, and with compound interest,
too.
After all, it would be something to remember, something to talk about
in the future, that I had taken an active part in such a hot night’s
work.
Grimly, I hoped the boys would not be disappointed in the pompous old
warrior they had selected for their next president; it would be sad if,
after all this meritorious work, the whole thing would have to be gone
through with again ere another year rolled around.
Still, what did it matter to me? I hoped and expected ere two months
had gone by to have found a steam yacht to my liking in English waters,
and to be flying my pennant far up the storied Nile, with Hildegarde,
no other, as my guest and comrade.
Robbins loomed up.
The smoke had grown lighter, so that we were able to discover one
another.
He descended upon me with his usual impetuous rush.
“You’ve gone and done it, my boy--fate is in this thing, dead sure.
That charge of yours was the finest thing I ever saw. Come, now, no
laughing it off; I’m in earnest. And, as for the boys, they’re fairly
paralyzed--it’s on every man’s tongue: ‘Señor Morgan won the fight
alone! Everything we owe to him!’ Haven’t I heard them? They fairly
worship you, my boy. Yes, it’s surely fate.”
That was the way he rattled on.
I had to smile.
Think of it, just two nights before, and these same “boys,” some of
them, at least, were hot for my blood, chasing me through the twisting
_calles_ of Bolivar, and over the bay.
Well, they say time brings its revenges.
“What of the fort out on the point?” I asked.
He snapped his fingers.
“Never has held out from a land attack. A messenger will bring ’em to
terms. The whole shooting match is ours, Morgan. It’s a big thing for
us, d’ye know?”
“At any rate, we’ve paid our debt, and can leave Bolivar in good
standing.”
“Leave Bolivar--h’m! I don’t know about that--perhaps our duty is not
yet done.”
“But--President Toreado--he will not try to detain us after we stood by
him?”
I said this with growing uneasiness, for Robbins appeared so deucedly
mysterious.
“It won’t be, and never can be President Toreado--the old general has
flunked.”
“What--killed?”
“One of the few who fell--shot down at my side in a skirmish--yes, he’s
a dead herring.”
“But--there came a king who knew not Joseph--who will be president--not
the alcalde, surely?”
Robbins burst into a guffaw.
“Humbug! You ask me who the new party have selected for their leader,
their president? Listen, and you will hear his name.”
He left me, and ran out. I heard his haranguing the crowd in a horrible
jumble of English and dog Spanish; then came tremendous shouts, and one
mighty roar burst upon my tympanums:
“Señor Morgan!--_el presidente!_--Señor Morgan!”
Great Scott! they meant me!