A SUPPER PARTY.
I shall never forget that supper as long as I live. Considered merely
as a social gathering it would be memorable enough, for I never before
or since sat at meat with ten such queer customers as my hosts of
that evening. The officers of the Aureataland Army were a very mixed
lot--two or three Spanish-Americans, three or four Brazilians, and the
balance Americans of the type their countrymen are least proud of. If
there was an honest man among them he sedulously concealed his title
to distinction; I know there wasn't a sober one. The amount of liquor
consumed was portentous; and I gloated with an unholy joy as I saw man
after man rapidly making himself what diplomatists call a _quantité
negligéable_. The conversation needed all the excuse the occasion
could afford, and the wit would have appeared unduly coarse in a
common pot-house. All this might have passed from my memory,
or blended in a subdued harmony with my general impression of
Aureataland; but the peculiar position in which I stood gave to my
mind an unusual activity of perception. Among this band of careless,
drunken revelers I sat vigilant, restless, and impatient; feigning
to take a leading part in their dissolute hilarity, I was sober,
collected, and alert to my very finger-tips. I anxiously watched their
bearing and expression. I led them on to speak of the President,
rejoicing when I elicited open murmurs and covert threats at his base
ingratitude to the men on whose support his power rested. They had not
been paid for six months, and were ripe for any mischief. I was more
than once tempted to forestall the colonel and begin the revolution
on my own account; only my inability to produce before their eyes any
arguments of the sort they would listen to restrained me.
Eleven o'clock had come and gone. The senior captain had proposed the
President's health. It was drunk in sullen silence; I was the only man
who honored it by rising from his seat.
The major had proposed the army, and they had drunk deep to their
noble selves. A young man of weak expression and quavering legs had
proposed "The commerce of Aureataland," coupled with the name of Mr.
John Martin, in laudatory but incoherent terms, and I was on my legs
replying. Oh, that speech of mine! For discursiveness, for repetition,
for sheer inanity, I suppose it has never been equaled. I droned
steadily away, interrupted only by cries for fresh supplies of wine;
as I went on the audience paid less and less attention. It was past
twelve. The well of my eloquence was running drier and drier, and yet
no sound outside! I wondered how long they would stand it and how long
I could stand it. At 12.15 I began my peroration. Hardly had I done
so, when one of the young men started in a gentle voice an utterly
indescribable ditty. One by one they took it up, till the rising tide
of voices drowned my fervent periods. Perforce I stopped. They were
all on their feet now. Did they mean to break up? In despair at the
idea I lifted up my voice, loud and distinct (the only distinct
voice left in the room), in the most shameful verse of that shameful
composition, and seizing my neighbor's hand began to move slowly round
the table. The move was successful. Each man followed suit, and the
whole party, kicking back their chairs, revolved with lurching steps
round the _débris_ of empty bottles and cigar ashes.
The room was thick with smoke, and redolent of fumes of wine.
Mechanically I led the chorus, straining every nerve to hear a sound
from outside. I was growing dizzy with the movement, and, overwrought
with the strain on my nerves. I knew a few minutes more would be the
limit of endurance, when at last I heard a loud shout and tumult of
voices.
"What's that?" exclaimed the major, in thick tones, pausing as he
spoke.
I dropped his hand, and, seizing my revolver, said:
"Some drunken row in barracks, major. Let 'em alone."
"I must go," he said. "Character--Aureataland--army--at stake."
"Set a thief to catch a thief, eh, major?" said I.
"What do you mean, sir?" he stuttered. "Let me go."
"If you move, I shoot, major," said I, bringing out my weapon.
I never saw greater astonishment on human countenance. He swore
loudly, and then cried:
"Hi, stop him--he's mad--he's going to shoot!"
A shout of laughter rose from the crew around us, for they felt
exquisite appreciation of my supposed joke.
"Right you are, Martin!" cried one. "Keep him quiet. We won't go home
till morning."
The major turned to the window. It was a moonlight night, and as I
looked with him I saw the courtyard full of soldiers. Who was in
command? The answer to that meant much to me.
This sight somewhat sobered the major.
"A mutiny!" he cried. "The soldiers have risen!"
"Go to bed," said the junior ensign.
"Look out of window!" he cried.
They all staggered to the window. As the soldiers saw them, they
raised a shout. I could not distinguish whether it was a greeting or a
threat. They took it as the latter, and turned to the door.
"Stop!" I cried; "I shoot the first man who opens the door."
In wonder they turned on me. I stood facing them, revolver in hand.
They waited huddled together for an instant, then made a rush at me;
I fired, but missed. I had a vision of a poised decanter; a second
later, the missile caught me in the chest and hurled me back against
the wall. As I fell I dropped my weapon, and they were upon me. I
thought it was all over; but as they surged round, in the madness of
drink and anger, I, looking through their ranks, saw the door open and
a crowd of men rush in. Who was at their head? Thank God! it was the
colonel, and his voice rose high above the tumult:
"Order, gentlemen, order!" Then to his men he added:
"Each mark your man, and two of you bring Mr. Martin here."
I was saved. To explain how, I must tell you what had been happening
at the Golden House, and how the night attack had fared.