independence, there was widespread indignation throughout Colombia
against the United States. Americans were accused of starting the
"revolution" which robbed the mother country of her richest possession,
and the Colombian government was accordingly expected to avenge the
national honor. The native authorities, lacking money and troops, did
not respond to the popular demand, and it was left to the "patriots" to
denounce the invading Yankees, and to fit out such volunteer expeditions
as the one planned by the emboladores of the Calle de Las Montanas.
Bogota, the largest city of the republic, the center of its official
life, became the rallying place for political malcontents. A "Sociedad
del Integridad Nacional"--a body of agitators at odds with the native
government and bitterly opposed to the United States--had been formed
here. This Sociedad had already organized two expeditions against the
Yankees and the Panamanians. Both expeditions, made up of the dregs of
the city, poorly armed, scantily clad, relying for their food on such
contributions as they might pick up along the way, had left for the
coast where they planned a guerilla warfare that would bring them, they
believed, in triumph to the Isthmus. The third expedition was being
engineered by the emboladores, whose enthusiasm and love of adventure
made them excellent starters of an uprising. Even the elder peons,
skeptical at first of what was going on, soon threw aside their reserve
and fell into line with the bootblacks. Cheers greeted each addition to
the little army, and it was not long before Pedro Cavallo, "Rey de los
Emboladores," headed an eager throng of followers numbering well into
the thousands.
What to do with so strange a mob of volunteers might have puzzled
a more experienced leader than Pedro. But nothing daunted him. The
bigger and the more unruly his army, the greater seemed to be his
confidence in himself as its commander. And his royal swagger won
unbounded admiration. Grimy children, too young to join the ranks of the
emboladores, scurried hither and thither among the bystanders, shrieking
with delight at this staging of their favorite "Pedro the King." Women,
setting down their bundles under the projecting latticed windows of the
houses, talked wonderingly of this sudden glory that had come to a youth
whom they had thought skilled in nothing mightier than the blacking of
boots. Solemn greybeards, proprietors of dingy little tiendas, stood
in the doorways of their shops, secretly amazed, but still holding
themselves grimly aloof from the noisy demonstrations of their
neighbors.
"Yankees are pigs," said one of these sellers of sweets, native tobacco
and white rum, quoting gloomily the popular estimate of Americans.
"Yes," replied another; "and pigs are easily beaten."
"Truly, that is so," quoth the first philosopher, struck by the turn of
a new idea. "Yes, that is so. Even a woman can beat a pig, if the pig
has eaten too much."
"Yes, yes, Compadre! And Panama is too much for the hungriest pig."
Then, out of the surging crowd of volunteers, came a stentorian voice:
"Donde vamos, Pedro el Rey?" ("Where shall we go, King Pedro?")
"To the President! To the Palace San Carlos!" shouted Pedro, brandishing
a stick snatched from one of the faithful.
As the volunteers had agreed to do this in the first place, the
announcement was instantly approved. San Carlos, "the palace," was
not far off--a few short blocks this side the principal plaza of the
city--and word was quickly passed along to march thither. Still shouting
vengeance on all Yankees, the emboladores, followed by a mob of peons,
moved down the street, encouraged by the primitive jests and delighted
cheers of the bystanders.
Early as it was, San Carlos was ready for this unusual visit. Although
it was popularly known as "the palace"--as all residences of high
officials are in Colombia--this large rambling structure of stone and
plaster was in no way distinguished from the buildings that elbowed it
at each side. Its dilapidated walls ran sheer to the narrow sidewalk,
overlooking which were several balconies of the kind commonly used in
Spanish-American buildings. A large square opening, guarded by rude,
heavily timbered doors, formed the entrance to this simple executive
mansion which was built around a huge courtyard, or patio. From this
patio two broad flights of carpeted stairs led to the living rooms
and offices above. This arrangement of rooms, balconies, patio--the
fountain in the middle of a bed of flowering shrubs and plants,
perpetually spraying a moss-grown cupid; the brick walls; the inner
corridor supported on arches of masonry and forming the boundary of the
four-sided court--all this one finds, with slight variation, in the home
of the average Bogotano, as well as in the official "palace." The unique
feature of San Carlos, growing out of the very heart of this ancient
dwelling, is a huge walnut tree, rising some forty or fifty feet above
the patio, overtopping the adjacent roofs, and marking this, better than
could any national emblem, as the presidential residence.
Within the gateway of the palace and at the foot of the stone steps
leading to the corridor above, there is always a guard of soldiers.
On the morning of the visit of the emboladores this guard was greatly
increased in numbers and was commanded by a youth whose resplendent
uniform was in striking contrast with the dingy, ill-fitting apparel of
his men. As the tramp of the peons echoed along the street, the soldiers
marched hastily across the patio and drew up outside the entrance to
the palace. Here, waiting groups of idlers shouted with delight as the
bootblacks, King Pedro in the lead, rounded the corner of San Carlos.
"They will polish the Yankees," declared one admirer.
"No, they have come for the president's boots."
"Emboladores! Emboladores! Beware the bull!"
"Here, King Pedro, give us a shine!"
"Don Pedro is busy; he's lost his brush."
"He's keeping it for his Yankee customers."
"He will take Panama with it."
The unterrified Pedro, meeting this raillery with serene indifference,
halted his men before the entrance to the palace and addressed the
captain of the guard.
"We have come to see Don Jose."
"But, muchacho," replied the captain affably, "that is impossible. His
Excellency is busy. Who are you?"
"Pedro, El Rey de los Emboladores!" piped up several volunteers.
"Ah!" said the captain, saluting profoundly. "And what do you want with
his Excellency, Majestad?"
"To tell him we will fight the Yankees who have stolen Panama."
"I will tell his Excellency this," was the grave reply. "Of course, he
will be pleased."
While these two youths were talking--for after all, the magnificent toy
captain was quite as young as the King of Brush and Bottle--the curtains
of the large window above were drawn aside and a tall, spare figure, in
a long frock coat, stepped slowly forth on the balcony. He was an old
man, with a close-clipped beard and moustache, sharp, thin features,
and an owlish way of peering through his large, gold-bowed spectacles
that made one look involuntarily for the ferule of the schoolmaster
held behind his back. This elderly personage had been, indeed, one of
the notable pedagogues of Bogota in his day, a fact which, joined to
his scholarly achievements in his country's literature, seemed to his
neighbors a sufficient reason for voting him in as the proprietor of San
Carlos. To this decision the less powerful and more numerous citizens of
the republic could make no effective protest.
On this particular morning it was the schoolmaster, wearing his most
indulgent smile, who faced the bootblacks in the street below him.
As soon as they caught sight of the familiar figure they gave him an
enthusiastic greeting, the democratic flavor of which he seemed to
relish. Popular applause had been lacking in Don Jose's career, and
since the troubles over Panama had broken in upon his quiet cultivation
of the muses, it looked very much as if his countrymen's indifference
might turn to open hostility. Thus, the friendly greetings of a rabble
of bootblacks and peons was not to be despised.
"Don Jose! Don Jose!" they shouted cheerfully, with that peculiar
upward inflection by which the Spanish-American gives a warmth to his
salutation not suggested by the words themselves. "El Presidente de
Colombia! Viva Don Jose! Baja los Yankees!"
To all of which Don Jose, one long thin hand thrust stiffly between the
breast buttons of his coat, listened in dignified silence, inwardly
gratified by these boisterous visitors.
"Bueno, bueno," he said in a high querulous voice; "I am very glad to
see you, my friends. This is a great honor. But, what can I do for you?"
"Send us to Panama!" bawled Pedro, acting as spokesman for his men.
"Dear me!" exclaimed the old man, enjoying the situation and ignoring
its political consequences. "Panama is far off--and why should I send
such good citizens away from Bogota?"
"Por la Patria! Por la Patria! To fight the Yankees!"
"The Yankees? But why----"
"They have stolen Panama. They are pigs!"
"What a people!" he exclaimed, nonplussed. "I am sorry for that. Well,
if I send you, what will you do?"
"Esta bueno! Don Jose will send us to kill the Yankees!" they shouted
enthusiastically.
"No! No! I didn't say that!" he expostulated; then continued, as if by
rote: "The government will look after Panama. If fighting is needed to
preserve the republic, the army will do its duty"--an assurance which
increased the martial swagger of the gold-braided toy captain, although
unappreciated by his men.
"We will fight with the army, Don Jose," declared Pedro. "We will drive
out the Yankees and save Panama."
"Viva Colombia! Baja los Yankees!" shouted the peons. As this voiced
the popular sentiment, and as Don Jose's loyalty in the Panama affair
had been questioned by some of his enemies, no sufficiently discreet
reply occurred to the puzzled schoolmaster, whose intellectual gifts,
moreover, were lacking in the quick give-and-take needed for street
oratory. So, smiling benignly, and somewhat fatuously, upon the
noisy rabble, he thrust his hand deeper into his coat, peered more
owlishly through his gold-rimmed glasses and, forgetting its future
possibilities, got such enjoyment as he could out of the novel
situation.
The volunteers exploded with joy over the president's apparent approval
of their demand. Had Pedro cared to stop for further talk the impatience
of his comrades would have prevented him. Although these peons had no
definite plan, they were looking for something more exciting than an
exchange of opinions with this old grey-beard of San Carlos. A march
through the city, and then on to Panama, seemed as good a program as any
to men who were indifferent to the dry details of geography. There were
more cries of "Down with the Yankees!" and cheers for Don Jose. Then,
before that bewildered statesman could take himself off, his unwashed
admirers filed past his balcony, leaving the toy captain and his men to
close the gates they had so courageously guarded.
Under other skies and among a more vindictive people, a roving crowd of
peons, clamorous for war and threatening all who opposed them, might
be regarded with some alarm. But the mildness of the Andean character,
its dislike for actual bloodshed, lessened Bogota's danger. Even the
timid Don Jose was not apprehensive. But there were others who thought
it wiser to keep these peons away from Americans living in Bogota. Not
that anything would really happen--past experiences seemed to prove the
harmlessness of this kind of patriotism. When the second expedition
left for the Isthmus, for instance, an American, looking for novel
impressions, had posed the volunteers before his camera and snapshotted
them to his heart's content while they were denouncing "los Yankees."
But one mob of patriots may be quite unlike another, and it so happened
that when King Pedro's army of emboladores, in its aimless wanderings
after leaving the Palace of San Carlos, stumbled upon a native of the
United States, the encounter became a very lively one indeed.
As a rule plenty of Americans are in Bogota. Some go there to do
business for the merchant houses which they represent; some have
their own local interests, others are after those tempting government
"concessions" granted to the disinterested person who develops the
natural resources of the country by monopolizing them. When the Panama
"revolution" came, most Americans left Bogota, conscious that it was
not a promising time to seek aid from the national treasury for their
ventures. Those who were unable to leave, stayed within their respective
hotels whenever a popular uprising seemed likely.
It was down a blank little side street, leading nowhere in particular,
lined with modest one-storied houses, in a quiet district unfrequented
by foreigners, that the roving peons met the one American who had failed
to conceal himself on this particular morning. After leaving San Carlos,
Pedro had turned his men into the Plaza de Catedral, where they had
clattered along the wide concourse, pausing to make a few fiery speeches
before the capitol, whose unroofed courts--the building was unfinished
at that time--and majestic Doric columns seem meant for oratory. From
here they had gone the zigzag length of the principal business street.
Then tiring of their progress through an unresponsive city, they had
started to find their way back to the Calle de Las Montanas, choosing
for this purpose the obscure Calle de Las Flores.
At their approach the street was practically deserted, all the doors
opening on it carefully barred and, in some instances, even the blinds
of the windows drawn. Thus, it happened that a tall man, muffled in a
ruana, wearing a wide sombrero, and with his back against the entrance
to one of the houses, became unavoidably conspicuous as the throng of
emboladores surged along the roadway abreast of him.
"Viva Colombia!" shouted Pedro, giving the usual greeting. "Baja los
Yankees!"
Instead of answering in a like strain of enthusiasm, the man addressed
tossed the loose end of his ruana over one shoulder, showing, as he did
so, a pallid face on which played a contemptuous smile.
"Soy un Americano," he replied composedly, glancing at Pedro and then
turning his eyes, which were singularly piercing, from one to another of
those crowding about him.
"Un Yankee! Un Yankee! Baja los Yankees!"
The cry was followed by a threatening movement of the emboladores toward
the man whose attitude seemed to be a challenge to them.
"Halt!" yelled Pedro. "I know this senor. Give him a chance. If he
cheers Colombia, we will let him go. If he refuses, he is prisoner. Now,
Senor Yankee--viva Colombia!"
The emboladores gave a lusty cheer. It was met with scornful silence by
the man who had declared himself a Yankee.
"Si! Si! Pedro el Rey!" they all shouted. "He is an enemy to Colombia.
He is prisoner!"
The wily Pedro unwilling to risk his position by denying the demands of
his followers, yet fearing to aid in an act of violence, diplomatically
said nothing. The defiant American, meanwhile, regarded the peons with a
disdain that enraged them, although checking, through its very audacity,
their hostility.
"I am not a Colombian," he said quietly; "I am not an enemy to Colombia.
But I won't cheer against the Yankees."
"Un Yankee! Un Yankee!" they retorted. "A Yankee thief come for our
gold!"
"There is truth in that," he laughed sardonically. "I want gold that you
are too lazy to get for yourselves--just as you were too lazy to keep
Panama."
"Un loco! He is insane!" cried Pedro in disgust. "Let us go!"
"No! No!" yelled the angry mob. And amid cries of "Loco! Demonio!
Yankee! Puerco!" those in the front ranks made a lunge at the man whose
exasperating coolness had kept them at bay, while a shower of missiles
came from the peons who hovered in the rear.
But the attack was skilfully met. Tripping up his first two assailants
and warding off the blows of a third, the Yankee, smiling derisively,
stealthily passed his left hand along the ponderous door against which
he was leaning. This street door, as is usual in Colombian houses, had
a small "postigo," or wicket, large enough to admit one person at a
time, and opening much more readily than the unwieldy mass of timber of
which it formed an insignificant part. Having found the latch of this
wicket, the Yankee gave it a quick backward thrust, stepped lightly over
the threshold and closed and barricaded this scarcely revealed entrance
behind him.
A storm of oaths followed his escape. Then, not content with this vent
to their anger, the peons, using such stones and weapons as came to
hand, rushed upon the wooden barricade standing between them and their
prey, at the same time calling upon the inhabitants of the house to let
them in. These Colombian doors, however, are built to withstand a stout
siege, and the din might have been indefinitely prolonged had it not
come to an abrupt and unexpected conclusion.
Three sharp blows upon the door were given from within. Then a clear
feminine voice was heard above the uproar.
"Stand back, Senores! I will open."
There was a dead silence. This time it was the great door itself that
swung slowly open. There was no sign of the escaped Yankee in the wide
corridor beyond. In his stead there stood, unattended, unprotected, a
woman.
She was clad in a long robe of white, her dark hair flowing unconfined
down her shoulders. Her bare arms, exquisitely molded, and of a tint
that vied with her dress in purity, were crossed upon her breast. There
was no fear in her eyes as she faced the abashed men and boys before
her.
"This is my house, Senores," she said calmly. "What do you want?"
Involuntarily the leaders of the mob fell back, awed by the girl's
courage and dignity. There was a murmur of voices, ending in a chorus of
admiration and homage.
"La Reina! La Reina!" they cried. "La Reina de los Indios!"
Then the sharp-witted Pedro, resuming command over his ragged troops,
stepped forth, waving to the others to keep silence.
"It is nothing, Senora," he said, bowing with an awkward grace that
played sad pranks with the box of blacking hanging from his neck. "We
are patriots of Colombia marching to Panama. We mean no harm to you."
Then, turning to the emboladores, he shouted, with his old enthusiasm:
"Por la Patria! Por la Patria! Viva la Reina! Baja los Yankees!"
The crowd took up the familiar call, and with one of those quick changes
of sentiment that sometimes sweeps over such gatherings, fell into a
march, cheering the motionless "Reina de los Indios" as they filed past
her, and leaving the Calle de los Flores to its accustomed dreams and
quiet.
VII
LA REINA DE LOS INDIOS
"Felicita, where is this Senor?"
"Ah, Dios mio! safe enough, in the sala. But for thee--nina Sa'pona, how
scared I've been! And they called thee queen, thou who art our queen
indeed, beautiful, brave one! But thou shouldst not do this--not for so
ugly a senor--my beautiful nina!"
With the great door closed, and the noise from the peons growing fainter
in the distance, the stern dignity of the Indian girl vanished before
the simple talk of her old nurse. Queen of the Indians, as the peons
called her, this girl might be--although why they called her so they
would find it difficult to tell--but for the faithful creature, with
her eager caresses and affectionate words, royalty, real or imaginary,
scarcely counted.
"There you are, foolish Felicita, always scared at something! Danger?
What danger? Only a greeting from those who are as fond of me as thou
art. Now, to thy work. I must speak with this troublesome Yankee. Many a
day it is since I have seen him here. And then--Felicita, I am dying of
hunger."
Shaking her head at her mistress's lack of caution, the old nurse
hobbled down the gloomy corridor and into the sunny patio, fragrant with
jasmine and sweet rose, where two Indian girls, seated upon the flags
surrounding the opening of a central cistern, were crushing corn in the
primitive stone hand mills of their race.
Resuming something of her stateliness of mien, the youthful "Reina de
los Indios" turned to the right along a passage-way leading off from
the main corridor into the sala, or principal living room of the house.
This was more scantily furnished than such apartments usually are in
Bogota. All that it had was of the plainest--half a dozen cheap rocking
chairs, a straight-backed cane settee, a tall pier-glass, ornamented at
the top and sides with meaningless gilt stucco work, and a dark walnut
cabinet, carved in elaborate hunting design, with massive spiral pillars
supporting the heavily panelled sides and front--the only object in the
room giving evidence either of taste or wealth. Even the tiled floors
were bare, save for a few well worn petates (Indian mats) which failed
to supply that feeling of comfort provided in this chilly climate by the
thick woollen rugs and carpets generally in use.
Awaiting her entrance stood the Yankee whom she had rescued from the
emboladores. Confronted by his ragged assailants he had shown an
admirable coolness; in the presence of this young girl his manner lacked
that air of confidence he had so readily assumed in the face of danger.
He was ill at ease; his glance shifted from one object to another in
the room, his sombrero was tightly clenched in his hand, he avoided the
steady gaze of his rescuer. Yet there was in his attitude toward her
an indefinable homage, due, perhaps, to the queenly rank that others
accorded her, or else to the rare feminine loveliness, the subtle power
of which few could escape.
"Senorita, you have done me a great service," he said. "I was on my way
to see you when I had that brush with the peons. That is my excuse for
taking refuge in your house and exposing you to danger. Will you forgive
me? Will you----"
"Ah, my good Don Raoul!" she interrupted. "What questions! And from you!
Of course, if I was of service to you just now, I am glad."
"It is good to hear you say that, Senorita," he replied with evident
relief. "I was afraid things might be different between us. You see, you
disappeared so completely. You have not been in Bogota for months, for
years, Senorita. And then, to-day--at last--I heard of your arrival. I
wanted to see you. I have not forgotten you in all this long time, you
may be sure, Sajipona!"
A faint flush overspread the girl's delicate features; a strange look
kindled within her dark eyes.
"It is well, Don Raoul," she said in a low voice.
"And here you are, still the Queen--beautiful, mysterious!" he
exclaimed.
"You know I am not a queen," she murmured.
"Why, even now they called you so. Those jackals felt your power--just
as I do, beautiful Sajipona!"
"Enough, Senor! Titles and flatteries I neither care for nor deserve are
a mockery in my own house."
"The title is yours by tradition, if not by right. As for
flatteries----"
"We do not live by traditions," she interrupted.
"To me, at least, you are La Reina de los Indios."
"Ah, well, Senor," she said with a low laugh; "every queen, I fancy,
should have at least one subject. And now--supposing that I am this
queen you talk of--what is it you want of me?"
"We always used to be friends, Sajipona. Can we not be friends still?"
"There's another strange question! But--surely you did not come here to
ask me that? There is something else, Don Raoul," she added, regarding
him intently.
"It is that, first of all. And then--I had it in mind to tell you that
my friend is returning to Bogota--David Meudon."
"David Meudon," she repeated, as if pondering the name, looking steadily
at Raoul the while.
"But then--what is that to me, Senor?" she asked.
"You remember him?"
"Yes, of course I remember him. He has been away a long time, hasn't
he?" Then, after a pause: "Why does he come back?"
"To solve a mystery--so he writes me."
"A mystery?"
"He calls it a mystery," laughed the other. "You see, when we were
living here together he disappeared for three months. We thought he
had been killed by a dynamite explosion. Surely, you have heard of it,
Senorita?"
"Yes--I think everyone has heard of it. And then, at the time, there
were rumors. For instance, I heard--I heard who exploded the dynamite."
"Sure enough, there were all kinds of rumors. But, of course, the whole
thing was an accident, a horrible accident, that nearly cost David his
life. He didn't heed the signal in time--or something went wrong--the
signal or the dynamite. Anyway, he wasn't seen or heard of again for
three months. We all thought he must have been blown to bits. Then, a
curious thing happened. One morning I found him in my house, in a sort
of trance."
"Well?"
"When he came out of the trance, he declared he could remember nothing
of what he had been through. Those three months were a blank in his
memory."
"And then----?"
"He left Bogota, declaring he would never come back. That was just three
years ago."
"But----"