A GOOD REPUBLICAN
During the remainder of the voyage I had little intercourse with Senhor
Manuel Cortes de Guarde. Indeed, I had turned the tables quite cleverly
upon the spy, who doubtless imagined many dangers in addition to those
indicated in my diary. For my part, I became a bit ashamed of the
imposition I had practised, despite the fact that the handsome young
Brazilian had exhibited a perfect willingness to assassinate me in the
Emperor’s interests. Attracted toward him in spite of my discoveries, I
made several attempts to resume our former friendly intercourse; but he
recoiled from my overtures and shunned my society.
In order to impress upon de Guarde the truth of the assertions I had
made in the diary I selected a young physician, a Dr. Neel, to
impersonate the intriguing and bloodthirsty American secretary. He was a
quiet, unobtrusive fellow, with an intelligent face, and a keen,
inquiring look in his eyes. I took occasion to confide to Dr. Neel, in a
mysterious manner that must have amused him, that I was afflicted with
an incomprehensible disease. He promptly mistook me for a hypochondriac,
and humored me in a good-natured fashion, so that we were frequently
observed by de Guarde in earnest and confidential conversation. My ruse
proved effective. Often I surprised a look of anxiety upon the
Brazilian’s face as he watched Dr. Neel from a distance; but de Guarde
took pains not to mingle with any group that the physician made part of,
and it was evident the detective had no longer any desire to precipitate
a conflict during the voyage to Rio.
I do not say that Valcour was cowardly. In his position I am positive I
could not have escaped the doubts that so evidently oppressed him. He
secluded himself in his state-room, under pretense of illness, as we
drew nearer to Brazil, and I was considerably relieved to have him out
of the way.
Captain Lertine, to whom Valcour had evidently confided his discovery of
the diary, was also uneasy during those days, and took occasion to ask
me many questions about Dr. Neel, which I parried in a way that tended
to convince him that the physician was none other than the secret
emissary sent by my uncle to Miguel de Pintra. The good Captain was
nervous over the safety of the ship, telling me in a confidential way
that nearly all his crew were new hands, and that he had no confidence
in their loyalty to the Emperor.
His face bore an expression of great relief when we anchored in the bay
of Rio de Janiero on a clear June morning at daybreak, and no time was
lost in transferring the passengers of the Castina to a small steam
launch, which soon landed us and our effects upon the quay.
I had not seen Valcour since we anchored, but after bidding good by to
Dr. Neel, who drove directly to his hotel, I caught a glimpse of the
detective’s eager face as he followed the doctor in a cab.
The whole affair struck me as being a huge joke, and the sensation of
danger that I experienced on board the ship was dissolved by the bright
sunshine and the sight of the great city calmly awakening and preparing
for its usual daily round of business.
I dispatched my trunks to the Continental Railway station, and finding
that I had ample time determined to follow them on foot, the long walk
being decidedly grateful after the days on shipboard. Much as I longed
to see the beauties of Brazil’s famous capital, I dared not at this time
delay to do so, as my uncle had impressed upon me the necessity of
presenting myself to de Pintra as soon as possible after my arrival.
Another thing that influenced me was the deception that I had practised
upon the detective. Valcour, with the Emperor at his back, was now a
power to be reckoned with, and as soon as he discovered that I had
misled him the police would doubtless be hot upon my trail. So my safest
plan was to proceed at once to the province where my new chief had power
to protect me.
I reached the railway station without difficulty and found I had a
quarter of an hour to spare.
“Give me a ticket to Cuyaba,” I said to the clerk at the window.
He stared at me as he handed the card through the grating.
“Matto Grosso train, senhor,” he said. “It leaves at eight o’clock.”
“Thank you,” I returned, moving away.
A tall policeman in an odd uniform of black and gold barred my way.
“Your pardon, senhor Americano,” said he, touching his visor in salute;
“I beg you to follow me quietly.”
He turned on his heel and marched away, and I, realizing that trouble
had already overtaken me, followed him to the street.
A patrol was drawn up at the curb, a quaint-looking vehicle set low
between four high wheels and covered with canvas. Startled at the sight
I half turned, with a vague idea of escape, and confronted two stout
policemen at my rear.
Resistance seemed useless. I entered the wagon, my captor seating
himself upon the bench beside me. Instantly we whirled away at a rapid
pace.
I now discerned two men, also in uniform, upon the front seat. One was
driving the horses, and presently the other climbed over the seat and
sat opposite my guard.
The tall policeman frowned.
“Why are you here, Marco?” he demanded, in a threatening voice.
“For this!” was the prompt answer; and with the words I caught a quick
flash as the man called Marco buried a knife to the hilt in the other’s
breast.
My captor scarce uttered a sound as he pitched headforemost upon the
floor of the now flying wagon. The driver had but given a glance over
his shoulder and lashed his horses to their utmost speed.
Cold with horror at the revolting deed I gazed into the dark eyes of the
murderer. He smiled as he answered my look and shrugged his shoulders as
if excusing the crime.
“A blow for freedom, senhor!” he announced, in his soft, native patois.
“Dom Miguel would be grieved were you captured by the police.”
I started.
“Dom Miguel! You know him, then?”
“Assuredly, senhor. You are the new secretary. Otherwise you would not
be so foolish as to demand a ticket to Cuyaba—the seat of the
revolution.”
“I begin to understand,” I said, after a moment’s thought. “You are of
the police?”
“Sergeant Marco, senhor; at your service. And I have ventured to kill
our dear lieutenant in order to insure your safety. I am sorry,” he
added, gently touching the motionless form that lay between us; “the
lieutenant was a good comrade—but a persistent royalist.”
“Where are you taking me?” I asked.
“To a suburban crossing, where you may catch the Matto Grosso train.”
“And you?”
“I? I am in no danger, senhor. It is you who have done this cruel
deed—and you will escape. The driver—a true patriot—will join me in
accusing you.”
I nodded, my horror of the tragedy growing each moment. Truly this
revolutionary party must be formed of desperate and unscrupulous men,
who hesitated at no crime to advance their interests. If the royalists
were but half so cruel I had indeed ventured into a nest of adders. And
it was the thought of Valcour’s confessed purpose to murder me on
shipboard that now sealed my lips from a protest against this deed that
was to be laid upon my shoulders.
Presently the wagon slowed up, stopping with a jerk that nearly threw me
from my seat. The sergeant alighted and assisted me to follow him.
We were at a deserted crossing, and the buildings of the city lay
scattered a quarter of a mile away.
“Take this flag, senhor. The engineer will stop to let you aboard.
Farewell, and kindly convey my dutiful respects to Dom Miguel.”
As the wagon rolled away the train came gliding from the town, and I
stepped between the tracks and waved the flag as directed. The engine
slowed down, stopped a brief instant, and I scrambled aboard as the
train recovered speed and moved swiftly away.
For the present, at least, I was safe.
Quite unobtrusively I seated myself in the rear end of the passenger
coach and gazed from the window as we rushed along, vainly endeavoring
to still the nervous beating of my heart and to collect and center my
thoughts upon the trying situation in which I found myself. Until the
last hour I had been charmed with my mission to Brazil, imagining much
pleasure in acting as secretary to a great political leader engaged in a
struggle for the freedom of his country. The suggestion of danger my
post involved had not frightened me, nor did it even now; but I shrank
from the knowledge that cold-blooded assassination was apparently of
little moment to these conspirators. In less than two hours after
landing at Rio I found myself fleeing from the police, with a foul and
revolting murder fastened upon me in the name of the revolution! Where
would it all end? Did Uncle Nelson thoroughly realize the terrible
nature of the political plot into which he had so calmly thrust me?
Probably not. But already I knew that Brazil was a dangerous country and
sheltered a hot-headed and violent people.
It was a long and dreary ride as we mounted the grade leading to the
tablelands of the interior. Yet the country was beautifully green and
peaceful under the steady glare of the sun, and gradually my distress
passed away and left me more composed.
Neither the passengers nor trainmen paid the slightest attention to me,
and although at first I looked for arrest at every station where we
halted, there was no indication that the police of Rio had discovered my
escape and flight.
Night came at last, and I dozed fitfully during the long hours, although
still too nervous for sound sleep. We breakfasted at a way-station, and
a couple of hours later, as I was gazing thoughtfully out the window,
the conductor aroused me by settling into the seat at my side. He was a
short, pudgy individual, and wheezed asthmatically with every breath.
“I received a telegram at the last station,” he confided to me, choking
and coughing between the words. “It instructed me to arrest an American
senhor traveling to Cuyaba. Have you seen him?”
I shivered, and stared back into his dull eyes.
“Ah! I thought not,” he continued, with a short laugh. “It is not the
first telegram they have sent this trip from Rio, you know; but I cannot
find the fellow anywhere aboard. Do you wonder? How can I be expected to
distinguish an American from a Brazilian? Bah! I am not of the police.”
I began to breathe again. The conductor nudged my ribs with his elbow.
“These police will perhaps be at the station. Cuyaba is the next stop.
But we will slow up, presently, at a curve near the edge of the forest.
Were I the American, and aboard this train, I would get out there, and
wait among the trees in the forest until Dom Miguel’s red cart comes
along. But, _ai de mim_, the American is not here! Eh? Thank God for it!
But I must leave, senhor. Good day to you.”
He bustled away, and at once I seized my traveling-bag and slipped out
to the back platform. We slowed up at the curve a moment later, and I
sprang to the ground and entered the shade of a group of trees that
marked the edge of the little forest.
And there I sat upon a fallen tree-trunk for two weary hours, wondering
what would happen next, and wishing with all my heart I had never
ventured into this intrigue-ridden country. But at the end of that time
I heard the rattle of a wagon and the regular beat of a horse’s feet.
Peering from my refuge I discerned a red cart slowly approaching over
the road that wound between the railway track and the forest. It was
driven by a sleepy Brazilian boy in a loose white blouse and a wide
straw hat.
As he arrived opposite me I stepped out and hailed him.
“Are you from Dom Miguel de Pintra?” I asked.
He nodded.
“I am the American he is expecting,” I continued, and climbed to the
seat beside him. He showed no surprise at my action, nor, indeed, any
great interest in the meeting; but as soon as I was seated he whipped up
the horse, which developed unexpected speed, and we were soon rolling
swiftly over the country road.