 | IX Soldiers of Fortune |  |
9. IX
CLAY slept for three hours. He had left a note on the floor instructing MacWilliams and young Langham not to go to the mines, but to waken him at ten o'clock, and by eleven the three men were galloping off to the city. As they left the Palms they met Hope returning from a morning ride on the Alameda, and Clay begged her, with much concern, not to ride abroad again. There was a difference in his tone toward her. There was more anxiety in it than the occasion seemed to justify, and he put his request in the form of a favor to himself, while the day previous he would simply have told her that she must not go riding alone.
“Why?” asked Hope, eagerly. “Is there going to be trouble?”
“I hope not,” Clay said, “but the soldiers are coming in from the provinces for the review, and the roads are not safe.”
“I'd be safe with you, though,” said Hope, smiling persuasively upon the three men. “Won't you take me with you, please?”
“Hope,” said young Langham in the tone of
Hope smiled wickedly. “I don't want to,” she said.
“I'll bet you a box of cigars I can beat you to the veranda by fifty yards,” said MacWilliams, turning his horse's head.
Hope clasped her sailor hat in one hand and swung her whip with the other. “I think not,” she cried, and disappeared with a flutter of skirts and a scurry of flying pebbles.
“At times,” said Clay, “MacWilliams shows an unexpected knowledge of human nature.”
“Yes, he did quite right,” assented Langham, nodding his head mysteriously. “We've no time for girls at present, have we?”
“No, indeed,” said Clay, hiding any sign of a smile.
Langham breathed deeply at the thought of the part he was to play in this coming struggle, and remained respectfully silent as they trotted toward the city. He did not wish to disturb the plots and counterplots that he was confident were forming in Clay's brain, and his devotion would have been severely tried had he known that his hero's mind was filled with a picture of a young girl in a blue shirt-waist and a whipcord riding-skirt.
Clay sent for Stuart to join them at the restaurant,
The manifestoes, Stuart said, had failed of their purpose. He had already called upon the President, and had offered to resign his position and leave the country, or to stay and fight his maligners, and take up arms at once against Mendoza's party. Alvarez had treated him like a son, and bade him be patient. He held that Cæsar's wife was above suspicion because she was Cæsar's wife, and that no canards posted at midnight could affect his faith in his wife or in his friend. He refused to believe that any coup d'état was imminent, save the one which he himself meditated when he was ready to proclaim the country in a state of revolution, and to assume a military dictatorship.
“What nonsense!” exclaimed Clay. “What is a military dictatorship without soldiers? Can't he see that the army is with Mendoza?”
“No,” Stuart replied. “Rojas and I were with him all the morning. Rojas is an old trump, Clay. He's not bright and he's old-fashioned; but he is honest. And the people know it. If I had Rojas for a chief instead of Alvarez, I'd arrest Mendoza with my own hand, and I wouldn't be afraid to take him to the carcel through the streets. The people wouldn't help him. But the President doesn't dare. Not that he hasn't pluck,” added the young lieutenant, loyally, “for he takes his life in his hands when he goes to the review tomorrow, and he knows it. Think of it, will you, out there alone with a field of five thousand men around him! Rojas thinks he can hold half of them, as many as Mendoza can, and I have my fifty. But you can't tell what any one of them will do for a drink or a dollar. They're no more soldiers than these waiters. They're bandits in uniform, and they'll kill for the man that pays best.”
“Then why doesn't Alvarez pay them?” Clay growled.
Stuart looked away and lowered his eyes to the table. “He hasn't the money, I suppose,” he said, evasively. “He—he has transferred every cent of it into drafts on Rothschild. They are at the house now, representing five millions of dollars in gold—and her jewels, too—packed ready for flight.”
“Then he does expect trouble?” said Clay. “You told me—”
“They're all alike; you know them,” said Stuart. “They won't believe they're in danger until the explosion comes, but they always have a special train ready, and they keep the funds of the government under their pillows. He engaged apartments on the Avenue Kleber six months ago.”
“Bah!” said Clay. “It's the old story. Why don't you quit him?”
Stuart raised his eyes and dropped them again, and Clay sighed. “I'm sorry,” he said.
MacWilliams interrupted them in an indignant stage-whisper. “Say, how long have we got to keep up this fake game?” he asked. “I don't know anything about dominoes, and neither does Ted. Tell us what you've been saying. Is there going to be trouble? If there is, Ted and I want to be in it. We are looking for trouble.”
Clay had tipped back his chair, and was surveying the restaurant and the blazing plaza beyond its open front with an expression of cheerful unconcern. Two men were reading the morning papers near the door, and two others were dragging through a game of dominoes in a far corner. The heat of midday had settled on the place, and the waiters dozed, with their chairs tipped back against the walls. Outside, the awning of the restaurant
The town was taking its siesta, and the brisk step of a stranger who crossed the tessellated floor and rapped with his knuckles on the top of the cigar-case was the only sign of life. The newcomer turned with one hand on the glass case and swept the room carelessly with his eyes. They were hard blue eyes under straight eyebrows. Their owner was dressed unobtrusively in a suit of rough tweed, and this and his black hat, and the fact that he was smooth-shaven, distinguished him as a foreigner.
As he faced them the forelegs of Clay's chair descended slowly to the floor, and he began to smile comprehendingly and to nod his head as though the coming of the stranger had explained something of which he had been in doubt. His companions turned and followed the direction of his eyes, but saw nothing of interest in the newcomer. He looked as though he might be a concession hunter from the States, or a Manchester drummer, prepared to offer six months' credit on blankets and hardware.
Clay rose and strode across the room, circling the tables in such a way that he could keep himself
“Captain Burke, I believe?” said Clay. The stranger bit the cigar he had just purchased, and shook his head. “I am very glad to see you,” Clay continued. “Sit down, won't you? I want to talk with you.”
“I think you've made a mistake,” the stranger answered, quietly. “My name is—”
“Colonel, perhaps, then,” said Clay. “I might have known it. I congratulate you, Colonel.”
The man looked at Clay for an instant, with the cigar clenched between his teeth and his blue eyes fixed steadily on the other's face. Clay waved his hand again invitingly toward a table, and the man shrugged his shoulders and laughed, and, pulling a chair toward him, sat down.
“Come over here, boys,” Clay called. “I want you to meet an old friend of mine, Captain Burke.”
The man called Burke stared at the three men as they crossed the room and seated themselves at the table, and nodded to them in silence.
“We have here,” said Clay, gayly, but in a low voice, “the key to the situation. This is the gentleman who supplies Mendoza with the sinews of war. Captain Burke is a brave soldier and a citizen of my own or of any country, indeed, which
Burke smiled grimly, with a condescending nod, and putting away the cigar, took out a brier pipe and began to fill it from his tobacco-pouch. “The Captain is a man of few words and extremely modest about himself,” Clay continued, lightly; “so I must tell you who he is myself. He is a promoter of revolutions. That is his business,—a professional promoter of revolutions, and that is what makes me so glad to see him again. He knows all about the present crisis here, and he is going to tell us all he knows as soon as he fills his pipe. I ought to warn you, Burke,” he added, “that this is Captain Stuart, in charge of the police and the President's cavalry troop. So, you see, whatever you say, you will have one man who will listen to you.”
Burke crossed one short fat leg over the other, and crowded the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe with his thumb.
“I thought you were in Chili, Clay,” he said.
“No, you didn't think I was in Chili,” Clay replied, kindly. “I left Chili two years ago. The Captain and I met there,” he explained to the others, “when Balmaceda was trying to make himself dictator. The Captain was on the side of the Congressionalists, and was furnishing arms and
Burke lighted his pipe and drummed absentmindedly on the table with his match-box.
“I can't afford to be sentimental,” he said. “Not in my business.”
“Of course not,” Clay assented, cheerfully. He looked at Burke and laughed, as though the sight of him recalled pleasant memories. “I wish I could give these boys an idea of how clever you are, Captain,” he said. “The Captain was the first man, for instance, to think of packing cartridges in tubs of lard, and of sending rifles in piano-cases. He represents the Welby revolver people in England, and half a dozen firms in the States, and he has his little stores in Tampa and Mobile and Jamaica, ready to ship off at a moment's notice to any revolution in Central America. When I first met the Captain,” Clay continued, gleefully, and quite unmindful of the other's continued silence, “he was starting off to rescue Arabi Pasha from the island of Ceylon. You may remember, boys, that when Dufferin saved Arabi from hanging, the British shipped him to Ceylon
Burke shook his head and frowned.
“Six thousand pounds sterling I was to have got for that,” he said, with a touch of pardonable pride in his voice, “and they set him free the day before I got there, just as Mr. Clay tells you.”
“And then you headed Granville Prior's expedition for buried treasure off the island of Cocos, didn't you?” said Clay. “Go on, tell them about it. Be sociable. You ought to write a book about your different business ventures, Burke, indeed you ought; but then,” Clay added, smiling, “nobody would believe you.” Burke rubbed his chin, thoughtfully, with his fingers, and looked modestly at the ceiling, and the two younger boys gazed at him with open-mouthed interest.
“There ain't anything in buried treasure,” he said, after a pause, “except the money that's sunk in the fitting out. It sounds good, but it's all foolishness.”
“All foolishness, eh?” said Clay, encouragingly.
“Crespo,” Burke replied, after a pause, during which he pulled gently on his pipe. “ `Caroline Brewer'— cleared from Key West for Curaçao, with cargo of sewing-machines and ploughs—beached below Maracaibo—thirty-five thousand rounds and two thousand rifles—at twenty bolivars apiece.”
“Of course,” said Clay, in a tone of genuine appreciation. “I might have known you'd be in that. He says,” he explained, “that he assisted General Crespo in Venezuela during his revolution against Guzman Blanco's party, and loaded a tramp steamer called the `Caroline Brewer' at Key West with arms, which he landed safely at a place for which he had no clearance papers, and he received forty thousand dollars in our money for the job—and very good pay, too, I should think,” commented Clay.
“Well, I don't know,” Burke demurred. “You take in the cost of leasing the boat and provisioning her, and the crew's wages, and the cost of the cargo; that cuts into profits. Then I had to stand off shore between Trinidad and Curaçao for over three weeks before I got the signal to run in, and after that I was chased by a gun-boat for three days, and the crazy fool put a shot clean through
There was a pause, and Clay turned his eyes to the street, and then asked, abruptly, “What are you doing now?”
“Trying to get orders for smokeless powder,” Burke answered, promptly. He met Clay's look with eyes as undisturbed as his own. “But they won't touch it down here,” he went on. “It doesn't appeal to 'em. It's too expensive, and they'd rather see the smoke. It makes them think—”
“How long did you expect to stay here?” Clay interrupted.
“How long?” repeated Burke, like a man in a witness-box who is trying to gain time. “Well, I was thinking of leaving by Friday, and taking a mule-train over to Bogota instead of waiting for the steamer to Colon.” He blew a mouthful of smoke into the air and watched it drifting toward the door with apparent interest.
“The `Santiago' leaves here Saturday for New York. I guess you had better wait over for her,” Clay said. “I'll engage your passage, and, in the meantime, Captain Stuart here will see that they treat you well in the cuartel.”
The men around the table started, and sat motionless looking at Clay, but Burke only took his
“Well, the public good, I suppose,” laughed Clay. “I'm sorry, but it's your own fault. You shouldn't have shown yourself here at all.”
“What have you got to do with it?” asked Burke, calmly, as he began to refill his pipe. He had the air of a man who saw nothing before him but an afternoon of pleasant discourse and leisurely inactivity.
“You know what I've got to do with it,” Clay replied. “I've got our concession to look after.”
“Well, you're not running the town, too, are you?” asked Burke.
“No, but I'm going to run you out of it,” Clay answered. “Now, what are you going to do,—make it unpleasant for us and force our hand, or drive down quietly with our friend MacWilliams here? He is the best one to take you, because he's not so well known.”
Burke turned his head and looked over his shoulder at Stuart.
“You taking orders from Mr. Clay, to-day, Captain Stuart?” he asked.
“Yes,” Stuart answered, smiling. “I agree with Mr. Clay in whatever he thinks right.”
“Oh, well, in that case,” said Burke, rising reluctantly,
“You can't. He's in Ecuador on his annual visit,” said Clay.
“Indeed! That's bad for me,” muttered Burke, as though in much concern. “Well, then, I'll ask you to let me see our consul here.”
“Certainly,” Clay assented, with alacrity. “Mr. Langham, this young gentleman's father, got him his appointment, so I've no doubt he'll be only too glad to do anything for a friend of ours.”
Burke raised his eyes and looked inquiringly at Clay, as though to assure himself that this was true, and Clay smiled back at him.
“Oh, very well,” Burke said. “Then, as I happen to be an Irishman by the name of Burke, and a British subject, I'll try Her Majesty's representative, and we'll see if he will allow me to be locked up without a reason or a warrant.”
“That's no good, either,” said Clay, shaking his head. “You fixed your nationality, as far as this continent is concerned, in Rio harbor, when Peixoto handed you over to the British admiral, and you claimed to be an American citizen, and were sent on board the `Detroit.' If there's any doubt about that we've only got to cable to Rio Janeiro—to either legation. But what's the use? They know me here, and they don't know you,
“Oh, well, if you put it that way, I'll go,” said Burke. “But,” he added, in a lower voice, “it's too late, Clay.”
The expression of amusement on Clay's face, and his ease of manner, fell from him at the words, and he pulled Burke back into the chair again. “What do you mean?” he asked, anxiously.
“I mean just that, it's too late,” Burke answered. “I don't mind going to jail. I won't be there long. My work's all done and paid for. I was only staying on to see the fun at the finish, to see you fellows made fools of.”
“Oh, you're sure of that, are you?” asked Clay.
“My dear boy!” exclaimed the American, with a suggestion in his speech of his Irish origin, as his interest rose. “Did you ever know me to go into anything of this sort for the sentiment of it? Did you ever know me to back the losing side? No. Well, I tell you that you fellows have no more show in this than a parcel of Sunday-school children. Of course I can't say when they mean to strike. I don't know, and I wouldn't tell you if I did. But when they do strike there'll be no striking back. It'll be all over but the cheering.”
Burke's tone was calm and positive. He held the centre of the stage now, and he looked from
“Alvarez may get off, and so may Madame Alvarez,” he added, lowering his voice and turning his face away from Stuart. “But not if she shows herself in the streets, and not if she tries to take those drafts and jewels with her.”
“Oh, you know that, do you?” interrupted Clay.
“I know nothing,” Burke replied. “At least, nothing to what the rest of them know. That's only the gossip I pick up at headquarters. It doesn't concern me. I've delivered my goods and given my receipt for the money, and that's all I care about. But if it will make an old friend feel any more comfortable to have me in jail, why, I'll go, that's all.”
Clay sat with pursed lips looking at Stuart. The two boys leaned with their elbows on the tables and stared at Burke, who was searching leisurely through his pockets for his match-box. From outside came the lazy cry of a vendor of lottery tickets, and the swift, uneven patter of bare feet, as company after company of dust-covered soldiers passed on their way from the provinces, with their shoes swinging from their bayonets.
Clay slapped the table with an exclamation of impatience.
“After all, this is only a matter of business,”
Burke opened his lips as though to speak, and then shut them again, closely. If the others thought that he was giving Clay's proposition a second and more serious thought, he was quick to undeceive them.
“There are men in the business who do that sort of thing,” he said. “They sell arms to one man, and sell the fact that he's got them to the deputy-marshals, and sell the story of how smart they've been to the newspapers. And they never make any more sales after that. I'd look pretty, wouldn't I, bringing stuff into this country, and getting paid for it, and then telling you where it was hid, and everything else I knew? I've no sentiment, as you say, but I've got business instinct, and that's not business. No, I've told you
MacWilliams rose with alacrity, and beaming with pleasure at the importance of the duty thrust upon him.
Burke smiled. “The young 'un seems to like the job,” he said.
“It's an honor to be associated with Captain Burke in any way,” said MacWilliams, as he followed him into a cab, while Stuart galloped off before them in the direction of the cuartel.
“You wouldn't think so if you knew better,” said Burke. “My friends have been watching us while we have been talking in there for the last hour. They're watching us now, and if I were to nod my head during this ride, they'd throw you out into the street and set me free, if they had to break the cab into kindling-wood while they were doing it.”
MacWilliams changed his seat to the one opposite his prisoner, and peered up and down the street in some anxiety.
“I suppose you know there's an answer to that, don't you?” he asked. “Well, the answer is, that if you nod your head once, you lose the top of it.”
Burke gave an exclamation of disgust, and gazed at his zealous guardian with an expression
MacWilliams nodded. “Why not?” he said; “these are rather heavy weather times, just at present, thanks to you and your friends. Why, you seem rather afraid of fire-arms,” he added, with the intolerance of youth.
The Irish-American touched the young man on the knee, and lifted his hat. “My son,” he said, “when your hair is as gray as that, and you have been through six campaigns, you'll be brave enough to own that you're afraid of fire-arms, too.”
| IX Soldiers of Fortune | |