University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

BOLIVAR'S ENTRY.

—Scott

The streets of Bogota were thronged with
exulting crowds. Bolivar, the president, was
about making his entry into the city, and the
voice of a liberated people sent up its loud
welcome. At the head of the cortege rode
Santander, the vice president of the Republic,
and then preceded by the bravest of his
officers, came Bolivar. By his side was Cedeno
and Anzuategui, and the brave Irish
captain, now Major O'Callagan, followed by
the “Battalion of Carabobo,” brought up the
rear. Henry Fowler, in the white plume
and starry searf of the general's guard, rode
on one side of the coach of Bolivar, while
Mina, recovered from the wound he had received
on the plain of Tinaquillo, occupied
the same position on the other.

“Viva la Libertador!” “Viva Bolivar!”
were the cries of the mighty crowd, and from
the balconies, white arms waved the flag of
the Republic, and fairy fingers scattered
flowers on the heads of the victorious troops.
But Henry felt not the joy and the exultation.
Though his heart beat high at the shouts of
liberty, as he felt that his own arm had fought
for it, yet his thoughts were of his own
distant and happy land, of his sweet orphan
sister, and of the bright and loving Lucia.

At the great square of Bogota, a band of
the city's guards drawn up around the gate of
a large building, attracted the attention of
the youthful captain. In their midst were a
dozen men chained together, their dark and
scowling faces strongly contrasting with the
joyous countenances of the shouting populace.

“What means this?” asked Fowler of an
officer of Bogota, who rode beside him.

“Pirates, senor, taken in a sea-engagement,
off Cicuta. There are Americans among
them, of the North.”

Fowler answered not. His eyes were
riveted on one who appeared to be the captain
of the pirates. The prisoner raised his
head, as Fowler's horse tramped by him.—
Their eyes met.

“Richard Martin!”

“Henry Fowler, by heaven!”

And such they were. The one a condemned
pirate—the other the favored officer of the
chief of a free nation. The thoughts of the
ruffian clerk ran back through his dark career
of crime, and he gnashed his teeth in
rage.

Henry Fowler rode on; but the form of
his fellow-clerk was before his mind's eye,
and the thought of his first benefactress—of
her death-bed—and the silent committal of
her son to his protection. “He is guilty—
he has wronged me!” murmured the orphan,
“but his mother was my friend, and the
friend of my mother!”

And what thought Richard. When
wounded and disabled, he had beheld the
capture of his ship, and, bound with chains,
he had been marched from the seaboard, he
had cursed his evil fate, and his victorious
foes. Then had succeeded a quiet despair,

a hopelessness of escape, yet a sullen indifference
to his fate. Such were his feelings
when, amid the proud and the powerful army
of Bolivar, appeared the friend he had wronged—the
orphan, Henry Powler.

Then came a quick hope of escape; could
he not gain a pardon through his firm friend
—might he not work upon him? Well he
knew the gratitude that lived in the bosom
of Henry for the widow Martin's kindly
care.

“He shall release me, ha, ha!” said the
pirate, and despair fled at his laugh.

And Richard argued well. Henry could
not desert the son of his more than mother.

Bolivar had returned from the council-chamber,
and was alone. A page appeared.
“Captain Fowler desires admittance.”

“Ah, the brave young American; let him
enter.”

Henry advanced, and the general grasped
his hand; “always welcome, senor.”

Henry bowed; “I have come to ask a
favor, senor President.”

“Speak; if in my power, it shall be granted.”

“Some pirates have been brought hither
from the sea-board where they were taken.—
The captain, as I suppose, is one who was
once my friend—my school-mate. I would
save him. He is sentenced to the mines.”

“These men have become dangerous to
the Republic. Pause, ere you press your request.”

“But this may reclaim him, and I owe a
debt of gratitude to his mother, which I can
never sufficiently repay.”

“Enough, senor! I am convinced you
will request nothing that is wrong. He
shall be pardoned; his name?”

“Richard Martin.”

The President wrote an order for the release
of the prisoner. Henry enclosed it in
a letter to Richard at the public prison. He
besought him, as he valued his life and liberty—by
the memory of his mother, and his
brother—by everything he held dear, to renounce
his lawless course. And he requested
him to visit him and inform him of his
distant friends. Then despatching the pardon
by a trusty messenger, he awaited the
appearance of Richard.

But hours passed on—a day—a week; and
Henry heard no more of the pirate, but the
report of the keeper of the prison, that he
had been liberated.

Richard was alone, in his cell, when the
jailor came with his pardon, and delivered
to him the letter of his injured friend. Richard
read it; and a feeling of shame struck to
his heart, as he reviewed the wrongs he had
heaped upon the orphan's head. “I cannot
meet him—I dare not,” cried he, and crumbling
the paper in his hand, he rushed from
the prison.

It was night. The windows of the city
were illuminated in honor of the arrival of
Bolivar. Music sounded from the balconies;
gay throngs, beneath an October moon, promenaded
the grand square. Richard wandered
on—alone; he saw no friend in the merry
crowds; no warm hand grasped his own, and
his companion was his knawing and evil
conscience—his consoler, the thought of an
ill-spent life.

But the night wore away, and the morning
broke; yet the freed prisoner, the escaped
convict, found no shelter. And the broad
sun rose up in the heavens—the drum of the
troops on parade rang in his ears—the trumpet
that called them to the general's quarters.
Another sight, too, met the pirate captain's
eyes; the men who had fought and bled
with him on the high seas—the men whom
he had led to crime and ruin—he beheld
them marched, in manacles, by their guards,
to their dismal home for life—the mines of
Bogota. He fled from the sight.

But the pangs of hunger assailed him;
hunger, the gnawing demon that brings the
proud spirit down, to earth. He was a
stranger—where? Again the night came
on, and Martin grew desperate.

“Bread!” he cried, to a man that passed
him, “give me bread.”

“Away, beggar!”

“Hell seize you,” exclaimed Martin, and
sprung upon the speaker. But his frame,
weakened by confinement and abstinence,
was little able to cope with the man whom
he attacked. Quick as thought, he was
dashed to the ground, and the stranger's weapon
was at his throat.

“Spare me! I am starving!” shrieked
Martin.

“Ha! a bold beggar. Up with you.”

Richard staggered to his feet.

“Follow me,” said the stranger, and he
led him to an obscure tavern, in one of the
narrow streets of the lower town of Bogota.

“Ho, wine and meat,” said the stranger to
the host; “be speedy.”

Richard Martin ate as if he never expected
to get another meal; and the stranger watched
him with a quiet smile, contenting himself
with a draught of the wine.

“Well, senor,” said Martin, as he finished
his repast, and pushed away his plate, “what
do you want me to do?”

“Do?” echoed the stranger.

“Yes; a man don't feed a starving beggar
for nothing, especially when the beggar has
just attempted to throttle him.”

“Ah, I see you are the man I want. Well,
do you want employment?”

“What is it, and what's the pay?”

“The pay shall be princely. To a man of
your mettle, the job is slight. Listen,” and
he bent his head to the ear of Martin, “Bolivar's
death!”

Martin started back. “How?”

“The death of the tyrant. He who achieves
it will merit the gratitude of all true
republicans. Say, shall it be done?”

“In what manner is he to fall, senor?”
asked Richard.

“Shoot him when he reviews the troops.
There are a hundred windows on the Plaza,
behind which you might lie concealed.”

“But if I am taken? No, no, senor: some
safer mode than that!”

“What say you to striking the tyrant in
his own palace?”

“Amid his guards?”

“Ay; do you fear? The palace can be
entered—”

“But I am told that Bolivar invariably
sleeps with an officer of the guards in his ante-room.”

“The officer sleeps with him, senor. We
have more to fear from Bolivar's wakefulness,
than that of his servants. But the
plan is feasible. You shall enter the palace;
ay, the president's chamber. One blow will
change the destinies of the Republic; and
you shall be nobly rewarded.”

“And if I do not succeed?”

“You must. But you shall be safe. This
purse I give you as an earnest; it shall be
tripled when the deed is done; speak.”

“And who are you, senor, that are empowered—”

The stranger bent down and whispered a
name in the ear of Richard; a name that
was high in the roll of the Republic's bravest.

Martin sprang to his feet. “I will do it;
when?”

“The sooner the better; to-morrow night.”

“To-morrow night.”

“Remain, then, here,” said the stranger.
“I will visit you to-morrow, and you shall
know more. Farewell.”