Читать книгу On Foreign Service; Or, The Santa Cruz Revolution - T. T. Jeans - Страница 4

CHAPTER III

The Revolution breaks out

Written by Sub-Lieutenant William Wilson, R.N.

A whole crowd of us from the Hector and the Hercules, all bound for Santa Cruz, went ashore at six o'clock next morning. On our way inshore, after we'd pulled round the head of the breakwater, we had a good view of the Santa Cruz ships. Rotters they all looked, slovenly kept, nothing seamanlike or shipshape about them, with their 'wash clothes' hung about the rigging and even over the quarterdeck railings—anyhow.

And a funny-looking crowd of soldiers they had too, falling in on the wharf where we landed, ready to receive the two Skippers when they came ashore—in uniform—to attend the funeral on duty. They were all South American natives or full-blooded niggers, half of them bare-footed, none of them dressed alike. Some had hats like the French army kepi, others, broad-brimmed felt or straw hats; their shirts were of every colour under the sun, and a pair of loose dirty cotton trousers seemed to be about the only uniform they had. They all had rifles—of sorts—a bayonet, and a leathern belt hanging loose over their hips to support a cartridge pouch, but many had lost their bayonet frogs and scabbards, and simply stuck the naked bayonet inside the belt.

My chum with the gilt spurs and enormous sabre seemed to be bossing the show, and was too busy trying to get the men into something like order to notice me.

We all pushed our way along through a not at all friendly mob of people, Bob and the Angel sticking to me like leeches. Then we lost the rest of our people, and felt pretty lost ourselves till a grinning native caught hold of my sleeve.

'Buenos! Señor! You Señor Wilson? Señor Macdonald send me. I his boy.'

We were jolly glad to find any one who would take us to him.

'How did you find me in the crowd?' I asked him.

'Señor Macdonald say you like Señor Geraldio. All peoples know Señor Geraldio.'

'Blowed for a yarn,' I thought. 'Old Gerald wouldn't be very flattered.'

We stepped out briskly enough then, and you ought to have seen the Angel strutting along in the middle of the road, in a blue suit and straw hat, the trousers beautifully creased, the latest thing in ties round his neck, the most startling thing in socks showing under his turned-up trousers, looking as if he was off to a tea-party in Southsea. Even the niggers smiled at him and got out of his way. We came upon Macdonald in a minute or two, waiting for us at a corner, with a carriage and six grand-looking mules—the carriage was like a big two-wheeled governess cart with an awning over it, and he was so enormous that he almost filled it.

In we jumped, the two mids. managed to squeeze themselves alongside the native driver, our guide kicked the mules in the stomach, one after the other, just to wake them up; the driver cracked his whip, and away we went bump-terappity along the bumpy road, the bells on the harness jingling like fun.

We clattered along past rows and rows of red mud cottages, dogs flying out at us from every door, and giving the two mids. a grand time with the whip, pack mules tied up to the door-posts frisking about and kicking up their heels as we went past, and long-legged fowls scattering like smoke in front of us.

'You're extraordinarily like your brother, now you're in plain clothes,' Mr. Macdonald muttered, with his mouth full—for he'd started on the hampers already.

'Jolly proud of it,' I answered, but he only made a face and shrugged his shoulders.

We started climbing soon after, and the mules had a pretty hard time of it for the next three hours, zigzagging up the most appalling road, panting and grunting. The mids. and I walked the steepest parts, but neither the driver nor Mr. Macdonald budged from their seats. The higher we got the more cheerful we were. It was grand looking down at Puerta and the sea, with the Hector and Hercules like toy ships lying inside the breakwater, but Mr. Macdonald did not let us stop anywhere for more than a minute at a time, because there was a whole line of jangling mule carriages coming up after us, and he didn't want to be overtaken. The mids. didn't either, for there were four Hercules mids. in the one next behind us, and they were not going to be beaten by them if they could help it.

Every now and again, at the corners where the road zig-zagged, we came across thirty or forty native soldiers, evidently guarding the way.

'That looks as if they were expecting trouble,' Mr. Macdonald told me. 'It's most unusual. D'you see the colours they have in their hats?'

Nearly all of them had a patch of yellow and green stripes sewn on.

'I've never seen the regular troops wearing them,' he said. 'Did you notice that the stripes were vertical! That means that they are President's men. The de Costa's colours are black and green, but the stripes are worn horizontally, and of course they aren't allowed to wear them.'

He shook his head very ominously.

'Things are going to hum to-day. You'd have been wiser to stay on board. You're too like your brother.'

You can guess that this only made it more jolly exciting.

Every now and then we met long trains of mules or donkeys, with huge bundles on their backs, pacing wearily down the road.

'They're carrying rubber or cocoa down to Los Angelos,' Mr. Macdonald said. 'The President makes them bring all their rubber through Los Angelos; that's one of the grievances they have against him.'

Jolly interesting everything was, and once the men with one long mule train took off their big hats, bowing and saying, 'buenos.'

'They're doing it to you, not to me,' Mr. Macdonald said. 'They're from Paquintos, close to your brother's estate, and think you are he.'

It was a jolly funny feeling to land at this out-of-the-way spot and find so many people appear to know me; don't you think it was?

By this time we had left the shade of the tropical trees below us, and the road and the side of the mountain were simply bare rock—the heat terrific. At half-past ten we were at the top, and got our first glimpse of Santa Cruz spread out in a hollow beneath us, with mountain ridges all round it. Our mules roused themselves into a trot, and we slung along at a good rate, kicking up a cloud of dust. The Hercules mids. had been gradually drawing closer, and now they came along at a gallop, and would have passed us, singing out rude remarks, but the Angel seized the whip and beat our poor brutes into a gallop too, and the teams simply tore along, side by side, the drivers having all they could do to keep on the road. The two carriages bounced along close together, I thought the wheels would lock every other second, and the mids. were hitting at each other with their sticks and shouting.

Luckily we didn't meet anything, but I saw that, just ahead, the road narrowed, and that we couldn't possibly get through there side by side.

'Let them go ahead,' I shouted, and leant over to help the driver pull in the team, but then one of the Hercules mids. sang out, 'Who upset the coal lighter?' the others shouted, 'The rotten Hectors!'—and that made me as mad as a hatter. I didn't care whether we all went to glory or not so long as we beat them—after that.

'Pull up, you fools!' Mr. Macdonald shouted, but the mules were quite out of hand.

We came to the narrow part, the leading mules bumped into each other, then the others, till the wheelers were touching; our axles bumped once or twice, there was a lurch and a crash, the other carriage toppled over on to the bank, the wheeler mules were on their backs, and the mids. shot out head over heels as we flew past, the Angel and Bob cheering wildly.

Before we were out of sight we saw the four mids. and the driver on their feet again, trying to right the carriage, so I knew they weren't hurt.

Mr. Macdonald simply wagged his head from side to side. 'It was my weight brought us through—you'd have upset but for me.'

I do actually believe he enjoyed it.

We were in the city itself by now, and the mules had steadied down on the rough stone streets crowded with people on foot or riding horses or mules. There were soldiers at every corner—quite smart chaps these—and they all had the vertical green and yellow stripes in their helmets or hats. The same colours, hoisted with the stripes vertical, hung at half-mast from nearly every house, and the few women, we saw, had the same colours too.

'There are some of de Costa's people,' Mr. Macdonald sung out, as we passed a group of sunburnt men outside a café. I looked, and saw that they had patches of green and black stripes worn horizontally.

'They call the two parties the Verticals and Horizontals,' Mr. Macdonald told me. 'Those are countrymen; you can see that by their rig.'

'Hi!' he sung out; 'look up there, up to the left, that's San Sebastian, where our chaps were put in "chokey" a fortnight ago.'

It was a crumbling old fort perched on a rocky hill just above the big building, and we three looked at it jolly keenly.

Then we got into the better part of the town, dazzling big white houses with gratings in front of every window, and women peering out from behind the curtains in most of them. Everywhere were soldiers, and the yellow and green flags drooping at half-mast.

Next we drove through a great open place, white with dust and dazzling in the sun, with a grand old weather-beaten cathedral on one side, and on the other some public garden with palms and huge tropical ferns. We had to draw up to let a regiment march into the square, and then we wedged our way out of it, into a side street, turned a corner, and stopped in front of a big door with strong iron gates, sentries with fixed bayonets on each side of it, and a whole jumble of French, English, German, American, and Dutch ensigns hanging down from a flagstaff above it. There was a wizened little black chap leaning up against the wall; he started when he saw me, and let his cigarette drop out of his mouth. He was an ugly-looking little beast.

'The European Club,' Mr. Macdonald said. 'Out you jump. I bet your brother's in here.'

We followed him into a cool courtyard with a splashing fountain in the middle of it, and through the open French windows I heard the click of billiard balls—a jolly homely sound—and, looking in, there was Gerald, with his coat off, watching the other chap making his stroke, his jolly old lion head with the long yellow hair brushed back and his grand square jaw—not a bit like me.

He didn't see me as I went in and touched him on the back. 'Hello, Gerald!'

'Hello, Billums! What the dickens are you doing here? How's the mater? Well played, Arnstein (this to his opponent). Wait till I've "knocked" him. Won't be a second.'

He won quite easily, and then he stood us all lunch at the Club. I did my best to pump him about the revolution, but he kicked me hard under the table, so I didn't say any more about it. The mids. had a grand time, hardly uttered a word, but simply ate steadily through course after course, not even the excitement of hearing regiments of infantry tramping past every now and again, with their bands playing, putting them off their feed.

'Come along,' Gerald said presently, 'I've got a window from which we can see everything; there'll be room for all of you.'

But Mr. Macdonald wasn't coming, so we left him.

'Be here by three o'clock,' he said, 'not a minute later, and I'll drive you back.'

As we left the gate I noticed that the sentries looked rather puzzled at Gerald and myself.

'I couldn't say anything in there,' Gerald began, when we'd got out into the crowded street; 'you never know who may be listening. We're going to have a revolution, and I'm rather mixed up in it. You saw that little plain-clothes chap at the gate, he's one of the President's secret police, and has been shadowing me for the last four days.'

I had seen him, the one who'd been so startled when I went in.

'Don't you carry a revolver or anything?' I asked nervously.

'My dear old Billums, I've never thought of it.'

I bothered him to get one in case anything happened.

'All right, old chap, I'll think about it.'

There was too great a crush in the narrow streets to do much talking, and we had a lot of trouble to push our way along. There were quite a lot of people wearing the horizontal black and green stripes in these streets, and you could tell they were strangers by their weird-looking clothes and by the way they flocked along with their eyes and mouths open.

We presently passed a lot of officers standing outside a doorway.

'That's the Officers' Club,' Gerald told me, as he took his hat off, and they all clicked their heels and saluted, looking from Gerald to myself with that same puzzled look—they seemed very unfriendly. We waited a minute or two to let a battery of field artillery rumble past—the guns were 'horsed' with mules—turned down another side street, and entered a cool courtyard with more fountains splashing. There were any number of people in it; they nearly all had black and green rosettes with horizontal stripes, and all bowed very cordially to Gerald. He spoke to several, looked as if he had heard bad news, and took us into the back of the Hotel de L'Europe, up some narrow wooden stairs, opened a door on a narrow landing, and there we were in a corner room with a large French window opening on to an iron balcony and overlooking the great square. The cathedral tower, with its arched entrance and broad steps, wasn't fifty yards away.

'You'll get a grand view here—it's cool too—you'd get sunstroke outside—stay where you are—I'll be back presently—I've just had some important news,' Gerald jerked out, and left us to watch the people and the soldiers pouring into the square—'Plaza' every one called it. These soldiers were jolly smart-looking chaps, well dressed and well set up, very different to those we had seen at Los Angelos. They all had the vertical green and yellow stripes in their white helmets, and even we could see that they were pretty rough in dealing with the people. We saw several of the ward-room fellows hunting about for a good place to see the procession, and the two Skippers drove up to the cathedral, in uniform, the soldiers making a way for their carriage, and driving the people back by prodding them in the stomach with the butt-ends of their rifles.

Gerald came in again looking worried.

'Everything all right?' I asked.

He nodded, and sat down in a corner.

'The soldiers don't treat the people very gently,' I said, and he told me that they were all Presidential troops in the city that day, and that there was no love lost between them and the country people, who had poured into the city to pay respect to the President's wife. 'If you look closely, you'll see that a great many of these are wearing the badge of the de Costas—the horizontal green and black stripes.'

'I heard to-day,' he went on, 'that the President's wife, just before she died, made her brother, de Costa, and her husband, José Canilla, shake hands and promise to keep the peace after she was gone.'

'Will they?' Bob asked, with his mouth open.

He only smiled and shrugged his shoulders—quite like a Spaniard. 'They called her La Buena Presidente, and she was a good old lady and kept the peace, but she's kept back progress and reform for years. There's no such thing as freedom in the country. There will soon be a change now.'

'They named that ship which Armstrong's building after her, I suppose?' I asked him, and he nodded.

I tried to pump him about her, but he'd tell me nothing, except that she would be ready very soon, and was strong enough to blow the rest of the Santa Cruz Navy out of the water. I knew that well enough.

I wanted to ask him if there was any chance of her new crew favouring the Vice-President's party—as Mr. Macdonald had suggested—and a whole lot of other things, but a frightful din started in the 'Plaza.'

Bob, pointing down below, yelled for us to look, and we saw a drunken-looking countryman waving his broad-brimmed felt hat, with an enormous black and green rosette fastened to it, in the face of one of the officers with the troops. He tried to take no notice of it, but in a second or two lost his temper, seized the rosette, tore it off, threw it on the ground, and stamped it into the white dust with his patent-leather boots.

There was a roar of anger at this, booing and hissing from people crowding in the windows of a house close by, and the mob beneath us began pushing and shouting; knives were drawn, the few women there began screaming, and the soldiers, standing in line, turned round to drive the people back. Some cavalry came galloping up, and began hitting at the people with the flat of their swords. One of them was pulled off his horse and disappeared in the struggle, people were pressing in from all sides of the Plaza, and things began to look jolly ugly, when we heard a pistol fired, and a very smart-looking young cavalry officer, who was trying to get his men together, reeled in his saddle and fell on the ground, his fiery little horse plunging away down the swaying lines of soldiers.

Women screamed, every one stopped struggling and drew back, leaving him lying there, by himself, all doubled up in a heap, in the dust, blood trickling from his mouth. Almost before we'd realised what had happened, a young priest, in black cassock, dashed across from the cathedral steps, knelt down, and lifted the officer's head on his knee. We saw him press a little black crucifix to his lips, but it was too late, the poor chap was as dead as a door-nail.

Then there was another wild burst of shouting and hooting from the mob and from the people at the windows.

'They've got the man who fired the shot,' Bob squeaked—he was so excited—and we could see a lot of soldiers struggling with a very tall man. He wrested himself free, knocked down one or two, burst through the line of troops, and went running away from the cathedral, the crowd trying to prevent the soldiers following. I'd never seen anything so exciting. He dodged, and doubled, and got clear again for a second, running towards one corner, but there were soldiers everywhere, one of them tripped him with the butt-end of his rifle, and he fell sprawling on the pavement right under our window. Before you could say a word, a couple of soldiers had driven their bayonets through him—we could actually hear the points knocking against the pavement. In a moment the mob were on them, and a fierce fight commenced. What would have happened I don't know, but then the loud crashing music of the Dead March in 'Saul' sounded from the opposite side of the square.

'Thank God,' I heard Gerald mutter, 'here comes the procession.'

Officers dashed up again, shouting and cursing, the soldiers fell back into line, the mob hid their knives and took up their places, the space in front of the cathedral was cleared in a twinkling-, Bob, leaning out of the window, told us that they'd brought the body of the officer into the hotel, and that the other body had disappeared, the purple velvet hangings which hid the cathedral entrance from us were drawn apart, and, right in the middle, on the top step, a tall old priest, gorgeously dressed, was standing with his arms lifted up. He must have been a bishop at the very least, because directly the people saw him, they fell on their knees in the dust, leaving only the soldiers standing erect.

This really was a most extraordinary effect after the noise, and yelling, and struggling of a few moments before. Now nothing could be heard, except, some way off, the funeral march, the clatter of cavalry horses, and the grating of the wheels of the funeral car, a dark mass we could see just entering the square.

Behind the cavalry marched a couple of companies of sailors from the ships at Los Angelos, their white uniforms stained with sweat; then came eight horses, with velvet cloths flowing almost to the ground, dragging the great state funeral car covered with more purple velvet, the troops reversing arms and the kneeling people crossing themselves as it passed in front of them.

Walking two or three yards behind the car were two men, and then a gap in the procession.

'There they are,' Gerald said excitedly. 'The little wizened chap in uniform, with the grey moustaches, is the President, and the fat man in plain clothes the Vice-President.'

The two walked slowly past under our window, and we got a jolly good view of them. The little chap was covered with orders and medals, and looked a grand little soldier and jolly fierce, whilst the big chap, clumsily built, slouched along, one step behind the President, and didn't seem at all at ease. He was perspiring very much too—his collar was all limp—and he kept on looking from side to side as if he didn't much care for his job.

'You wouldn't if you were he,' Gerald half shouted. He had to shout, because the massed bands were now passing beneath us kicking up the most appalling din.

After the bands had gone by, long rows of people, some in uniform, others in plain clothes—notable people of sorts, I suppose—went shuffling past, looking hot and uncomfortable.

We saw the cavalry and seamen halt, forming a guard on each side of the cathedral steps, and then, as the big hearse drew up at the foot of them, a great discordant bell clanged out from the tower above, and a second later there was the loud boom of a gun.

'That's the first minute-gun from San Sebastian,' Gerald said.

The bands suddenly ceased, from the open cathedral doors we heard the grand rolling sound of an organ, and, as the coffin was borne up the steps, choristers broke out into a shrill anthem—an awfully melancholy sound, which made me catch my breath for a second.

The little President and the lumbering great Vice-President, mopping his forehead, walked after the coffin side by side, and disappeared into the gloom of the cathedral, followed by all the untidy string of notables, who scrambled in after them in a very undignified manner, as though they wanted to get out of the heat.

As the last one crowded in, the velvet curtains were drawn across the door again and shut out the noise of the singing.

'That's the last time any one will see those two together again in peace,' Gerald muttered, and turning round I saw that he was looking fearfully worried and anxious.

'What's the matter?' I asked.

'There's hardly a Vice-President's man among that lot,' he whispered.

'What's that mean?'

'They've cleared out, Billums—fled to the country—it's the beginning. Something's gone wrong. It's beginning too soon.' He was very excited, and could hardly sit still. In a minute or two he jumped up, sang out that he must find out how the land 'lay,' and told us to stay where we were.

'If there's any shooting, lie down on the floor—there may be some.'

'Let me come with you?' I asked, awfully keen to go, but he shook his head, and went out.

I wished he'd have let me go with him.

The mids. hadn't noticed him go, for they were tremendously excited again. Some more cavalry were clattering along between the lines of soldiers, and in front of them, his black horse flecked with white foam, they had recognised the Governor of Los Angelos and his two A.D.C.'s, the fat little chap looking a jolly sight smarter on a horse than he did climbing down ladders on board the Hector. They stopped opposite the cathedral, dismounted, the Governor strode up the steps, the black A.D.C. handed him a big blue paper, and he stood there looking nervously first at the velvet curtains drawn across the entrance, and then at the troops and the kneeling masses of people behind them. A battery of field artillery began unlimbering on each side of the steps, the guns pointing straight across the Plaza, more infantry marched up and formed a semicircle, four deep, round the base of the steps, and the line of soldiers, turning round, forced the people to rise from their knees, and pressed them back away from the cathedral. There wasn't the least doubt that something was going to happen, and I remembered that Mr. Macdonald had told us that the Vice-President might be arrested or shot directly after the service—perhaps that blue paper the Governor of Los Angelos had in his hand was the warrant.

All this time the huge bell in the cathedral tower above us clanged and jarred, and the minute-guns from San Sebastian shook the air, and made it feel even hotter than it was. We were so excited that, for a moment, I forgot about Gerald.

Suddenly we heard the organ inside the cathedral throbbing, the velvet curtains were drawn aside, the Governor of Los Angelos, unfolding his blue paper, sprang forward, and the little white figure of the President appeared. The massed bands blared out some weird tune—probably the Santa Cruz National Anthem—the troops presented arms, the Governor saluted, and then seemed uncertain what to do. He was looking for some one—the Vice-President, I felt certain—but his clumsy figure didn't appear, only the long string of notables. I saw the Governor shake his head and disappear into the cathedral, one of his A.D.C.'s dashed down the steps, and the President, without looking back or moving a muscle of his face, mounted a white horse, which was waiting for him, and cantered away at the head of a cavalry escort, all the troops presenting arms and shouting, 'Viva el Presidente.'

Once or twice since we'd been in that window, hawkers had tried to make us buy things by shoving up little baskets, of sweets and fruit, fastened to long poles. They went from window to window and did a roaring trade. Now as we watched the President cantering away, another basket was thrust up. I pushed it away, but it came again. I shook my head at the man down below who had done it, and saw something strange in his expression. He nodded, and motioned with his free hand as if he wanted me to pick something out, shoving the basket right under my nose.

I looked in, and there, under some small oranges, was a piece of folded paper. I seized it, the basket was drawn down again, and I unfolded it. Hurriedly scrawled there was, 'Can't come back. Get back to the Club quickly, and stay there.—Gerald.'

'Phew!' I went cold all over with excitement. I didn't know what to think.

I looked at my watch, it was 1.30, and remembered that Mr. Macdonald had told us chaffingly that the revolution would begin at 1.25 sharp. I wasn't going to move yet, especially if there was going to be any fighting; we hadn't to meet Mr. Macdonald till three o'clock, and we might as well see all the fun there was going on.

The soldiers began clearing the square now, crowds of people passing along under our windows, Bob and his chum spotted some of our mids., and yelled to them and to the four Hercules mids. who came by too, but the noise was so great, and they were so busy shoving and pushing in the hot crowd, that they didn't hear them.

Presently Captain Grattan—Old Tin Eye—squinting through his eyeglass and smiling at the crowd, Captain Roger Hill, sitting bolt upright and looking bored, Perkins, and the Fleet Surgeon drove past in a carriage. They were all in uniform, and the soldiers made a way for them through the people.

'There's not going to be any firing after all,' the Angel said sadly. 'Look how peaceably all the people are clearing out.'

'Well, come along,' I sang out, 'we'll go along to the Club,' so we picked up our hats and sticks, opened the door, and ran 'slick' into the arms of that ugly little chap I'd seen outside the Club—the one Gerald said had been shadowing him.

He had half-a-dozen sturdy nigger soldiers behind him, and he held up a blue paper in front of me, grinning cunningly—hateful little beast.

I couldn't read the lingo, but there was Señor Gerald Wilson written among the print, and a scrawling 'José Canilla' at the bottom, so I guessed at once that this was a warrant for Gerald's arrest, and that he must have given the little beast the slip. The nigger chaps began closing round me, and had the cheek to try and seize hold of my wrists.

Well, I'm pretty strong, and I'm pretty bad-tempered too, and this was too much for me. I'd torn the warrant to bits, punched Gerald's friend good and hard in the face, and laid out the first two chaps who'd touched me—banged their heads against the woodwork of the narrow passage, before I'd thought of it—but then the others drew their revolvers, and that wasn't playing the game. I yelled to the mids., shoved them back into the room, banged the door, and slipped two bolts in as the chaps charged it.

'Lean out and try to get some of our fellows to help us,' I sang out; 'I'll hang on to the door.' It was the first idea that came, but then it flashed through my head that the longer I kept them fooling round after me, the more chance Gerald would have of escaping—I knew now that that was what he must be doing.

'Slide down into the street—over the balcony—get to the Club—and tell the Skipper I've been arrested,' I yelled out.

'Ain't going to leave you,' the Angel and Bob cried, and came in again and got their shoulders against the door. 'There's not a single one of our chaps about,' they panted, pushing against the creaking door.

My Christopher! it was a shoving match. Luckily the passage outside was so narrow that only two people abreast could shove properly, but the screws in the clasps of the bolts at the top of the door began to 'draw,' and I knew we couldn't hold them for long. Then they fired a pistol through the door—high up—the bullet smashing against the opposite wall.

I knew it was no use staying any longer, I didn't want a bullet in me. 'Clear out, and I'll come too,' I sang out, and we bolted to the window, climbed over the balcony, and shinned down the iron uprights. As my feet touched the pavement, a dozen soldiers threw themselves on top of me; I hadn't a chance to strike out, my head was covered with a cloak, and the next I knew I was inside the hotel bar, being trussed like a turkey.

As soon as he could do it safely, the little brute who'd had the warrant came and kicked me in the stomach and spat at me—I must have had my pipe in my hand when I hit him, for he had a gash across his forehead—and the two whose heads I'd banged came along and kicked me too.

Thank goodness, Bob and his chum weren't there—I guessed that they'd been cute enough to cut away to the Club.

Even then I rather enjoyed it (not the kicking part—I'd be even with those swine some day), thinking how disappointed they would all be when they found that I wasn't Gerald.

Some more soldiers poured into the room, the little brute pulled a dirty greasy cloth off a table, I was covered with it, carried outside like a sack of potatoes, and dumped into a cart. Something else soft was dumped in beside me, half-a-dozen chaps sat on me to keep me quiet, and off we drove. I could hear horses' hoofs on either side of the cart and the clatter of scabbards and jingle of accoutrements, so knew I had a cavalry escort, and felt jolly proud that Gerald was such a big 'pot' in the revolution business as to require one.

We went slowly after a little while—going uphill. I wondered whether they were taking me to San Sebastian, but didn't wonder long, because a minute-gun was fired—about the last of them—and it sounded quite close.

In a minute or two we bumped and rattled across a wooden bridge, and then stopped.

As I was hauled out, they pulled the cloth away from the soft thing beside me, and it was the body of the officer who'd been shot in the square. Ugh! that was rather beastly. An old chap came along—the boss of the fort, I suppose—and jawed to me in French and Spanish, and got savage when I couldn't understand him. He thought I wouldn't.

He soon got tired of this, and I was led across the courtyard by a band of ruffians with fixed bayonets and loaded rifles (I saw them load their magazines). We passed behind the crumbling old walls, where a party of soldiers were cleaning out the saluting guns, and I was shoved into a kind of store-room, dug out of the rock or in the thickness of the walls, and shut in there by a big iron gateway of a door, on the outside of which a miserable little beast of a half-nigger sentry leant and smoked cigarettes.

There were seven others in there, all quiet individuals in plain clothes, who rose and bowed to me when I was brought in, thinking at first, I suppose, that I was Gerald. They looked very relieved when they saw that I wasn't. Two of them had rosettes of black and green with the stripes horizontal, so I knew why they were there. One very courteous old gentleman put a cigarette between my lips, lighted it with his own, and then slacked off the ropes round my wrists and arms, the sentry, turning round to watch us, simply shrugged his shoulders when my arms were free again, and I commenced whirling them round and round to try and do away with the numbness and the 'pins and needles.' He just half opened the breech-bolt of his Mauser rifle, pointed very suggestively at the cartridges inside, turned round again, and went on smoking. Somebody offered me an empty cartridge-box and I sat on it, watching the other chaps busy writing things in notebooks or even on their shirt cuffs.

It struck me that possibly they were writing their 'wills.'

Well! that was a funny ending to my first day ashore, if you like, though so long as Gerald got clear away I didn't mind, and so long as Bob and his chum had fetched up at the Club I knew that things would turn out all right.

It was jolly hot in that hole of a place, and as the afternoon went on the sun shone straight in through the gratings of the door and it was like an oven.

I sweated like a pig.

Every now and then I heard a cart rattle across the drawbridge. That generally meant a fresh arrival, some other Horizontal caught, and he'd be shoved in with us. At first I was terribly afraid lest I should see Gerald brought along; but four o'clock came, Gerald evidently hadn't been caught, and I began to feel quite easy in my mind about him.

I did wonder why nobody from the ship had come along, but wasn't particularly worried. Things would 'pan out' all right, and this was a rummy enough experience for any one.

Just after four o'clock there was great excitement in the courtyard outside. Soldiers ran about hunting for their rifles and formed up behind the saluting guns, trumpets sounded some kind of a 'general salute,' I heard a lot of horses' hoofs clattering over the drawbridge, and a few minutes later round the corner stalked the little President and a crowd of officers, the Governor of Los Angelos and his two A.D.C.'s among them.

He'd evidently come along to count his day's 'bag,' for he walked along the grating looking in at us. My aunt! he had the cruellest eyes I'd ever seen.

He first caught sight of the old chap who'd unfastened my ropes. Phew! he did give him a piece of his mind through the grating! and then the old fellow was dragged out and marched off to a bit of blank wall between two of the saluting guns. The fat little A.D.C. went up to him, and then I knew what was going to happen, for I saw him offer to tie a handkerchief across his eyes—he was going to be shot. But he wouldn't have his eyes covered, and for a moment I saw him standing bolt upright with his arms folded in front of him. Then some soldiers ran up, stood in a line between him and me, an officer gave an order, their rifles went up to the present; I turned my head away and saw the other prisoners clutching the gratings, their throat muscles all swollen, and their eyes starting out; there was a scraggy volley, and the President came back again.

Two more men were hauled out and shot, and I shall never forget the face of one of them as he was marched away. It was just like picking a fat hen out of a coop, and we were the hens. Then back the President came a fourth time, and I was dragged out.

He knew that I wasn't Gerald right enough, but his eyes simply spat fire, and he stamped with rage and was more furious than ever because I couldn't understand him.

"HIS EYES SPAT FIRE"

The fat little A.D.C. was called up to ask questions. He gave me a friendly wink, and I notched up a point in his favour.

He jabbered away to the President and I heard 'Wilson no Don Geraldio' and 'Hector buque de guerra—Inglesa—Los Angelos.'

He asked me if I knew where Gerald was. Of course I didn't and shook my head, 'No! old chap, I don't.'

The President didn't believe it when this was told him.

'El Presidente say shoot you if do not say where is Don Geraldio.'

Of course that was only bluff, and I smiled.

Then the firing party were called across, but that was still only bluff, I thought, and it didn't frighten me in the least till I saw the fat little A.D.C.'s face turn yellow under his brown skin.

Well, then I was in a mortal funk, if you like, and something inside me went flop down into my boots.

'Our cannon—cannon of Hector—shoot thirty kilometres,' I jerked out, remembering how impressed the A.D.C.'s had been with our after 9.2, my tongue feeling a bit sticky and my knees not altogether steady.

The old Governor, the two A.D.C.'s, and several other officers were evidently doing their best for me. I heard 'kilometres' mentioned once or twice, and then the President waved his hand majestically and I was taken back and the grating locked behind me.

My head was buzzing, and I don't mind telling you that I felt a jolly sight more comfortable inside than outside—just then. The little President and all his staff went away, and I heard their horses clattering over the drawbridge. Before he went away, my fat little pal came along and held out his cigarette case through the gratings. I bowed and smiled and took one cigarette; but he shook his head, he wanted me to empty it. I did this and then had a brilliant inspiration. My cigarette case was a pretty decent one, so I offered him mine.

'We change cigarette cases—for remembrance—I shall always remember,' I said.

The kind-hearted little chap seemed quite pleased, took mine as I took his, bowed, said 'Adios! I also shall remember,' and went after the others as fast as his spurs and his sabre and his fat little legs would let him.

I sat down on my cartridge-box and wondered what the dickens 'Old Tin Eye' was doing and what had become of Bob and the Angel, smoked one of my pal's cigarettes, examined the cigarette case—it was an oxydised silver one with black enamel work, probably made in Paris—and watched some black convicts with chains round their ankles filling in three graves under the wall opposite.

Phew! there might have been four if I hadn't remembered about the 9.2's and the thirty kilometres. I shivered and felt jolly sick, and wished to goodness I was back again in the Hector's gun-room.