THE red sunrise found the Sin Verguenza already toiling with fierce activity about the hacienda. This was significant, because they were not addicted to unnecessary physical effort, but they had reasons for knowing it was advisable for the men who incurred the displeasure of Morales to take precautions, and the cane that rolled close up to the hacienda would in case of an assault afford convenient cover to the cazadores. It went down crackling before the flashing steel, while the perspiration dripped from swarthy faces, and the men gasped as they toiled. Appleby, who stripped himself to shirt and trousers before an hour had passed, wondered how long his arms, unused to labor, would stand the strain as he strove to keep pace with the men he led. Harper, almost naked, led another band, and stirred up the spirit of rivalry by rude badinage in barbarous Castilian. It was characteristic that both found the stress of physical effort bracing, and Maccario, attired in hat of costly Panama and spotless duck, watched them with a little twinkle in his dark eyes. There were, he said, sufficient men to do the work without him, and no gentleman of Iberian extraction toiled with his hands unless it was imperatively necessary.
Pickets came in and took up the machetes, gasping men, dripping with perspiration, flung themselves down in the shadow until their turn came again, the sun climbed higher until it was almost overhead, and the juice exuded hot upon the toilers’ hands from the crackling stems, while the faint breeze seemed to have passed through a furnace, and the brightness was bewildering.
Still, while the space where the stalks stood scarcely knee-high widened rapidly there was no sign of Morales, and the men grew silent, and now and then cast wondering glances at one another. They had expected the cazadores several hours ago, and their uneasiness was made apparent by the stoppages that grew more frequent while they gazed across the cane. Morales was, as they knew, not a man who wasted time, and his dilatoriness troubled them, for they felt certain that he would come.
The hour of the siesta arrived, and it was hotter than ever and dazzlingly bright, but no one laid his machete down; and Appleby’s hands were bleeding, while his head reeled as he staggered towards the tram-line with great bundles of cane. Morales, it seemed evident, was hatching some cunning plan for their destruction, and though arms and backs ached intolerably they toiled on. It was not until the hour of the comida they desisted, and by then sufficient cane had been cut to leave a space round the hacienda that would be perilous for the cazadores to cross, and those of the Sin Verguenza who had magazine rifles surveyed it with grim complacency. Then bags of soil were placed here and there along the parapet of the roof and piled behind the patio gate, and the men trooped in to eat. When Morales came they would at least be in a position to welcome him fittingly.
Still, he did not come, and when the shadows of the building which lay long and black across the cleared space crept into the growing cane a man walked into the patio. Pancho led him up to where Appleby and Maccario sat upon the roof gazing across the green plain towards the wavy thread of carretera.
“There is little news, señor,” he said. “Morales sits close in Santa Marta and has drawn his outposts in. One is not allowed to go into or out of the city without a pass, and the civiles watch the wine-shops.”
Maccario appeared thoughtful, but Appleby said, “You had a pass?”
The man shrugged his shoulders. “It is not always necessary—to me, but as it happens, I have two or three. There are little persuasive tricks known to the friends of liberty, and one can now and then induce a loyal citizen to part with his.”
“In Cuba one does not suggest too much,” said Maccario dryly. “Your good offices will be remembered when we have taken Santa Marta. There are dollars in that city, and they are scarce just now at San Cristoval. Morales has been here, you understand. In the meanwhile it is likely that Don Pancho will find you a bottle of wine and a little comida.”
The man withdrew, and Maccario contemplated the cigar he lighted. “There is a good deal I do not understand,” he said. “Morales does nothing without a motive, and it is quite certain he is not afraid. There is, however, a little defect in his character which has its importance to us.”
“One would fancy that there were several,” said Appleby.
Maccario smiled, and showed himself, like most men of his nationality, willing to moralize. “Strength comes with unity of purpose,” he said. “I am, as an example, anxious only to do what I can to promote Cuban independence, and a very little on behalf of a certain patriot Maccario. The latter, you understand, is permissible, and almost a duty. Morales, one admits, has at heart the upholding of Spanish domination, and it is at least as certain that any opportunity of profiting one Morales is seized by him. It would not, however, become me to censure him, but the defect is this—Morales always remembers the man who has injured him.”
“One would fancy it was a shortcoming which is not unknown among the Sin Verguenza!”
Maccario made a little gesture. “In reason, it is scarcely a defect, but with Morales it is a passion which is apt to betray into indiscretions a man who should have nothing at heart but the good of his country and the good of himself.”
“I think I understand. You mean—-”
“That Morales will endeavor to crush us even if he knows it will cost him a good deal. Cuba is not large enough for a certain three men to live in it together.”
“Then his slowness is the more inexplicable.”
“I have a notion that there may be an explanation which would not quite please me. It is conceivable that our comrades from beyond the mountains are moving, and he fears an assault upon Santa Marta.”
“In that case you could seize the town by joining hands with them.”
Maccario smiled. “If we wait a little we can drive Morales out ourselves; and this district belongs to us, you understand. We have watched over it for a long while, and it would not be convenient that others who have done nothing should divide what is to be gained with us when we have secured its liberty.”
Appleby laughed, for his companion’s naive frankness frequently delighted him. “Then,” he said, “the only thing would be a prompt assault upon the town, but that is apparently out of the question.”
“Who knows!” said Maccario, with a little expressive movement of his shoulders, and sat thoughtfully silent looking down towards Santa Marta across the cane.
Appleby, who asked no more questions, lay still in his chair vacantly watching the strip of road that was growing dimmer now. He had toiled with fierce activity under the burning sun since early morning, and a pleasant lassitude was creeping over him, while the faint coolness and deepening shadow was curiously refreshing after the scorching heat and glare. The sun had dipped behind a hill shoulder far away, the peaks grew sharp in outline against a gleam of saffron, and the long waves of cane were fading to a soft and dusky green. Still though night comes swiftly in that region, the road still showed faintly white where it wound in sinuous curves across the darkening plain, and held his gaze. What he was watching for he did not know, but he was sensible of a vague expectancy. At last, when the road had faded, and the soft darkness closed down, Maccario raised his head suddenly, for a drumming sound rose from the cane.
“Somebody is coming this way, riding hard,” he said.
The sound grew a trifle plainer, sank, and rose again, and the two men strained their ears to listen. The darkness was growing denser, but Appleby glanced at his companion.
“The sound commenced suddenly just beyond the spot where our outer picket is,” he said.
Maccario nodded. “Morales will certainly watch the road. It is a friend who has ridden by one of the paths through the cane with news for us,” he said.
In another few minutes the beat of hoofs was unmistakable, and when it rang loudly down the unseen road the two descended to the big living-room where Pancho had lighted the lamps. Maccario laughed as he sat down, and lighted a cigarette.
“When one assumes the tranquillity it not infrequently comes to him, and if the news is bad we shall hear it soon enough,” he said.
Appleby said nothing, for there were times when he found his comrade’s sage reflections a trifle exasperating, and he was glad when there was a trampling of hoofs in the patio, and he heard Harper greeting somebody. Then he sprang to his feet as a man came in.
“Harding!” he said.
Maccario laughed softly. “Now I think you have a little explanation to make, Don Bernardino, and it is conceivable that the Señor Harding may not be grateful to you,” he said.
Harding evidently understood him, for he stood still just inside the doorway, dressed in white duck, looking at Appleby with a little grim smile in his eyes. The dust was grimed upon his face, which was almost haggard, and his pose suggested weariness.
“Since I find my hacienda in the possession of the Sin Verguenza I fancy Don Maccario is right, but I can wait a little for the explanation,” he said dryly in Castilian. “I have ridden a long way, and as it is twenty-four hours since I had anything worth mentioning to eat, I wonder whether it would be permissable to ask for a little comida?”
Maccario, whose eyes twinkled, summoned Pancho, and sent him for food and wine. Harding ate with an avidity which told its own story, and then turned to Appleby.
“It was not until I reached Havana that I heard about the ‘Maine,’ and then as I had a good deal of business to put through in this country it seemed advisable to get myself up as a Cuban,” he said. “I had evidence that the Administration were watching me, and I would never have got here at all if it hadn’t been for the help of a few friends among the Liberationists. Now, I fancy you and Don Maccario have something to tell me.”
Appleby sat still a moment looking at him gravely, while Harper, who came in, leaned upon a chair. Then he said slowly: “As you may wish for Don Maccario’s corroboration I think I had better tell the story, which is a little involved, in Castilian. You will find patience necessary.”
He commenced with his interview with Morales on the night of the Alcaldes’ ball, and while Harding watched him with expressionless eyes recounted briefly the two attempts upon the papers made by the spies. Then as he came to Morales’ proposition the American’s face grew grim.
“That is a clever man,” he said. “Go on!”
Appleby proceeded quietly, and while his low voice broke monotonously through the silence of the room Harding’s face lost its grimness, and became intent and eager, while a sparkle crept into his eyes.
“So you staked all I had in Cuba on the chance of war and committed me to backing the Sin Verguenza!” he said.
“Yes,” said Appleby. “It was a heavy responsibility, but I could think of no other means of overcoming the difficulty. That I should agree to Morales’ terms was out of the question.”
“Of course!” said Harding simply. “That is, to a man like you.”
Appleby flushed a little. “I had no opportunity of warning you, while it seemed to me that it would go very hard with you if you were seized by Morales. That appeared almost inevitable unless you had friends behind you. The only ones that could be of service in this instance are the Sin Verguenza.”
“And so you took your chances of Morales shooting you?”
“I think,” said Appleby quietly, “there was, under the circumstances, very little else that one could do.”
Harding looked at him steadily, and then, nodding gravely, turned to Maccario.
“The Señor Appleby has thrown me on the patriots’ hands,” he said. “I have already done them several small services, as you perhaps know. They will remember that?”
Maccario’s eyes twinkled. “I believe they will. The Señor Harding’s generosity is well known,” he said. “In this country friends who are liberal with their money are scarce, and one is willing to do a little now and then to retain their good will. That, I think, is comprehensible. One has usually a motive.”
“Yet, when two men who had not a dollar between them were in peril, a merchant of tobacco ventured into the cuartel at Santa Marta!” said Appleby quietly.
Maccario lifted one shoulder expressively. “One is not always discreet, my friend. There is, however, an important question. The Señor Harding who knows his own countrymen believes there will be war?”
“I believe it is inevitable,” said Harding dryly.
A trace of darker color crept into the Cuban’s olive face, while Harper, who slowly straightened himself, tapped him on the back with a big hand.
“Then you’ll get your liberty! You’re not going to find a Spaniard in Cuba when we’re through,” he said.
There was a brief silence, but the intentness in the men’s eyes and the hardening of their lips were significant. Then Harding, reaching across the table, grasped Appleby’s hand. “I am in your debt, and it’s not going to hurt me to remember it,” he said. “There are not many men who could have taken up my hand, and played it out for me as you have done, but I’m not astonished. I had my notions about you when I left you in charge at San Cristoval. Well, that leads up to something. My affairs in this country are ’most getting too big for me, and I’m open to take a partner and deal with him liberally. It’s not money I want, but daring conception, and the nerve to hold on and worry through a risky plan. I guess you know the man who would suit me, Mr. Appleby.”
A little gleam crept into Appleby’s eyes, but it faded again as he glanced at Maccario.
“It is a tempting offer, but I belong to the Sin Verguenza yet,” he said. “Can you leave it open, Mr. Harding?”
“For how long?”
“Until Santa Marta has fallen, and the Sin Verguenza are undisputed masters of this region.”
He spoke in Castilian, feeling that Maccario’s dark eyes were upon him, and Harding smiled.
“Well,” he said a trifle dryly, “I guess you couldn’t help it, and I can’t afford to let any of the other men who will follow my lead when we’re through with the war get hold of you. When you have taken Santa Marta come straight along to me, and if we can’t fix up something that will suit both parties it will astonish me. Now, I’m feeling sleepy, and I’ve a good deal of figuring to go through with you to-morrow.”
Appleby rose and went with him to the room Pancho had made ready, while when they reached it Harding sat down wearily.
“I have another thing to tell you, Appleby,” he said. “My daughter Nettie seems to think a good deal of you.”
“Miss Harding was kind enough to permit me to call upon her once or twice at the banker’s house,” said Appleby quietly.
Harding’s eyes twinkled. “If you had gone there every day it wouldn’t have worried me. Your head is tolerably level, and Nettie has rather more sense than most young women, but that is not the point, anyway. When she was leaving England she wrote to me, and told me I might let you know there were people over there, and one, I believe in particular, who had heard the truth about you.”
Appleby stood still a moment, with a flush on his forehead and a curious glow in his eyes.
“Miss Harding told you nothing more, sir?” he said.
“No,” said Harding reflectively. “It wasn’t very explicit but she seemed to fancy it would be sufficient. Now, I don’t think you need worry about the thing, Appleby. Nettie has a good deal of discretion, and if she decided to take up your hand it’s no more than you did with mine.”
Appleby made no answer, but went out, and leaned upon the veranda balustrade looking up into the soft blueness of the night, while once more an alluring vision seemed to materialize before his eyes. He had a curious faith in Nettie Harding’s capabilities, and remembered the promise she had made him that what he longed for should be his.