There were other Americans in Cubitas, as O'Reilly soon discovered. During his first inspection¹ of the village he heard himself hailed in his own language, and a young man in dirty white trousers and jacket strode toward him.  
"Welcome to our city!" the stranger cried. "I'm Judson, Captain of Artillery², Departmento del Oriente; and you're the fellow who came with that quinine lady, aren't you?"
 
O'Reilly acknowledged his identity, and Judson grinned:
 
"The whole camp is talking about her and those mangoes. Jove! It's a wonder she didn't die of fright. Something tells me you're Irish. Anyhow, you look as if you'd enjoy a scrap³. Know anything about artillery?"
 
"Nothing whatever."
 
"I'm sorry. We need gunners. Still, you know as much as the rest of us did when we came."
 
"I'm not a fighter," Johnnie told him. "I'm here on—other business."
 
Captain Judson was plainly disappointed. Nevertheless, he volunteered to assist his countryman in any way possible. "Have you met the old man," he inquired—"General Gomez?"
 
"No, I'd like to meet him."
 
"Come along, then; I'll introduce you. This is about the right time of day for it; he'll probably be in good humor. He has dyspepsia, you know, and he's not always pleasant."
 
It was nearly sundown; the eastern slopes were in shadow, and supper was cooking. As the two men passed down the wide street between its rows of bohios the fragrance⁴ of burning fagots was heavy in the air—that odor which is sweet in the nostrils⁵ of every man who knows and loves the out-of-doors. To O'Reilly it was like the scents⁶ of Araby, for his hopes were high, his feet were light, and he believed his goal was in sight.
 
Gen. Maximo Gomez, father of patriots⁸, bulwark⁹ of the Cuban cause, was seated in a hammock, reading some letters; O'Reilly recognized him instantly from the many pictures he had seen. Gomez was a keen, wiry old man; the color of his swarthy, sun-bitten cheeks was thrown into deeper relief by his snow-white mustache and goatee. He looked up at Judson's salute¹⁰ and then turned a pail of brilliant eyes, as hard as glass, upon O'Reilly. His was an irascible, brooding face; it had in it something of the sternness, the exalted¹¹ detachment, of the eagle, and O'Reilly gained a hint of the personality behind it. Maximo Gomez was counted one of the world's ablest guerrilla leaders; and indeed it had required the quenchless¹² enthusiasm of a real military genius to fuse into a homogeneous fighting force the ill-assorted rabble¹³ of nondescripts whom Gomez led, to school them to privation and to render them sufficiently¹⁴ mobile to defy successfully ten times their number of trained troops. This, however, was precisely¹⁵ what the old Porto-Rican had done, and in doing it he had won the admiration¹⁶ of military students. He it was, more than any other, who bore the burden of Cuba's unequal struggle; it was Gomez's cunning and Gomez's indomitable will which had already subjugated¹⁷ half the island of Cuba; it was Gomez's stubborn, unflagging resistance which was destined¹⁸ to shatter for all time the hopes of Spain in the New World.
 
With a bluntness not unkind he asked O'Reilly what had brought him to Cuba, Then before the young man could answer he gestured with a letter in his hand, saying:
 
"Major Ramos gives you splendid credit for helping¹⁹ him to land his expedition, but he says you didn't come to fight with us. What does he mean?"
 
When O'Reilly explained the reason for his presence the old fighter nodded.
 
"So? You wish to go west, eh?"
 
"Yes, sir. I want to find Colonel Lopez."
 
"Lopez? Miguel Lopez?" the general inquired, quickly.
 
"I believe that's his name—at any rate the Colonel Lopez who has been operating in Matanzas Province, You see, he knows the whereabouts of my—friends."
 
"Well, you won't have to look far for him." General Gomez's leathery countenance²⁰ lightened into a smile. "He happens to be right here in Cubitas." Calling Judson to him, he said: "Amigo, take Mr. O'Reilly to Colonel Lopez; you will find him somewhere about. I am sorry we are not to have this young fellow for a soldier; he looks like a real man and—quite equal to five quintos, eh?"
 
It was the habit of the Cubans to refer to their enemies as quintos—the fifth part of a man! With a wave of his hand Gomez returned to his reading.
 
As Judson led his companion away he said: "When you have finished with Lopez come to my shack²¹ and we'll have supper and I'll introduce you to the rest of our gang. You won't get much to eat, for we're short of grub; but it's worse where Lopez comes from."
 
Col. Miguel Lopez, a handsome, animated²² fellow, took O'Reilly's hand in a hearty²³ clasp when they were introduced; but a moment later his smile gave way to a frown and his brow darkened.
 
"So! You are that O'Reilly from Matanzas," said he. "I know you now, but—I never expected we would meet."
 
"Esteban Varona told you about me, did he not?"
 
The colonel inclined his head.
 
"I'm here at last, after the devil's own time. I've been trying every way to get through. The Spaniards stopped me at Puerto Principe—they sent me back home, you know. I've been half crazy. I—You—" O'Reilly swallowed hard. "You know where Esteban is? Tell me-"
 
"Have you heard nothing?"
 
"Nothing whatever. That is, nothing since Rosa, his sister—You understand, she and I are—engaged-"
 
"Yes, yes; Esteban told me all about you."
 
Something in the Cuban's gravity of manner gave O'Reilly warning. A sudden fear assailed²⁵ him. His voice shook as he asked:
 
"What is it? My God! Not bad news?"
 
There was no need for the officer to answer. In his averted²⁶ gaze O'Reilly read confirmation²⁷ of his sickest apprehensions²⁸. The men faced each other for a long moment, while the color slowly drove out of the American's cheeks, leaving him pallid²⁹, stricken. He wet his lips to speak, but his voice was no more than a dry, throaty rustle³⁰.
 
"Tell me! Which one?" he whispered.
 
"Both!"
 
O'Reilly recoiled³¹; a spasm³² distorted his chalky face. He began to shake weakly, and his fingers plucked aimlessly at each other.
 
Lopez took him by the arm. "Try to control yourself," said he. "Sit here while I try to tell you what little I know. Or, would it not be better to wait awhile, until you are calmer?" As the young man made no answer, except to stare at him in a white agony of suspense³³, he sighed: "Very well, then, as you wish. But you must be a man, like the rest of us. I, too, have suffered. My father"—Lopez's mustached lip drew back, and his teeth showed through—"died in the Laurel Ditch at Cabanas. On the very day after my first victory they shot him—an old man, Christ! It is because of such things that we Cubans fight while we starve—that we shall continue to fight until no Spaniard is left upon this island. We have all faced something like that which you are facing now—our parents murdered, our sisters and our sweethearts wronged. …"
 
O'Reilly, huddled³⁴ where he had sunk upon the bench, uttered a gasping³⁵, inarticulate cry, and covered his face as if from a lash³⁶.
 
"I will tell you all I know—which isn't much. Esteban Varona came to me soon after he and his sister had fled from their home; he wanted to join my forces, but we were harassed³⁷ on every side, and I didn't dare take the girl—no woman could have endured the hardships we suffered. So I convinced him that his first duty was to her, rather than to his country, and he agreed. He was a fine boy! He had spirit. He bought some stolen rifles and armed a band of his own—which wasn't a bad idea. I used to hear about him. Nobody cared to molest³⁸ him, I can tell you, until finally he killed some of the regular troops. Then of course they went after him. Meanwhile, he managed to destroy his own plantations³⁹, which Cueto had robbed him of. You knew Cueto?"
 
"Yes."
 
"Well, Esteban put an end to him after a while; rode right up to La Joya one night, broke in the door, and macheted the scoundrel in his bed. But there was a mistake of some sort. It seems that a body of Cobo's Volunteers were somewhere close by, and the two parties met. I have never learned all the details of the affair, and the stories of that fight which came to me are too preposterous⁴⁰ for belief. Still, Esteban and his men must have fought like demons⁴¹, for they killed some incredible number. But they were human—they could not defeat a regiment⁴³. It seems that only one or two of them escaped."
 
"Esteban? Did he—"
 
Colonel Lopez nodded; then he said, gravely: "Cobo takes no prisoners. I was in the Rubi hills at the time, fighting hard, and it was six weeks before I got back into Matanzas. Naturally, when I heard what had happened, I tried to find the girl, but Weyler was concentrating the pacificos by that time, and there was nobody left in the Yumuri; it was a desert."
 
"Then you don't know positively⁴⁵ that she … that she—"
 
"Wait. There is no doubt that the boy was killed, but of Rosa's fate I can only form my own opinion. However, one of Esteban's men joined my troops later, and I not only learned something about the girl, but also why Esteban had been so relentlessly⁴⁶ pursued. It was all Cobo's doings. You have heard of the fellow? No? Well, you will." The speaker's tone was eloquent⁴⁷ of hatred⁴⁸. "He is worse than the worst of them—a monster! He had seen Miss Varona. She was a beautiful girl. …"
 
"Go on!" whispered the lover.
 
"I discovered that she didn't at first obey Weyler's edict. She and the two negroes—they were former slaves of her father, I believe—took refuge in the Pan de Matanzas. Later on, Cobo's men made a raid and—killed a great many. Some few escaped into the high ravines, but Miss Varona was not one of them. Out of regard for Esteban I made careful search, but I could find no trace of her."
 
"And yet, you don't know what happened?" O'Reilly ventured. "You're not sure?"
 
"No, but I tell you again Cobo's men take no prisoners. When I heard about that raid I gave up looking for her."
 
"This—Cobo"—the American's voice shook in spite of his effort to hold it steady—"I shall hope to meet him some time."
 
The sudden fury that filled Colonel Lopez's face was almost hidden by the gloom. "Yes. Oh yes!" he cried, quickly, "and you are but one of a hundred; I am another. In my command there is a standing⁴⁹ order to spare neither Cobo nor any of his assassins; they neither expect nor receive quarter from us. Now, companero"—the Cuban dropped a hand on O'Reilly's bowed head—"I am sorry that I had to bring you such evil tidings, but, we are men—and this is war."
 
"No, no! It isn't war—it's merciless savagery⁵⁰! To murder children and to outrage⁵¹ women—why, that violates all the ethics⁵² of warfare⁵³."
 
"Ethics!" the colonel cried, harshly. "Ethics? Hell is without ethics. Why look for ethics in war? Violence—injustice—insanity—chaos—THAT is war. It is man's agony—woman's despair. It is a defiance⁵⁴ of God. War is without mercy, without law; it is—well, it is the absence of all law, all good."
 
There was a considerable silence. Then Lopez went on in another key.
 
"We Cubans carry heavy hearts, but our wrongs have made us mighty⁵⁵, and our sufferings have made us brave. Here in the orient we do well enough; but, believe me, you cannot imagine the desolation and the suffering farther west—whole provinces made barren and their inhabitants either dead or dying. The world has never seen anything like Weyler's slaughter⁵⁶ of the innocents. If there is indeed a God—and sometimes I doubt it—he will not permit this horror to continue; from every pool of Cuban blood another patriot⁷ will spring up, until we drive that archfiend and his armies into the sea. Go back to your own country now, and if your grief has made you one of us in sympathy, tell the world what that black butcher in Havana is doing, and beg your Government to recognize our belligerency, so that we may have arms. ARMS!"
 
It was some time before O'Reilly spoke⁵⁷; then he said, quietly: "I am not going back. I am going to stay here and look for Rosa."
 
"So!" exclaimed the colonel. "Well, why not? So long as we do not know precisely what has happened to her, we can at least hope. But, if I were you, I would rather think of her as dead than as a prisoner in some concentration camp. You don't know what those camps are like, my friend, but I do. Now I shall leave you. One needs to be alone at such an hour—eh?" With a pressure of his hand, Colonel Lopez walked away into the darkness.
 
Judson and his adventurous⁵⁸ countryman did not see O'Reilly that night, nor, in fact, did any one. But the next morning he appeared before General Gomez. He was haggard, sick, listless. The old Porto-Rican had heard from Lopez in the mean time; he was sympathetic.
 
"I am sorry you came all the way to hear such bad news," he said. "War is a sad, hopeless business."
 
"But I haven't given up hope," O'Reilly said. "I want to stay here and—and fight."
 
"I inferred as much from what Lopez told me." The general nodded his white head. "Well, you'll make a good soldier, and we shall be glad to have you." He extended his hand, and O'Reilly took it gratefully.
 
The city of Matanzas was "pacified⁵⁹." So ran the boastful bando of the captain-general. And this was no exaggeration, as any one could see from the number of beggars there. Of all his military operations, this "pacification⁶¹" of the western towns and provinces was the most conspicuously⁶² successful and the one which gave Valeriano Weyler the keenest satisfaction; for nowhere did rebellion lift its head—except, perhaps, among the ranks of those disaffected⁶⁴ men who hid in the hills, with nothing above them but the open sky. As for the population at large, it was cured of treason; it no longer resisted, even weakly, the law of Spain. The reason was that it lay dying. Weyler's cure was simple, efficacious—it consisted of extermination⁶⁵, swift and pitiless.
 
Poverty had been common in Matanzas, even before the war, but now there were so many beggars in the city that nobody undertook to count them. When the refugees began to pour in by the thousands, and when it became apparent that the Government intended to let them starve, the better citizens undertook an effort at relief; but times were hard, food was scarce, and prices high. Moreover, it soon transpired⁶⁶ that the military frowned upon everything like organized charity, and in consequence the new-comers were, perforce, abandoned to their own devices. These country people were dumb and terrified at the misfortunes which had overtaken them; they wandered the streets in aimless bewilderment, fearful of what blow might next befall. They were not used to begging, and therefore they did not often implore⁶⁷ alms; but all day long they asked for work, for bread, that their little ones might live. Work, however, was even scarcer than food, and the time soon came when they crouched⁶⁸ upon <............