Evidences of the war increased as the journey lengthened7. The potreros were lush with grass, but no herds8 grazed upon them; villages were deserted9 and guano huts were falling into decay, charred10 fields growing up to weeds and the ruins of vast centrales showing where the Insurrectos had been at work. This was the sugar country, the heart of Cuba, whence Spain had long drawn11 her life blood, and from the first it had been the policy of the rebel leaders to destroy the large estates, leaving undamaged only the holdings of those little farmers whose loyalty12 to the cause of freedom was unquestioned.
Food became a problem immediately after the travelers had crossed the trocha. Such apprehensive13 families as still lurked14 in the woods were liberal enough—Antonio, by the way, knew all of them—but they had little to give and, in consequence, O'Reilly's party learned the taste of wild fruits, berries, and palmetto hearts. Once they managed to kill a small pig, the sole survivor15 of some obscure country tragedy, but the rest of the time their meat, when there was any, consisted of iguanas—those big, repulsive16 lizards17—and jutias, the Cuban field-rats.
Neither the lizards nor the rats were quite as bad as they looked or sounded; the meat of the former was tender and white, while the latter, although strong, was not unpalatable. To hungry men both were muy sabrosa, as Jacket put it. This was not the boy's first experience with such a diet; having campaigned before in the west, he was accustomed to the taste of juita, and he told O'Reilly how his troop had once lived so long upon these rats that it became impossible to surprise a Spanish enemy, except by approaching up the wind, as a hunter stalks his game. Jacket gravely assured his friend that the Spaniards could smell him and his brother patriots18 from a distance of five kilometers—a statement, by the way, which the American by this time was ready to believe.
Fortunately there was no shortage of food for the horses, and so, despite the necessity of numerous detours19, the party made good time. They crossed into Matanzas, pushed on over rolling hills, through sweeping20 savannas21, past empty clearings and deserted villages, to their journey's end. A fortunate encounter with a rebel partida from General Betancourt's army enabled them to reach headquarters without loss of time, and one afternoon, worn, ragged22 and hungry, they dismounted in front of that gallant23 officer's hut.
General Betancourt read the letter which O'Reilly handed him, then looked up with a smile.
"So! You are one of Gomez's Americans, eh? Well, I would never have known it, to look at you; the sun and the wind have made you into a very good Cuban. And your clothes—One might almost mistake you for a Cuban cabinet officer."
O'Reilly joined in the laughter evoked24 by this remark. He was quite as tattered25 as the poorest of Betancourt's common soldiers; his shoes were broken and disreputable; his cotton trousers, snagged by barbed wire and brambles, and soiled by days in the saddle and nights in the grass, were in desperate need of attention. His beard had grown, too, and his skin, where it was exposed, was burnt to a mahogany brown. Certainly there was nothing about his appearance to bespeak26 his nationality.
The general continued: "I am directed in this letter to help you in some enterprise. Command me, sir."
As briefly27 as possible Johnnie made known the object of his journey. The officer nodded his comprehension, but as he did so a puzzled expression crossed his face.
"Yes, I reported that Miss Varona had gone into the city—I took some pains to find out. Do you have reason to doubt—"
"Not the least, sir."
"Then—why have you come all this way?"
"I came to find her and to fetch her to her brother."
"But—you don't understand. She is actually inside the lines, in
Matanzas—a prisoner."
"Exactly. I intend to go into Matanzas and bring her out."
General Betancourt drew back, astonished. "My dear man!" he exclaimed.
"Are you mad?"
O'Reilly smiled faintly. "Quite probably. All lovers are mildly mad, I believe."
"Ah! Lovers! I begin to see. But—how do you mean to go about this—this—impossible undertaking28?"
"You told me just now that I could pass for a Cuban. Well, I am going to put it to the test. If I once get into the city I shall manage somehow to get out again, and bring her with me."
"Um-m!" The general appraised29 O'Reilly speculatively30. "No doubt you can get in—it is not so difficult to enter, I believe, and especially to one who speaks the language like a native. But the return—I fear you will find that another matter. Matanzas is a place of pestilence31, hunger, despair. No one goes there from choice any more, and no one ever comes out."
"So I should imagine." The speaker's careless tone added to General Betancourt's astonishment32. "Bless me!" he exclaimed. "What an extraordinary young man! Is it possible that you do not comprehend the terrible conditions?" A sudden thought struck him and he inquired, quickly: "Tell me, you are not by any chance that hero they call El Demonio? I have heard that he is indeed a demon33. No? Very well! You say you wish to visit Matanzas, and I am instructed to help you. How can I do so?"
O'Reilly hesitated an instant. "For one thing, I need money. I—I haven't a single peseta."
"You are welcome to the few dollars I possess."
Johnnie expressed his gratitude34 for this ready assistance. "One thing more," said he. "Will you give my boy, Jacket, a new pair of trousers and send him back to the Orient at the first opportunity?"
"Of course. It is done." The general laid a friendly hand upon O'Reilly's shoulder, saying, gravely: "It would relieve me intensely to send you back with him, for I have fears for the success of your venture. Matanzas is a hell; it has swallowed up thousands of our good countrymen; thousands have died there. I'm afraid you do not realize what risks you are taking."
O'Reilly did not allow this well-meant warning to influence him, nor did he listen to the admonitions of those other Cubans who tried to argue him out of his purpose, once it became generally known. On the contrary, he proceeded with his preparations and spent that afternoon in satisfying himself that Rosa had indeed left the Pan de Matanzas before Cobo's raid.
Among Betancourt's troops was a man who had been living in the hills at the time Asensio and his family had abandoned their struggle for existence, and to him O'Reilly went. This fellow, it seemed, had remained with his family in the mountains some time after Asensio's departure. It was from him that O'Reilly heard his first authentic35 report of the atrocities36 perpetrated by Cobo's Volunteers. This man had lost his wife, his little son, and all the scanty37 belongings38 he possessed39. With shaking hands upstretched to heaven, the fellow cursed the author of his misfortunes.
"I live for one thing!" he cried, shrilly40. "To meet that monster, and to butcher him, as he butchers women and children."
O'Reilly purposely left his most unpleasant task to the last. When his arrangements had been completed and he had acquainted himself as far as possible with the hazards he was likely to encounter, he took Jacket aside and broke the news to him that on the following morning they must part. As he had expected, the boy refused to listen to him. O'Reilly remained firm and Jacket adopted those tactics which had proved so potent42 with General Gomez. He began to weep copiously43. He worked himself up to a hysterical44 crescendo45 which threatened to arouse the entire encampment. But O'Reilly was unmoved.
"Be quiet," he told the boy. "I won't let you go with me, and that ends it."
"You dassent leave me," sobbed46 the youngster. "I got no friend but you."
"It will be hard enough for one man to slip through; two would be sure to fail."
"Those Spaniards will skill you!" Jacket wailed47.
"So much the more reason for you to stay here."
At this the boy uttered a louder cry. He stamped his bare feet in a frenzy48 of disappointment. "You dassent leave me—you dassent!"
"Listen, people are starving in Matanzas; they are sick; they are dying in the streets."
"I don't eat much."
When Johnnie shook his head stubbornly Jacket launched himself into a torrent49 of profanity the violence of which dried his tears. His vocabulary was surprising. He reviled50 the Spaniards, O'Reilly, himself, everybody and everything; he leveled anathemas51 at that woman who had come between him and his beloved benefactor52. The latter listened good-naturedly.
"You're a tough kid," he laughed, when Jacket's first rage had worn itself out. "I like you, and I'd take you if I could. But this isn't an enterprise for a boy, and it won't get you anything to keep up this racket."
Jacket next tried the power of argument. He attempted to prove that in a hazardous53 undertaking of this sort his assistance would be invaluable54. He was, so he declared, the one person in all Cuba in every respect qualified55 to share O'Reilly's perils56. To begin with, he was not afraid of Spaniards, or anything else, for that matter—he dismissed the subject of personal courage with a contemptuous shrug57. As for cunning, sagacity, prudence58, resource, all-around worth, he was, without doubt, unequaled in any country. He was a veritable Spartan59, too, when it came to hardship—privation and suffering were almost to his liking60. He was discreet—discretion was something he had inherited; he was a diplomat—diplomacy being one of his most unique accomplishments61. As for this talk about hunger, O'Reilly need not concern himself in the least on that score, for Jacket was a small eater and could grow fat on a diet of dead leaves. Disease? Bah! It made him laugh. His experience with sickness was wider than most fisicos, and he was a better nurse than Miss Evans would ever be. Jacket did not wish to appear in the least boastful. On the contrary, he was actually too modest, as his friends could attest62, but truth compelled him to admit that he was just the man for O'Reilly. He found it impossible to recommend himself too highly; to save his soul, he could think of no qualification in which he was lacking and could see no reason why his benefactor would not greatly profit by the free use of his amazing talents. The enterprise was difficult; it would certainly fail without him.
Johnnie remained carefully attentive63 during this adjuration64. He felt no desire even to smile, for the boy's earnestness was touching65 and it caused the elder man's throat to tighten66 uncomfortably. Johnnie had not realized before how fond he had become of this quaint41 youngster. And so, when the little fellow paused hopefully, O'Reilly put an arm around him.
"I'm sure you are everything you say you are, Jacket, and more, too, but you can't go!"
With that Jacket flung off the embrace and, stalking away, seated himself. He took a half-smoked cigar from the pocket of his shirt and lit it, scowling67 the while at his friend. More than once during the evening O'Reilly detected his
Join or Log In!
You need to log in to continue reading