"It's horrible," he said.
Ormsgill made a little gesture. "They brought it upon themselves. I'm a little sorry for Gavin, but I can't get away."
It was perfectly evident. Their captors held them fast, pinioning their arms with greasy black hands, and there were two to each of them, while there are very few white men who have the negro's physical strength, at least if they have been any time in that climate. Nares gasped and felt his heart throb furiously, as he waited with his eyes fixed on the hut.
There was silence in the village for almost a minute after Gavin vanished into the hut, and the men who had pursued him stood still, apparently irresolute. The entrance was dark and narrow, and they could not see inside, but it was evident that they recognized it was a very determined man who awaited them in its shelter. He was also white, which had no doubt its effect upon the negro mind, since it usually happens that when a race or caste asserts its superiority loudly enough its claims are admitted, especially when they are backed by visible force.
So while the seconds slipped away the negroes stood hesitating, and glancing at one another as well as at the hut which lay in the shadow. Their ebony limbs and scanty draperies were forced up against the glaring dust and sand in a flood of searching brilliancy. Nares, who felt his nerves tingle, could see the tension in their dusky faces and the oily gleam of their bodies as the perspiration broke from them. There was something curiously suggestive of pent up fury in the poses they had fallen into. In the meanwhile he could not move. Indeed, the big negro who held him fast had savagely drawn his arms behind hisback, and the strain in the muscles was becoming almost intolerably painful.
Then several men broke away from the others and ran towards the hut, and once more Nares held his breath. He could have shouted as he saw the first dark form bound on, clutching a long Snider rifle in both hands, but he restrained himself. In another moment or two a thin flash blazed from the doorway of the hut, and the man went down with a shrill scream and lay clawing at the sand. Nares heard no detonation. He was only conscious of the little curl of blue smoke in the entrance of the hut, and the black object that writhed in the pitiless glare in front of it. Then the fallen man's comrades stopped, and a little shiver ran through him as he turned to Ormsgill, who nodded as if he understood him.
"You can only face it," said the latter. "They would scarcely listen to their Headman, and I can't move a limb. It's a single-shot rifle. They're bound to kill him." Then he broke off with a little gasp. "Ah," he said a moment later, "two of them are trying it now."
Nares did not wish to look, but he could not help it. The scene held his gaze, and he saw the two figures move cautiously towards the hut, keeping one wall of it between them and the doorway as far as they could. This, however, did not serve them. The deadly fire flashed again, and one negro who collapsed suddenly fell on his hands and knees. Then there was another streak of sparks and smoke, andthe second man staggering forward went down headlong with a thud. Several Sniders flashed, and there was silence again.
"It's too much," said Ormsgill. "I can't stand this."
He struggled furiously, and he and the men who held him swayed to and fro, a cluster of scuffling, staggering figures for a moment or two. The effort, however, was futile, and he stood still again with his arms pinioned fast behind his back and the perspiration dripping from him while the Suzerain looked at him from his stool with a little grim smile.
"It is not your affair," he said.
Ormsgill said nothing, though the veins were swollen on his forehead and his face was suffused with blood, and at a sign from the Headman the negroes who held him relaxed their grasp a trifle. Nares also stood still, with every nerve in him thrilling. The man inside the hut no doubt deserved his fate, but that did not seem to count then, and the missionary felt only a sympathy with him that was almost overwhelming in its intensity. It was one man against a multitude, for there was no sign that Herrero was making any effort, and, after all, that man sprang from the same stock as he did. Then deep down in him he felt a thrill of pride, for Gavin was making a very gallant fight of it. It was in many ways a shameful work that he and his comrade had done, selling proscribed arms to the people who had turned against him now, fomenting discord between them and their neighbors, and debauchingthem with villainous rum, but, at least, he made it clear that the courage of his kind was in him. This was all at variance with Nares' beneficent creed, but the man was dying, indomitable, a white man.
Those who meant to kill him drew back a little farther from the hut, and standing and squatting flung up the long rifles. They were by no means marksmen, but the hut was large and built of cane and branch work. The heavy Snider bullets smashed through it, and for a few minutes the stagnant air was filled with the jarring detonations. There was no answering flash from the hut and Nares could see that its shadowy entrance was empty. Then as the ringing of the Sniders died away and a man here and there stole forward cautiously it seemed to him that a dimly seen white object dragged itself towards the doorway and crouched in it. He did not think it would be visible to the assailants, for they were keeping a little behind the hut, but it was clear to him that the one man against a multitude was bent on fighting still.
The straggling figures crept on, moving obliquely towards the perilous entrance, that the hut might shelter them, until they massed together for a dash at it. Then the flash blazed out again, and one of them dropped. Another went down screaming a few seconds later, and then the foremost broke and fled, and there was a sudden scattering of those behind. There were a host of negroes, but they shrank from that unerring rifle. They were evidently willing to face a hazard, but this was certain death. Then the Suzerain of the village signed to the negroes who held Ormsgill, and they led him forward.
"It seems it may cost us a good deal to kill that man," he said. "Go and see what terms he will make with me. An offer of a few good rifles would have some weight just now."
Ormsgill went, and crossing the hot space of dust and sand walked into the hut. Dazzled as he was by the change from the glare outside, he could see almost nothing for a moment or two. The place was also filled with an acrid haze, but by degrees he became accustomed to the dimness and made out Gavin lying against the wall. He looked up with a little wry smile, but Ormsgill moving nearer saw that his face was gray and drawn. There was dust on his thin duck clothing, and in two spots a small dark-colored stain.
"You are hit?" he said.
"Yes," said Gavin, "I'm done." He gasped before he spoke again with evident difficulty. "They plugged me twice before they made the last attempt. I could just hold the rifle. If they'd kept it up they'd have got in."
"Where's Herrero?"
Gavin appeared to glance across the hut, and Ormsgill saw a huddled figure lying in the shadow. It did not move at all.
"Yes," said Gavin, "I think the first bullet that came in quieted him, and I wasn't sorry. He was worrying me. Lost his nerve, though he never hadvery much. Well, I suppose you have come to make a bargain with me?"
"Something like that. Our friend yonder hinted that he would probably do a good deal for a few rifles."
Gavin smiled dryly. "It isn't worth while now. As you have no doubt noticed, I can hardly talk to you."
He stopped for a moment with a heavy gasp. "This was my last kick, you see."
"Ah," said Ormsgill, "is there any other little way in which I could be of service? Any message you would like sent on?"
The man made a painful effort, but Ormsgill had now some little difficulty in hearing him. "None," he said. "They have forgotten me yonder, and, perhaps, it's just as well. Our folks—my mother was Cape Dutch, you know—believe in everything as it used to be, but I'm like my father; there was always a kick in me. One of your Colonial vacillations cost him his farm, for, though he said he was ashamed of his country, he wouldn't recognize the Boers as his rulers. I, however, got on with them until I vexed the authorities by something I did in resentment of the—arrogance of certain mine-grabbing Englishmen. I believe I might have made terms if I'd truckled to them a little, but that was a thing I wouldn't do, and so I came out here. There are probably more of us with the same nonsensical notions."
Ormsgill said nothing for a moment or two. He had also lived among the outcasts, and knew what comes of disdaining to regard things from the conventional point of view. Something in him stirred in sympathy with the dying man, and he sat down in the dust and laid a hand on his shoulder. Gavin made no further observation that was intelligible, until at last he feebly raised his head.
"If you wouldn't mind I'd like a drink," he said.
Ormsgill rose and walked out of the hut calling in the native tongue. The men who squatted about it in the hot sand still clenching their Sniders apparently failed to understand him, or were unwilling to do what he asked, and some time had slipped by when at last one of them brought a dripping calabash. Ormsgill went into the hut with it, and then took off his shapeless hat as he poured out the water on the hot soil. Gavin lay face downwards now, clutching his deadly rifle, but there was no breath in him. Then Ormsgill went back quietly to where the Headman and his Suzerain were sitting.
"I am afraid you can not have those rifles. The man is dead," he said.
After that he and Nares were led back to their hut, and when it was made clear to them that they were expected to stay there Ormsgill sat down in the shadow and pulled out his pipe.
"We wondered what was going on, and now the thing's quite plain," he said. "It's rebellion."
"How was it they didn't creep round the hut from behind?" asked Nares, who felt a trifle averse from facing the point that concerned them most.
"Lost their heads, most probably," said Ormsgill. "Didn't think of it. Any way, they'd have had to make a dash for the door eventually. Still, it would have saved them a man or two, and our friend the Suzerain noticed it."
"Why didn't he point it out to them?"
"I fancy he wanted to see how they'd stand fire, and break them in. Felt he could afford to throw a few of them away, as he certainly could, and he only stepped in when the thing was commencing to discourage them."
"It's quite likely you're right," and Nares looked at his comrade with a little wry smile. "Still, after all, I'm not sure it's very material."
The lines grew a trifle deeper on Ormsgill's worn face. "No," he said, "the real question is what our dusky acquaintance means to do with us, and we have to face it. Personally, I don't think he means us any harm, but it's certain he won't let us go until he and his friends have cleaned out San Roque. You see, in an affair of this kind the first blow must be successful, and he has probably a lurking suspicion that we might warn Dom Erminio. The trouble is that once the rebellion breaks out it will be almost impossible for us to reach the coast."
He spoke quietly, but there was a strain in his voice, and Nares guessed what he felt.
"I suppose he wouldn't be content with our assurance that we'd say nothing?" he suggested.
"Would you make it?"
Nares sat very still for a few moments, with acurious look in his eyes, and one hand closed, and his comrade once more recognized that there had been a change in him of late. He had the fever on him slightly, and while that is nothing unusual in those forests, he had grown perceptibly harder and grimmer during the last few weeks. Now and then he also gave way to outbreaks of indignation, which, so far as Ormsgill knew, was not a thing he had hitherto been addicted to doing. Still, the latter was aware that the white man's mental balance is apt to become a trifle unsettled in that land.
"I can't tell. It's a question I've grappled with in one shape or other before," he said. "The land is full of iniquities and horrors, and I think that some of them can only be washed out in blood. That law stands as it has always done. The great trade road to the south of us is paved with the bones of the victims, and they still come down to die, worked out in a few years on the plantations. It is a thing that can't go on."
He opened and closed a thin hand savagely while his voice rose to a harsher note. "For one man killed by the bullet if war breaks out a hundred perish yearly under the driver's lash on the great roads and, I think, among the coffee plants. They are dumb cattle, here and in the Congo. They can not tell their troubles, and they have no friends. How could they when the white man grows rich by their toil and anguish? Still, this earth is the Lord's, and there are men in it who will listen when once what is being done in this land of darkness is clearly told them.One must believe it or throw away all faith in humanity. I think if it rested with me I would let these bushmen come down and crush their oppressors, since it seems there is no other way of making their sorrows known."
He broke off abruptly, and seemed to shrink back within himself, for it was, after all, but seldom he spoke in that fashion. Ormsgill nodded.
"It's a very old way of claiming attention, and one that's sometimes effective," he said. "They might have tried it before, but, you see, those beneath the yoke have their hands tied, and those who aren't somewhat naturally don't care. That's one of the things which have hampered most attempts at emancipation. Only our friend the Suzerain has sense enough to realize that if they sit still much longer the yoke will be tolerably securely fastened on all of them. I think he has the gifts of a leader, but there is another man of the same kind on the coast. I mean Dom Clemente, and I'm not sure he'd be willing to have the land swept out in that unceremonious fashion. In fact, one could almost fancy that in due time he means to do the cleaning up, tactfully, himself."
He stopped a moment, and smiled somewhat grimly before he went on again. "After all, this doesn't directly concern either of us. It's a little hard that now when the thing we have in hand is in one sense accomplished and neither Domingo nor Herrero can worry us, we should be kept here indefinitely at the pleasure of this back-country nigger."
He glanced at the dusky men who squatted not far away in the shadow watching the hut. They had Snider rifles, and it was evident they were there to see that nobody came out. Then he sat moodily silent awhile, with a curious hardness in his lined face. He was lame and worn-out. The climate had sapped the physical strength out of him, and the wound in his leg still caused him pain. Also, struggle against it as he would, the black dejection which preys on the white man in that land was fastening itself on him. The thing was hard, almost intolerably so. He was a captive with the opportunity of accomplishing his task receding every moment further away from him, for it was clear that once the rebellion broke out it would be almost impossible for him to convey his boys across the track of it to the wished-for coast. Some time had slipped by when Nares roused himself to ask another question.
"Are these people likely to meet with any opposition from the natives when they march?" he said.
"That," said Ormsgill reflectively, "is a thing I'm not quite sure about. There is one Headman of some importance between them and the littoral. You know whom I mean, and it would make things difficult for our jailers if he remained on good terms with the authorities. In fact, in that case it seems to me these folks would have a good deal of trouble in getting any further. What he will do I naturally don't know, but if I was in command of San Roque I would make every effort to keep him quiet and content just now."
After that he once more sat silent, apparently brooding heavily, until the sudden darkness fell and the pungent smoke of the cooking fires drifted about the village. Then, soon after food was brought them, he sank into restless sleep.
Fort San Roque stood, as Father Tiebout sometimes said, on the verge of extinction in the shadow of the debatable land, but its Commandant or Chefe, as he was usually termed, had become accustomed to the fact, and, if he did not forget it altogether, seldom took it into serious consideration. After all, the European only exists on sufferance in the hotter parts of Africa, and as a rule, once he realizes it, ceases to trouble himself about the matter and concentrates his attention on the acquiring of riches by any means available. Dom Erminio was not an exception, and being by no means particular, endeavored to make the most of his opportunities, especially as his term of office was not a long one. It was, perhaps, not astonishing that in his eagerness to do so he became to some extent oblivious of everything else, since those entrusted with authority over a discontented subject people have at other times and in other places acted as though they were a trifle blind to what was going on about them. Dom Erminio was cunning, but, as occasionally happens in the case of cunning men, he was also short-sighted.
The evening meal had been cleared away when he lay in a canvas lounge, yellow in face, as white menoften become in that part of Africa, with a cigar in his bony fingers. Darkness had just closed down on the lonely station, but the little rickety residency had lain for twelve hours under a burning sun, and now the big oil lamps raised the already almost insupportable temperature. The Chefe, however, did not seem to feel it. He lay in his chair apparently languidly content, a spare figure in loose and somewhat soiled white uniform, looking at his Lieutenant, who was fingering a glass of red Canary wine. Neither of them troubled themselves about the fact that there were men in that country who regarded them with a vindictive hatred.
"I almost think we may as well call that man in," he said.
The Lieutenant Luiz glanced towards the veranda, where a negro was patiently squatting, as he had, in fact, been doing for most of the day. He brought a message from a Headman of some importance in the vicinity, and there was no reason why he should not have been listened to several hours earlier, except that Dom Erminio preferred to keep him waiting. It was in his opinion advisable that a negro should be taught humbly to await the white man's pleasure, which is a policy that has now and then brought trouble upon the white man. Dom Luiz, who understood his companion's views on that subject, smiled.
"He has, no doubt, complaints to make. They always have," he said. "Considering everything, that is not astonishing. I wonder if the Headman expects us to give them much consideration."
Dom Erminio spread his yellow hands out. "One would have thought we had taught him to expect nothing. He is, it seems, a little slow to understand. Perhaps, we have not put the screw on quite hard enough. I fancy another turn would make him restive."
He looked at his Lieutenant, and both of them laughed. Then the Chefe made a little sign.
"Bring him in," he said.
The negro came in, a big, heavily-built man, with an expressionless face. When Dom Erminio made him a sign not to come too near he squatted down, a huddled object with apathetic patience in its pose, until the Lieutenant signified that he might deliver his message.
"The Headman sends you greeting. He has a complaint to make," he said, and another dusky man who had slipped in softly made his observations plain. "The soldiers have been beating the people in one of his villages, and carrying off things that did not belong to them again. The Headman asks for justice in this matter."
"He shall have it," said the Chefe. "His people have been insolent, and they are certainly getting lazy. We will send him a requisition for more provisions."
Nobody could have told whether the messenger felt any resentment, but, after all, very few white men ever quite understand what the African is thinking. He crouched impassively still, with the lamplight onhis heavy face and his oily skin gleaming softly over the great knotted muscles of his splendid arms and shoulders. There was something in his attitude which vaguely suggested dormant force that might spread destruction when it was unloosed, but that naturally did not occur to the Chefe, who indicated by a little gesture that he might continue.
"There is another matter," said the negro. "The Headman can not send in the rubber demanded. Already we have cleared the forest of half the trees. One has to go a long way to find any more. He will do what he can, but he asks that you will be content with a little less than usual."
Dom Erminio shook his head reproachfully. "I have made this man concessions, and this is the result," he said. "There are many duties I have released him from, and I only ask a little rubber and a few other things for the favor."
Then he straightened himself in his chair. "Tell your Headman that not a load of rubber will be excused him, and he must restrain his people from provoking the soldiers. Also, the next time he has a complaint to make let him come himself and lay it before me."
The man stood up, splendid in his animal muscularity, but there was for just a moment a little gleam in his eyes which suggested that hot human passions were at work within him. The white men, however, as usual, did not notice it, and the black interpreter, whose opinion was seldom invited, said nothing.
"I will tell him," said the messenger, and Dom Erminio looked at the Lieutenant Luiz when he went out with the interpreter.
"I think," he said reflectively, "we will give the screw that other turn. It is supposed that our new rulers down yonder"—and he apparently indicated the coast with a stretched out hand—"are in favor of a more conciliatory policy, which is not what we would wish for just now."
"It is clearly out of the question," and Dom Luiz grinned. "I think it would be advisable if I went out with a few files and made some further trifling requisition to-morrow."
"You will go, and do what appears desirable," said the Chefe, who lighted another cigar.
Dom Luiz set out on the morrow with a handful of dusky ruffians in uniform, and left rage and shame behind him in the villages he visited, which, as it happened, had results neither he nor Dom Erminio had anticipated. The Headman did not come to San Roque to make his humble complaint, but he sent an urgent message to the Suzerain of the village Ormsgill was confined in, and at last one morning the old man sent for the latter.
"We march in a few hours, and as we can not leave you here you and the boys you asked me for will come with us," he said. "What our business is does not concern you, and you will go with us as prisoners. Just now I do not know what we will do with you afterwards. It will depend"—and he looked atOrmsgill with a little grim smile—"a good deal upon your own behavior."
Ormsgill, who grasped the gist of what he said, could take a hint, and went back to Nares. The latter listened quietly when he told him what he had heard.
"I believe there is no other way. Their oppressors have brought it upon their own heads," he said.
His comrade noticed the curious hardness of his face, and the glint in his eyes. It was very evident to him that Nares, who had been down again with fever while they lay in the sweltering heat, had changed. He had borne many troubles uncomplainingly for several weary years, and, perhaps because of it, the events of the last few weeks had left their mark on him. After all, there is a subtle concord between mind and body, and in that land, at least, the fever-shaken white man who persists in staggering on under a burden greater than he can reasonably bear is apt to be suddenly crushed by it. Then his bodily strength or mental faculties give way once for all beneath the strain. Ormsgill could not define the change in his companion, but he recognized it. It was a thing which he had seen happen to other men.
They started in the heat of that afternoon, and Ormsgill, marching with his boys, watched the long dusky column wind into the forest in front of him. There were men with Snider rifles, which they were indifferently accustomed to, men with glinting matchets, and men with flintlock guns and spears,besides rows of plodding carriers. They were half-naked most of them, men of primitive passions and no great intelligence, but they had risen at last in their desperation to strike for freedom. Behind them rose a tumultuous uproar of barbaric music, insistent and deafening, that floated far over the forest. Ormsgill smiled a little as it grew fainter.
"I'm not sure there will be any music when they come back again," he said. "Still, I almost think they will accomplish—something."
Nares looked straight in front of him as he plodded on, but there was a curious gleam in his eyes.
"There is no other way," was all he said.
The long dusky column pushed on steadily through dim forest, wide morass, and tracts of hot white sand, and it happened one evening when the advance guard were a considerable distance ahead that Dom Erminio sat alone on the veranda at San Roque. It was then about eight o'clock, and the night was very dark and hot. Now and then a little fitful breeze crept up the misty river, and filled the forest that rose above it with mysterious noises. Then it dropped away again, and left a silence the Chefe commenced to find oppressive behind it. He could hear the oily gurgle of sliding water, and at times a sharp crackle in the crazy building behind him, out of which there drifted a damp mildewy smell, but that merely emphasized the almost disconcerting absence of any other sound. Indeed, it was so still that the soft rustle his duck garments made as he moved jarred on him, and he wasglad when the little muggy breeze flowed into the veranda again.
There was nothing in all this to trouble a man who was accustomed to it, but the Chefe was not quite at his ease. Dom Luiz, whom he had sent out a few days earlier, should have been back that afternoon, but there was no sign of him yet, nor had the three or four dusky soldiers who had gone out on some business of their own with his consent as yet made an appearance. There were very few men in the fort, and when nine o'clock came Dom Erminio, who was quite aware that the natives had no great cause to love him, admitted that he was a trifle anxious. Still, he had, with what he considered a more sufficient reason, been anxious rather frequently. It was a thing one became accustomed to in the debatable land, and sitting still he lighted another cigar. He could see the mists that rolled up from the river, and the forest cutting faintly black against the sky, and wondered vaguely what was going on in it. That there was something going on in it he now felt tolerably certain, though he did not exactly know why.
At last the hoarse cry of a sentry rose out of the night, and when it was answered he went down to the gate of the stockade. It was not a gate that opened in the usual fashion, but one that dropped, a stout affair of logs copied from the form adopted by the inhabitants of the plateaux to the south. When he reached it two or three black soldiers were heaving it up, and there was a patter of feet outside. Then aline of shadowy figures grew out of the darkness, and though there did not seem to be as many as he had expected it was with a sense of relief he saw Dom Luiz come in through the gap. The logs clashed down behind the last of his men, and Dom Erminio straightened himself suddenly when a sergeant came up with a lantern.
Two of the row of barefooted men appeared scarcely fit to stand. Their garments were rent to pieces, and there was blood and mire on them, while neither of them carried rifles. Dom Luiz saw the question in the Chefe's eyes, and nodded.
"Yes," he said, "I should have been here earlier. It was these two who detained me. I sent them on to the village in the thicker bush two days ago, and they came back dragging themselves with difficulty—as you see them. It seems the villagers had beaten them, and they did not know what had become of their rifles."
Dom Erminio's face became suddenly intent. "Ah," he said, "they shall be beaten again to-morrow. You will hand them to the guard. I suppose you saw nothing of the Sergeant Orticho?"
"No," said Lieutenant Luiz, who was a trifle puzzled by the sudden change in the Chefe's manner, "I saw no sign of him."
He called to his men, and as they filed by him loaded heavily with miscellaneous sundries, Dom Erminio smiled significantly.
"They have, it seems, been successful, which is fortunate," he said. "I almost think it will be somelittle time before they make any more requisitions of the kind again."
He turned back towards the house, and was once more sitting on the veranda when the Lieutenant Luiz rejoined him.
"It would no doubt be advisable that I should set out again in the morning with a stronger party and chastise those villagers who have beaten our men?" said the latter.
"No," said the Chefe dryly, "you will probably be busy here. When the natives venture to beat our men it is, I think, wiser to keep every man we have inside the fort."
"Ah," said his companion, "you believe they have courage enough to go further?"
Dom Erminio smiled. "I believe we both admitted that the natives might resent our attitude. We were, I think, for several reasons not unwilling that they should do something to make their resentment evident."
He stopped a moment, and the manner in which he spread out his yellow hands was very expressive. "Now I fancy we have got what we wished for—and, perhaps, a little more than could reasonably have been expected. It is rather a pity that we have lost several men with sickness lately."
Dom Luiz straightened himself in his chair. "There are very few of us, and I am not quite sure that one or two of the fresh draft could be depended on. Still, Orticho has most of them well in hand."
Dom Erminio made a little gesture. "I think wecan not count upon Orticho in this affair. It is scarcely likely that he and the men who went out with him will come back again. What he has heard in the bush I do not know, but it is evident that he regards this thing very much as I do. In fact, I fancy he is heading as fast as possible for the coast by now."
"Ah," said Dom Luiz, and looked at his companion inquiringly.
"The business we have in hand is perfectly simple," said Dom Erminio. "We were sent here to hold San Roque, and it must be done. When these bushmen call upon us we shall be ready. With that in view you will set about moving the quick-firing gun from where it is now, and when that is done you will open a loophole for it at the rear of the stockade. It is not quite so strong at that point, and our friends, who know where the gun stood, will probably attack us there. It would be advisable to have it done before the dawn comes."
Dom Luiz rose and set about it. There was no uneasiness in his companion's manner, but there was a look which had not been there for some little time in his eyes. He was, perhaps, in several respects a rogue, but, like other men of that kind, he had his strong points, too, and nobody had ever accused him of being deficient in manhood, which, unfortunately, is not always quite the same thing as humanity. He was also Chefe, Commandant and Administrator, which he never forgot, and he sat on the veranda smoking cigarette after cigarette while Dom Luiz toiled for once very strenuously half the night. Itwas very dark and hot, the logs he handled were heavy, and the dusky soldiers seemed unusually slow at understanding. Still, when the dawn broke the little quick-firing gun stood at the rear of the stockade, which had been strengthened wherever it was possible.
It was an hour after midnight when the Headman sent for Ormsgill, who found him sitting with his overlord beside a little fire that burned redly in the thin mist. The night was almost chilly, and the Suzerain crouched close beside the blaze, huddled in his loose garments, with the uncertain light on his impassive face. It seemed to Ormsgill that he looked worn and old, and he became conscious for the first time of a vague pity for him. The task he had undertaken was, the white man felt, one he could not succeed in. It was merely another futile protest, for the yoke that was being fastened on his people's necks could not be flung off that way. Ormsgill stood silent a moment or two until the old man turned to him.
"You have no cause to love those white men in San Roque," he said. "Well, I will give you forty boys with rifles. We want leaders who know how the white men fight."
Ormsgill shook his head. "No," he said, "I can not lead them. This affair is no concern of mine."
The negro appeared to ponder over his answer, for it was with difficulty they understood each other, though another man crouching in the wood smoke flung in a word or two.
"Are you all against us because we are black?" he said. "Those men at San Roque would shoot you if they could."
"It is very likely," and Ormsgill smiled a little. "Still, I think we are not all against you—though I can not lead your men. There are white men among the Portuguese who know that you have wrongs. Some day they will have justice done."
The negro spread out a dusky hand. "That is what the missionaries tell us, but we have waited a long time, and there is no sign of it yet. We can not wait for ever, and very soon all my people will be at work upon the white men's plantations. They get greedier and greedier. Now at last we strike."
Once more Ormsgill, standing still in the shadow watching him, was stirred by a vague compassion. He knew that revolt was useless, and wondered whether the old belief that there was a ban upon the negro and that he was made to serve the white man was not, after all, founded on more than superstition and self-interested sophistry. Other primitive peoples had, he knew, died off before the white man, but the Africans had thriven in their bondage, filling Brazil and the West Indies and the cotton-growing States. They were prolific, cheerful, adaptable to all conditions, and yet even where liberty had been offered them they remained a subject people, and made no effort to shake off the white man's yoke.
"You may sack San Roque," he said. "Still, I think you will never reach the coast."
The Headman started at this boldness, and therewas a vindictive gleam in his eyes, but his overlord sat silent a space, apparently brooding heavily, and gazing at the mist. Then he turned to Ormsgill with a somewhat impressive deliberateness.
"At least," he said, "I go on. You will not lead our men, but you can not warn the white men at San Roque. When we have sacked the fort I will send for you again."
Ormsgill made him a little formal inclination before he turned away, for the attitude of this negro was one he could understand. He had himself attempted things that could not be done, expecting to be defeated, but undertaking them because he felt that, at least, was an obligation laid on him. Nares, and Father Tiebout, and no doubt countless host of others, had also done the same, and Nares the optimist had said that though they failed signally the protest of their futile efforts would be listened to some day. It seemed that the dusky man crouching beside the fire realized how much there was against him, but, as he had said, he was going on. Perhaps it is because men of all creeds and colors have pressed on downwards through the ages to face ax and stake and firing platoon that there are not even more of the overburdened in the world to-day. The cost of progress is heavy, and the upward struggle is very grim and slow.
In the meanwhile Ormsgill went back past the long rows of weary men lying in the sand to where his comrade was sitting in the clammy mist. Nares was a little feverish that night.
"Well?" he said.
"I have been offered a command," said Ormsgill. "Naturally, I refused it. I also ventured to tell our friend that he would fail. It says a good deal for him that I escaped the usual fate of the prophets. He did not even ask me for my reasons."
"You have them?"
"Yes," said Ormsgill. "The thing's quite evident in a general way and to be precise he has to reckon with Dom Clemente. You remember the man our guide fired at? I can't help thinking he has passed on any information he may have picked up to the coast by now, and Dom Clemente is a man who can move to some purpose when it's advisable. Still, I have no doubt we shall sack San Roque before to-morrow. Our friend hinted that measures would be taken to prevent us warning the Chefe."
Nares turned and pointed to several men with rifles who sat half-seen not very far away. Then he seemed to shiver.
"There was a time when I could have warned them in San Roque, though I scarcely think they would have listened to me. Now I do not know that I would do it if I had the opportunity." His voice grew sterner. "They have brought it upon themselves. There are iniquities which can not be borne."
His companion said nothing further, but sat down gnawing at an empty pipe until they started again. The Headman or his Suzerain had drilled his followers into some kind of order, and Ormsgill found something impressive in the silent flitting by of half-seen men. They came up out of the soft darkness with a faint patter of naked feet in sand, and were lost in it again ahead of him. Now and then there was a crackle of undergrowth or a clash of arms, but for the most part the long column went by like a crawling shadow, for these were men accustomed to flit through dim forests thick with perils noiselessly, and they did not proclaim their presence as white troops would have done. When they struck it would be in silence, and Ormsgill fancied that San Roque was not much more than a league away.
Still, it was rough traveling through loose sand and tangled scrub, and several hours had passed when the long sinuous column stopped suddenly. The men in charge of Ormsgill handed him and Nares over to a few others, who had only flintlock guns, and these led them forward to a more open space, where they sat down. The night had grown a trifle clearer, and Ormsgill could see a wide break in the bush in front of him. A broad belt of mist hung about one side of it, and the gurgle of sliding water came out of the vapor, against which there rose a shadowy ridge.
"The stockade," he said. "We have arrived. Dom Erminio has either no vedettes out, or our vanguard has stalked them and cut their throats."
He broke off, but in another moment or two he spoke again with a little tension in his voice. "It's curious, and no doubt in one way unreasonable, but I feel the desire to warn him getting almost too much for me. I don't know how one could do it, and it certainly wouldn't be any use, since I believe ourfriends are ringing the fort in. Dom Erminio must fight for his life to-night."
The clang of a rifle, a Portuguese rifle, cut him short, and a cry rose out of the vapor. After that there was silence until a crackling commenced in the bush, and the two sat still and waited while the tension grew almost intolerable. Ormsgill, who felt his mouth grow parched and dry, fancied he could see the stockade a trifle more plainly, and the forest seemed to be growing blacker, though the mist was a little thicker than it had been. It was also perceptibly colder.
"It will be daylight in half an hour," he said, and his voice struck on his companion's ears curiously strained and hoarse.
Then another rifle flashed, there was a sudden shouting, and a tumultuous patter of naked feet, and a shadowy mass of running figures hurled themselves at the stockade. A good many of them never reached it, for the dusky barrier blazed with twinkling points of light, and a withering volley met them in the face. Then the drifting smoke was rent by brighter snapping flashes in quick succession, and the jarring thud of heavier reports broke through the crash of the rifles. This lasted for perhaps two minutes, and then there was by contrast a silence that was almost bewildering. It seemed emphasized when once or twice the ringing of a rifle came out of the streaks of drifting vapor that hung about the stockade.
"They're going back," said Ormsgill hoarsely. "The Chefe's men will stand." Then he laughed, aharsh, strained laugh. "They know they have to. Our friends are not likely to have much consideration for any of them who fall into their hands."
Nares, who shivered a little, said nothing, and a minute or two later a crackle of riflery broke out in the bush. It came from the Suzerain's men, for there was no mistaking the crash of the heavy Sniders. Once or twice the jarring thud of the machine gun broke in, and here and there a twinkling flash leapt from the stockade, but with that exception there was no answer from the fort.
"It seems," said Ormsgill, "Dom Erminio has his men in hand. It's a little more than I expected from him. Presumably our friend wishes to keep him occupied while he seizes the canoes. Anyway, his boys will be considerably more dangerous when they've wasted their ammunition."
The fusillade continued, in all probability, harmlessly, for awhile, and then Ormsgill rose to his feet. "I think they'll get in this time. They're trying it again."
Once more vague, shadowy objects flitted out of the bush, and swept towards the stockade. They ran without order, furiously, while more of their comrades emerged from the shadows behind them, until the narrow strip of cleared space was filled with running figures. There appeared to be swarms of them, and Ormsgill held his breath as he watched. He saw them plunge into a crawling trail of low lying mist, that seemed torn apart suddenly when once more the face of the stockade was streaked with little spurtsof flame. It closed on them again until all was hidden but the intermittent flashing, and the jarring thud of the machine gun rent the din. One could not tell what was going on, and it was by a tense effort Ormsgill held himself still with every nerve in him quivering. How long the tension lasted he did not know, but at length the ringing of the rifles died away again, and as a little puff of chilly breeze rolled the haze aside it became evident that the space before the stockade was once more empty. He could see the stockade clearly, and the edge of the forest now cut sharply against the sky.
"The Headman can't afford to fail again," he said. "It is breaking day."
Then there was silence for a space, while the light grew clearer until the residency beyond the stockade grew into shape. A smear of pale color widened in the eastern sky, and as Ormsgill turned his eyes towards the house a limp bundle of fabric rose slowly up the lofty staff above it. It blew out once on the faint breeze, and then hung still again, but as he watched it, Ormsgill felt a little thrill run through him.
"Rather earlier than usual. Dom Erminio means to fight," he said.
Just then, however, a negro who came up gasping with haste signed to Nares. "The Headman sends for you," he said. "You are to take a message to those people yonder."
Ormsgill looked at his comrade, who smiled curiously. "Yes," he said, "I shall certainly go.Whether I am in any way responsible for all this I do not know, but I may, perhaps, save a few of them."
He raised himself somewhat stiffly, and turned away, but two negroes held Ormsgill fast when he would have gone with him. He sat down again when they relaxed their grasp, and at last saw Nares appear again on the edge of the bush some distance away. He was alone, and walked quietly towards the stockade with his wide hat in his hand, and a figure in white uniform appeared in the notch where the palisades had been cut down for the quick-firing gun. Just then a ray of brightness struck along the trampled sand, and Ormsgill saw his comrade stop and stand still, spare and gaunt and ragged, with the widening sunlight full upon him. What was said he did not know, but he did not blame Dom Erminio afterwards for what followed. Perhaps, some black soldier's over-taxed nerve gave way, or the man had flung off all restraint and gone back to his primitive savagery, for a rifle flashed behind the stockade, and Nares staggered, recovered his balance, and collapsed into a blurred huddle of white garments on the trampled sand.
Then as Ormsgill sprang to his feet the bush rang with a yell, and a swarm of half-naked negroes poured tumultuously out of it. There was no firing among them. They ran forward with glinting matchets and spears and brandished flintlock guns, and Ormsgill knew that now, at least, they would certainly get in. In another moment he was running furiously towards them, and so far as he could remember afterwardsnone of the men in whose charge he had been troubled themselves about him. It was some way to the front of the stockade, and when he got there he was hemmed in by a surging crowd. There was smoke in his eyes, and a bewildering din through which he heard the thudding of the quick-firing gun, but where Nares was he did not know. He could only go forward with the press, and he ran on in a fit of hot vindictive fury.
Here and there a man about him screamed, and now and then a half-seen figure collapsed in front of him, but this time no one stopped or turned. They were all crazed with primitive passion, and were going in. Ormsgill, pressing onwards with them, saw that he had now a matchet in his hand, though he had no recollection of how it came there. Then the thudding of the gun ceased suddenly and the air was rent by a breathless gasping yell. The stockade rose right over him, and he went headlong at the gap in it from which there protruded the muzzle of the gun. Somebody behind him hurled him through the opening, and he dropped inside. As he scrambled to his feet he saw a swarm of men running towards the residency, and he went with them, partly because he wished to get there and also because those who poured through the gap behind him drove him along. He had afterwards a fancy that he saw a white man lying not far from the gun, but he could not be certain, for the negroes were thick about him, and he was not in a mood to interest himself in anything of that kind just then. He was possessed by an unreasoning fury, andan overwhelming desire to reach the men who had treacherously shot his comrade.
They came gasping to the foot of the outer stairway, and by this time Ormsgill had almost come up with the foremost of his companions. A glance showed him the barricade of bags and boxes apparently filled with soil on the veranda, and the black faces and rifle barrels above them. There seemed to be a good deal of smoke in the air, but he saw Dom Erminio standing amidst it in white uniform. He had a naked sword in his hand, and apparently saw Ormsgill, for his drawn face contorted into a very curious smile. So far as the latter could make out, he had still a handful of men under his command. Escape was out of the question. The score he had run up was a long one, and now the reckoning had come.
Then several rifles flashed among the bags, and the negroes went up the stairway with a yell. Ormsgill fancied that two or three men went down about him, and had a vague remembrance of trampling on yielding bodies, but he went up uninjured, and leapt up upon the barricade. The veranda was thick with smoke now, but he saw Dom Erminio suddenly lean forward with the long blade gleaming in his hand, and a black soldier who crouched close beside his feet tearing at his rifle breech. That, however, was all he saw, for in another moment he leapt down, and a swarm of half-naked men with spears and matchets swept into the veranda. What he did next he knew no more than those about him probably did, but when at length he reeled out of the smoke-filled building anddown the stairway the matchet was no longer in his hand, and he wondered vaguely that there was so far as he could discover not a scratch on him. Still he felt a trifle dazed, and as his head ached intolerably he sat down gasping.
There was no firing in the residency now, and half-naked men were pouring out of it, but Ormsgill felt no desire to go back and see what had become of Dom Erminio and his soldiery. He sat still for several minutes, and then rising with an effort walked stiffly across the compound. He had some trouble in climbing the stockade, and when that was done came upon Nares lying face downwards in the trampled sand. He raised him a trifle with some difficulty, and saw a little hole in the breast of his thin jacket. Then laying him gently down again he took off his shapeless hat. He was still standing beside him vacantly when one of the Headman's messengers laid a hand on his shoulder. Ormsgill looked down once more on his comrade, and then turned away and went with the man.
There was a chill in the air and the white mist crept in and out among the shadowy trunks when the foremost of the rebels went slipping and floundering down the side of a river gorge just before the dawn. Ormsgill marching, well guarded, with his carriers and the six boys he had liberated in the rear could just discern the dim figures flitting on in front of him, and wondered if the next hour would see them safely across the river. He had been subjected to no ill usage though he had been carefully watched, and he fancied that the rebel leader expected to find him useful when the time to make terms with the authorities came, but that was a point he was never quite clear about. In the meanwhile he was worn-out and badly jaded, for his leg still pained him, and the rebels had pushed on as fast as possible after the sacking of San Roque.
Ormsgill fancied he understood the reasons for this. The body was not a very strong one, and though there were petty Headmen on the inland plateau who had long cherished grievances against the white men, they were no doubt prudently waiting to see what their friends were likely to accomplish before they joined them. In an affair of that kind a prompt success counts for everything, since it brings the waverersflocking in, and while the seizing of San Roque was scarcely sufficient to do this in itself, the first of the white men's plantations was now not so very far away. There was another fact that made delay inadvisable. The river flowed rapidly between steep banks just there, and Ormsgill felt it was just the place he would have chosen had it been his business to dispute the rebels' passage. He fancied their leader was anxious to get across before the news of the fall of San Roque brought troops up from the coast.
In the meanwhile he plodded onwards wearily, aching all over and wet with the dew, while the sound of sliding water grew steadily louder. Now and then the long straggling column stopped for a minute or two, and there was a hoarse clamor which he fancied indicated that a scout had come in, but the men promptly went on again, and his guards, who carried flintlock guns, saw that he did not linger. The path grew steadily steeper, and he stumbled in loose sand while the half-seen trees went by until at last a sharp crackling mingled with the patter of naked feet as the head of the column smashed through the thick undergrowth and tall reeds in the river hollow. Then his guards made it evident that he was to stay where he was, and he sat down among his boys in the loose sand where he could look down on the men in front of him. There was now a faint light, though the mist lay in thick white belts in the hollow, and the air was very still. He could dimly see dusky figures moving amidst the grass and reeds, and here and there a faint gleam of water in front of them, while now and then a confused clamor rose out of the haze. The rebels, he fancied, were disputing about their orders, or urging some course upon their leaders, and he wondered vaguely whether they were likely to do more than involve themselves in disaster, and where Dom Clemente was.
This was, however, as he recognized, no concern of his. He was a prisoner, and he could see only difficulties in front of him. Had he been free at that moment and the boys he had liberated safely sent away, the outlook would not have been much brighter, for he would still have to face a duty he shrank from. That Ada Ratcliffe had no great love for him he now felt reasonably sure, but it was clear that she and her mother expected him to marry her, and, since she had kept faith with him, he could not break the pledge he had given her. After all, he reflected grimly, she would probably not expect too much from him, and be content with the material advantages he could offer her. Then he thought of Benicia Figuera, and set his lips tight as he once more strove to fix his attention on the men below.
At last there was a soft splashing and he could dimly see them wade into the river. Their disputes were over, and they were going across in haste. Then the foremost of them plunged into a belt of mist, and for several minutes he watched their comrades press onwards from the tall grass and reeds. The water was gleaming faintly now, and they looked like a long black snake crawling through the midst of it until the filmy haze shut them in. At times a shouting came upthrough the splashing and crackle of undergrowth. In the meanwhile the tail of the straggling column still winding down the side of the gorge was steadily growing plainer, and the haze commenced to slide and curl upwards in long filmy wisps, until at last Ormsgill scrambled to his feet with every nerve in him thrilling. The ringing of a bugle rose from beyond the river and was answered by another blast apparently from the rise behind him.
Then the splashing ceased suddenly, and there was for a few moments a tense and almost intolerable silence, during which he stood still with one hand clenched until a clamor rose from the midst of the river, and he heard the dull thud of a flintlock gun. It was answered by a clear ringing crash of riflery, and then while the flintlocks and Sniders joined in, thin pale flashes blazed amidst the reeds and in the sliding mist. This lasted for, perhaps, a minute or two, until it became evident that the rebels were splashing back again. Ormsgill could see them streaming out of the mist, and as he watched them another patter of riflery broke out upon the higher ground behind him. A bugle rang shrilly, and he fancied he heard a white man's voice calling in the bush. Then looking round as one of the boys touched him, he saw that his guards were no longer there. They had evidently fled and left him to shift for himself. He stood a minute considering, with the boys clamoring about him, and then made up his mind. The rebels were streaming back up the gorge, and it seemed to him just possible that if he separated himself from them he might slipaway unobserved in the press of the pursuit. Once across the river he might still reach the coast.
Calling to the boys he set out at a stumbling run, and for awhile skirted the ridge of bluff. The rebels were too intent on their own affairs to trouble about him, even if any of them noticed him, which appeared very doubtful. He struck the river half a mile below the spot where the negroes had attempted the crossing, and plunged in with the boys still about him. He could see them clearly now, and the bush showed sharp and black against the sky. There was a desultory patter of riflery behind him, but except for that he could hear very little, and he pushed on with the water rising rapidly to his waist. It was as much as he could do to keep his feet, for the stream ran strong. Then one of the boys clutched him and held him up, and for the next few minutes they struggled desperately in a swifter swirl of current until the water sank again suddenly, and he stood, gasping, knee-deep in the yellow stream, looking about him.
It was broad daylight now, and he could see a steep bank clothed with thick bush and brushwood close by. There was a little hollow in it up which the mist that still drifted about the river was flowing, and calling to his boys he headed for it. Nothing seemed to indicate that there were any troops in the vicinity. They floundered dripping through a belt of tall grass, and were clambering up the slope when one of the boys laid a wet hand upon his arm and the rest stood still suddenly. Ormsgill felt his heart beating a good deal faster than usual, though he could see nothing buttrees in front of him. He was on the point of pushing on again when a voice came out of the sliding haze.
"Stand still," it said sharply in Portuguese. "We will shoot the first who stirs."
Ormsgill made a sign to the boys, and in another moment several black soldiers appeared among the trees. A white sergeant in very soiled uniform moved out from among them and stood surveying him with a little sardonic grin.
"There are half a dozen rifles here," he said. "You surrender yourselves?"
Ormsgill made a little gesture. "Señor," he said, "it is evident that we are in your hands."
The man beckoned him to come forward with the boys, and a few more black soldiers who rose out of the undergrowth closed in on them. Ormsgill turned quietly to the sergeant.
"You have been too much for the bushmen," he said. "Who is commanding you?"
"Dom Clemente," said the sergeant. "He has trapped those pigs of the forest. That is a wonderful man. You will wait here until I can send you to him. Whether he will have you shot I do not know."
In spite of this observation he appeared a good-humored person, and presently offered Ormsgill a cigarette. The latter, who sat down near the sergeant and smoked it, waited until a patrol came along, when the black soldier in command marched him and the boys through the undergrowth, and at length led him into the presence of Dom Clemente. He sat in state at a little table, immaculate in trim white uniform,with two black men with rifles standing behind him. Another white officer and a dusky interpreter who stood close by had apparently been interrogating a couple of rebel prisoners. They squatted upon the ground gazing at the white men with apprehension in their eyes. Dom Clemente made Ormsgill a little formal salutation, and then leaned back in his chair.
"This meeting reminds me of another occasion when you were brought before me, Señor and you were then frank with me," he said. "I might suggest that candor would be equally advisable just now. I hear that San Roque has fallen, and it appears that you were there. I must ask you to tell me in what capacity."
"As a prisoner in the hands of the rebels," said Ormsgill.
Dom Clemente nodded. "It is on the whole fortunate that I think one could take your word for it," he said. "You are desired to tell us what happened at San Roque."
Ormsgill did so quietly, though he said as little as possible about his own share in the proceedings, and afterwards answered the questions the other officer asked him until Dom Clemente turned to him again.
"It seems that Dom Erminio has, at least, acquitted himself creditably in this affair," he observed. "All things considered, I do not know that one has much occasion to be sorry for him. Dom Luiz, too, went down beside his gun. Well, that is, after all, what one would have expected from him."
Then he made a little gesture. "You will understand that there are matters which demand my attention, and I may have something more to say later. In the meanwhile you will give me your parole. The boys will be looked after."
Ormsgill pledged himself to make no attempt at escape, and was led away to a little tent where food was brought him and he was told he was to stay. He realized that Dom Clemente had struck the rebels a crushing blow, one from which there was little probability of their recovering, but what was being done about the pursuit he did not know, though he fancied that a body of troops had crossed the river. Still, that did not greatly concern him, and worn-out and dejected as he was he was glad to fall asleep. It was evening when he awakened as a black soldier looked into the tent, and a few minutes later Dom Clemente came in and sat down in the camp chair the soldier had brought. Ormsgill sat on the ground sheet, heavy-eyed, tattered, and haggard, and waited for him to speak.
"I shall go on to-morrow when more troops come up, and you will come with us. There are matters that require attention yonder," he said. "In the meanwhile I have had the boys you brought down interrogated, and the story they tell me is in some respects a fantastic one. It is, I fancy, fortunate for your sake that I am acquainted with several facts which seem to bear it out."
Ormsgill was a trifle astonished, but Dom Clemente smiled. "It is," he said, "advisable that one in authority should hear of everything, but it is notalways wise that he should make that fact apparent. One waits until the time comes—and then, as was the case this morning, one acts."
He spread out one slender, faintly olive-tinted hand and then brought it down upon the table closed with an unexpected sharpness that was very expressive.
"Señor," he said, "though I have heard a little from the boys, you have not told me yet exactly how you came to fall into those bushmen's hands."
Ormsgill, who did not think that reticence was likely to be of much service, briefly related what had befallen him, and his companion nodded.
"I have the honor of your acquaintance, and it is perhaps, permissible to point out that you have a troublesome fondness for meddling with other people's business," he said. "Further, you are a trifle impulsive and precipitate."
"There was nobody else who seemed anxious to undertake the affair in question," said Ormsgill dryly.
Dom Clemente made a little gesture. "It is generally wiser to wait until one is certain. Well, I think I may venture to take you into my confidence to some extent. The doings of the trader Herrero—who has lodged complaints against you—and his friend Domingo have long been known to me. They were merely being permitted to involve themselves in difficulties while we waited until the time was ripe. It is now very probable that I shall suppress both of them."
"One can sometimes wait longer than is advisable," said Ormsgill with a little dry laugh. "Herrero and his friend are dead."
Then for the first time he narrated all that had been done in the inland village, and Dom Clemente, who listened carefully, smiled.
"It only proves my point," he said. "One waits and the affair regulates itself. Well, they are dead, and I do not think there is anybody who will greatly regret them. It will clear the ground for what we mean to do up yonder. There is, you understand, to be a change in our native policy, and I"—he straightened himself a trifle—"have been entrusted with its inauguration. From now we shall, at least, endeavor to modify some of the difficulties which are, perhaps, not inseparably connected with this question of the labor supply."
"The whole system should be done away with."
Dom Clemente spread his hands out. "In this country one is content with accomplishing a little now and then. But there is another matter. Certain complaints have been made against your friend the American, and we have decided that there is nothing against him. I bring him permission to go back to his station."
"Nares," said Ormsgill quietly, "will not profit by it. He has been promoted. He was killed endeavoring to make peace at San Roque."
"Ah," said Dom Clemente, "that is a matter of regret to me. Perhaps, he was a little imprudent. Some of these missionaries are sadly deficient in diplomacy, and that may have been the case with him. I do not know. Still, when all is said, he was a brave man, and I think"—he made a little grave gesture—"what he has done for these black men will be remembered where he is now."
It was not a great deal, but Ormsgill who noticed the quick change in the little soldier's voice was satisfied with it. After all, one can not say much more of any man than that he has done what he could for his fellow men. Then Dom Clemente turned to him again.
"I have not asked you yet what you did during the attack on San Roque," he said.
"If you fancy I have done anything for which I could be held accountable it is for you to establish it. It seems to me that would be a little difficult since I believe every man in the fort is dead."
"Still—if the thing appeared advisable—it might be possible."
Ormsgill made no attempt to dispute this, but changed the subject. "There is a thing I don't quite understand," he said. "I almost fancy the man who led the rebels must have known you held the bank when he pushed his men across."
"Yes," said Dom Clemente, "I believe he did. Still, there are men who can recognize when they must fight or fail ignominiously. One has a certain respect for them. I do not think it was that negro's fault that he was driven back. Flintlocks and matchets are not much use against our rifles."
Then he rose. "In the meanwhile you will be detained. My instructions were to arrest you, and, as you know, I only hold subordinate authority. Still,so far as my duty permits it, I think you can regard me as a friend."
He went out of the tent, and an hour or two later Ormsgill contrived to go to sleep again. He was roused by the bugles at daylight, and went back with the rear guard into the forests he had lately left, and in due time marched with them into sight of the ruins of San Roque. It was early morning when they reached the fort, but before the sun was high the three white men who had fallen there were laid to rest in state. The black troops who had with reversed rifles swung into hollow square stood listening vacantly round the bank of raw steaming soil where Father Tiebout recited words of ponderous import in the sonorous Latin tongue. Then there was a crashing volley, and as the patter of marching feet commenced again Ormsgill and the priest and Dom Clemente stood looking on while a few black soldiers raised the three rude crosses. On one of them a dusky armorer had under Ormsgill's supervision cut the words, "In hoc signo."
Father Tiebout glanced at them and nodded gravely. "It is fitting," he said. "He did what he could—and we others do not know how much it was. After all, it is only a grain of understanding that is now vouchsafed us, but"—and he once more broke into the sonorous Latin, "I look for the resurrection of the dead."
Dom Clemente smiled. "There are men of your profession, Father, who would not have ventured todo what you have done," he said. "Still, I think when that day comes some of us may, perhaps, have cause to envy this heretic."