CHAPTER X.AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE.
The Camera Chap did not linger long at Puerto Cabero. He had decided to make Santa Barbara, the capital, his headquarters, that city being only ten miles away from the seaport. It is situated on a highland three thousand feet above the sea level, and, as Hawley traveled on the antiquated railroad, he marveled at the manner in which the line twisted and turned like a huge corkscrew.
When he arrived at his journey’s end he found the city in gala attire. The streets and shops were decorated with flags and bunting, and a band was playing in the plaza. At the Hotel Nacional, where he registered, he inquired whether he had struck town on a national holiday, and was informed that the festivities were the result of the extraordinary scene he had witnessed at Puerto Guerra the previous day.
“You see, señor,” explained the hotel clerk, who spoke very good English, “President Portiforo has ordered a day of public rejoicing because of the defeat of General Rodriguez.”
“Rodriguez!” exclaimed Hawley, who recalled that he had heard the man whom he had known as Juan Cipriani hailed by that name by the group of wild-looking horsemen on the pier. “What was he trying to do? Was he starting a revolution?”
The clerk nodded, and proceeded to tell Hawley astory which fully enlightened him as to the significance of the drama he had seen enacted at the customhouse at Puerto Guerra. The Camera Chap learned that the big packing cases which the steamshipColombiahad brought, and which were invoiced as containing farming implements, had in reality contained machine guns intended for the use of the new revolutionary party which General Emilio Rodriguez, alias Juan Cipriani, had come to Baracoa to lead.
Rodriguez, Hawley was informed, was a native of Baracoa, but had been in Europe for the past ten years. He had held a commission in the French army, which he had resigned in order to come back and attempt to overthrow the Portiforo government; which attempt, however, had been rendered futile by the alertness of President Portiforo.
“But you don’t mean to tell me that that chap was going to have the nerve to buck against the government forces with that handful of men I saw at the pier?” the Camera Chap exclaimed in astonishment. “Why, there couldn’t have been more than fifty of them in all.”
The clerk smiled deprecatingly. “That was only the beginning, señor. If Rodriguez’s plans had not miscarried, he was to have taken to the hills with that escort, and there proclaimed the revolution. He had been assured that the people would flock by thousands to his banner, and that as soon as he gave the word the army was prepared to revolt and go over to him. But things didn’t go just as he expected. President Portiforo learned of the plot in time tonip the revolution in the bud. A few days ago he raised the pay of everybody in the federal army, from the commander in chief down to the newest recruit, and thereby kept the troops loyal to him. He set a trap for Rodriguez, and when that unhappy man stepped off the boat at Puerto Guerra yesterday, expecting the whole country to be ready to respond to his call to arms, he was seized and thrown into jail.” The clerk grinned. “One has to get up very early in the morning in order to catch our President Portiforo napping, señor,” he said.
“So I have heard,” the Camera Chap responded dryly. “What do you suppose will happen to Cipriani—I mean Rodriguez?”
The clerk shrugged his shoulders. “There is only one fate for those who conspire against the government of Baracoa,” he said quietly. “I understand that the president has already signed his death warrant.”
Hawley was silent for a while after that. “Do you happen to know,” he inquired suddenly, “whether your former president, Francisco Felix, was mixed up in any way with this revolutionary plot?”
The clerk stared at him in astonishment. “If such is the case, it is the first time I have heard of it!” he declared. “Might I inquire what put such a thought in your head, señor? Have you any information to that effect?”
“I?” exclaimed Hawley, with a deprecating smile. “I arrived at Baracoa only a few hours ago. Whatshould I know about the affairs of your interesting country?”
Later that day, Hawley got his first sight of Miguel Portiforo, President of Baracoa. There was a big military parade in honor of “the overthrow of the revolution,” and the president rode at the head of his troops in an open carriage, flanked on each side by an escort of cavalry.
Standing in front of the Hotel Nacional, the Camera Chap gazed with great interest upon the man with whom he realized he must expect to match wits in order to carry out the delicate and difficult errand which had been intrusted to him. At first sight the president did not impress him as being a man of formidable personality. Although he wore a glittering uniform of scarlet and gold, he was far from presenting a military appearance. He was undersized and exceedingly fat, and his bloated face was as round as a pumpkin. As he smiled in acknowledgment of the plaudits of the crowds, he looked like an easy-going, jovial old boy, who would have been more at home at a banquet table proposing a toast to “the ladies—God bless ’em,” than ruling with an iron hand over the political destinies of a turbulent South American republic.
That was the first impression which the Camera Chap formed of Miguel Portiforo, but just then an incident happened which quickly caused him to change his estimate of that dignitary. As the president’s carriage was passing, a man in the front rank of the crowd on the sidewalk outside the Hotel Nacionalstepped forward, and, gesticulating wildly, began to abuse Portiforo in a tone loud enough to reach the latter’s ears. The man was staggering as though intoxicated. Hawley learned later that he was a humble shoemaker of Santa Barbara, who, when in a normal condition, was as meek and law-abiding a citizen as was to be found in all Baracoa, but who now had been celebrating the overthrow of the revolution to such an extent that he was not responsible for what he said or did. Although the fellow’s condition was obvious, Portiforo made no allowance for it. Glancing at the latter, the Camera Chap was appalled by the change which had come over him as the drunken man’s abuse fell upon his ears. The jovial smile had disappeared. In its stead had come an expression terrible to behold. The beady eyes were snapping with rage. The thin lips were parted in a snarl. Curiously the president’s plump face seemed suddenly to have lost all its roundness, and to have been remolded into lines sinister and cruel. It was not until he had seen several soldiers rush forward, seize the offender, and drag him off, struggling and screaming, that his features relaxed, and the jovial smile returned.
“I wonder what will happen to the poor beggar,” said a dapper, good-looking young man who was standing close behind Hawley. “I suppose they’ll give him the limit, eh?”
“I am afraid so,” replied his companion, a blond-haired, blue-eyed young woman. “Inasmuch as the city has been put under martial law, Portiforo cando as he pleases with him, and that brute isn’t likely to show much clemency to a man who has publicly insulted him.”
“Be careful,” entreated the young man nervously. “Aren’t you taking an awful chance, Virginia, talking like that in public? There may be people around us who understand English, and even though you are the daughter of the United States minister, you can’t—well for the love of Methusaleh! If it isn’t old Frank Hawley, of theSentinel!”
Regretting the impulse which had caused him to turn his head at this hint of the girl’s identity, Hawley stared at the speaker in some consternation, for the recognition was mutual. The Camera Chap was well acquainted with Miss Throgmorton’s dapper companion. The latter’s name was Gale, and he was a reporter on the New YorkDaily News, theSentinel’smost bitter rival. Incidentally he was the last man in the world whom Hawley would have desired to meet in Baracoa.