Bindloss Harold
The Dust of Conflict

XII – PANCHO’S WARNING

A WEEK had passed since the Alcalde’s ball, when Appleby awakened late one night from a restless sleep at the hacienda San Cristoval. He had shut the lattices of his window because the moonlight streamed in, and it is not advisable for white men to sleep under that pale radiance in the tropics; and the room was almost insufferably hot, which Appleby surmised was the cause of his awakening. He was, however, anxious to get to sleep again, for his post was no sinecure, and he usually rose in the early morning.

Cuba was in a very unsettled state just then, steeped in intrigue and overrun with spies, while among Loyalists and Insurgents alike faction plotted against faction. Both were divided by internecine jealousies, and the mixed population of native-born Cubans of Iberian blood, Spaniards from the Peninsular and the Canaries, Chinamen, negroes, and mulattoes, appeared incapable of cohesion. Stability of purpose is not a prominent characteristic of the Latins, and while the country drifted in discord towards anarchy, a similar state of affairs existed on a smaller scale at the hacienda San Cristoval. The men who by the favor of the military rulers were allowed to take Harding’s pay apparently disdained continuous effort, and desisted from it to discuss politics on every opportunity; while knives were not infrequently drawn in defence of their somewhat variable convictions.

It was with annoyance he found he could not sleep, and resigned himself to pass the weary hours waiting for daylight as he had frequently done before. The perspiration dripped from him, and there was a pain in his joints, for the insidious malarial fever he had contracted in the swamps troubled him now and then, and finding no relief in any change of posture lay rigidly still. A mosquito hovered about him with a thin, persistent droning – and one mosquito is occasionally sufficient to drive a sleepless man to frenzy – but the building was very silent. Appleby could see the faint gleam of moonlight deflected by the lattice on the floor, but the rest of the room was wrapped in inky blackness. He was glad of that for there was a dull ache at the back of his eyes, which he surmised was the result of standing for most of twelve hours in the glare of the whitewashed sheds the previous day. By and by, however, the dead stillness which the droning of the mosquito emphasized grew oppressive, and he found himself listening with a curious intentness for any sound that would break it. He did not know why he did so, but he obeyed the impulse with a vague feeling that watchfulness was advisable.

Five minutes passed, as it were, interminably, while he only heard the strident ticking of the watch beneath his pillow, and then the stairway leading to the veranda outside his window creaked softly. That was nothing unusual, for the timber not infrequently groaned and cracked under the change of temperature in the stillness of the night; but there was something that stirred Appleby’s suspicions in the sound, and he raised himself softly when he heard it again. The room he slept in opened into a larger one, which Harding had fitted up as an office, where the safe was kept, but the door between it and the veranda was barred, and Appleby had himself made fast the lattice of the window.

He could hear nothing further for a space, and was annoyed to feel the hand he laid on the pillow trembling and his hair wet with perspiration. Then it was with difficulty he checked a gasp, for the door handle seemed to rattle, and the bolt of the lock slid home with a soft click. The smooth sound was very suggestive, for Appleby had found the lock stiff and hard to move. Somebody had apparently oiled it surreptitiously, and it was evident that he would not have done so without a purpose. For a moment he was almost dismayed. He was shut in, and there were a good many pesetas in Harding’s safe; but the unpleasant nervous strain he had hitherto been sensible of had gone and left him with faculties sharpened by anger. Then an inspiration dawned on him, and his lips set in a little grim smile. The Latin has usually no great regard for trifles, and it was not very astonishing that the man who oiled and locked the door had overlooked the fact that the lattice was fastened within.

Appleby was out of bed in a moment, and moving with silent deliberation, slipped a duck jacket over his pajamas and softly pulled out a bureau drawer. Here, however, he had another astonishment, for the pistol he kept under his clothing had gone, and he stood still a moment reflecting with the collectedness which usually characterized him in an emergency. Harper slept in a distant wing of the building; the major-domo, or house steward, in a room by the kitchen across the patio; and he could not waken either without giving a general alarm, which did not appear advisable. Appleby had no great confidence in any of his retainers, and considered it likely that some of them were in the plot, and would in all probability contrive the escape of the prowler in the confusion. He must, it seemed, see the affair through alone, and, what was more to the purpose, unarmed. Then he remembered the bar which, when dropped into two sockets, locked the two halves of the lattice, and treading softly made for the window. It was quite certain now that somebody was moving about the adjoining room.

The lattice swung open with scarcely a sound, and if Appleby made any noise crawling through the opening the intruder apparently did not hear him. In another few moments he had gained the adjoining door which stood just ajar, and dimly saw the black figure of a man who held a small lantern bending over the American office bureau. This astonished Appleby, who had expected the iron safe beside it would have claimed his attention.

He pushed the door a little farther open, and stood close against it with his fingers tightening on the bar, while the man whose face he could not see flung several bundles of documents out of a drawer, and held them near the lantern, as though he would read the endorsements upon them, which Appleby remembered were in English. He had, however, apparently no difficulty in understanding them, for he took up each bundle and glanced at it before he laid it down, and then, pulling the drawer out, thrust his hand into the opening.

Appleby started as he watched him, for that drawer was shorter than the rest, and there was a hidden receptacle behind it. It was difficult for any one to remain impartially neutral in Cuba just then, and Appleby had surmised already that Harding only retained his footing there by the exercise of skilful diplomacy, while communications reached him now and then which he showed to nobody. He had, however, taken the contents of the receptacle away with him.

It was a very slight movement that Appleby made, but the door he leaned against creaked, and the man swung sharply round. Perhaps he was afraid of the light of the lantern being seen from the windows opposite, for he did not raise it, but stood still, apparently glancing about him, while Appleby waited motionless with every nerve in his body tingling. It seemed to him that there was a faint sound behind him on the stairway.

He fancied the almost intolerable tension lasted for nearly a minute, and then the man, who failed to see him, turned again with a little half-audible ejaculation, and opening another drawer bent over it with his back to Appleby, who moved silently in his direction. He made two strides and stopped, with his fingers quivering on the bar; but the man was still stooping over the drawer, and he made another stride and stopped again. He could almost reach the stranger with the bar, but remembering the Cuban’s quickness with the steel he decided it would be advisable to make quite certain.

A board creaked as he made the next step, the man swung round again, and there was a pale flash in the light of the lantern as he sprang backwards. He was on the opposite side of the bureau and out of reach when Appleby swung up the bar, but the latter, who recognized the fact, stood between him and the door. They stood still for what seemed an interminable space in the black darkness, for the faint blink of light from the lantern was cut off by the displaced drawer, and then Appleby moved a foot or two as the dim shadowy figure, which he fancied had drawn itself together, sidled round the bureau. He surmised that his adversary was bracing himself for a spring, and knew that unless he met it with the bar he would be at the mercy of the steel. Still, he meant at any cost to hold the position that commanded the door.

The two stopped again, a trifle nearer each other, and Appleby felt his right arm tingle. Still, a rash move would probably prove fatal, and he remembered even then that because silent endurance is not a characteristic of the Latins his adversary was the more likely to yield beneath the strain and do something that would equalize the advantage his skill with the knife conferred upon him. The man with colder blood could wait. He, however, found it sufficiently harassing, for in the meanwhile he could feel in fancy the sting of the knife, and remembered with unpleasant distinctness the feinting play with the steel he had now and then seen his peons indulge in. One thrust, he fancied, would suffice, for the Cuban knows just how and where to strike. He could feel his heart beating, and the perspiration streaming down his face.

Then the door behind him was flung wide open, a blink of light flashed into the room and shone upon an olive-tinted face; while, when Appleby, uncertain what this boded, swung up the bar to force an issue, the man flung down a knife.

“Carramba!” he said hoarsely. “It is too unequal.”

Appleby glanced over his shoulder, and saw Pancho, his major-domo, standing half dressed not far behind him with a lantern and a big machete in his hand. He stooped, picked up the knife, and with a flick of his fingers slid it into his sleeve. Then he held the lantern higher, and Appleby recognized his adversary as a weight clerk in the sugar mill. He blinked with his eyes, and the damp dripped from his face, which showed haggard and drawn; but Appleby, who wondered if his own wore that look, surmised that this was not due to cowardice, and understood why the man breathed in gasps.

“Leave the light, and go for the Señor Harper, Pancho,” he said, and his voice sounded curiously harsh and uneven.

The major-domo, however, shook his head. “With permission, I will stay here, señor,” he said. “Ask him what he has come for.”

The other man sat down somewhat limply on the table and essayed to laugh. “The question is not necessary, Don Pancho,” he said. “One has always a use for silver.”

Appleby glanced at the safe, which had not been tampered with, and fancied as he did so that Pancho made a sign to him.

“You were looking for it in a curious place,” he said. “One does not keep silver loose in a drawer. At least, not in Cuba. It would be better if you told us plainly what brought you here.”

“To what purpose, when you do not believe me?” said the man, with an attempt at tranquillity. “Still, the Señor Harding is only liberal to his countrymen; and I have been unfortunate at the Casino.”

Appleby saw the major-domo’s smile of incredulity, and felt a mild astonishment at the fact that he was quietly arguing with a man who would, he knew, have killed him without compunction a few minutes earlier had the opportunity been afforded him.

“Well,” he said a trifle impatiently, “you can explain it to the Alcalde. Will you go for the Senor Harper, and unlock the cellar next the stables as you come back, Pancho? He would be safe there until to-morrow.”

The major-domo shook his head. “It would be better if you let him go,” he said. “The law is troublesome and expensive in this country.”

Appleby, who was already aware of this, reflected. He knew the insecurity of his own position, and Harding had warned him especially to keep clear of any complications with the officials; while he had confidence in Pancho and recognized the significance of his tone. Still, he was unwilling to let their captive go scot-free and gazed at him steadily.

The man, who met his gaze, smiled a little. “It is good advice Don Pancho has given you. I tell you so with all sincerity.”

“Well,” said Appleby, “you can go, but you will not get off so easily if you ever come back again. Still, I want the pistol you stole from me.”

The man raised his shoulders. “It is an unpleasant word, señor, and you will find the pistol in the drawer beneath the one where you usually keep it. It is too noisy a weapon to be much esteemed in Cuba. Still, to requite a courtesy, you will take a hint from me. When a man is in charge of a good many pesetas it is not wise of him to keep his pistol in a drawer.”

He slipped down from the table, asked Pancho for his knife, and took off his hat with grave politeness when it was handed him. Then he went down the stairway, and sitting down at the foot of it apparently put his shoes on before he strode away along the tram-line. Appleby laid his hand on the major-domo’s shoulder.

“You came opportunely, comrade,” he said. “I am grateful.”

It was not by accident he employed the Castilian word which implies a kindly regard as well as familiarity, and the man seemed to recognize it, for he smiled curiously.

“It is nothing, señor,” he said. “I did not sleep well, and saw the man creep into the veranda from my bed, which is near the window. In not sending him to the Alcalde you were wise.”

“I am not sure that I was,” said Appleby.

Pancho made a little gesture. “It is a turbulent country, and the man who escapes trouble is the one who lives the most quietly.”

He turned away, as though to avoid further questions, while Appleby went back to bed, and, contrary to his expectations, slept until the morning.

It was some days later when he rode over to Santa Marta and, leaving the mule at the “Four Nations,” called at the banker’s house, where he found Nettie Harding sitting with her host and hostess on the flat roof. It was, though still early in the evening, dark, and the after-dinner coffee, the choicest product of Costa Rica, was set out in very little cups on the table before them; while the banker, who was stout and elderly, lay drowsily in a big chair. His wife had also little to say, and Appleby drew his chair up to Nettie Harding’s side. The lamp on the table burned without a flicker in the still air, and a cloudless vault of indigo stretched above the sun-scorched town. Beyond the rows of roofs a band was playing in the plaza, and a hum of voices rose from the shadowy streets beneath. It was a little cooler now, and a pleasant scent of heliotrope came up from the patio.

Nettie Harding raised her head as though to listen to the music, and then glanced at the stars above. “All this,” she said, “is distinctly Cuban, isn’t it?”

Appleby nodded. “It’s Spanish, which is the same thing. They’re a consistent people,” he said. “Still, I’m not sure that I quite catch your meaning.”

Nettie laughed, and turned so that the lamplight touched her face. “Oh, I talk quite casually now and then. I meant that being Cuban it couldn’t be English.”

“That is apparent.”

“Well, I was wondering if, bearing in mind the difference you were content with it.”

Appleby laughed. “I am, you will also remember, an adventurer, and the country that feeds me is, as they say in yours, quite good enough for me. A little to eat, a little sunshine, a comrade’s smile, and enough kindly earth to cover one at the last, is all, I believe, that one is entitled to expect.”

He had meant to answer lightly, but a curious little inflection crept into his voice against his will, and he sat still a moment while the memories crowded upon him, with a longing that would not be shaken off. Once more he seemed to be gazing down on the red beech woods and palely flashing river from the terrace at Northrop Hall, though he recognized that in the meanwhile Nettie Harding was watching him with a gleam of sympathetic comprehension in her eyes. It was significant that he did not feel impelled to speak, for they had arrived at a degree of intimacy which made silence admissible, and still were comrades, and nothing more.

“If you had said that with a purpose I wouldn’t have been in the least sorry for you,” she said. “It would have been cheap, but that’s just why I know you didn’t. Still, are you quite sure there is nothing you long for over there? I mean, of course, in England.”

Appleby was on the roof in Santa Marta in body, and noticed that Miss Harding made a very effective picture in her long white dress as she glanced at him with the little smile, but he was at the same time dually sensible of the crimson flush on the English beech woods and the meadows streaked with wisps of mist, while once more the alluring vision he had fought against glided into the scene. It was a girl with gray eyes and ruddy hair, graver, deeper of thought and emotion, and more imperious than Nettie Harding.

“Nothing that I am ever likely to get,” he said.

Nettie laughed, but there was a faint ring in her voice, and long afterwards Appleby remembered her words, which then appeared prophetic.

“Well,” she said, “do you know that if I could I would get it you, and there is very little an American girl can’t get when she sets her heart on it? Now that sounds bombastic, but I’m not sure that it is. Anyway, I’m going to England presently.”

Appleby looked up sharply. “To England!”

“Yes; you heard me. You will be sorry, but, of course, I’m coming back again.”

“I know I can tell you that I certainly shall without its appearing presumption,” said Appleby.

The girl nodded. “We haven’t any use for that word in our country. In fact, we have rather a liking for a presumptuous man so long as he is sensible,” she said. “Then there is nothing I can do for you there?”

“No,” said Appleby.

Nettie leaned a little nearer him, and though she smiled a faint flush crept into her cheek. “If there were, you would tell me? I can’t help remembering what you did for me.”

“I think I would. Still, you see there is nothing.”

“Well, I’m not quite sure, and one never knows who they may meet in England. It’s quite a small place, anyway.”

Then there was a ringing of steel on stone, and she looked round with a little impatient gesture as she said, “Here is that odious Morales again!”

The banker rose, and brought a chair as the colonel came forward, but the little pressure of the girl’s hand on his arm warned Appleby that she desired him to remain, and for an hour they discussed the campaign. Then Appleby decided to relate what had happened at the hacienda a few nights earlier, though he said very little about the papers and nothing concerning the hidden receptacle. Morales, he fancied, listened with eagerness, and once his dark eyes flashed.

“You were wrong when you let him go,” he said. “If it happens again I should suggest the pistol. One gains nothing by showing those gentlemen toleration.”

Then he shrugged his shoulders, and turned to the banker’s wife with a smile; but Appleby had noticed the vindictiveness in his tone, and as he surmised it was not accounted for by the fact that the man had broken into Harding’s office, wondered whether it was because he had failed to accomplish his purpose. He, however, felt that Nettie Harding desired him to outstay the colonel, and was content with the little grateful glance she cast at him when Morales went away. Ten minutes later Appleby also rose, but the banker detained him a minute or two.

“You have a consignment of sugar to be shipped,” he said “Some one will go down to the port. Yourself, I think?”

“Yes,” said Appleby.

“Then it would be a kindness if you would hand this letter to the captain to post in America,” he said. “It is of some importance to the Señor Harding and others.”

“With pleasure, but why not post it here?”

The banker laid his hand on Appleby’s shoulder, and shook his head significantly. “One does not trust anything of importance to the post just now,” he said. “This is an affair in which the greatest discretion is necessary. When one puts anything he does not wish the administration to know in a letter he burns the blotting paper.”

Appleby was not altogether astonished, but he took the packet the banker handed him; and when they shook hands the latter once more glanced at him warningly.

“The discretion!” he said. “You will remember – the discretion.”