Part 3

'What? Where?' we asked, frightfully keen to know, all the mids. crowding round and keeping as silent as mice.

'Revolution! that's what's coming. It's as certain as we're sitting here. Old Canilla, the President, is hated everywhere, except in his own province of Santa Cruz and the city itself. The country will revolt directly the Vice-President--de Costa--gives the word. It's been coming for years, but Mrs. President, the old lady who's to be buried to-morrow, was the Vice-President's sister, and, though they hate each other like poison, she kept the peace between her husband and her brother. 'Every one called her _La Buena Presidente_, and now she's gone'--they shrugged their shoulders--'we don't know what will happen. The very day _La Buena Presidente_, poor old lady, died, General Angostina was shot in the back--he was the most popular general in the country and backed the de Costas--and no attempt has been made to arrest his assassins, who boast about it at the Military Club. In fact, the paper this morning says that one has been promoted for "services to his country."'

'_La Buena Presidente_?' the A.P. sang out; 'that's the name of the new cruiser building for them at Newcastle.'

'Named after her,' one of them said. 'She's big enough to sink the whole of the rest of their fleet, and that's where the trouble comes in. The fleet is loyal to the President just now, but he's in a terrible funk lest the crew he is sending to England to bring her here alter their minds. If they do, they can make cat's-meat of the rest, and then old Canilla's up a tree, for he can't scotch a revolution in the provinces to north and south of him, unless he holds command of the sea and prevents them joining forces.

'When's this revolution to start?' we asked rather chaffingly.

'To-morrow at 1.25 sharp. That's the official time for the funeral service to end, and till then Canilla and de Costa will be friends. To-morrow night there won't be a single friend of the Vice-President in Santa Cruz, unless he's shot or in San Sebastian. De Costa himself won't be in Santa Cruz either, unless he's shot or arrested as he leaves the cathedral. He'll be off to his own province of Leon. Now you can guess why we're glad to see you.'

'I'm jolly glad we didn't stay to finish that footer match,' the Angel sang out, as they took their leave. 'We're going to have some jolly fun, ain't we, Bob?'

'D'you know a chap called Gerald Wilson, a brother of mine?' I asked one of them, a very fat chap, whose name was Macdonald. 'A chap with yellow hair something like mine and a jaw like an ox.'

'Know him!' he answered quickly; ''pon my word, I've been looking at you and wondering whom you were like. Why, you're as like as two peas, though he's a bit broader and taller.'

'Do we know Gerald Wilson? Don Geraldio? Why, my dear chap, every one knows your brother,' the other Englishman joined in. 'He's the maddest chap in the country, and if our Minister doesn't get him out of it pretty quickly, he'll get his throat cut.'

'Or be a general in the revolutionary army,' Macdonald added. 'He's right "in" with the de Costas.'

Well, that was exciting if you like--to me, but the mater would be awfully upset if she knew--poor old mater.

'Where's he now?' I asked excitedly. 'I've not seen him for five years.'

'Up in Santa Cruz, he lives at the European Club,' Macdonald answered. Then an idea struck him, and he continued, 'Some of your people are going up to the funeral. If you like to go, I'll take you; get ashore to-morrow morning by 6.30. I'm driving up. The funeral will be worth seeing, even if you hadn't your brother up there. I'll find him for you.'

'Thank you very much, I'll try and get leave,' I told him, as he went down into his boat.

'You can bring a couple of your midshipmen if you like,' he shouted up.

I was so excited I hardly knew what to think or do, it was so worrying about Gerald, from the mater's point of view, and so splendid from mine.

To-morrow was my day 'off,' the Commander gave me leave, the two mids. were, of course, the Angel and Cousin Bob, and they were too excited to do anything else but walk up and down the quarterdeck with their eyes glued on the mountains, where Santa Cruz lay, in the clouds, five thousand feet above them.

*CHAPTER III*

*The Revolution breaks out*

_Written by Sub-Lieutenant William Wilson, R.N._

A whole crowd of us from the _Hector_ and the _Hercules_, all bound for Santa Cruz, went ashore at six o'clock next morning. On our way inshore, after we'd pulled round the head of the breakwater, we had a good view of the Santa Cruz ships. Rotters they all looked, slovenly kept, nothing seamanlike or shipshape about them, with their 'wash clothes' hung about the rigging and even over the quarterdeck railings--anyhow.

And a funny-looking crowd of soldiers they had too, falling in on the wharf where we landed, ready to receive the two Skippers when they came ashore--in uniform--to attend the funeral on duty. They were all South American natives or full-blooded niggers, half of them bare-footed, none of them dressed alike. Some had hats like the French army _kepi_, others, broad-brimmed felt or straw hats; their shirts were of every colour under the sun, and a pair of loose dirty cotton trousers seemed to be about the only uniform they had. They all had rifles--of sorts--a bayonet, and a leathern belt hanging loose over their hips to support a cartridge pouch, but many had lost their bayonet frogs and scabbards, and simply stuck the naked bayonet inside the belt.

My chum with the gilt spurs and enormous sabre seemed to be bossing the show, and was too busy trying to get the men into something like order to notice me.

We all pushed our way along through a not at all friendly mob of people, Bob and the Angel sticking to me like leeches. Then we lost the rest of our people, and felt pretty lost ourselves till a grinning native caught hold of my sleeve.

'_Buenos_! _Senor_! You _Senor Wilson_? _Senor_ Macdonald send me. I his boy.'

We were jolly glad to find any one who would take us to him.

'How did you find me in the crowd?' I asked him.

'_Senor_ Macdonald say you like _Senor Geraldio_. All peoples know Senor Geraldio.'

'Blowed for a yarn,' I thought. 'Old Gerald wouldn't be very flattered.'

We stepped out briskly enough then, and you ought to have seen the Angel strutting along in the middle of the road, in a blue suit and straw hat, the trousers beautifully creased, the latest thing in ties round his neck, the most startling thing in socks showing under his turned-up trousers, looking as if he was off to a tea-party in Southsea. Even the niggers smiled at him and got out of his way. We came upon Macdonald in a minute or two, waiting for us at a corner, with a carriage and six grand-looking mules--the carriage was like a big two-wheeled governess cart with an awning over it, and he was so enormous that he almost filled it.

In we jumped, the two mids. managed to squeeze themselves alongside the native driver, our guide kicked the mules in the stomach, one after the other, just to wake them up; the driver cracked his whip, and away we went bump-terappity along the bumpy road, the bells on the harness jingling like fun.

We clattered along past rows and rows of red mud cottages, dogs flying out at us from every door, and giving the two mids. a grand time with the whip, pack mules tied up to the door-posts frisking about and kicking up their heels as we went past, and long-legged fowls scattering like smoke in front of us.

'You're extraordinarily like your brother, now you're in plain clothes,' Mr. Macdonald muttered, with his mouth full--for he'd started on the hampers already.

'Jolly proud of it,' I answered, but he only made a face and shrugged his shoulders.

We started climbing soon after, and the mules had a pretty hard time of it for the next three hours, zigzagging up the most appalling road, panting and grunting. The mids. and I walked the steepest parts, but neither the driver nor Mr. Macdonald budged from their seats. The higher we got the more cheerful we were. It was grand looking down at Puerta and the sea, with the _Hector_ and _Hercules_ like toy ships lying inside the breakwater, but Mr. Macdonald did not let us stop anywhere for more than a minute at a time, because there was a whole line of jangling mule carriages coming up after us, and he didn't want to be overtaken. The mids. didn't either, for there were four _Hercules_ mids. in the one next behind us, and they were not going to be beaten by them if they could help it.

Every now and again, at the corners where the road zig-zagged, we came across thirty or forty native soldiers, evidently guarding the way.

'That looks as if they were expecting trouble,' Mr. Macdonald told me. 'It's most unusual. D'you see the colours they have in their hats?'

Nearly all of them had a patch of yellow and green stripes sewn on.

'I've never seen the regular troops wearing them,' he said. 'Did you notice that the stripes were _vertical_! That means that they are President's men. The de Costa's colours are black and green, but the stripes are worn _horizontally_, and of course they aren't allowed to wear them.'

He shook his head very ominously.

'Things are going to hum to-day. You'd have been wiser to stay on board. You're too like your brother.'

You can guess that this only made it more jolly exciting.

Every now and then we met long trains of mules or donkeys, with huge bundles on their backs, pacing wearily down the road.

'They're carrying rubber or cocoa down to Los Angelos,' Mr. Macdonald said. 'The President makes them bring all their rubber through Los Angelos; that's one of the grievances they have against him.'

Jolly interesting everything was, and once the men with one long mule train took off their big hats, bowing and saying, '_buenos_.'

'They're doing it to you, not to me,' Mr. Macdonald said. 'They're from Paquintos, close to your brother's estate, and think you are he.'

It was a jolly funny feeling to land at this out-of-the-way spot and find so many people appear to know me; don't you think it was?

By this time we had left the shade of the tropical trees below us, and the road and the side of the mountain were simply bare rock--the heat terrific. At half-past ten we were at the top, and got our first glimpse of Santa Cruz spread out in a hollow beneath us, with mountain ridges all round it. Our mules roused themselves into a trot, and we slung along at a good rate, kicking up a cloud of dust. The _Hercules_ mids. had been gradually drawing closer, and now they came along at a gallop, and would have passed us, singing out rude remarks, but the Angel seized the whip and beat our poor brutes into a gallop too, and the teams simply tore along, side by side, the drivers having all they could do to keep on the road. The two carriages bounced along close together, I thought the wheels would lock every other second, and the mids. were hitting at each other with their sticks and shouting.

Luckily we didn't meet anything, but I saw that, just ahead, the road narrowed, and that we couldn't possibly get through there side by side.

'Let them go ahead,' I shouted, and leant over to help the driver pull in the team, but then one of the _Hercules_ mids. sang out, 'Who upset the coal lighter?' the others shouted, 'The rotten _Hectors_!'--and that made me as mad as a hatter. I didn't care whether we all went to glory or not so long as we beat them--after that.

'Pull up, you fools!' Mr. Macdonald shouted, but the mules were quite out of hand.

We came to the narrow part, the leading mules bumped into each other, then the others, till the wheelers were touching; our axles bumped once or twice, there was a lurch and a crash, the other carriage toppled over on to the bank, the wheeler mules were on their backs, and the mids. shot out head over heels as we flew past, the Angel and Bob cheering wildly.

Before we were out of sight we saw the four mids. and the driver on their feet again, trying to right the carriage, so I knew they weren't hurt.

Mr. Macdonald simply wagged his head from side to side. 'It was my weight brought us through--you'd have upset but for me.'

I do actually believe he enjoyed it.

We were in the city itself by now, and the mules had steadied down on the rough stone streets crowded with people on foot or riding horses or mules. There were soldiers at every corner--quite smart chaps these--and they all had the vertical green and yellow stripes in their helmets or hats. The same colours, hoisted with the stripes vertical, hung at half-mast from nearly every house, and the few women, we saw, had the same colours too.

'There are some of de Costa's people,' Mr. Macdonald sung out, as we passed a group of sunburnt men outside a cafe. I looked, and saw that they had patches of green and black stripes worn horizontally.

'They call the two parties the Verticals and Horizontals,' Mr. Macdonald told me. 'Those are countrymen; you can see that by their rig.'

'Hi!' he sung out; 'look up there, up to the left, that's San Sebastian, where our chaps were put in "chokey" a fortnight ago.'

It was a crumbling old fort perched on a rocky hill just above the big building, and we three looked at it jolly keenly.

Then we got into the better part of the town, dazzling big white houses with gratings in front of every window, and women peering out from behind the curtains in most of them. Everywhere were soldiers, and the yellow and green flags drooping at half-mast.

Next we drove through a great open place, white with dust and dazzling in the sun, with a grand old weather-beaten cathedral on one side, and on the other some public garden with palms and huge tropical ferns. We had to draw up to let a regiment march into the square, and then we wedged our way out of it, into a side street, turned a corner, and stopped in front of a big door with strong iron gates, sentries with fixed bayonets on each side of it, and a whole jumble of French, English, German, American, and Dutch ensigns hanging down from a flagstaff above it. There was a wizened little black chap leaning up against the wall; he started when he saw me, and let his cigarette drop out of his mouth. He was an ugly-looking little beast.

'The European Club,' Mr. Macdonald said. 'Out you jump. I bet your brother's in here.'

We followed him into a cool courtyard with a splashing fountain in the middle of it, and through the open French windows I heard the click of billiard balls--a jolly homely sound--and, looking in, there was Gerald, with his coat off, watching the other chap making his stroke, his jolly old lion head with the long yellow hair brushed back and his grand square jaw--not a bit like me.

He didn't see me as I went in and touched him on the back. 'Hello, Gerald!'

'Hello, Billums! What the dickens are you doing here? How's the mater? Well played, Arnstein (this to his opponent). Wait till I've "knocked" him. Won't be a second.'

He won quite easily, and then he stood us all lunch at the Club. I did my best to pump him about the revolution, but he kicked me hard under the table, so I didn't say any more about it. The mids. had a grand time, hardly uttered a word, but simply ate steadily through course after course, not even the excitement of hearing regiments of infantry tramping past every now and again, with their bands playing, putting them off their feed.

'Come along,' Gerald said presently, 'I've got a window from which we can see everything; there'll be room for all of you.'

But Mr. Macdonald wasn't coming, so we left him.

'Be here by three o'clock,' he said, 'not a minute later, and I'll drive you back.'

As we left the gate I noticed that the sentries looked rather puzzled at Gerald and myself.

'I couldn't say anything in there,' Gerald began, when we'd got out into the crowded street; 'you never know who may be listening. We're going to have a revolution, and I'm rather mixed up in it. You saw that little plain-clothes chap at the gate, he's one of the President's secret police, and has been shadowing me for the last four days.'

I had seen him, the one who'd been so startled when I went in.

'Don't you carry a revolver or anything?' I asked nervously.

'My dear old Billums, I've never thought of it.'

I bothered him to get one in case anything happened.

'All right, old chap, I'll think about it.'

There was too great a crush in the narrow streets to do much talking, and we had a lot of trouble to push our way along. There were quite a lot of people wearing the horizontal black and green stripes in these streets, and you could tell they were strangers by their weird-looking clothes and by the way they flocked along with their eyes and mouths open.

We presently passed a lot of officers standing outside a doorway.

'That's the Officers' Club,' Gerald told me, as he took his hat off, and they all clicked their heels and saluted, looking from Gerald to myself with that same puzzled look--they seemed very unfriendly. We waited a minute or two to let a battery of field artillery rumble past--the guns were 'horsed' with mules--turned down another side street, and entered a cool courtyard with more fountains splashing. There were any number of people in it; they nearly all had black and green rosettes with horizontal stripes, and all bowed very cordially to Gerald. He spoke to several, looked as if he had heard bad news, and took us into the back of the Hotel de L'Europe, up some narrow wooden stairs, opened a door on a narrow landing, and there we were in a corner room with a large French window opening on to an iron balcony and overlooking the great square. The cathedral tower, with its arched entrance and broad steps, wasn't fifty yards away.

'You'll get a grand view here--it's cool too--you'd get sunstroke outside--stay where you are--I'll be back presently--I've just had some important news,' Gerald jerked out, and left us to watch the people and the soldiers pouring into the square--'Plaza' every one called it. These soldiers were jolly smart-looking chaps, well dressed and well set up, very different to those we had seen at Los Angelos. They all had the vertical green and yellow stripes in their white helmets, and even we could see that they were pretty rough in dealing with the people. We saw several of the ward-room fellows hunting about for a good place to see the procession, and the two Skippers drove up to the cathedral, in uniform, the soldiers making a way for their carriage, and driving the people back by prodding them in the stomach with the butt-ends of their rifles.

Gerald came in again looking worried.

'Everything all right?' I asked.

He nodded, and sat down in a corner.

'The soldiers don't treat the people very gently,' I said, and he told me that they were all Presidential troops in the city that day, and that there was no love lost between them and the country people, who had poured into the city to pay respect to the President's wife. 'If you look closely, you'll see that a great many of these are wearing the badge of the de Costas--the horizontal green and black stripes.'

'I heard to-day,' he went on, 'that the President's wife, just before she died, made her brother, de Costa, and her husband, Jose Canilla, shake hands and promise to keep the peace after she was gone.'

'Will they?' Bob asked, with his mouth open.

He only smiled and shrugged his shoulders--quite like a Spaniard. 'They called her _La Buena Presidente_, and she was a good old lady and kept the peace, but she's kept back progress and reform for years. There's no such thing as freedom in the country. There will soon be a change now.'

'They named that ship which Armstrong's building after her, I suppose?' I asked him, and he nodded.

I tried to pump him about her, but he'd tell me nothing, except that she would be ready very soon, and was strong enough to blow the rest of the Santa Cruz Navy out of the water. I knew that well enough.

I wanted to ask him if there was any chance of her new crew favouring the Vice-President's party--as Mr. Macdonald had suggested--and a whole lot of other things, but a frightful din started in the 'Plaza.'

Bob, pointing down below, yelled for us to look, and we saw a drunken-looking countryman waving his broad-brimmed felt hat, with an enormous black and green rosette fastened to it, in the face of one of the officers with the troops. He tried to take no notice of it, but in a second or two lost his temper, seized the rosette, tore it off, threw it on the ground, and stamped it into the white dust with his patent-leather boots.

There was a roar of anger at this, booing and hissing from people crowding in the windows of a house close by, and the mob beneath us began pushing and shouting; knives were drawn, the few women there began screaming, and the soldiers, standing in line, turned round to drive the people back. Some cavalry came galloping up, and began hitting at the people with the flat of their swords. One of them was pulled off his horse and disappeared in the struggle, people were pressing in from all sides of the Plaza, and things began to look jolly ugly, when we heard a pistol fired, and a very smart-looking young cavalry officer, who was trying to get his men together, reeled in his saddle and fell on the ground, his fiery little horse plunging away down the swaying lines of soldiers.

Women screamed, every one stopped struggling and drew back, leaving him lying there, by himself, all doubled up in a heap, in the dust, blood trickling from his mouth. Almost before we'd realised what had happened, a young priest, in black cassock, dashed across from the cathedral steps, knelt down, and lifted the officer's head on his knee. We saw him press a little black crucifix to his lips, but it was too late, the poor chap was as dead as a door-nail.

Then there was another wild burst of shouting and hooting from the mob and from the people at the windows.

'They've got the man who fired the shot,' Bob squeaked--he was so excited--and we could see a lot of soldiers struggling with a very tall man. He wrested himself free, knocked down one or two, burst through the line of troops, and went running away from the cathedral, the crowd trying to prevent the soldiers following. I'd never seen anything so exciting. He dodged, and doubled, and got clear again for a second, running towards one corner, but there were soldiers everywhere, one of them tripped him with the butt-end of his rifle, and he fell sprawling on the pavement right under our window. Before you could say a word, a couple of soldiers had driven their bayonets through him--we could actually hear the points knocking against the pavement. In a moment the mob were on them, and a fierce fight commenced. What would have happened I don't know, but then the loud crashing music of the Dead March in 'Saul' sounded from the opposite side of the square.

'Thank God,' I heard Gerald mutter, 'here comes the procession.'

Officers dashed up again, shouting and cursing, the soldiers fell back into line, the mob hid their knives and took up their places, the space in front of the cathedral was cleared in a twinkling-, Bob, leaning out of the window, told us that they'd brought the body of the officer into the hotel, and that the other body had disappeared, the purple velvet hangings which hid the cathedral entrance from us were drawn apart, and, right in the middle, on the top step, a tall old priest, gorgeously dressed, was standing with his arms lifted up. He must have been a bishop at the very least, because directly the people saw him, they fell on their knees in the dust, leaving only the soldiers standing erect.