Part 20

When the tracks left the _hacienda_ of San Jacinto they entered that of its northern neighbour--Guevara. Here they made a detour to avoid the _cacao_ court and huts of the plantation’s workers. Then on again, through mud and mire, keeping always straight toward Tacarigua. Farther still, when this _hacienda_ was crossed, they entered the rough path leading northward through the forest, and were lost.

At midday Manuelita stopped at a deep-shadowed spot on the road to eat a meal of baked plantain and _arepa_. The monkeys jabbered down at her. Now and then she heard strange movements close by in the jungle. But she felt no fear. A few moments for food, a pull at a water-filled gourd flask, a few crumbs to a lizard, blinking--head downward--from a tree trunk at her elbow, and she trotted on.

It was the hour before sunset when, through a tangle, she peered out from the forest’s edge. Before her was a shallow stream, muddy though it was flowing over a bed of pebbles. Beyond, a cluster of red, tiled roofs, was Tacarigua. Tacarigua! And _they_ were there!

She opened her bundle for the comb; bathed quickly face, arms, and from foot to knee, and carefully rubbed away the caked dirt marring the bright figures of her skirt. Then, with the sun looking back from the ragged range of La Silla de Caracas, and a breeze beginning to stir the leaves that fringed the water, she slipped on her _alpargatas_, took the path again, and entered the village.

* * * * *

General Blanco Alcantara, in command of the Revolutionary force at Tacarigua, sat upon his horse before the green-walled Jefatura Civil. He looked quite imposing. A broad hat, wound in the blue of his cause, was set rakishly upon his black hair. A wide sash of webbed stuff in the same blue ran over his right shoulder and was wrinkled into the loop of his sabre scabbard, from which, knotted, it fell, ends free, to a silver spur.

Near him, lounging upon the steps of the building, were several officers, smoking, talking, and evidently waiting. To one side, also occupied with their _tabacos_ and gossip, were as many _asistentes_, waiting, too, and looking as important as the discarded apparel of their superiors would permit.

When Manuelita approached the general, he was looking down his straight nose at the cigarette he was rolling in his fingers. But at the sound of her voice close to his stirrup, he turned his deep-set black eyes upon her.

“Señor general,” she began, quaveringly.

He saw eyes as dark as his own, a pale face scarce younger. And his short upper lip, under its wiry moustache, lifted a little, in what was meant to be a smile.

“At your order, señorita,” he replied.

And now he saw the girl’s eyes widen and flash, saw the red of anger run into lip and cheek.

“Señor general,” she continued huskily, “there is a man--one Ricardo Villegas--who last night left the _hacienda_ San Jacinto to come to Tacarigua and join _La Revolución_. Leaving, he took with him our _cubierta_, a new _machete_, and--a woman.”

The general laughed.

“That man of yours was equipped for fighting,” he said.

She was clasping and unclasping her hands with nervous intensity.

“He had best be so,” she answered, “when next he meets me.”

“You will not meet him here.”

“No? no?”--quickly. Suspicion darkened her face. She drew back. The general was lying, doubtless, to save a much-needed soldier from his deserts.

“No,” went on Alcantara, lighting his cigarette, “you will not find him here. I have one hundred men, but each has been with me since before the beginning of the wet season. No one has joined me of late.”

She turned about, half murmuring to herself, and made as if to go.

“He went the other way, perhaps,” suggested the general; “to Rio Chico, where is another force of _Los Salvadores_.”

She came round upon him, arms raised, set teeth showing between lips that were pale again.

“I go to Rio Chico,” she said.

“And he will be gone--wait, wait! General Pablo Montilla leaves Rio Chico to-night with his column.”

“I shall follow.”

“I join him with my men at dawn.”

He saw the light of a terrible hope illuminate her countenance. She came to his stirrup again.

“Señor general,” she pleaded, “let me go with your soldiers. I am young and strong--I can cook--I can carry a load----”

Alcantara puckered his lips teasingly, looking down at her. He marked the plump, well rounded figure, the clear, copper-coloured skin with its scarlet touches on mouth and cheek, the long braid, the full, girlish throat.

“You go,” he said.

Child as she was, she knew the men of Venezuela, and she saw and understood his look.

“I go for revenge, Señor general,” she declared meaningly. “If you are so good as to allow me to follow you, I--I will be safe? Else I walk far in the rear--alone.”

“As you like,” answered Alcantara. “There will be two other women along--Maria, who goes with one of my _coroneles_, and La Negrita, the woman of the black general, Pedro Tovar. You may march with them.”

“And when will you start?” she asked eagerly. “When?”

“We thirst for the blood of Ricardo Villegas,” laughed Alcantara. “Well----”

A squad was approaching, led by a determined-looking officer. Two of his men carried large-calibre German Mausers, the third had a Mauser and a canvas money bag, and the fourth a Mauser and a rope.

“_Comisario_,” said the general, as the latter shuffled near and saluted, “what _raciones_ have you collected?”

An expression of defeat spread upon the commissary’s countenance. He shook his head dejectedly, and, reaching round, seized and brought forward the money bag.

“These unreasonable, these unpatriotic people!” he began with heat. “Actually they decline to give up their miserable savings. Observe!”

Alcantara peeked into the bag. “Oh, not so bad,” he said. “But perhaps a better display of the rope----”

The other nodded. “I promise you they will be loyal.” Then, his face more determined than before, the commissary departed. Behind came the squad, the Mausers, the bag, and the noose.

The general addressed Manuelita. “We shall start at sunset,” he said. “But you? You have walked all day, you say.”

“It does not matter. I will walk all night, gladly, _gladly_!”

He bent to arrange the knot of his sash. When he turned back again she was gone.

At sunset the soldiers of Alcantara left the huts where they had been quartered and gathered in the _Plaza_. Ragged and dirty they were, and unshaven. Some of them were part Indian, with straight black hair and copper-coloured skins. Others were negroes or half-castes, with flat noses and kinky heads. But all were without uniforms. Their drill trousers were of different colours, and held up by lengths of string or rope. Their tight-fitting, collarless shirts, made of a cheap woven material, were as vari-coloured. Even their little jackets, that buttoned up to the neck and were brought in at the waist under a cartridge belt, were not of the same shade or kind. Here and there among them, stripped of its red trimmings, showed the khaki uniform of the government--spoil of a battlefield. All wore _alpargatas_; and those fortunate enough possessed straw hats of generous circumference or brown, furry _pelo de guamas_, which displayed, on a narrow _divisa_ sewed around the crown, the corps and division of the fighter beneath. Over the left shoulder of some of the men, and passed under the belt, was a rolled, double-wool poncho, the blue side out, if it so happened, but quite as often, in unconscious treason, the other, which was dyed the red of the enemy.

Despite the commissary’s promise of loyalty, when the soldiers came together there were no cheers from the townspeople, who, gathering to see the departure, chattered in undertones among themselves, and eyed the motley force in illy concealed dislike.

And now, obeying the call of a battered bugle, the start was made. First down the street came General Blanco Alcantara, in fine style; then the black general, Tovar, astride a lanky horse; after these, a bevy of mounted officers--three _coroneles_, two _commandantes_, and two _capitanes_; the privates--on foot and in no formation; the _asistentes_, loaded down with the personal effects of their superiors; and several burros and mules carrying pack saddles heavy with ammunition; next, each with a bundle balanced on her head, a hat hung to her arm, a gourd and a smoky pail swinging and clinking together at her side, and a long _tabaco_ in her mouth, two women; last of all, a padre, in cassock and shovel hat, riding a gaited mule.

The third woman to accompany the expedition was on the edge of the town, where the road to Higuerote opens into the forest. She was watching as she rested, eating an _arepa_ and the remaining plantain. As Alcantara rode into sight, she stood up, her eyes shining, her lips parted, her head erect. The command by, she walked forward sturdily and fell in behind.

Night was falling then, but she was soon spied by those in the rear. Presently, these had told others, and the soldiers stretched their necks to look back to where she trudged. There was some whispering among those nearest her, and presently the padre reined a little to speak.

“You were not with us when we left the town,” he said. “How come you to be here?”

“I wish to go to Higuerote,” she answered, but would explain no further.

Seeing her questioned, one of the _asistentes_, a kindly old man, fell back to offer her a cigarette. She took it gratefully.

“And do you ignore the Church?” demanded the padre reprovingly.

The _asistente_ handed over a cigarette, and soon the three were journeying forward together.

The night breeze swept over them as they went, making the way cool, and bringing with it the fragrance of growing things. But their travelling was difficult. The road was only a cart’s width, hard and stony, rising and falling, too, on broken ground. There was no moon over the first third of the journey, and every little while a jaguar, scenting their passing, howled out at them from the dark, vine-hung forest lining the march.

Bit by bit Manuelita told her companions the story of Ricardo’s flight. As the padre listened, his round, florid face grew solemn, and he poked out his under lip dubiously. The _asistente_, on the other hand, swore often and pityingly, so that the good priest was kept busy crossing himself.

“And have you come all the way from the _hacienda_ San Jacinto to-day?” asked the soldier.

“Since morning,” Manuelita answered.

“In that case,” interposed the padre, settling himself in the saddle, “to make your walking more easy, you may hold to the tail of my mule on the up grades.”

Not long after, they were forced to cover their faces and cease talking. For before the night was half gone, the moon topped the trees, showing its great, burnished shield upon the starlit sky. And with the rising of the moon the forest thinned, the way became more level, but sandy, the walking extremely heavy, and legions of hungry mosquitoes came swarming upon them. The padre’s mule, tormented by the pests, made the middle of the track dangerous for Manuelita. She fell back, and walked in silence beside the old orderly. Once she uncovered to ask him how far they had got.

“Half-way,” he answered, when she murmured a thanksgiving.

Later she again spoke: “And how long before Higuerote is near?”

“Three hours,” he replied.

Her hands stole to her belt.

“Only one day and one night,” she said, “and yet I am almost upon them!”

But she was miserably tired by now, and many times would have stumbled to her knees had not the _asistente_ supported her. He gave her frequent draughts from his _aguardiente_ flask, and little lumps of damp brown sugar out of a canvas bag at his thigh. The padre, riding just in advance, looked back often to speak encouragement, and as often called the _asistente_ forward to levy upon him for a cigarette.

Bravely Manuelita persevered. Toward morning her brain seemed to wander, for she talked meaningless things to the old man lagging beside her. But a moment’s rest, a swallow of drink, a whispered reminder, and she struggled forward.

“_Santa María!_” was her petition, “only give me strength!”

The yellow moon had gone and the dawn was near when, having arrived at three great sand hummocks thrown up close to the road, General Alcantara drew rein. Noiselessly the soldiers laid down their ponchos, partook of cold coffee and a little food, and stretched themselves for a brief rest. The horses of the officers and the ammunition animals were led to one side, where they might crop the grass growing about in clumps. Alcantara and Pedro Tovar walked apart, conversing. The padre guided his mule to one side and, out of his saddle, was soon drowsing as comfortably as the mosquitoes would permit; while Manuelita sought the women, who were smoking, and squatted on the sand beside them, her face to the east, her lips moving with soundless words.

Swiftly the day came. A moment of little light, another that was brighter, and the stars dimmed. Then the unkempt force got to their feet and moved on--cartridge belts filled and _machetes_ slipped under them. Above, floating on white-tipped wings, followed a score of the bald black _samuro_, their curved beaks lowered in horrid watchfulness.

When the sun rose, the company made a second halt, behind a line of scrub growth. From here General Alcantara, dismounting, went forward alone on hands and knees. He stopped while yet in the shelter of the dense underbrush and stood up. To his left lay a town--tile-roofed, low houses, three rows of them, two rows having their back yards to the sea. Beyond these was a gently shelving beach strewn with the unpainted, dugout canoes of fishermen. Still farther, dotted here and there with a dingy sail, was the blue of the Caribbean, its outermost edge moving up and down upon the paler blue of the sky. To his right, some two hundred yards away, was the curving line of a railroad, then beach and boats, then sea again. And in the very foreground, seated on the sand, under a sagging telegraph wire, was a man in khaki, fast asleep, with his gun, muzzle end down, in a land-crab hole.

Alcantara now lowered himself again to creep on, and a moment later the sentry awoke and found himself a prisoner.

Presently, from the south, there sounded a faint rumble. And soon, far down the rusty rails, appeared a train. Alcantara gave a signal to those who had come up from behind, and at once the Revolutionists in khaki gathered the officers’ mounts and, taking the captured sentry with them, went back along the road to the shelter of the sand hummocks. The padre turned his gaited mule and single-footed after them, concern written large on his round, florid face. The rest of the company displayed their agitation. The soldiers craned and gestured, or examined their arms. La Negrita and the other woman chattered under their breath. The two _capitanes_ ran to and fro between Alcantara and the black general, taking and bringing messages. The men with the pack animals proceeded slowly toward the road gap in the shielding shrub. Only one of them all was giving the hour a solemn beginning. This was Manuelita, kneeling, bareheaded, in the sand, her hands clasped, her eyes closed, her face upturned.

“_Santa María!_” she whispered, for once more she was praying.

When the train was less than half a mile away Alcantara drew a small blue flag from his breast. It was of flimsy muslin, and showed at its centre a cross of yellow, blue, and red. The general, having unfolded it, held it in his right hand, so low that it could not be seen from the town. Instantly similar colours were waved from the engine cab. Again Alcantara signalled those behind, and the black general led them forward. At their front was borne a large flag of the cause, fastened to a bamboo pole.

When the train had crawled abreast of the Tacarigua force, its antique, ramshackle coaches came to a stop. Out of them tumbled some sixty soldiers, the heavy-set Pablo Montilla commanding. Alcantara saluted silently and made off with two-thirds of his own men straight along the track toward a railroad bridge in the town. As quietly, Tovar took the remaining third, joined Montilla, and started toward a second bridge, which crossed the Rio Curiepe at the main street. The train backed. The ammunition-mules and -burros were held close to the track, where stayed Maria and the other woman. But Manuelita, marking which way the men of Rio Chico had gone, ran after, and fell in behind them.

That advance was made in two lines, the soldiers trotting single file. Those on the track were heard from first. A shot rang out--then another. Then the battered bugle sounded a few clear notes, which the Mausers obeyed with a spatter of shots.

Now Tovar turned to his men with a cry: “_Adelante, muchachos!_”

The soldiers broke into a run, firing willy-nilly, and bunching together at the bridge end.

“_Viva Montilla!_” they shouted. “_Viva Tovar!_”

Then came answering cries from across the bridge, where khaki uniforms were swarming in a hasty rally, where shots were plentiful now, and a drum was keeping up a steady _thump! thump!_

Behind the cluster of men on that bridge was Manuelita. She had no thought of danger for herself, though the bullets were flying about her. She did not even watch the khaki figures hurrying to oppose, or those others spreading out between the bridges, lining the Curiepe to prevent a crossing. Her gaze was upon the men of Rio Chico. Her dust-rimmed eyes searched for one figure.

But now Tovar was leading _Los Salvadores_ across the stone-flagged bridge. Officered by red-sashed men in blue, the front ranks of the government received them with bayonets. Those in the background sent upon them a hail of lead.

“Ah!”

The piercing cry that broke from Manuelita was heard above the clashing of steel, the singing of bullets, the curses and _vivas_, the shrieks of agony. There he was, _there_--in the very front of the fight, laying about him with his _machete_. Her whole body trembled, her heart fluttered, her breath came in gasps, she choked.

“_Madre de Dios!_” She clutched the spear-shaped knife. “Let me but get at him first!”

But now she was rudely driven back. The government was gaining--it was _machete_ to bayonet, and the latter’s deal was the more deadly. _Los Salvadores_ retreated, one against another, clubbing their Mausers, filling the air with their yells. Maria’s _coronel_ raced up, bringing a futile order. For Pedro Tovar was out of earshot, in the front of them all, still facing the enemy, but backing from the fierce onslaught of the men in yellow.

But where was Ricardo? Manuelita could not see. Forgetful of personal safety, she sprang upon the nearer iron rail of the bridge. And from there, looking beyond the line of hand-to-hand combat, beyond the van of the government, she saw him--lying flat upon the flags, arms stretched out, face downward. At his curly head was a growing pool.

Like a flash, she was down and standing on the bridge. She flattened herself against the hand rail to keep from being knocked off her feet. Men of the Revolution struggled by her, bravely contesting each step of the way. And now Pedro Tovar was beside her--losing his ground. And now the khaki of the government was on every side.

“_Viva el Gobierno! Viva Domingo Morales!_”

_Los Salvadores_ were losing!

She saw more khaki-clad men running up from the tumbled-down church in the _Plaza_--running straight toward the bridge, toward Ricardo, helpless, but moving feebly now, turning his head from side to side as if in pain. They would cut at him as they passed!

Another cry, and she made her way back along the hand rail to where Tovar was swinging his black arms. Then on, beyond him, to where showed the top of the Revolution’s colours. A moment, and she had seized the bamboo pole, had unfurled the blue flag with its tricoloured cross. Then, facing about, with cries again, she pushed her way toward the black general.

“_Viva la Revolución!_” she cried.

Spent with their night march and with fighting, disheartened by retreat, the motley forces of Montilla and Tovar now beheld a girl at their front, waving aloft the flag of their cause. They hesitated; then, spurred by the sight, stood fast.

And now, with cheers from Alcantara’s men to announce a victory at the railroad bridge, there came the change of balance in that fight at the other. A moment and the government was retreating, not foot by foot, but quickly, up the gentle slope.

“_Viva la Revolución!_” was the whole shout now. And with a fearful grin on his black face, Pedro Tovar cried on the men, cursed them into fiercer fighting, struck them with the flat of his sabre.

And now the wavering blue flag was at the middle of the bridge, was on the farther slope, was almost to the man lying face downward on the approach--then, beside him.

Another hand caught the bamboo pole there, saving the riddled colours from fluttering to the ground. Still the government fell backward, still the Revolution pressed on. The bridge was cleared, except where wounded or dead lay stretched upon the stone; the clash of weapons grew less and less. The retreat of the government was a rout.

But back at the bridge, unmindful of victory, exhausted, yet not realising that, sat Manuelita, a soldier’s head pillowed against her breast, a wet cheek rested against a paler one.

“_Santa María!_” she sobbed, “he is alive--_alive_! _Madre de Dios_, I thank thee!”

THE END

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.