CHAPTER XXIV.

FOR THE CAUSE OF LIBERTY.

“You proposed to a lady to-night.”

“What is that to you, sir?” Don Manada turns fiercely upon the gentleman who has tapped him upon the shoulder and requested the pleasure of a few moments’ conversation with him.

“Nothing to me, perhaps,” returns Phillip Van Zandt, quietly; “to you much, possibly. Sit down. Or better, suppose we adjourn to the arcade. We shall be freer from interruption there.”

“I must decline to accompany you, sir, until I have reason to believe that the matter on which you desire to talk is of more importance than your opening remark would indicate.”

Van Zandt surveys the Cuban with a trifle of impatience. “As you please,” he observes. “But permit me to say that upon your disposition to listen to what I have to impart depends the success or failure of the expedition which is to start for Cuba to-morrow—or, rather, to-day.”

Manada starts violently and bends a searching look upon the other’s face. “Nothing could be of greater importance to me, sir,” he says, and without further remark he follows Van Zandt to the little table where an hour ago he for the third time offered Isabel Harding his hand and heart.

“Now, to business,” remarks Van Zandt, glancing at his watch. “It is 1:30. Thirty minutes for talk, the rest of the night for action. You are Don Manada of the Cuban revolutionary society.” That gentleman bows. “I am Phillip Van Zandt. That is all you need know concerning myself. Mrs. Isabel Harding, the lady to whom you made violent love to-night”—the Cuban scowls, but Van Zandt goes on relentlessly—“I have known for some months. She has honored me—shall I say?—with her deep regard. Perhaps she hinted as much to you.”

Manada leans back in his chair and looks his new acquaintance over critically. This, then, was his rival; a negative one, to be sure, but a rival that any man might fear.

“If it will flatter your vanity to know that the lady in question confessed to me that she loved only one man in the world and that that happy individual was not myself, you are welcome to the information,” Manada offers, sarcastically.

“Thank you. But I was already aware of the fact, and it is not to the point. You proposed to Mrs. Harding and were rejected. Stay,” as the other colors and is about to make an angry retort: “I did not bring you here, sir, to refresh your mind one instance in which the usually discriminating Isabel displayed poor taste. But I repeat, she rejected you; hence subsequently something must have occurred between you to lead up to a rather peculiar agreement—Mrs. Harding’s consent to accompany you on a filibustering expedition?”

“Caramba! She told you—you overheard—”

“I overheard nothing. Eavesdropping is not in my line. And she told me little more; but enough to warrant me in stating that you have been indiscreet, sir, to use no harsher term, and have jeopardized not only your own welfare but that of your fellow-countrymen.”

“You seem to be pretty familiar with my affairs, senor.”

“Not so familiar with them as the Spanish government and the United States authorities may be,” responds Van Zandt, dryly. “All I know of your plans I have told you. What I do not know you will tell me now.”

An angry rejoinder trembles on Manada’s lips, but something in the stern, quiet air of the man before him checks his wrath.

“Mrs. Harding,” resumes Van Zandt, “consented to go to Cuba with you, did she not?”

“Practically, yes.”

“And you were to receive her final decision on the morrow?”

“Well, senor?”

“She will not go.”

“Then you persuaded her—you interfered,” cries Manada hotly.

“I did nothing of the sort. Still, I repeat, she will not go. But, stay, perhaps she will,” murmurs Van Zandt, thoughtfully. “Perhaps her ladyship’s plans lie deeper than I have supposed,” he thinks. “But even if she does go, I tell you, my friend, it were far better that you burned your vessel where it now lies than that Isabel Harding sets foot upon its deck.”

“Your meaning?” demands Manada in a hoarse whisper.

“Your face tells me that you have guessed the truth,” Van Zandt says more kindly. “The woman has betrayed you. She is a spy—diplomat is the polite word—in the employ of the Spanish government.”

“Caramba!” hisses Manada, sinking back into his chair with colorless cheeks. “But you can furnish proof of what you assert?” he cries almost eagerly.

Van Zandt’s lip curls. “Had you watched the fair Isabel after you left her you would have seen join her a gentleman whose presence in itself would have been proof sufficient—Gen. Murillo. You know him?”

“Of the Spanish service,” murmurs Manada in crushed tones.

“Precisely. I met him at the club the other day. And if I mistake not he has done an excellent bit of work for his government to-night.”

“But I will find the woman,” bursts out Manada, leaping to his feet. “Por Dios! I will search her out and—”

“You will do nothing of the kind,” interrupts Van Zandt, drawing the excited man back into his chair. “Mrs. Harding left for her hotel half an hour ago. Even were she here it would avail you nothing to confront her with her—diplomacy. Gen. Murillo is already in possession of your plans. No, my friend; the mischief is done, but happily it is not irremediable.”

“Ah!” cries Manada, with a flash of hope.

“Now, listen to me. We have wasted too much time already. What is the name of your vessel?”

“The Isabel.”

“So? Pretty name, but have it changed at the first opportunity. Where does she now lie?”

“North River, foot of Twenty-third Street.”

“Excellent,” comments Van Zandt, his eyes lighting with satisfaction. “And at what time did you intend to sail?”

“At five in the afternoon.”

“You are of course aware that both the Spanish and United States governments are on the keen lookout for filibustering craft?”

“Certainly,” Manada replies, grimly. “But we were confident of slipping through unmolested. We had arranged to clear for the Bermudas, and once on the high seas we felt sure of running away from any warships that might lie in our course.”

“Ah, your vessel is a yacht. And the cargo—of what does that consist?”

“Two thousand rifles and 200,000 rounds of cartridges.”

“How is it loaded?”

“The ammunition is packed in kegs, ostensibly containing salt fish; the rifles are in bags and are hidden at the bottom of bins of potatoes in the hold.”

“The cargo could be shifted before daybreak, do you think?”

“Two or three hours should suffice.”

“Good. You must have noticed, lying in the neighborhood of your vessel, a rather trim article in the yacht line.”

“The Semiramis? Yes. A magnificent vessel!” exclaims Manada.

Van Zandt nods. “She is my property and I believe her to be the fastest vessel afloat in the world to-day. Now here is my plan—I consider it the only one that will extricate you from the dilemma in which you are placed: I will place the Semiramis at the service of the struggling patriots of the Antilles. We will shift the Isabel’s cargo before the night is gone, and before the sun goes down on another day the Semiramis will be on her way to Cuba. Once without New York bay I defy anything short of a cannon ball to overhaul her. What say you, Don Manada?”

The Cuban’s face expresses the astonishment and joy that he feels. To be raised suddenly from the depths of despair to the pinnacle of hope effects a remarkable change in one of his temperament.

“Santa Maria!” he cries, as he presses warmly Van Zandt’s hands. “You have done me as great a service as one man can do another. Por Dios! We shall outwit them cleverly.”

“Then let us be off,” says Van Zandt. “It is after 2 o’clock and we have little time to spare.”

The men secure their coats and hats and ten minutes later board a cross-town car.

“Senor Van Zandt, I owe you a debt of gratitude,” declares Manada; “yet I find myself marveling that you, a stranger, and the one man to win Isabel Harding’s affection, should interest yourself in me and the cause I represent.”

“Oh, it promised an adventure; something I have long been in need of to stir my blood to action,” replies Van Zandt, lightly. “Besides, am I not an American, and is not the cause of liberty a cause that appeals to every American with a spark of manhood in his soul? Only those who know what liberty is realize its priceless worth.”

They are now walking along West Street. Manada silently reproaching himself with his recent folly, wraps his greatcoat more tightly about him, and breathes a shivering malediction on the cutting winds that sweep adown the Hudson.

The sky is overcast and a slight snow is falling. It is a good night for the work in hand.

The river front is black and silent and the outlines of the vessels about the pier are barely distinguishable through the driving storm.

West Street, though dimly lighted, is not deserted. From the grog-shops come echoes of many a brawl, and every now and then a drunken longshoreman reels or is thrown into the street and staggers off, heaven knows where. Every half-hour or so a ferry boat lumbers in and out of the slip, and there is a temporary bustle in the vicinage.

“A miserable night, senor,” remarks Van Zandt, as they cross West Street and pick their way toward the pier where lies the vessel in which are centered now all of Don Manada’s hopes. The latter has forgotten for the nonce his recent humiliation and is keenly alive to the adventurous undertaking in hand.

The men plunge through the gloom, muffled to the eyes and with heads bent before the biting blasts from the river, when their ears are suddenly assailed by the sound of a scuffle ahead of them and a half-choked cry for help. Quickening their steps, they run upon two men. One of them is prone upon the pier; the other, clearly his assailant, bends over him.

Before the scamp can rise Van Zandt deals him a blow with his heavy cane that stretches him beside his victim. He is not a courageous rogue, or if he is realizes that his chance for an argument is not especially good. So when he struggles to his feet he makes off without a word, without even an imprecation.

Van Zandt and Manada raise the prostrate form and bear it back to the street. As the lamplight falls upon the face of the unconscious man Van Zandt utters an ejaculation of astonishment.

“By heaven! it is Gen. Murillo! You see, my friend, that I was not mistaken. He probably came down here to have a look at the Isabel, and was set upon by one of the scum of the river front.”

Manada nods a silent assent. “He must not see us,” he mutters, uneasily.

“Don’t be alarmed. He is not likely to recognize any one for a few minutes. I hope he is not badly hurt. Off with him to yonder saloon; or, better, to the ferryhouse. The man will be safer there, though we are more likely to find a policeman at the saloon.”

A policeman is at the ferryhouse, however, and assistance is summoned. Van Zandt and Manada wait until Gen. Murillo is laid in the ambulance and the surgeon in charge has assured them that the man is not fatally hurt; then they tell their story to the policeman and go about their business.

“A peculiar episode,” remarks Van Zandt. “Our friend will never know to whom he owes his rescue and perhaps his life. Our affair must be hurried, nevertheless, for we know what his first effort will be when he recovers consciousness.”

“Yet some day, when Cuba is free, I shall have the pleasure of recalling the incident to his mind.”

“When Cuba is free,” repeats Van Zandt. “Well, luck favoring us, we shall fire a shot to-day that will ring in the ears of the government at Madrid. Here we are at the Semiramis. Where is the Isabel?”

“Just beyond. Not twenty feet away.”

Van Zandt hails his yacht and ten minutes later he and Manada are in the luxurious cabin, in consultation with Capt. Beals, a bluff old Maine sea dog, who is prepared for any caprice on the part of his employer and expresses not the least surprise when informed that arrangements for a cruise to Cuba must be instantly set afoot.

And that morning, while the wind howls around Manhattan Island, and drives the sleet into the eyes of belated pedestrians; while Murillo awakens to consciousness in Bellevue Hospital and tells the attending surgeon that, head or no head, he leaves for Cuba within half a dozen hours; and while the last carriage load of half-drunken sports dashes away from the Madison Square Garden, a work is in progress aboard the Semiramis that means more to its owner than he dreams of as he stands with folded arms in the dim light of the ship lanterns, watching silently the transshipment of the insurgent’s arms.