The Bright Shawl Part 3

"I've noticed you before," he addressed Tirso, "hanging and gabbling around the cafes and theatres, and it's my opinion you are an insurrectionist. If the truth were known, I dare say, it would be found you are a friend to Cespedes. Anyhow, I'm tired of looking at you; if you are not more retiring, you will find yourself in the Cabanas."

"Good evening," Remigio repeated in an even tone. With his hand still on Tirso's arm he tried to force him into the cafe; but the other, dark with pa.s.sion, broke away.

"You have dishonored my father and the name of a heroic patriot," he said to the officer of cavalry. "In this I am alone." With a suspicious quickness he leaned forward and his big hands shut about the Spaniard's throat.

Charles, with a suppressed exclamation, recalled Tirso's determination to choke one of the enemies of Cuba. The man in the gripping fingers stiffened and then, grotesquely, lost his aspect of a human form; suddenly he was no more than a thing of limp flesh and gay fabrics.

Instantly an uproar, a surging pa.s.sionate excitement grew, at the heart of which Tirso Labrador was curiously still. Heaving bodies, at once closing in and prudently scattering, hid from Charles his friend.

There was an onrush of gendarmes, harsh exclamations and oaths; then, at the flash of steel, a short agonized cry--Tirso's voice at once hoa.r.s.e and inhuman with death.

Charles Abbott, hurrying away at Andres' urgent insistence, caught a final glimpse of a big young body sunk on the flagging of the Paseo; he saw a leaden face and a bubbling tide of blood. Beyond the Montserrat gate they halted, and he was shocked to hear Remigio Florez curse Tirso as brutally as any Spaniard. Andres, white and trembling, agreed. "Here is what I warned you of," he turned to Charles; "it is fatal to lose your temper. You think that what Tirso did ends with him in purgatory ... ha! Perhaps he is best out of it among us all. It might be better for you to go back to America tomorrow and forget about Cuba."

"Yes," Remigio added, "probably we are all ruined; and certainly the police spies will be waiting for us at home."

"It would have been better if we had dissipated more," Jaime added: "we have been entirely too high-minded and unnatural. Young men meet together only to conspire or find love--the Spaniards know that and we were fools."

"We haven't been suspected of anything," Andres pointed out; "and it may be said that Tirso was killed defending his name. No, the trouble is to come; and it wasn't our fault. We must see less of each other, at least in public, and be quite overcome about Tirso; that is another account I charge to Spain: I knew him when I was a child ... in the Vuelta Arriba--" Andres Escobar began to cry wholly and unaffectedly; he leaned against an angle of the gate, his head in an arm, and prolonged sobs shook his body. Tears were silently streaming over Jaime's face, but Charles Abbott's eyes were dry. He was filled by an ecstasy of horror and detestation at the brutal murder of Tirso. Fear closed his throat and pinched his heart with icy fingers; but he ignored, rose above, himself, in a tremendous accession of his determination to drive injustice--if not yet from the world--from Cuba.

How little, he thought, anyone knew him who advised a return to America. Before the cold violent fact of death a great part of his early melodramatic spirit evaporated; the last possible trace of any self-glorification left him, the lingering mock-heroics of boyhood were gone. His emotion, now, was almost exultant; like a blaze of insuperable white light it drowned all the individual colors of his personality; it appeared to him almost that he had left the earth, that he was above other men.

More than anything, he continued, he would require wisdom, the wisdom of patience, maturity; Tirso had been completely wasted. He was seated, again, on the roof of his hotel, and again it was night: the guitars were like a distant sounding of events evolved in harmonies, and there was the gleam of moonlight on the sea, a trace of the moon and the scent of mignonette trees.

He was, he felt, very old, grave, in deportment; this detachment from living must be the mark of age. Charles had always been a little removed from activity by sickness; and now his almost solitary, dreaming habit of existence had deepened in him. He thought, from time to time, of other periods than his own, of ages when such service as his had been, for gentlemen, the commonplace of living: he saw, in imagination, before the altar of a little chapel, under the glimmer of tall candles, a boyish figure kneeling in armor throughout the night.

At morning, with a faint clas.h.i.+ng of steel, the young knight under a vow rode into black forests of enchanted beasts and men and impure magic, from which he delivered the innocent and the pure in heart.

Charles Abbott recalled the burning of the Protestant Cranmer, and, as well, the execution of John Felton for posting the Papal bull against the Queen on the door of London House. They too, like the knights of Arthurian legend, had conquered the flesh for an ideal. He was carried in spirit into a whole world of transcendent courage, into a company who scorned ease and safety in the preservation of an integrity, a devotion, above self. This gave him a release, the sense that his body was immaterial, that filled him with a calm serious fervor.

He was conscious, through this, of the ceaseless playing of the guitars, strains of jotas and malaguenas, laden with the seductiveness, the fascination, of sensuous warm life. It was, in its persistence, mocking; and finally it grew into a bitter undertone to the elevation of his thought: he wanted, like Savonarola, to bring to an end the depravity of the city; he wanted to cleanse Havana of everything but the blanched heavenly ardor of his own dedication. The jotas continued and the scent of mignonette increased. The moon, slipping over the sea, shone with a vague brightness on the leaves of the laurels below, on the whiteness of marble walks, and in the liquid gleam of fountains. A woman laughed with a note of uncertainty and pa.s.sion.... It was all infinitely removed from him, not of the slightest moment. What rose, dwelt, in Charles was a breath of eternity, of infinitude; he was lost in a vision of good beyond seasons, changeless, and for all men whomsoever. It must come, he told himself so tensely that he was certain he had cried his conviction aloud. The music sustained its burden of earthly desire to which the harsh whispering rustle of the palm fronds added a sound like a scoffing laughter.

At the Plaza de Toros, the following Sunday afternoon, Charles saw La Clavel; she was seated on an upper tier near the stand of the musicians, over the entrance for the bulls; and, in an audience composed almost entirely of men, she was brilliantly conspicuous in a flaming green manton embroidered in white petals; her mantilla was white, and Charles could distinguish the crimson blot of the flower by her cheek. The bra.s.s horns and drums of the band were making a rasping uproar, and the crowded wooden amphitheatre was tense with excitement.

Andres Escobar, beside Charles, was being gradually won from a settled melancholy; and, in an interested voice, he spoke to Charles about the espada, Jose Ponce, who had not yet killed a bull in Cuba, but who was a great hero of the ring in Spain and South America.

"There is La Clavel," Charles said by way of reply; "she is with Captain Santacilla, and I think, but I can't be sure, the officer Tirso tried to choke to death. What is his name--de Vaca, Gaspar Arco de Vaca."

"Even that," Andres answered, "wasn't accomplished. La Clavel's engagement in Havana is over; I suppose it will be Buenos Aires next.

Do you remember how we swore to follow her all over the world, and how Tirso wanted to drag her volanta in place of the horses? At heart, it's no doubt, she is Spanish, and yet.... There's the procession."

The key bearer, splendid in velvet and gold and silver, with a short cloak, rode into the ring followed by the picadores on broken-down horses: their legs were swathed in leather and their jackets, of ruby and orange and emerald, were set with expensive lace. They carried pikes with iron points; while the banderilleros, on foot, with hair long and knotted like a woman's, hung their bright cloaks over an arm and bore the darts gay with paper rosettes.

The espada, Jose Ponce, was greeted with a savage roar of approbation; he was dressed in green velvet, his zouave jacket heavy with gold bullion; and his lithe slender dark grace recalled to Charles Abbott La Clavel. Charles paid little attention to the bull fighting, for he was far in the sky of his altruism; his presence at the Plaza de Toros was merely mechanical, the routine of his life in Havana. Across from him the banked humanity in the cheaper seats a sol, exposed to the full blaze of mid-afternoon, made a pattern without individual significance; he heard the quick bells of the mules that dragged out the dead bulls; a thick revolting odor rose from the hot sand soaked with the blood and entrails of horses.

At times, half turning, he saw the brilliant shawl of the dancer, and more than once he distinguished her voice in the applause following a specially skilful or daring pa.s.s. He thought of her with a pa.s.sionate admiration unaffected by the realization that she had brought them the worst of luck: perhaps any touch of Spain was corrupting, fatal. And the sudden desire seized him to talk to La Clavel and make sure that her superb art was unshadowed by the disturbing possibilities voiced by Andres.

There were cries of fuego! fuego! and Charles Abbott was conscious of a bull who had proved indifferent to sport. A banderillero, fluttering his cloak, stepped forward and planted in the beast's shoulder a dart that exploded loudly with a spurt of flame and smoke; there was a smothered bellow, and renewed activities went forward below. "What a rotten show!" Charles said to Andres, and the latter accused him of being a tender sentimentalist. Jose Ponce, Andres p.r.o.nounced with satisfaction, was a great sword. The espada was about to kill: he moved as gracefully as though he were in the figure of a dance; his thrust, as direct as a flash of lightning, went up to the hilt, and the vomiting bull fell in cras.h.i.+ng death at his feet.

"Suppose, for a change, we go to the Aguila de Oro," Andres suggested; "the air is better there." By that he meant that the cafe was relatively free from Spaniards. The throng moved shoulder to shoulder slowly to the doors; but Charles managed to work his way constantly nearer the conspicuous figure of La Clavel. He despaired, however, of getting close to her, when an unforeseen eddy of humanity separated the dancer from her companions and threw her into Charles' path. She recognized him immediately: but, checking his formal salutation, she said, in a rapid lowered voice, that she would very much like to see him ... at the St. Louis late on the afternoon of tomorrow. They were separated immediately, leaving in Charles a sense of excited antic.i.p.ation. He joined Andres soon after and told him what had occurred.

"I suppose it is safe for you," Andres decided; "you are an American, no one has yet connected you with the cause of Cuba. But this woman--What do we know of her?--you'll have to be prudent!"

Andres Escobar had grown severe in the last week, he had hardened remarkably; his concentration, Charles felt, his bitterness, even excluded his friends. Charles Abbott's affection for him increased daily; his love, really, for Andres was a part of all that was highest in him. Unlike the love of any woman, Andres made no demand on him, what only mattered was what each intrinsically was: there were no pretence, no weary protestations, nothing beside the truth of their mutual regard, their friends.h.i.+p. What Charles possessed belonged equally, without demand, to Andres; they had, aside from their great preoccupation, the same thoughts and prejudices, the same taste in refrescos and beauty and clothes. They discovered fresh identical tastes with a rush of happiness.

It was, like the absorbing rest, immaterial, the negation of ordinary aims and ideas of comfort and self-seeking. Charles would have died for Andres, Andres for Charles, without of a moment's hesitation; indeed, the base of their feeling lay in the full recognition of that fact. This they admitted simply, with no accent of exaggeration or boasting: on the present plane of their being it was the most natural thing in the world.

At the Aguila de Oro, spinning the paddle of a molinillo, and individual chocolate mill, Andres informed Charles that Vincente was home. "He has told me everything," Andres Escobar continued with pride. "We are now more than Escobars--brother Cubans. He has been both shot and sabred and he has a malaria. But nearly all his friends are dead. Soon, he says, we, Jaime and Remigio--and, I added, you--will have to go out. He is to let us know when and how."

"Do the police know he is in Havana?"

"We think not; they haven't been about the house since the investigation of the de Vaca affair, and our servants are not spies. You must come and see Vincente this evening, for he may leave at any hour. It seems that he is celebrated for his bravery and the Spaniards have marked him for special attention. Papa and mama are dreadfully disturbed, and not only because of him; for if he is discovered, all of us, yes, little Narcisa, will be made to pay--to a horrible degree, I can tell you."

There was, apparently, nothing unusual in the situation at the Escobars' when Charles called in the evening. The family, exactly as he had known it, was a.s.sembled in the drawing-room, conversing under the icy flood of the crystal chandelier. He found a chair by Narcisa, and listened studiously to the colloquial Spanish, running swiftly around the circle, alternating with small thoughtful silences. Soon, however, Charles Abbott could see that the atmosphere was not normal--the vivacity palpably was forced through the shadow of a secret apprehension. Domingo Escobar made sudden seemingly irrelevant gestures, Carmita sighed out of her rotundity. Only Narcisa was beyond the general subdued gloom: in her clear white dress, her clocked white silk stockings, and the spread densely black curtain of her hair, she was intent on a wondering thought of her own. Her gaze, as usual, was lowered to her loosely clasped hands; but, growing conscious of Charles' regard, she looked up quickly, and, holding his eyes, smiled at him with an incomprehensible sweetness.

He regarded her with a gravity no more than half actual--his mind was set upon Vincente--and her even pallor was invaded by a slow soft color. Charles nodded, entirely friendly, and she turned away, so abruptly that her hair swung out and momentarily hid her profile. He forgot her immediately, for he had overheard, half understood, an allusion to the Escobars' elder son. With a growing impatience he interrogated Andres, and the latter nodded a rea.s.surance. Then Andres Escobar rose, punctiliously facing his father--he would, with permission, take Charles to the upper balconies, the wide view from which he had never seen. Domingo was plainly uneasy, displeased; but, after a long frowning pause, gave his reluctant consent. Charles Abbott was acutely aware of his heels striking against the marble steps which, broad, imposing and dark, led above. Vincente, it developed, without actually being in hiding, was limited to the scope of the upper hall, where, partly screened in growing palms, its end formed a small salon.

There was a glimmer of light though sword-like leaves, and a lamp on an alabaster table set in ormolu cast up its illumination on a face from which every emotion had been banished by a supreme weariness.

Undoubtedly at one time Vincente Escobar had been as handsome as Andres; more arbitrary, perhaps, with a touch of impatience resembling petulance; the carriage, the air, of a youth spoiled by unrestrained inclination and society. The ghost of this still lingered over him, in the movement of his slender hands, the sharp upflinging of his chin; but it was no more than a memento of a gay and utterly lost past. The weariness, Charles began to realize, was the result of more than a spent physical and mental being--Vincente was ill. He had acquired a fever, it was brought out, in the jungles of Camaguey.

At first he was wholly indifferent to Charles; at the end of Andres'

enthusiastic introduction, after a flawless but perfunctory courtesy, Vincente said:

"The United States is very important to us; we have had to depend almost entirely on the New York Junta for our life. We have hope, too, in General Grant. Finally your country, that was so successful in its liberation, will understand us completely, and sweep Spain over the sea. But, until that comes, we need only money and courage in our, in Cuban, hearts. You are, I understand from Andres, rich; and you are generous, you will give?"

That direct question, together with its hint at the personal unimportance of his attachment to a cause of pure justice, filled Charles with both resentment and discomfort. He replied stiffly, in halting but adequate Spanish, that there had been a misunderstanding: "I am not rich; the money I have you would think nothing--it might buy a stand or two of rifles, but no more. What I had wanted to spend was myself, my belief in Cuba. It seemed to me that might be worth something--" he stopped, in the difficulty of giving expression to his deep convictions; and Andres warmly grasped his hand. He held Charles'

palm and addressed his brother in a pa.s.sionate flood of protest and a.s.sertion: Charles Abbott, his dear friend, was as good a patriot as any Escobar, and they should all embrace him in grat.i.tude and welcome; he was, if not the gold of the United States, its unselfish and devoted heart; his presence here, his belief in them, was an indication of what must follow.

"If he were killed," Andres explained. "That alone would bring us an army; the indignation of his land would fall like a mountain on our enemies."

This, giving Charles a fresh view of his usefulness, slightly cooled his ardor; he was willing to accept it, in his exalted state he would make any sacrifice for the ideal that had possessed him; but there was an acceptance of brutal unsentimental fact in the Latin fibre of the Escobars foreign to his own more romantic conceptions. Vincente wasn't much carried away by the possibility Andres revealed.

"He'd be got out of the way privately," he explained in his drained voice; "polite letters and no more, regrets, would be exchanged. The politicians of Was.h.i.+ngton are not different from those of Cuba. If he is wise he will see Havana as an idler. Even you, Andres, do not know yet what is waiting for you. It is one thing to conspire in a balcony on the Prado and another to lie in the marshes of Camaguey. You cannot realize how desperate Spain is with the debt left from her wars with Morocco and Chile and Peru. Cuba, for a number of years, has been her richest possession. While the Spaniards were paying taxes of three dollars and twenty some cents, we, in Cuba, were paying six dollars and sixty-nine. After our declaration of independence at Manzanillo--"

an eloquent pause left his hearers to the contemplation of what had followed.

"You know how it has gone with us," Vincente continued, almost exclusively to the younger Escobar. "Carlos Cespedes left his practice of the law at Bayamo for a desperate effort with less than a hundred and thirty men. But they were successful, and in a few weeks we had fifteen thousand, with the const.i.tution of a republican government drawn. We ended slavery," here, for a breath, he addressed Charles Abbott. "But in that," he specified, "we were different from you. In the United States slavery was considered as only a moral wrong. Your Civil War was, after all, an affair of philanthropy; while we freed the slaves for economic reasons.

"Well, our struggle went on," he returned to Andres, "and we were victorious, with, at the most, fifty thousand men against how many?

One, two, hundred thousand. And we began to be recognized abroad, by Bolivia and Columbia and the Mexican Congress. The best Cubans, those like ourselves, were in sympathy with the insurrection. Everything was bright, the climate, too, was fighting for us; and then, Andres, we lost man after man, the bravest, the youngest, first: they were murdered, as I may be tonight, killed among the lianas, overtaken in the villages, smothered in small detachments by great forces, until now. And it is for that I have said so much, when it is unnecessary to p.r.o.nounce a word. What do you think is our present situation? What do you think I left of our splendid effort in the interior? General Agramonte and thirty-five men. That and no more!

"Their condition you may see in me--wasted, hardly stronger than pigeons, and less than half armed. What, do you think, one boy from Pennsylvania is worth to that? Can he live without food more than half the time, without solid land under his feet, without protection against the mosquitoes and heat and tropical rains? And in Havana: but remember your friend, Tirso Labrador! You, Andres, have no alternative; but your Charles Abbott he would be a danger rather than an a.s.sistance." Charles, with a prodigious effort at a calm self-control, answered him.

"You are very thoughtful, and it is right to be cautious, but what you say is useless. Andres understands! I'd never be satisfied to be anything except a Cuban patriot. It isn't necessary for you to understand that in a minute, an evening. I might be no good in Camaguey, but I am not as young as Tirso; I am more bitter and patient. By heaven, I will do something, I will be a part of your bravery! Not only the soldiers in the field, not only Agramonte, but sacrifice--"

Charles' throat was closed, his words stopped, by the intensity of his feeling; his longing to be identified, lost, in the spirit of General Agramonte and the faithful thirty-five burned into a desperation of unhappiness. Vincente Escobar, it was evident, thought that he wasn't capable of sustaining such a trust. Still there was nothing to be gained by protests, hot a.s.severations; with difficulty he suppressed his resentment, and sat, to all appearances, calm, engaged with a cigar and attending Vincente's irregular vehement speech. Andres was silent, dark and serious; but the gaze he turned upon Charles was warm with affection and admiration. Nothing, Vincente insisted, could be done now; they must wait and draw into their cause every possible ultimate a.s.sistance and understanding. If the truth were known, he repeated again and again, the world would be at their feet.

Finally, his enthusiasm, his power, ebbed; his yellow pinched face sank forward: he was so spent, so delivered to a loose indifference of body, that he might well have been dead. Charles rose with a formal Spanish period voicing the appreciation of the honor that had been his.