The Key to Yesterday Part 18

"What happened?" urged Rodman, in a frenzy of anxiety. The roaring of rifles did not seem to come nearer, except for detached sounds of sporadic skirmis.h.i.+ng. The central plaza and its environs were holding the interest of the combatants.

"Sure, it means there was a leak. When the boys marched up to San Francisco, they were met with artillery fire. It had been tipped off, and the government had changed the garrison." The Irish adventurer, who had led men under half a dozen tatterdemalion flags, smiled sarcastically. "Sure, it was quite simple!"

"And where is the fighting?" shouted Rodman, as though he would hold these men responsible for his shattered scheme of empire.

"Everywhere. Vegas was in too deep to pull out. The government couldn't sh.e.l.l its own capital, and so it's street to street sc.r.a.ppin' now. But we're licked unless--" He halted suddenly, with the gleam of an inspired idea in his eyes. The leader of the Foreign Legion was sitting on a table. Saxon noted for the first time that, besides the punctured wrist, he was disabled with a broken leg.

"Unless what?" questioned Colonel Martinez. That officer was pallid under his dark skin from loss of blood. One arm was bandaged tightly against his side.

"Unless we can hold them for a time, and get word to the diplomatic corps to arbitrate. A delay would give us a bit of time to pull ourselves together."

Martinez, shrugged his shoulders.

"Impossible," he said, drearily.

"Wait. Pendleton, the American minister, is dean of the corps. Carter here is practically a stranger in town these days, and he's got nerve.

I know him. As an American, he might possibly make it to the legation.

Carter, will you try to get through the streets to the American Legation? Will you?"

Saxon had leaped forward. He liked the direct manner of this man, and the legation was his destination.

"It's a hundred to one shot, Carter, that ye can't do it." Murphy's voice, in its excitement, dropped into brogue. "Will ye try? Will ye tell him to git th' diplomats togither, and ask an armistice? Ye know our countersign, '_Vegas y Libertad_.'"

But Saxon had already started off in the general direction of the main plaza. For two squares, he met no interference. For two more, he needed no other pa.s.sport than the countersign, then, as he turned a corner, it seemed to him that he plunged at a step into a reek of burnt powder and burning houses. There was a confused vista of men in retreat, a roar that deafened him, and a sudden numbness. He dropped to his knees, attempted to rise to his feet, then seemed to sink into a welcome sleep, as he stretched comfortably at length on the pavement close to a wall, a detachment of routed _insurrectos_ sweeping by him in full flight.

CHAPTER XIII

The pa.s.sing of the fugitive _insurrectos_; their mad turning at bay for one savage rally; their wavering and breaking; their disorganized stampede spurred on by a decimating fire and the bayonet's point: these were all incidents of a sudden squall that swept violently through the narrow street, to leave it again empty and quiet. It was empty except for the grotesque shapes that stretched in all the undignified awkwardness of violent death and helplessness, feeding thin lines of red that trickled between the cobblestones. It was silent except for echoes of the stubborn fighting coming from the freer s.p.a.ces of the plazas and _alamedas_, where the remnants of the invading force clung to their positions behind improvised barricades with the doggedness of men for whom surrender holds no element of hope or mercy.

Into the canyon-like street where the frenzy of combat had blazed up with such a sudden spurt and burned itself out so quickly, Saxon had walked around the angle of a wall, just in time to find himself precipitated into one of the fiercest incidents of the b.l.o.o.d.y forenoon.

Vegas and Miraflores had not surrendered. Everywhere, the insistent noise told that the opposing forces were still debating every block of the street, but in many outlying places, as in this _calle_, the revolutionists were already giving back. The attacking army had counted on launching a blow, paralyzing in its surprise, and had itself encountered surprise and partial preparedness. It had set its hope upon a hill, and the hill had failed. A prophet might already read that _Vegas y Libertad_ was the watchword of a lost cause, and that its place in history belonged on a page to be turned down.

But the narrow street in which Saxon lay remained quiet. An occasional balcony window would open cautiously, and an occasional head would be thrust out to look up and down its length. An occasional shape on the cobbles would moan painfully, and s.h.i.+ft its position with the return of consciousness, or grow more grotesque in the stiffness of death as the hours wore into late afternoon, but the great iron-studded street-doors of the houses remained barred, and no one ventured along the sidewalks.

Late in the day, when the city still echoed to the snapping of musketry, and deeper notes rumbled through the din, as small field-pieces were brought to bear upon opposing barricades, the thing that Saxon had undertaken to bring about occurred of its own initiative. Word reached the two leaders that the representatives of the foreign powers requested an armistice for the removal of the wounded and a conference at the American Legation, looking toward possible adjustment. Both the government and the _insurrecto_ commanders grasped at the opportunity to let their men, exhausted with close-fighting, catch a breathing s.p.a.ce, and to remove from the zone of fire those who lay disabled in the streets.

Then, as the firing subsided, some of the bolder civilians ventured forth in search for such acquaintances as had been caught in the streets between the impact of forces in the unwarned battle. For this hour, at least, all men were safe, and there were some with matters to arrange, who might not long enjoy immunity.

Among them was Howard Rodman, who followed up the path he fancied Saxon must have taken. Rodman was haggard and distrait. His plans were all in ruins, and, unless an amnesty were declared, he must be once more the refugee. His belief that Saxon was really Carter led him into two false conclusions. First, he inferred from this premise that Saxon's life would be as greatly imperiled as his own, and it followed that he, being in his own words "no quitter," must see Saxon out of the city, if the man were alive. He presumed that in the effort to reach the legation Saxon had taken, as would anyone familiar with the streets, a circuitous course which would bring him to the "_Club Nacional_," from which point he could reach the house he sought over the roofs. He had no doubt that the American had failed in his mission, because, by any route, he must make his way through streets where he would encounter fighting.

Rodman's search became feverish. There was little time to lose. The conference might be brief--and, after that, chaos! But fortune favored him. Chance led him into the right street, and he found the body.

Being alone, he stood for a moment indecisive. He was too light a man to carry bodily the wounded friend who lay at his feet. He could certainly not leave the man, for his ear at the chest, his finger on the pulse, a.s.sured him that Saxon was alive. He had been struck by a falling timber from a balcony above, and the skull seemed badly hurt, probably fractured.

As Rodman stood debating the dilemma, a shadow fell across the pavement. He turned with a nervous start to recognize at his back a newcomer, palpably a foreigner and presumably a Frenchman, though his excellent English, when he spoke, was only slightly touched with accent. The stranger dropped to his knee, and made a rapid examination, as Rodman had done. It did not occur to him at the moment that the man standing near him was an acquaintance of the other who lay unconscious at their feet.

"The gentleman is evidently a non-combatant--and he is badly hurt, monsieur," he volunteered. "We most a.s.suredly cannot leave him here to die."

Rodman answered with some eagerness:

"Will you help me to carry him to a place where he'll be safe?"

"Gladly." The Frenchman looked about. "Surely, he can be cared for near here."

But Rodman laid a persuasive hand on the other's arm.

"He must be taken to the water front," he declared, earnestly. "After the conference, he would not be safe here."

The stranger drew back, and stood for a moment twisting his dark mustache, while his eyes frowned inquiringly. He was disinclined to take part in proceedings that might have political after-effects. He had volunteered to a.s.sist an injured civilian, not a partic.i.p.ant, or refugee. There were many such in the streets.

"This is a matter of life and death," urged Rodman, rapidly. "This man is Mr. Robert Saxon. He had left this coast with a clean bill of health. I explain all this because I need your help. When he had made a part of his return journey, he learned by chance that the city was threatened, and that a lady who was very important to him was in danger. He hastened back. In order to reach her, he became involved, and used the _insurrecto_ countersign. Mr. Saxon is a famous artist."

Rodman was giving the version of the story he knew the wounded man would wish to have told. He said nothing of Carter.

At the last words, the stranger started forward.

"A famous painter!" His voice was full of incredulous interest.

"Monsieur, you can not by any possibility mean that this is Robert A.

Saxon, the first disciple of Frederick Marston!" The man's manner became enthused and eager. "You must know, monsieur," he went on, "that I am Louis Herve, myself a poor copyist of the great Marston. At one time, I had the honor to be his pupil. To me, it is a pleasure to be of any service to Mr. Saxon. What are we to do?"

"There is a small sailors' tavern near the mole," directed Rodman; "we must take him there. I shall find a way to have him cared for on a vessel going seaward. I have a yacht five miles away, but we can hardly reach it in time."

"But medical attention!" demurred Monsieur Herve. "He must have that."

Rodman was goaded into impatience by the necessity for haste. He was in no mood for debate.

"Yes, and a trained nurse!" he retorted, hotly. "We must do the best we can. If we don't hurry, he will need an undertaker and a coroner.

Medical attention isn't very good in Puerto Frio prisons!"

The two men lifted Saxon between them, and carried the unconscious man toward the mole.

Their task was like that of many others. They pa.s.sed a sorry procession of litters, stretchers, and bodies hanging limply in the arms of bearers. No one paid the slightest attention to them, except an occasional sentry who gazed on in stolid indifference.

At the tavern kept by the Chinaman, Juan, and frequented by the roughest elements that drift against a coast such as this, Rodman exchanged greetings with many acquaintances. There were several wounded officers of the Vegas contingent, taking advantage of the armistice to have their wounds dressed and discuss affairs over a bottle of wine. Evidently, they had come here instead of to more central and less squalid places, with the same idea that had driven Rodman. They were the rats about to leave the sinking s.h.i.+p--if they could find a way to leave.

The tavern was an adobe building with a corrugated-iron roof and a large open _patio_, where a dismal fountain tinkled feebly, and one or two frayed palms stood dusty and disconsolate in the tightly trodden earth. About the walls were flamboyant portraits of saints. From a small perch in one corner, a yellow and green parrot squawked incessantly.

But it was the life about the rough tables of the area that gave the picture its color and variety. Some had been pressed into service to support the wounded. About others gathered men in tattered uniforms; men with bandaged heads and arms in slings. Occasionally, one saw an alien, a sailor whose clothes declared him to have no place in the drama of the scene. These latter were usually bolstering up their bravado with _aguardiente_ against the sense of impending uncertainty that freighted the atmosphere.

The Frenchman, sharing with Rodman the burden of the unconscious painter, instinctively halted as the place with its wavering shadows and flickering lights met his gaze at the door. It was a picture of color and dramatic intensity. He seemed to see these varied faces, upon which sat defeat and suffering, sketched on a broad canvas, as Marston or Saxon might have sketched them.

Then, he laid Saxon down on a corner table, and stood watching his chance companion who recognized brother intriguers. Suddenly, Rodman's eyes brightened, and he beckoned his lean hand toward two men who stood apart. Both of them had faces that were in strong contrast to the swarthy Latin-American countenances about them. One was thin and blond, the other dark and heavy. The two came across the _patio_ together, and after a hasty glance the slender man bent at once over the prostrate figure on the table. His deft fingers and manner proclaimed him the surgeon. His uniform was nondescript; hardly more a uniform than the riding clothes worn by Saxon himself, but on his shoulders he had pinned a major's straps. This was Dr. Cornish, of the Foreign Legion, but for the moment he was absorbed in his work and forgetful of his disastrously adopted profession of arms.

He called for water and bandages, and, while he worked, Rodman was talking with the other man. Herve stood silently looking on. He recognized that the dark man was a s.h.i.+p-captain--probably commanding a tramp freighter.

"When did you come?" inquired Rodman.