CHIVALRY

One night in the month of July four horsemen, well mounted, emerged from an hacienda in Uruca[24] and rode hurriedly along the highway to the joining of the road to San Antonio de Belén, where they stopped.

“Here we must separate,” said one of them. “May you have good luck, Ramón,” he added searching in the darkness for his friend’s hand.

“Adiós, Salvador, adiós,” replied the one spoken to, in a voice trembling with emotion. The two men, without letting go of each other’s hands, drew together until their stirrups touched, and embraced warmly.

“Adiós, adiós”—“Good luck.”

After a last embrace, long and affectionate, both started off in different directions, each escorted by one of the two horsemen who had just witnessed the sad scene of farewell. Those who followed the highroad did not get very far. At the Ciruelas river they fell into the hands of a picket of soldiers who carried them prisoners to the Alajuela Barracks. The other two fugitives, for fugitives they were, kept on, with better fortune, along the San Antonio road.[25] The darkness did not permit them to see where they were going, so that the travellers had to trust to the instinct of their horses to avoid the bad places or to get out of them. Luckily it did not rain, which would have been one more hindrance to the rapid march that the critical situation in which Salvador Moreno found himself necessitated, for he was being eagerly searched for on account of his share in the attack made the night before on the Cuartel Principal[26] in San José. The revolutionary uprising had failed through the fault of those who were to have brought men from the neighboring towns, with the intention of arming them when the Cuartel had surrendered, and of laying siege to the other ones.

Not one of them appeared at the critical moment, and the few valiant ones who had surprised the garrison asleep at two o’clock in the morning, had to abandon at daybreak the conquest which had cost them so much blood.

Salvador did not answer the questions which from time to time his companion asked him. Absorbed in his thoughts he lived over again the happenings of last night’s bloody drama; the meeting in the house of one of the conspirators, the irritating wait for those who did not come, the fear of a betrayal, the doubts and hesitations of the last hour, finally the moment of marching, the gate of the Cuartel opened by the hand of a traitor, the hand to hand fight with the guard, the gallantry of the officers meeting death at their posts. But more than all there harassed him the vision of a young lieutenant running up hurriedly, sabre in hand, to aid his comrades, whom he had laid low by a shot at barely arm’s length. In vain he tried to make himself believe that it was a legitimate act of warfare. An internal voice cried out in the tribunal of his conscience against the blood that had been shed. Salvador Moreno was a high-strung, refined man to whom the brutality of force was repugnant. At the same time his indomitable and lofty spirit could not bend itself to the political despotism which is killing us like a shameful chronic sore. In the conspiracy he had seen the shaking off of the heavy yoke, the dignity of his country avenged, and the triumph of liberty. To gain all that, the sacrifice of his life had not seemed too much. Now his sorrow was very great, his patriotic illusions had disappeared like the visions of a beautiful dream when one awakens, and his heart was throbbing with wrath against those who through their cowardice had caused the daring attempt to fail. With keen regret he thought of his comrades uselessly sacrificed, of the agony of a brave young fellow whom he had carried out of the Cuartel in his arms, mortally wounded. Clear and exact the events of the combat went marching through his mind, some of which were atrocious, worthy of savages, others irresistibly comical, like that of the boastful fellow who withdrew from the gate of the Cuartel to go in search of his revolver which he pretended to have forgotten; and always persistent and sad, the vision of the lieutenant falling without a cry, his hand at his breast. Afterwards the despair at the failure, the retreat at daybreak through the deserted streets of the capital, the interminable hours of anguish, hidden with Ramón Solares under some sacks in the country house of a friend, listening to the voices of those who were searching for them. Finally the sheltering night, the hurried flight, the gloomy future, forbidding as the wrath of the enraged dictator. In order to aid their escape the fugitives had agreed to follow different roads; Salvador Moreno chose the one to Puntarenas,[27] passing through San Antonio de Belén, and the plains of Carmen. Ramón Solares preferred the San Carlos[28] route, with the idea of seeking refuge in Nicaragua by land, where the two friends were to meet if Salvador should succeed in escaping the vigilance of the authorities of the port.

Both were accompanied by trusty retainers who knew the country and were of proved courage. It was Fate that decided in this case, and we have already seen that she declared in favor of Salvador Moreno, who without meeting a soul, arrived at the highroad to Puntarenas at one o’clock in the morning, while his friend, chained in his prison, offered prayers that he might succeed in escaping from those who pursued him. At three o’clock he passed through Atenas and at six in the morning he and his companion arrived at the gates of San Mateo,[29] but now the horses could endure no more. It was part of the fugitive’s plan to pass the day hidden in a friendly and secure house on the plains of Surubres, although now this was not possible, on account of the fatigue of the horses and the danger of the young conspirator’s being recognized in passing through the village, in spite of the fact that he was wearing the costume of a countryman.[30] It was necessary then to decide on something.

“Don Salvador,” said the guide, “three hundred yards from here there lives an acquaintance of mine, who is a man you can trust. If you like we can dismount here, so that we shan’t have to pass through San Mateo in the daytime.”

“Very well, let us go there.”

The two men spurred their horses and a few minutes afterwards arrived at a house situated a short distance from the road. Through the unbarred gate they entered, saluted by the barking of three thin, mangy dogs. At this disturbance an old and corpulent countryman came out on the veranda.

“Buenos días, ’Nor José,” said the guide.

“Buenos días, Pedro,” replied the old man. “How goes it?”

“Well; and how are you? How are the girls getting on?”

“Very well, thank you. Why don’t you get off a while and rest?” added the old fellow.

The horsemen dismounted and Salvador dropped, half dead with fatigue, on the settle that stood on the veranda. While he was stretching his aching legs, ’Nor José and Pedro unsaddled the horses and the latter confided to the old man that his companion was fleeing the country. Hurriedly he told him a story which he made up as he went on; something about a quarrel in which machetes had been flourished in the air. The old man did not insist on the details, promising to keep quiet about the unlooked for guests in his house.

Pedro went to take the horses to the pasture and Salvador accepted with pleasure the coffee which the youngest daughter of ’Nor José served him. The old man was proud of having for a son-in-law the jefe politico[31] of San Mateo, who had married his oldest daughter, a handsome girl, so people said. Noticing that his guest was getting sleepy he conducted him to a cot bed that he might rest.

Five minutes afterwards the fugitive was sleeping like a log. The night came on without Salvador’s awakening from the deep slumber into which he had fallen, his bones aching and his nerves being unstrung by the fatigue and emotions he had endured.

Pedro had improved the time by bathing the horses in the neighboring river and giving them a good feed of corn. This task ended, he took a nap for a couple of hours, which was sufficient to restore to his muscles the necessary energy; and as it was not two o’clock in the afternoon, he shared the frugal dinner of his host.

On hearing the church bells of San Mateo tolling “Las Animas” he resolved to awaken Salvador, which was not an easy thing to do. For all that he shook him, it was impossible to overcome the stupor which held him fast. Finally he opened his eyes, looking about in a dazed way without comprehending, until Pedro’s voice insisting on the urgency of taking the road made him remember the reality of the situation. Salvador got up with difficulty; each movement that he made aroused a dormant pain in his body, which was agitated by a painful, feverish sensation. A little glass of cognac produced the necessary reaction and the odor of supper already served began to remind him that he had been fasting for many hours.

While Salvador was devouring a chicken, which at Pedro’s request the daughter of ’Nor José had cooked, the latter, seated on a bench, observed him closely. Naturally keen, he had scented the fact that beneath the short jacket was hidden a person who was not accustomed to wear it. The attentiveness of Pedro to Salvador, the respect with which he talked to him, were indications that this man belonged to a higher class of society than his garb would imply. This was evident; but looking well into the matter, what difference did it make to him that the stranger was who he was?

A five dollar bill which Salvador put in his hand, completely confirmed the old man’s suspicions. In a little while Pedro entered to give notice that the horses were ready and Salvador, in bidding farewell, warmly squeezed the hand of his chance host, who almost fell over himself in his salutations and wishes for a safe journey. They were already going out to the veranda, when a boy came running up with the news that ’Nor José’s oldest daughter was very ill. About to give birth to a child she had suffered a fall with bad consequences.

The old man was very much alarmed and Salvador tried to calm him, advising him to call a doctor.

“We have no doctor here,” replied ’Nor José, much distressed, “and while one is coming from Alajuela the girl may die.”

Salvador, who was a warm-hearted fellow, did not hesitate a moment.

“Let us go and see her,” he said. “I am a doctor.”

The old man, surprised and pleased, did not know what to say.

“May God pay you, señor, may God pay you!” he finally murmured with tears in his eyes. Pedro, plainly anxious, improved the moment when the countryman went to get his hat and call his daughter, to whisper in Salvador’s ear that the sick woman was no less than the wife of the jefe politico, who must already have had orders to capture him.

“No matter, Pedro. It is my duty not to allow this poor woman to die. Let us go at once.”

The old man, who returned hurriedly, heard these last words. “May God pay you, señor,” he said again in a low voice. Pedro took the old man behind him on the crupper and Salvador the girl. After fifteen minutes of fast riding, the four stopped in front of the jefe politico’s office.

The house was full of gossipers of the neighborhood, who had come in armed with infallible remedies which they were anxious to apply to the sufferer. The friends of the jefe politico, gathered together in the dining-room about a bottle of white rum, told discreetly, for the comfort of the official, of similar cases which finally had ended happily.

The arrival of her father and sister called forth a groan from the sick one, who in her role of a first-time mother considered herself as good as dead.

“Enter, enter, doctor!” exclaimed the old man, politely addressing the fugitive, whom nobody in the midst of the general confusion had as yet noticed. Judging by his costume, those present took him for one of those country quacks who live on the ignorance and avarice of the country people. Salvador examined the sick woman carefully and was convinced that, although the case was a serious one, it would not be difficult to save her. Without loss of time he took such measures as the circumstances demanded, and from that moment he thought only of the life of the little human creature which depended on his care. In vain Pedro reminded him many times of the great peril he was incurring in that house; nothing could make him withdraw.

’Nor José and the jefe politico, feeling more at ease after hearing the doctor’s opinion, went to join the circle of friends, who had already given a good account of the first bottle of rum. When the second was opened, tongues began to get loosened, and the conversation acquired an animation which it lacked at the beginning.

Incidentally they talked of the revolution which had just taken place and ’Nor José, who, on account of the isolation in which he lived, was ignorant of it all, made them tell him of what had happened, listening to the story with anxiety. On learning that it was the Cuartel Principal which had been attacked, he asked his son-in-law whether he had news of Rafael, his son, who was one of the garrison.

“I don’t know anything about him,” replied the jefe politico. “I suppose that there is no news since they have not sent me any word. Nevertheless in order to feel easy I am going to telegraph to San José.”

When the despatch was written it was sent to the telegraph office.

Salvador did not leave his patient, encouraging her with cheering words to bear her pains with fortitude. Pedro, ill at ease, was watching the street, near the horses which were dozing with their heads low down.

At ten o’clock at night a long telegram came for the jefe politico. As he was reading it his hands trembled slightly. Suddenly a violent exclamation broke from his lips.

On hearing it, the people present got up as though to ask the cause, but the jefe politico without speaking a word conducted his father-in-law to a neighboring room. There, without any preamble, he told him that his son had been killed in the attack of the night before, and that Doctor Salvador Moreno was supposed to have been his slayer, and that he was then trying to escape from the country.

The poor old man, falling limp into a chair, wept bitterly over the death of his son. After a while he aroused himself with an expression of unspeakable wrath and the tears dried up in his eyes, which now shone like red-hot coals. “Salvador Moreno,” he murmured in a hoarse voice, “I won’t forget that name.”

“I have heard it,” said the jefe politico. “I believe it is that of a young doctor recently come back from Europe.”

One of the women neighbors interrupted the conversation with the glad news of the birth of a strong and healthy man-child. Both were going in to see it, but it was not yet time for them to enter.

Pedro, always uneasy, had hardly heard the news when he went in search of ’Nor José to ask him to remind his companion of the urgency of starting.

“Tell Don Salvador that it is already very late and that I am waiting for him,” he said forgetting to use the assumed name. On hearing this name the old man became petrified. Then he exclaimed with fury.

“Don Salvador! Don Salvador Moreno! That is the doctor’s name, isn’t it so?”

“Yes. Did he tell you?”

Without replying, ’Nor José went to a corner of the room where a machete was leaning against the wall. He drew it from its scabbard and with an expression of unheard-of ferocity, went toward the apartment of his daughter.

At that moment the door opened. Upon the bed lay the mother, very pale, but her eyes and lips were smiling. With his sleeves rolled up and absorbed in his task, Salvador was bathing the new born child in a wash basin. On seeing this the angry father felt a surge of generous feeling invade his heart. That man was the slayer of his Rafael; that was the terrible truth; but that same man who had shed the blood of his son had just saved another bit of his soul at the risk of his liberty and perhaps of his very life. He stood looking at the peaceful scene; the happy mother, the anxious and busy neighbors, and the doctor, very earnest, coddling the child, whose cries seemed to ask pardon for the saviour of its mother.

The old man drew back slowly, letting go of the machete. After a moment of hesitation, he passed his rough hand across his face and drawing near to the fugitive said in a hoarse and trembling voice.

“Don Salvador, I beg you to go soon, because you are in great danger in this house.”