XIX

It was about half-past one in the afternoon when the church doors closed: the sound of the rifle fire continued, in an irregular popping as though the people some miles away were letting off fire crackers.

“That’s not fighting,” the American said, “that’s still only skirmishing. These darned people can neither make war nor keep peace.”

The church was of a Renaissance model, with rounded windows high up in the walls, and a ceiling painted with simpering ladies in clothes like rolls of blue smoke. All the sacred symbols had been wrenched or cut away from the decorations. A big coloured print of Don Lopez stood in a gilt frame over the altar. It represented him in evening dress with a red sash across his shirt. It had a dreadful likeness to a pig whose throat had been cut. Under him in gilt letters was the legend:

Liberty from Superstition.

There were about a hundred men, women and children of the suspected imprisoned there: most of them were stunned, some were terrified: one or two, like the young girl, hysterical. What shocked Hi was the atmosphere of suspicion: all there were afraid that the next person was a spy. They looked at each other, but hardly spoke, hardly even whispered. They watched the shot man die and the fevered man shake, without interest and without help: I was I, he was he; self was become terribly important, and sympathy a dangerous thing.

“They’ve been through the mill, these people,” the American said.

“How do you know the Whites will be here this afternoon?” Hi asked him.

“Cut it right out, son,” the American said. “I’ve been through one of these picnics once before here. This place is plum full of spies. You’d best not talk.”

“But do you know if the Reds have killed anyone here?”

“Killed? I dunno. I guess they won’t kill till they see which way the weasel pops. If they whip, they’ll rip around. But you stay quiet.”

The advice was good, for even as they talked a man edged a little nearer to them, with the look of the eavesdropper. When he found that the two fell silent, he sidled up to Hi, indicated the portrait over the altar, and said: “Look at that. I call that a dam’ outrage: don’t you?” Something in the look of the man reminded Hi of the brothel-touts who had beset him at the landing stairs before ’Zeke drove them away: it flashed into his mind that this man might be a spy: so he answered, “No, I call it ‘Liberty from Superstition.’ ” The man was puzzled by the answer, but seemed to consider Hi’s youth, and then moved away.

Soon after this, an armed guard appeared at the door, under an officer, who explained that the married couples as well as all women and children there in prison were to be moved “in the interests of morality” to another church, where they would be alone. As some of them expected to be murdered outside the doors, this caused a piteous scene, of screaming and begging for mercy, but by persuasion and force the removal was made. Among those removed, to Hi’s great relief, was the Englishman with the Spanish wife, the pride of the Pinamentes, and their three children.

While the doors were open, some sweepers from the barracks brought in a cask of water and a basket of army bread for the use of the prisoners for which those with any appetites left were glad and thankful.

The American tried to find out from these sweepers what was happening outside. They would not answer him except by shaking their heads: when the guards noticed the questioning they ordered the prisoners not to speak to the sweepers on pain of being shot. “These Red Runts are plum scared,” the American said. “They wouldn’t bring us food unless they were afraid of being whipped. They’re keeping both sides the fence.”

Hi was cheered by this, as by nothing else. After three minutes in the church, he had felt that he knew and loathed every detail of it. He tried walking up and down the aisles; but the sense, that he was a prisoner, took all the interest out of walking. He tried lying down to sleep, but the sense that he was a prisoner, the knowledge that he had failed, and the excitement of the coming battle, kept him awake. He tried to pray that the Whites would rout the Reds; but the excitement and anxiety were too great, he could not put the prayer into words. Time seemed to stand still, all reality seemed to have ceased; he lay in a horrible nothing, anxious unspeakably. Everybody there in the church was in the same state. When Hi listened, he felt that everybody in the city was in the same state. One of the strange things of that afternoon was the silence in the town about them; it seemed like a town of the dead, save for the pacing of the guards outside the doors, and the occasional passing of patrols. At about half-past three, the distant firing, which had hardly varied in volume for two hours, increased and changed. Plainly some much heavier metal had come into action.

“Two batteries of four guns,” the American said, after listening. “Number three gun in one of ’em is slow in getting off. They’ve only four batteries in their whole army: and one of them’s in pawn, for the Dictator’s new state coach.”

“The firing is nearer than it was,” Hi said.

“There’s more of it,” the American said.

There was more of it for half an hour: then suddenly it increased to a rolling, rattling racket much nearer at hand. This went on with the utmost fury for twenty minutes, during which all the windows in Santa Barbara rattled and trembled. Hi could hear shouting in the noise of the firing: then the shouting ceased and the firing dwindled away to a popping till it almost ceased, too. He looked to the American for an explanation. “That was an attack,” he said. “But I guess they’ve grown tired of it.”

It seemed as though that were the case, that they were tired of it. The light began to move from the floor up the wall as the sun went down the sky. The day of battle and suspense seemed coming to an end. Then suddenly, within a quarter of a mile of them, seemingly somewhere on the sea-front of the city, there came a clattering of horse-hoofs and shouting.

After this, there was silence, while everybody waited in suspense for a quarter of an hour, when a sudden shattering volley from close at hand sent the hearts into the throats. Ricochetting bullets struck the near-by roofs, there were falls of plaster and of tiles and the cries of women, while the space down by the sea-front began to roar with firing: hot and hot, so near at hand that presently the stink of the powder drifted into the church.

The firing went on for nearly an hour, dwindling as the light dwindled, till by the time the church was dark, save for the moonlight, it ceased altogether.

“The Whites must have entered the town and won,” Hi said to the American. “That firing was in the town.”

“It was in the town all right,” the American said.

Hi rose from his seat and began to pace up and down in his excitement. The thought of Carlotta being set free was more than he could bear. The guards lit a couple of candles in a side chapel, peered to see who was walking, and called to Hi to keep still. The town outside was deathly still for some time after the firing had ceased: then all the streets began to ring with the trotting of horses, coming into the city from the direction of the Medinas Gate. They came in at a fast trot on at least three roads, so that the clatter and clink filled the air.

“Here the conquering heroes come,” the Americans said.

“The Whites?”

“It’s the side that’s won anyway, or they wouldn’t come in in order.”

“All the White army is cavalry.”

“Our darned Consuls might get a wiggle on without slopping over into speed.”

“I don’t suppose they know we’re here.”

“It’s their job to know we’re not here.”

The cavalry, whoever they were, went to their stations or bivouacs and ceased to clatter. The town lapsed again into silence. Presently, in the quiet, within a hundred yards of the church, a sentry challenged someone, waited for two seconds, and fired. Someone cried out and fell, while the sentry jerked out the shell, which tinkled on the stones, reloaded and snapped-to the breech.

“The sentry’s night to howl,” the American said.

Soon after this, when the town was silent save for the pacing of the feet of sentries here and there, and the occasional slow passing of horse patrols, some volley-firings, of three or four rifles together, began in the direction of the cathedral. These volleys were repeated at short intervals for twenty minutes.

“What is that sort of firing?” Hi asked.

“It can only be executions,” the American said. “They’re shooting people.”

“Deserters?”

“Yes; or prisoners.”

“Prisoners of war? Surely not?”

“Any gol-darned prisoner’s good enough to shoot in this gol-darned Republic.”

“Then it means that the Whites have won?”

“Well, it would seem so.”

“I hope to God they have.”

“Well, kid, don’t hope it publicly till you know it’s a fact.”

“Don’t you think that the Whites have won?” Hi asked in a whisper.

“We’ll know soon enough.”

* * * * * * *

At about ten o’clock, when most of those in the church had begun to think that nothing more would happen that night, a strong guard marched into the little plaza outside the church and halted there. Hi suddenly saw a great increase in the light outside, for the newcomers had lit flares there. The doors of the church were opened and a strong squad of armed guards entered. A prim-lipped man, with the look of a “spoiled priest,” who seemed to be in charge of the guard, gave orders that the altar should be brought from a side chapel, and placed as a table near the door. When the altar had been placed, and its candles lighted, he seated himself upon a chair there, asked for the register of the prisoners, and began to read it through. From time to time he looked into the body of the church, where he could see hardly anything, but a few white faces, the twinkle of the two candles in the nave and the glistening of some of the gilding. Hi heard two or three of the prisoners near him praying beneath their breath with the intensity of terror. He watched the prim-lipped man just as his rabbit had watched the snake. The man seemed to be waiting for some one who did not come. Beyond him, Hi could see the dip at the church steps, a market-flare burning, and moving shadows. The prim-lipped man marked his register with a pencil.

“Say, sport,” the American said, stepping up to him, “we ain’t your nationals. We demand our release or our Consuls.”

All the other English-speaking people there, eight in all, joined in, in this appeal. The prim-lipped man listened to them all with courtesy, then he said, in English, with an Irish accent:

“In the very unsettled state of the city, you are safer here than you could be elsewhere.”

“That may be or may not be, but I guess our countries are pretty well able to protect us. We are unlawfully detained here. We’ve been here pretty well all day. We’ve protested, and demanded our Consuls. What are you going to do about it?”

The prim-lipped man listened again. “You will understand,” he said at last, “that I am not responsible in any way for anything that may have happened to you in these disorders, nor for your being here now. I am sincerely sorry that you should have been inconvenienced. I must ask you to blame the time, and those guilty for the time, not the Republic. In a few minutes, the commandant of this ward will be here, when I promise you that your cases shall be heard. In the meantime, let me see each one of you, who claim not to be of our nation.”

The eight came forward to the table in a body, and explained in turn who and what they were. The prim-lipped man accepted each claim. “You will understand,” he said, “that in these disorders we have to use every care to protect those domiciled among us. As the disorders are now over, I do not think that you will be inconvenienced beyond to-day.”

“Will you tell us, sir,” Hi asked, “what exactly has happened here?” The American’s hand pressed Hi’s arm.

“Happened?” the prim-lipped man said. “Order has been restored, or is fast being restored. The Republic has been saved.” He looked at the papers, to see what Hi was charged with, then dismissed the eight to one side.

“Is this man a White?” Hi wondered. “Are those guards White? They wear no white upon their uniforms, but neither do they wear any red. Supposing Don Manuel were suddenly to appear with the commandant: oh, that would be joy.”

Almost immediately after this a carriage drove to the steps of the church and halted there. Hi heard the guards called to attention and ordered to salute. The prim-lipped man turned to them.

“This is the commandant,” he said.

Some footsteps sounded upon the church steps, one of the feet clinked with spurs. Hi craned forward to see who entered, feeling sure that Don Manuel would be among the party: something within him told him that he was there, coming victorious to set his servants free. “Oh, Don Manuel,” he thought, “if it is only you, I don’t think I’ll care what happens to me for ever after.”

Three people entered together into the light of the altar candles. The truth came upon Hi with a stunning of heart and head: these people were Reds, the Reds had won.

The three who entered were:—a big, flashy, free moving, swaggering type of cavalryman, wearing a scarlet sash across his uniform: the big negro with the green feather, whom Hi had seen taking the Piranhas’ horses; and a woman, who also wore a scarlet sash across her shoulder.

“Gee, kid, there’s the were-wolf,” the American whispered to Hi. “Now there’ll be blood.”

“Who is she?”

“Anna, the were-wolf: an anti-cleric: been fighting the church all her life. She’s a Red from Medinas.”

“Then the Reds have won?”

“You bet your sweet life.”

The woman and the soldier seated themselves at the table with the prim-lipped man; the cavalryman asked some questions, the prim-lipped man seemed to be explaining about the foreigners. The woman looked through the registers: Green Feather, with a drawn sword, stood at the door. As the woman, Anna, sat nearest to Hi, in a good light, he had occasion to notice her very particularly.

She was perhaps seventy years old. She had a face without any mark whatsoever of kindness, or mirth, or hope, or charity. Her eyes were grey, hard and stony: her mouth was a slit, drooped at the ends: her ears were enormous: her hair, which was of a dirty grey, fell untidily about her brow; she kept thrusting it back with a fat red hand, the thick fingers of which were black at the end. She had ploughed and sowed against her enemies for fifty-three years of hatred: now she had her hour.

The prim-lipped man rose from his chair and called:

“Will those English and American subjects come forward?” When they had come forward, he said:

“The commandant of the ward wishes me to say that during these disturbances, in the state of martial law in which we live, foreigners not vouched for by the municipalities in which they sojourn are required to repair on board the ships of the nations to which they belong, or to such other ships as will receive them. Which of you have carnets signed by your municipal authorities?”

None had any such papers.

“None?” the prim-lipped man said. “Very well, then, you will repair on board the ships of your respective nations. A guard will take you from here to the Mole, where boats are now engaged in taking those qualified to go. I will give you here this paper to sign, opposite to your names.”

When all had signed their names, the commandant called an officer, to whom he gave charge to embark the eight at the Mole. The officer called them out to the plaza below the church steps, where troops were halted. Some of the soldiers stood in groups of four facing a blank wall where a flare was burning.

“Firing parties,” someone said. “Some poor devils in the church are for it.”

Hi, looking back, saw the white columns of the portico, with the yellowness of candlelight inside the door, and the blackness of Pluma Verde standing like a death. A squad of troops formed about the eight: the officer gave the order to march. One of the eight began to hum a Dead March.

“We are well out of that,” someone said. “They’ll clear most of that bunch up against the wall.”

“These darned foreigners: why can’t they agree? They’re like a lot of children.”

“Children? They’re like a lot of savages.”

“Well, we come out at the thin end of the horn, whatever they are. We’ll not get ashore again till Lord knows.”

“Surely,” Hi said, “they’ll let us go ashore again, when the troubles are over.”

“When will the troubles be over?”

“I suppose in a week.”

“Not in a year, kid.”

The American had been talking in a low voice to one of the squad of soldiers: he now spoke to the company.

“See there, now,” he said, jerking his head to the right, as they came out upon the water-front, “the Whites got into the town here. They got in at the gate there. The man says that they fit like hell along the beach, till all the lot of them was killed.”

“All the lot?”

“Yep.”

“And Don Manuel, too?”

“Yep. Not one man left alive.”

“Oh, Lord.”

“There goes some more of ’em, who weren’t in the battle at all.”

Behind them, from the direction of the church which they had left, there came a sudden volley of three rifles. After a minute there came another volley, presently a third, then many more.

“These darned Reds,” the American said, “it’s their night to howl. Those were the poor devils we were with a few minutes since; give them a prayer, sons.”

They gave them their prayers, as they marched on in the moonlight along the deserted water-front. All the houses there were dead, with blank eyes. The rhythm of their steps echoed from the walls, the sea washed on the shingle beside them. The shootings still went on near that church of liberty from superstition.

“Blast them,” one of the eight said. “Don’t they pardon anyone?”

“It’s their night to howl,” the American said:

They’re all the way from Bitter Creek,

And it’s their night to howl.

“Do you think I could send a message ashore, when we get to the ship?” Hi asked.

“What for?”

“To ask after friends and to get my things.”

“There’ll be darned few messages passing after this.”

“Well, what are we to do, then?”

“What did the cat do?”

“I don’t know. What did he do?”

“He went back, when he couldn’t stay no longer.”

“The Consuls will help us get our things,” a man said.

“The Consuls, hell,” another answered. “We’ll not see a stick nor stitch of anything we had. This land is going to have the bust-up that’s been preparing for years. It will be a year before it’s settled. Perhaps a year after that we may be allowed in again to settle our businesses. Thank God, I saw a little of this coming.”

By this time they were at the Mole, where Hi had landed with such hopes a fortnight before. The water was gleaming over the lower steps. Some men were standing under the Mole light: some soldiers came to attention there as the party drew near.

“Halt, there,” a voice called.

They were called one by one under the light, and sorted out to three boats then lying at the steps, from a French barque, an English ship and an American schooner.

“Will there be any more to-night?” an English sailor asked. “Shall we send the boat in again?”

“We do not know.”

“Well, if any more are to come off, dip your light there and I’ll send the boat in.”

“How?”

“Dip your light. Lower and hoist your light, to let me know you want the boat.”

“It is good.”

“Is it good?” the sailor muttered, as he shepherded his six down the steps to the boat. “You’re about as likely to do it as my Uncle Joe is to have kittens.”

Four ordinary seamen in the boat pulled them clear of the Mole into the harbour, towards the sailing-ship anchorage. The firing-parties were still firing in the town. Away beyond the Farola, a house which had been fired began to burn up brightly. “That’s just about where the Piranhas’ house is,” Hi thought. “They’ve killed the Piranhas, too.”

“What ship are you taking us to?” a man asked.

“Solita, Liverpool,” the mate said. “I guess the lid’s off the Tenderloin to-night?”

“They’re playing hell all over.”

“Give way, sons,” the mate said. “Come, put your weights on.”

They pulled on over the sea in the moonlight towards the grove of masts. All were silent now, from weariness and bitterness; there was no sound except the gurgle and wash of the water, the grunt of the oars in the crutches, and sometimes a church-bell, or a volley of shots from the city. The mate who was steering began to croon a hymn as he watched the Solita’s riding-light:

Give me that old time religion,

Give me that old time religion,

Give me that old time religion,

It’s good enough for me.

Singing thus at his hymn, which could be made to last for a day in case of need, he brought his boat to the gangway under the lean iron flank of the Solita. The Captain looked down upon him from the poop rail.

“Is that you, Mister?” he asked.

“Yes, sir: I brought six more.”

“Come on up there, you.”

When the six stood on the deck, the captain spoke to them.

“You are on board a British ship,” he said. “The rules are: no smoking and no matches between decks. Any of you caught striking a light below there will sleep on the fo’c’sle head. Write your names here. Anderson, show them where they belong.”

One of the boat’s crew helped them down a perpendicular iron ladder into the gloom of a ’tweendecks which smelt of decayed malt. A spare starboard sidelight cast a green light on one side of this space, so that Hi could see many bodies lying on sails. On the other side of the space two planks upon casks made a table on which some food was spread, in bread-barges.

“You can get your supper if you’d like,” Anderson said, showing the bread-barges. “Or you can turn in on the sails, if you’d rather rest. Your lot makes it forty-one that we got. We’ll be able to have some fine sing-songs. The steward says we shall probably sail within three days for New York. There’s fresh water in the bucket there and a dipper to drink by. Any matches you’ve got, you’ve got to give to me.”

When Anderson had gone, Hi drew away from the six to a lonely space on the sails, where he dragged a hatch cover over himself, so that he might think alone. He had had his first wrestle with life; he reckoned that he had been an utter failure. The future was dark enough, but it was nothing to the darkness of the present.

“I failed,” he thought. “And I’ve probably killed ’Zeke. And ’Zeke has brought Don Manuel to death; and the Piranhas are probably killed too, burnt out, anyway. And I’ve probably settled Carlotta’s fate as well. They are certain to kill her; all by not avoiding politics, as Winter told me. They might all be alive now, if I’d not stirred.”

The mate, who was walking the deck near the hatch, partly lest the boat should be needed, but mainly to detect any striking of a match among the refugees, sat upon the coamings for a minute, humming his tune of the old-time religion. “Ah, the old-time religion,” Hi thought, with the tears running down his face. “Nothing but religion’s any help to a man in my state. Oh, God, I have made a mess of it.”

And Carlotta?

Ah, Carlotta.