Terence O'Rourke/Part 1/Chapter 9
CHAPTER IX
HE DEMONSTRATES THE USES OF DISCIPLINE
By night Las Palmas much resembles almost any other Spanish colonial city in a semi-tropical land; select at random a city of equal size from any of the Spanish-American countries, transplant it bodily to an island of volcanic origin and with sparse vegetation, and you have Las Palmas of the Gran Canaria.
There is the inevitable plaza, with its despondent garden and its iron railings; there is the inevitable palatial residence of the governor; there are the cafés and restaurants, the municipal band that executes by night, the señoritas with their immense, fanlike tortoise-shell combs and their mantillas, the señors adorned in white ducks and cigarettes, the heat, the languor, the spirit of manana and dolce far niente.
The nights are long, warm and sticky, and sickly sweet; the darkness is so soft and so thick as to seem well-nigh palpable; the sky hangs low, and velvety, sewn thick with huge stars.
It was on such a night that O'Rourke arrived. On the way to his hotel he kept his eyes open for members of his corps, but saw none of them.
He was disturbed; Las Palmas is not a metropolis so great that forty fighting men can be set down within its boundaries without creating comment.
Nor is it so puritanical in atmosphere that forty fighting men with graduated thirsts and eruptive dispositions are like to become childlike once under its influence—to content them with a diet of cow's milk and crackers, to sleep and spend their days in the ordinary processes of tourist sight-seeing.
O'Rourke knew his men well—that was why he had chosen them; with him at their head he had little fear of trouble, for he was wont to command with a firm hand, and they were accustomed to be commanded by him or by men of his resolute stamp.
But, with Danny alone to keep them in order—Danny himself of a nature none too pacific, and, as they would be bound to consider, merely by chance of favoritism their superior officer—O'Rourke was by no means satisfied that his lambs were being safely shepherded.
Nor was he uneasy without reason.
His carriage rolled through the winding, darksome streets—strangely quiet, thought the perturbed Irishman—swiftly from the boat landing to the Grand Hotel. O'Rourke leaned back in the seat, alertly on the lookout, chewing a cold cigar. But not a sound nor a sight of his command could he discover; he swore softly, bit the cigar in two in his agitation, threw it away, and set his lips in a firm line.
He realized that his work now lay to his hand; and he was promising himself that, should Danny have failed dismally, there would be a new second in command before another sun had time to rise.
The Eirene was due to make port about the following neon, if the schedule of le petit Lemercier went through without change; by that hour, if O'Rourke was to demonstrate his fitness for his position, peace must obtain among the mercenaries, a united, complete and lamblike corps must be ready to salute its employer.
He alighted from the carriage, in front of the hotel, paid the driver, surrendered his light luggage to the attendants, and turned to look out over the plaza. Now, the plaza itself was lively enough; the band was playing an explosive Spanish national air; the lights were blazing in the cafés and before the residence of the governor; the crowds were parading, smoking, laughing, chattering, flirting—the walks thronged with the volatile, light-hearted inhabitants taking their constitutionals in the only cool hours of the day.
From the middle of the plaza two men emerged, arm and arm, strolling toward the hotel; two men in the ragged uniforms of Turcos, respectably amusing themselves and—O'Rourke thanked high Heaven—sober!
He waited for them; they approached slowly, suddenly became aware of the military figure of their commander, dropped their arms, stood at attention and saluted.
O'Rourke returned the salute.
"Bon jour, mes braves!" he greeted them, endeavoring to show no trace of his worriment. "Where are ye quartered?"
They indicated a side street.
"Your captain?" he inquired.
There was silence for an answer; the two Turcos glanced uneasily from their commander to one another, and hung their heads.
O'Rourke briefly repeated his question. One of the Turcos stepped forward, saluted again, and reported with a military brevity which won O'Rourke's approval, if the tidings he heard were ill.
The two, they asserted, were of the last party to arrive at Las Palmas; they therefore spoke on hearsay knowledge, for the most part. Among the first ten men, whom Danny had accompanied, peace and good feeling had obtained until the arrival of the second detachment of fifteen. The twenty-five had, according to good military usage, fraternized; despite Danny's prohibitive orders, they proceeded to take possession of the town. To this the authorities had made no objection, at first; the five and twenty were not overly well supplied with ready money; a mercenary rarely is so when he enlists; they spent what they had, but it was not enough to fire their martial spirits to the fighting point.
With the coming of the third instalment of legionaries—ten more men—there had been disorder, however (the Turcos regretted to state). Among them had been one with much money—a Frenchman who had served in the desert. The Turcos were desolated to admit it, but their comrades had become disgracefully intoxicated.
Captain Mahone had done his utmost to quell the disturbance; one man against thirty-five, however, is at an obvious and undeniable disadvantage. By the time of the arrival of the last five men he was struggling vainly against fate and overwhelming numbers.
The men were drinking, and anarchy threatened in the peaceful island of Gran Canaria. The authorities were scared and powerless.
Mahone, almost at his wits' end, had connived with the five and the gendarmes. Fortunately, the rejoicing ones were unarmed. That simplified matters considerably. At the head of his five—with the police politely umpiring the game—he descended upon the roisterers and gave them battle.
The Turcos sighed regretfully; from what they said O'Rourke gathered that it had been a joyous conflict, lasting many hours, fought freely and fairly throughout the many narrow thoroughfares of Las Palmas; it was not often, averred the Turcos ruefully, that one came upon so satisfying a fight in times of peace. They licked their lips reminiscently, as men who remember a favorite dish.
Fortunately, the day had been for the lawful; one by one at first, later by twos and threes, finally by squads, the legionaries had been overcome, even to the thirty-fifth man, and kicked into the carcel.
"But Mahone?" demanded O'Rourke.
It was terrible, the Turcos admitted, but by grave misfortune the attire of the Captain Mahone had become disordered in the mêlée; the police had been unwilling to discriminate between him and his soldiers, saying that one so disreputable in appearance deserved imprisonment at the least, on general principles. For two days the captain had been disciplining his troops in the carcel.
O'Rourke laughed, his heart suddenly lightened. They were by now sober, in such case; and Danny had undoubtedly succeeded in reducing them to submissiveness. On the morrow O'Rourke would go to the governor, pay their fines and procure their releases.
He tipped the Turcos liberally, ordered them to report to him in the morning, and went to bed with a lightened heart, to sleep soundly the night through, and wake with his campaign planned to his satisfaction.
During his breakfast a man entered the dining-room of the hotel, walked directly to his table and tapped O'Rourke on the shoulder. The Irishman looked up in surprise, then jumped to his feet. It was Chambret.
"You here, monsieur?" cried O'Rourke.
"Precisely, monsieur—as a colonist."
"Sit down and join me," the Irishman invited him.
"Thank you, but I have just breakfasted on the yacht."
"The yacht?"
"The Eirene, monsieur."
Chambret took a chair and seated himself, smiling pleasantly because of O'Rourke's bewilderment.
"I do not understand," admitted the latter. "The Eirene? A colonist? But I thought ye—"
"That I was at odds with the little emperor, monsieur? That I disapproved of his enterprise?" Chambret's mood was of the most friendly, judging from his expression—and that notwithstanding the peculiar circumstances attendant upon the last encounter of the two.
"There you are right, monsieur," he went on. "It's folly—madness. The scheme will never succeed; it spells 'Ruin' for Monsieur Lemercier. Nevertheless—". He hesitated.
"Proceed, if ye please," begged the Irishman, striving to conceal his astonishment, and entirely unable to understand this move of Chambret's.
"Nevertheless, upon reflection I have been led to change my mind. You behold in me, Monsieur O'Rourke, the first colonist of l'Empire du Sahara!"
O'Rourke put down his knife and fork, tipped back in his chair, and accepted the cigar which the Frenchman offered him.
"Chambret," he said slowly, "I'm playing a lone hand in this game. I hardly know what is trumps. Ye know the sole consideration that induced me to draw cards? No? I'll tell ye candidly. 'Tis just what I believe is keeping ye in the affair: the desire to serve Madame la Princesse. So far as meself can judge from the backs of your cards and the way ye play them, that is your motive, also."
He fixed his gaze upon the eyes of the other, which met his regard unflinchingly. "Listen, mine enemy. We have had our differences, ye and I. Let them pass, for the time being; at the end of this affair we'll balance accounts; I'm thinking that 'tis me own turn now to demand satisfaction, and I'll claim it when the time comes."
"Monsieur will find me ready," interjected Chambret, with composure.
"Very good; but—let it pass, as I've said. At present we two have a mutual object in view, a common quarrel. Let us combine forces. Let us play partners against the pack of 'em. Show me your cards, and I'll show ye mine."
Chambret's answer was instantaneous: a hand proffered O'Rourke.
"The proposition," he said warmly, "would have come from me had it not come from you, monsieur. It was decided upon between madame and myself en voyage."
"What!" O'Rourke colored. "Madame—?"
Chambret laughed lightly. "One moment, monsieur—I begin at the beginning of my account. In the first place, Madame la Princesse has full confidence in you, monsieur, as, you will permit me to add, have I. Nevertheless, it has seemed advisable to us both that you should have reinforcements—backing, I think you term it."
"'Tis that I need," assented O'Rourke.
"For this consideration I went to madame's brother, Leopold, feigned interest in his plans, and offered myself as his first colonist. He was overjoyed—received me with open arms. At the same time, madame decided to accompany Monsieur le Prince, her husband, upon his journey—and insisted, despite his pronounced opposition. This morning, the Eirene, bearing us all, made this port. The situation, monsieur, is this: Prince Felix conspires for the death—I speak bluntly—of his brother-in-law. The reason is simple: madame is her brother's heir; Felix already has run through madame's fortune, and counts on enjoying Leopold's when she comes into her inheritance. You comprehend?"
"The hound!" O'Rourke growled between his teeth.
"Precisely. My cards (as you call them, monsieur), consist simply of my skill as a pistol shot, of which you have some knowledge. Monsieur le Prince is a noted duelist; Monsieur le Prince has no liking for me, as you may guess. He will seize the first opportunity of calling me out. In that event the end is a foregone conclusion, I flatter myself."
"It should be," O'Rourke agreed. "Faith, when we two fight, monsieur, 'twill be with rapiers."
Chambret bowed courteously. "It is your choice," he assented gravely. "But now, my friend, you understand my position. To follow out your simile, monsieur, will you disclose your own hand?"
"I will that," affirmed O'Rourke. "Come with me, if ye please."
In the patio of the hotel his two Turcos were waiting, with their comrades—three grim Spahis. He signed to them to follow, and went out into the plaza with Chambret.
"Monsieur Lemercier sent ye to look me up, I presume?" he inquired of the mystified Frenchman.
"Yes, monsieur. I came ashore to see if you had arrived as yet; and, if you had, with instructions to tell you to bring your command to the yacht at once."
"Monsieur l'Empereur is contemplating no delay, then?" pursued O'Rourke, leading the way across the square to the residence of the governor.
"He is rapt with visions of his future glory," laughed Chambret: "impatient for his scepter and purple raiment."
O'Rourke turned and passed into the patio of the government house. Chambret, troubled by his companion's reticence in this time of confidences, put a hand upon his arm.
"But, monsieur," he objected, "this is not reciprocation of my frankness?"
"In half an hour," promised O'Rourke, "then ye shall understand me."
He begged an audience with the governor, stating his business; under the circumstances that harassed official delayed not a moment in according the honor, despite the unholy earliness of the hour for the transaction of business—according to Spanish notions. It was soon settled; upon O'Rourke giving his word of honor that he would immediately take the thirty-five mercenaries out of the island, he was permitted to pay their fines and received an order on the jailer of the carcel for their immediate delivery.
Still, accompanied by Chambret and followed by the Turcos and Spahis, he proceeded to the carcel itself—a gloomy, shedlike structure, more resembling a pig-pen than a municipal prison in a civilized age.
Their arrival was timed at a critical moment—for the jailer; breakfast, or what passed for it, was being distributed to the prisoners; when still blocks away the ears of O'Rourke and his party were assailed with an indescribable chorus of shrieks, oaths, growlings, and grunts that proclaimed the supreme joy of the incarcerated at the sight of food—or, possibly, other emotions that had been roused by the quality of the meal.
"Me angels," indicated O'Rourke, with a smile.
"Certainly their singing is heavenly," agreed Chambret.
Admitted by the jailer—a surly, low-browed Spaniard, who gave sincere thanks to the entire body celestial for this opportune blessing—they passed into the building. Its center—for it was but an enclosure, open to the sky save around the walls, where a partial roofing served as protection from the elements—they found occupied by a swirling, seething mass of men, from whose throats proceeded the unearthly concert. It was surrounded by a dense cloud of dust; and from its midst there proceeded a veritable eruption of fists, fragments of torn clothing, hats and bones.
Slightly in advance of his companions, O'Rourke halted, his presence for the time being unremarked of the combatants. He watched them in silence for a little while, his lips curving into a grim smile.
Finally, however, raising his walking-stick—a slim wand—he opened his mouth, and let out a stentorian command:
"Fall in!"
In the excitement it went unheeded. Again he called, and again:
"Fall in! Fall in!"
Gradually his voice carried meaning to the intelligence of the rabble. One turned, saw the motionless, commanding figure of the newcomer; he shrieked the news to his comrades. Others observed. By degrees the tumult died.
At the third command they were quiet, with one accord turning to gape at this rash intruder. Suddenly he was recognized; at the fourth command the trained soldiers sprang to their places as if electrified—one long line of thirty-nine figures stretching across the patio.
"Attention!" roared O'Rourke angrily. "Silence in the ranks!"
There was not a whisper to be heard, where had been the uproar of a chaos.
"Captain Mahone?" he demanded.
From around the end of the line appeared the shape of a man whom O'Rourke entirely failed to recognize at first glance. Presently he placed him. Danny, but Danny well-nigh disintegrated—a Danny clothed in rags and tatters, with two black eyes and a face swollen and misshapen from cuts and bruises. One of his arms hung in a sling; the other he raised to salute.
"Yer honor!" he responded, out of one side of his mouth.
"Be silent!" cried O'Rourke. He walked down the line, sternly examining each man as he passed. They remained stiffly at attention, eyes to the front—soldiers all in the presence of their commander.
O'Rourke returned to the center of the line.
"Danny," he inquired, "how did this come about?"
"Yer honor—faith! Gineral O'Rourke, I mane—'tis the forchunes av war-r, sor. Wan av the prisoners had a wad av money, sor, an' wid this an' wid that trick 'twas himself that conthrived to get liquor smuggled into th' place ivery noight. As i'r meself, sor, I've been thryin' to lick thim into shape for yez. Some av them I've licked twice over, but it does no good, sor."
"That will do. Who is this wealthy volunteer?"
There was a moment's silence, a hesitation; then slowly a man slouched forward, saluting carelessly. O'Rourke watched him like a cat, his brows contracting.
"Your name?" he asked sharply.
"Soly," responded the fellow insolently.
O'Rourke took thought.
"If I mistake not," he said, "ye came to me in Marseilles with a letter of recommendation from Monsieur le Prince de Grandlieu."
"Monsieur is correct in his surmise."
"Where did ye serve last?"
"In Algiers."
"In the camel corps?"
"Yes."
"A sans souci?" thundered O'Rourke, naming that branch of the French service to which criminals and deserters are condemned.
"What of that?"
O'Rourke made no verbal reply. He approached the man, dropping his cane; the fellow must have anticipated what was coming, for he sprang suddenly at O'Rourke, flourishing a knife.
Before he realized what had happened, he was on his back, his wrist held as though in a vise; the knife was wrested from him, and pocketed by O'Rourke.
"Get up!" commanded the Irishman.
The malcontent arose, mumbling guttural threats, brushing the filth of the prison from his clothes. When erect a clenched fist caught him in the mouth, knocking him flat; he arose again, was bowled over again. Finally:
"Are ye satisfied, canaille?" snarled O'Rourke.
The man drew himself up, saluted.
"Oui, mon commandant!" he said clearly.
O'Rourke turned to the motionless line; not one man had moved to the aid of his comrade.
"Are there any more of ye, mes enfants," he inquired, sweetly, "who desire to taste of me discipline?"
The answer was an unanimous shout.
"Non, monsieur le commandant!"
"Ye are ready to follow me, at me command?"
The shout swelled to a roar.
"To the death, monsieur!"
"Very well. Captain Mahone, form your men in fours, and march them to the landing. Let no man dare to fall out on the way!"
Danny wheeled about, raised his hand and issued the command. In ten ranks of four men each, the lines tramped out of the prison. O'Rourke watched in grim quiet, his eyes testifying to his satisfaction as to the qualities of his "children."
"Spirited, ye see," he told Chambret, as they left. "Those, monsieur, are me cards!" he added.
The Frenchman nodded. "You play with a full hand, monsieur," he said; "thirty-nine cards—all trumps!"