CHAPTER II.
THE STORM-CLOUDS GATHER.
Señor Don Alfredo Chester, as the boy aviators’ father was known inNicaragua, sat in a grass chair on the cool patio of his dazzlinglywhitewashed hacienda on his plantation of La Merced. He thoughtfullysmoked a long black cigar of native tobacco as he reclined. The lazysmoke from his weed curled languidly up toward the sparkling sapphiresky of the Nicaraguan dry season, which had just begun; but the thoughtsof Planter Chester did not follow the writhing column.
Nor had he in fact any eye for the scene that stretched for miles abouthim, although it was one of perfect tropic beauty and luxuriance.Refreshed by the long rainy season which here endures from April toDecember everything glittered with a fresh, crisp green that contrasteddelightfully with the occasional jeweled radiance of somegorgeously-plumaged bird flashing across a shaft of sunlight like aradiant streak of lightning. These brilliant apparitions vanished in thedarker shades of the luxuriant growth like very spirits of the jungle.
The dense tangle of rank greenery that surrounded the plantation, like aconservatory run wild, held, however, far more dangerous inhabitantsthan these gaudy birds. In its depths lurked the cruel but beautifulocelots—prettiest and most treacherous of the cat family. Jaguars ofhuge size,—and magnificently spotted,—hung in its tree limbs, on thelookout for monkeys, fat wild hogs, or an occasional philosophic tapir.And here too in the huge trees, whose branches afforded homes for a hostof multi-colored orchids lurked the deadly coral snake with its vividcheckerings of red and black and the red and yellow blood snake, thebite of either of which is as instantaneously fatal as a bullet throughthe heart.
From where the hacienda stood—high on the side of a steep hill on whoseflanks waved everywhere the graceful broad fronds of the banana—could beobtained a distant glimpse of the Caribbean, flashing a deep sapphire asit hurled its huge swells thundering shoreward. It was on thisoccasional gleaming glimpse far down the San Juan valley that SeñorChester’s gaze was fixed as he thoughtfully enjoyed his cigar.
It was easy to see from even a casual glance at Mr. Chester’s strongface that his boys had inherited from him in undiminished measure thekeen intellectuality that showed there, as well as the vigorous nervousframe and general impression of mental and physical power that the mangave out. It was on these boys of his that his mind was fixed at thatmoment. They were then by his calculations about a day away fromGreytown, although as the _Aztec_ made usually a good many ports of callon her way down the coast it was only a rough guess at her whereabouts.
As he sat on his patio that afternoon Mr. Chester would have given allhe possessed to have had it in his power at that minute to have beenable to keep his boys in New York, but it was too late for that now.
When it was arranged that they were going to visit him to display to hisproud eyes the _Golden Eagle_ that had made them famous, neither he, norany other of the American planters, dreamed that the revolution was sonear. So much talk had preceded it that it seemed hard to realize thatit was really on and that life and property were in real danger. Some ofthe editors who write so blithely of comic opera revolutions, shouldvisit Central America during one of them. They would sustain a change ofheart.
In common with his brother planters he was heartily in sympathy with thereactionaries, although of course he could not honorably take an activepart in the revolution as the United States and Nicaragua were nominallyat peace. At Washington, however, the trend of affairs was even thenbeing watched more closely than they guessed.
If the revolution succeeded it meant fair treatment and equitable taxesfor the American planters and business men of the republic, if itfailed—well, as he had expressed it a few days before at a sort ofinformal meeting of half-a-dozen influential planters—“We might as wellshut up shop.”
Another piece of disquieting news which had come to him by cable fromNew York, and which had set the reactionaries and their secret friendsin a frenzy, was the announcement of the murder of Dr. Moneague. As hismind reverted to this subject there was a sound of wheels on the steepdrive leading up the hill to the house, and an old-fashioned chariothung on C. springs, driven by an aged negro, in livery as old ashimself, it seemed, drove up with a great flourish.
Señor Chester sprang to his feet hat in hand as it came to a halt, forbeside the dignified looking old Spaniard, who occupied one side of itsluxuriously-cushioned seat, there sat a young woman of the most dazzlingtype of the famous Castilian beauty.
“Can usta usted, Señor Chester,” exclaimed the old man, with a courteousbow full of old-fashioned grace, as the proprietor of La Merced ranch,hat in hand after the Spanish custom, approached the carriage. “We aregoing down to Restigue and dropped in here by the way to see if you arestill alive, it is so long since you have favored us with a visit. Notsince this glorious strike for liberty was made, in fact.”
“When do you expect those wonderful boys of yours?” he went on, “whosedoings, you see, even we have heard of in this out-of-the-way corner ofthe earth.”
“Indeed, Señor Chester,” said the young woman at the yellow old Don’sside, “you must bring them to see us the very minute they arrive. Myhusband—Don Ramon—” she sighed.
“Brave Don Ramon,” supplemented her father, “a man in the field fightingat the head of his troops for his country is to be envied. The name ofGeneral Pachecho was not unknown when I was younger, but now—” he brokeoff with a quizzical smile full of the pathos of the involuntaryinactivity of age.
“When Don Ramon returns triumphant from the field he can do better thanmerely discuss his favorite subject of aviation with my boys,” proudlyremarked Señor Chester, “he can see the _Golden Eagle_ itself. Let ushope that he will introduce it into the new army of the hoped forrepublic of Estrada.”
“Viva Estrada!” cried the girl, and her aged father; caught with commonenthusiasm at the name of Zelaya’s foe.
“I only wish, though,” said Señor Chester, with a half sigh, “that thecountry was more settled. For us it is all right. But, you see, theirmother——”
“Ah, the heart of a woman, it bleeds for her sons, is it not so?” criedSeñora Ruiz, in her emotional Spanish manner.
“But, Señor Chester, never fear,” she continued. “My husband will notlet the troops of Zelaya drive Estrada’s forces as far to the east asthis.”
“But this is the hot-bed of the revolutionary movement. Zelaya hasdeclared he will lay it waste,” objected the planter.
“While Don Ramon Ruiz leads the reactionary troops,” proudly retortedthe woman with feverish enthusiasm, “Zelaya will never reach Restigue orLa Merced or the Rancho del Pachecho.”
“Where the torch is laid, who can tell how far the fire will run?”remarked the Don, with true Spanish love of a proverb.
“Oh, don’t let’s think of such things!” suddenly exclaimed Señora Ruiz,“we revolutionists will be in Managua in a month. Oh, that Zelaya—bah.He is a terrible man. I met him at a ball at Managua a year ago. When hetook my hand I shivered as if I had touched a toad or a centipede. Helooked at me in a way that made me tremble.”
Both his visitors declined Señor Chester’s courteous invitation to enterthe dark sala and partake of a cup of the native chocolate as preparedby his mocho, or man servant.
“It grows late, Señor,” said the old Spaniard, “like my life the sun isdeclining. Oh, that I should have lived to have heard of the death ofbrave Moneague! You know of it?”
A nod from Chester assured him. He went on:
“When he went to New York alone to collect revolutionary funds, I toldthem it was foolish, but I was old, and there were many who would notlisten. Peste! how foolhardy to give him the parchment with the mysticplans on it. The secret of the lost mines of King Quetzalcoatl are worthmore than one man’s life and have indeed cost many.”
“Do you mean that Dr. Moneague had the plans of the mines with him whenhe was killed?” quickly asked Señor Chester.
“I always thought the mineswere a native fable.”
“The young think many things that are not so,” was the old Don’s reply.“No, my son, Dr. Moneague did not have the plans of the mines themselvesbut he had what was as good, he had the bit of parchment on which—in thelost symbols of the Toltecs—the secret of the long lost paths by whichthe precious metals were brought to the coast was inscribed. He spenthis life at this work of deciphering the hieroglyphics of thatmysterious race, and he solved them; but, brave man, he was willing toyield up the secret of his life work if for it he could get money enoughto save his country. You knew that his visit to New York was to see ifhe could not induce one of your American millionaires to give us funds?”
“I guessed it,” was the brief reply. “But why, if he knew the secret ofthe mines, did he not go there himself?”
“He went there once; but you who have lived long in this country knowthat, under Zelaya’s cruel rule he would have been worse than foolhardyto have brought out any of the miraculous wealth stored there. If Zelayahad heard of it he would have wrung the secret from him by torturing hischildren before his eyes.”
Shaking with excitement the old patriot gave a querulous order to theaged coachman to drive on, and waved his thin yellow hand in farewell.Señor Chester stood long watching the dust of his visitor’s carriage asit rose from the banana-fringed road that zig-zagged down the mountainside. At last he turned away and entering the house emerged a fewminutes later with a light poncho thrown over his shoulders.
The chill of the breeze that sets seaward in the tropics at twilight hadalready sprung up and in the jungle the myriad screaming, booming,chirping voices of the jungle night had begun to awaken.
Chester made his way slowly to a small, whitewashed structure a shortdistance removed from the main hacienda. As he swung open the door andstruck a light a strange scene presented itself—doubly strange whenconsidered as an adjunct of a banana planter’s residence. On shelves andracks extending round the room were test tubes and retorts full andempty. The floor was a litter of scribbled calculations, carboys ofacid, broken bottles, straw and in one corner stood an annealing forge.Here Señor Chester amused himself. He had formerly been a miningengineer and was as fond of scientific experimentation as were his sons.
Stepping to a rack he took from it a tube filled with an opaque liquid.He stepped to the doorway to hold it up to the fading light in order toascertain what changes had taken place in its contents since themorning.
He almost dropped it, iron-nerved man as he was, as a piercing shriekfrom the barracks inhabited by the plantation workers rent the eveninghush of the plantation.
The noise grew louder and louder. It seemed that a hundred voices tookup the cry. It grew nearer and as it did so resolved itself into itscomponent parts of women’s shrill cries and the deep gruff exclamationsof men much worked up.
Suddenly a man burst out of the dense banana growth that grew almost upto Señor Chester’s laboratory. He was a wild and terrifying figure. Hisbroad brimmed straw hat was bloodied and through the crown a bullet hadtorn its way. A black ribbon, on which was roughly chalked “VivaEstrada!” hung in a grotesque loop at the side of his face.
His clothes, a queer attempt at regimentals consisting of white ducktrousers and an old band-master’s coat, hung in ribbons revealing hislimbs, scratched and torn by his flight through the jungle. He had norifle, but carried an old machete with which he had hacked his way homethrough the dense bush paths.
The master of La Merced recognized him at once as Juan Batista, ane’er-do-weel stable hand, who had deserted his wife and three childrentwo weeks before for the patriotic purpose of joining Estrada’s army,and incidentally enriching himself by loot. He had attached himself toGeneral Ruiz’s division.
“Well, Juan! Speak up! What is it?” demanded his master sharply. Juangroveled in the dust. He mumbled in Spanish and a queer jargon of hisown; thought by him to be correct English.
“Get back there!” shouted Señor Chester to the crowd of wailing womenand scared natives from the quarters that pressed around. They fell backobediently.
“What is all this, Blakely?” asked Chester impatiently, as JimmieBlakely, the young English overseer, strolled up as unruffled as if hehad been playing tennis.
“Scat!” said Jimmie waving his arm at the crowd and then, adjusting hiseyeglass, he remarked:
“It seems that Estrada’s chaps have had a jolly good licking.”
“What!” exclaimed the planter, “this is serious. Speak up, Juan, atonce. Where is General Ruiz?”
It was with a sinking heart that Chester heard the answer as the thoughtwhat the news would mean to the radiant beauty he had been talking withbut a short time before, flashed across his mind.
“Muerto! muerto!” wailed the prostrate Juan, “dead! dead!”
At this, although they didn’t understand it, the women set up a greathowl of terror.
“Oh Zelaya is coming! He will kill us and eat our babies! Oh master saveus—don’t let Zelaya’s men eat our babies.”
The men blubbered and cried as much as the women, but from a differentand more selfish reason.
“Oh, they will kill us too and spoil all our land. The land we havegrown with so much care,” they bemoaned in piercing tones, “moreover, weshall be forced to join the army and be killed in battle.”
“Blakely, for heaven’s sake take that bit of glass out of your eye, andget this howling mob out of here!” besought Chester desperately. “If youdon’t I’ll kill some of them myself. Here you, get up,” he exclaimedbestowing a most unmerciful kick on the still prostrate Juan. “Oh, for afew Americans—or Englishmen,” he added, out of deference to Blakely.
“Couldn’t do a thing with them without the eyeglass, Mr. Chester,”drawled the imperturbable Blakely, “they think it’s witchcraft. Don’ttwig how the dickens I keep it in.”
“All right, all right, meet me here at the house and we must hold acouncil of war, as soon as you’ve got them herded safe in the barracks,”impatiently said Chester, turning on his heel.
“Now come on, you gibbering idiots,” shouted the consolatory Briton athis band of weeping men and women, “come on now—get out of here, or I’lleat your blooming babies myself—my word I will,” and the amiable Jimmieput on such a terrifying expression that his charges fled before him tooterrified to make any more noise.
Out of sight of the governor, however, the Hon. Jimmie’s careless mannerdropped.
“Well, this is a jolly go and no mistake;” he muttered, giving thegroveling Juan a kick, where it would do the most good, “well, Jimmie—myboy—you’ve always been looking for a bit of row and it looks as if you’djolly well put your foot in it this time—eh, what?”
While all this transpired on the ranchero El Merced, the _Aztec_ withour heroes on board surprised everybody in Greytown, and no one morethan her captain, by arriving there ahead of time. Just about the timethat the Hon. Jimmie was herding his weeping charges to the barracks,her mud-hook rattled down and she swung at anchor off the first reallytropical town on which the Boy Aviators’ eyes had ever rested.
The Boy Aviators in Nicaragua; or, In League with the Insurgents Page 3
