CHAPTER III.
BILLY BARNES OF THE PLANET.
Before sun up the next day there was a busy scene of bustling activityat the plantation of La Merced. The bustle extended from the hacienda tothe barracks,—the news of the arrival of the _Aztec_ having been broughtto the estancia the night before by a native runner.
Old Matula, Señor Chester’s personal mocho had been down at the stablessince the time that the stars began to fade urging the men, whose dutyit was to look after the horses, to greater activity in saddling up themounts, which his master, Jimmie Blakely, and their cortege needed intheir ride to the coast to meet the boys.
The native plantation hands, as volatile as most of their race hadforgotten the events of the preceding night in their child-likeexcitement at the idea of the arrival of _The Big Man Bird_, as theycalled the _Golden Eagle_; this being their conception of the craftgained after numerous consultations of Señor Chester.
Even Juan was strutting around the quarters and posing as a woundedhero, to the great admiration of his wife and the other women whoentirely forgot that the night before he had appeared anything but a manof arms, and that his wife had subsisted mainly on the Señor Chester’scharity, since his desertion of her to become a patriot.
Jimmie Blakely and Señor Chester had sat far into the night talking overthe situation, and it had struck midnight before they arrived at theconclusion that it would be inflicting a needless shock to inform SeñoraRuiz of Juan’s report of her husband’s death until some sort ofconfirmation had been obtained. Fate, however, took the painful task outof their hands. The gossipy servants who had heard Jose’s lamentationslost no time in conveying the news to the estancia of Señor Pachecho.Señora Ruiz received the report of her husband’s death bravely enoughwhile the servants were in the room, but after they had left she fell ina swoon and speedily became so ill that the old doctor at Restigue hadto be routed out of bed and driven at post haste in a rickety volante toDon Pachecho’s home.
After a hasty snack—a la Espagnole—the real breakfast in the tropics notbeing taken till eleven o’clock or so—the master of La Merced andBlakely mounted their horses and set out at top speed for Greytown.
“I’ve got my own ideas of welcoming the boys to Nicaragua,” confided Mr.Chester to his overseer as they put spurs to their mounts, “I ordered abonga to be in readiness for us as soon as the _Aztec_ arrived. I guessa trip through the surf in one of those will astonish them, eh?”
“I should jolly well think so,” replied the Hon. Jimmie, screwing hismonocule more firmly in his eye.
The young Britisher was immaculate in khaki riding breeches, long graycoat and yellow puttees. The admired and feared eyeglass, to which heowed so much of his power over the natives, was gleaming firmly from hisface, nor did the rapid pace at which the rough-gaited horses were urgedover the road, affect its equilibrium. To save time Mr. Chester hadelected to take a trail instead of the main road. By doing this they cutoff at least ten miles of the distance. It was a wild looking cavalcadethat galloped along through clouds of dust over the none too surefooting of the rock-strewn trail. Behind Mr. Chester and Jimmie rode oldMatula and the redoubtable Jose. The latter proudly wore about hisclassic brow a white bandage—in token of his being a hero and wounded.Both Jose and Matula led after them extra ponies for the use of the boysin the ride back to La Merced.
Bringing up the rear was a particular friend of Jimmie’s mounted on arazor-backed, single-footing mule that somehow managed to get over theground as fast as the other animals and without any apparent exertion.Jose’s friend was a peculiarly villainous-looking old Nicaraguan Indian,who eked out a scanty living at rubber cutting—that is, slashing therubber trees for their milk and carting the product in wooden pails tothe coast.
He had arrived at the ranchero a few days before and not finding Josethere, the patriot being at the front, had just hung around after theeasy fashion of the country to wait for him. The clothes of this oldscarecrow, who by the way answered to the name of Omalu, consisted ofcoffee bags all glued over with the relics of countless tappings of therubber tree. As he bestrode his mule his legs stuck out from his gunnybag costume like the drumsticks of a newly-trussed fowl.
Both Mr. Chester and Jimmie were armed. The former carried, besides hisnavy pattern Colt, a cavalry carbine slung in a holster alongside hisright knee. Jimmie had strapped to a brand new cartridge belt anautomatic revolver of the latest pattern. In addition to these weaponsJose and Matula carried their machetes, without which a native of anyCentral American country will in no wise travel, and old Omalu regarded,with a grin of pride on his creased face, his ancient Birminghammatchlock—commonly known as a gas-pipe gun.
As the cavalcade clattered into the dusty palm-fringed port of Greytown,with its adobe walls and staring galvanized iron roofs, the first launchfrom the _Aztec_ was just landing passengers at the end of the new, rawpine wharf recently built by the steamship company. Before this alllandings had been made through the surf, as Mr. Chester intended to landthe boys.
The owner of La Merced and his party halted to watch the group of newarrivals making its way down the pier. Among the first to put his footashore was the black-bearded man who had such a narrow escape of missingthe steamer in New York.
He looked very different now, however, except for his heavy face andsuspicious quick glances. He wore spotless white ducks, of which he hadpurchased a supply a few days before, at the first tropic port of callthe _Aztec_ made. On his head was a huge Panama hat of the finest weave.In his hand he still gripped the black leather bag that he had causedsuch a fuss about in New York. It looked very incongruous in contrast tohis fresh South American attire.
“General Rogero!” exclaimed Mr. Chester, as the black-bearded man cameabreast of the little party. Hearing the name the person addressedlooked up quickly.
“Ah, Señor Chester,” he exclaimed, displaying a glistening row of teethbeneath his heavy moustache, “how strange that you should be the firstperson I should meet after my little voyage to your delightful country.How goes it at the Rancho Merced?” He seemed purposely to avoid theimportant events that were transpiring.
Mr. Chester assured him that rarely before had the season promisedbetter. The rains had ceased early and the crops looked as if they wouldbe exceptionally heavy.
While they talked a barefooted messenger from the telegraph office inthe iron railroad station slouched up to them.
“For you, General,” he said, saluting as he handed the bearded man apink envelope.
With a swift “pardon” Rogero ripped open the envelope the messenger hadhanded him. From the time it took him to read it it was of greaterlength than the ordinary wire and he raised his eyebrows and exclaimedseveral times as he perused it.
When at length he looked up from it his face had lost the almost smugexpression it had worn before. In its place there had come a manner ofcontemptuous command very thinly veiled by a sort of sardonicpoliteness.
“As you probably know,” he said, “and as this telegram informs me, theinsurgent forces under the renegade Estrada were beaten back two daysago at El Rondero,” he looked insolently from under his heavy lids atthe American planter to observe the effects of his words upon him.
For all the effect it had on Mr. Chester however, the words might aswell have been directed at a graven image.
“Well?” he said, taking up the thinly disguised challenge flung at himby Rogero.
“Well,” sneered Rogero, “I simply thought it might be of interest to youto tell you that you are regarded at Managua as renegado. I may alsoinform you that to-day at sunrise the two captured Americans suspectedof being connected with the revolutionaries were shot down like——”
Whatever General Rogero might have been going to add he stopped short asMr. Chester bent his angry gaze on him.
“What!” exclaimed the latter, “shot down without a trial—without anopportunity to explain. Zelaya will suffer for this.�
�
“That remains to be seen,” sneered Rogero, selecting a cigarette from asilver case and lighting it with calm deliberation. “What I have to sayto you is in the nature of a warning, Señor. ‘Verbum sapiente,’ youknow.”
“I can dispense with your advice, Señor,” cut in Mr. Chester.
“At present perhaps—but we may meet later and under differentcircumstances. Remember, Señor, that General Rogero of PresidentZelaya’s army shows no mercy to those who choose to ally themselves withdogs of rebels. Whether they are American citizens—or British,” he addedwith a look of scorn at Jimmie, “it makes no difference. A bullet atsunrise answers all questions.—Adios Señores.”
He raised his hat with an abrupt gesture, and with a sharp “Venga,” toan obsequious orderly from the barracks, who had just arrived with ahorse for him, the general swung himself into the saddle and rode off tothe Hotel Gran Central de Greytown.
As the general cantered off in a scattering cloud of dust, a youth whohad landed from the launch at the same time, stepped up to Mr. Chesterand his companion. He looked as if he might have walked off thevaudeville stage. Over one shoulder was slung a camera, from the otherdepended a canteen. A formidable revolver was strapped at his waist, anda pith helmet with a brilliant green cumer-bund sat low on his reddishhair. While the general had been uttering his sinister threats thisfigure had been busy taking snapshots of everything from the gallinazosor carrion buzzards that sat in long rows along the ridges of thegalvanized roofs to the old women under huge umbrellas, who dispensedevil-looking red and yellow candy from rickety stands.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, placing his hand on the pommel of Mr.Chester’s saddle. “Would you mind telling me who that gentleman is withwhom you have just been speaking?”
As he raised his face he disclosed a plump, amiable countenanceornamented by a pair of huge round spectacles.
“I know this is unusual,” he hurried on apologetically, “but I’mBarnes—Billy Barnes of the New York Planet,—correspondent, you know.”
“Well, Mr. Barnes, if you are a correspondent you will have a lot ofopportunities to meet General Rogero before this little trouble isover,” replied Mr. Chester, in an amused tone.
The effect of this reply on Mr. Barnes of the Planet, was extraordinary.He blew his cheeks out like a frog and executed a sort of doubleshuffle. He gazed at Mr. Chester in a portentous way for a few secondsand then sputtering out:—“You say that’s General Rogero?” then, with thecryptic words:
“Joseph Rosenstein, diamond salesman, eh?—oh Lord, what a story!” hedashed off in the direction the general’s horse had vanished.
“That young man is either insane or the sun has gone to his head,”commented Mr. Chester, as both he and Jimmie watched young Mr. Barnes’sfat little legs going like pistons bearing him toward the Hotel GranCentral.
“He’s a jolly queer sort of a cove,” was the amiable Jimmie’s comment,“a bit balmy in the crumpet, I should say.”
Any explanation of the meaning of “Balmy in the crumpet” on Jimmie’spart, was cut short by a native who ran from midway down the wharf andapproaching Mr. Chester, rapidly muttered a few words of corruptSpanish.
“He says the bonga is ready,” said Mr. Chester, turning to Jimmie—“comeon. Remember I haven’t seen my boys for a year or more.”
They hurried down the wharf leaving Matula, Jose and old Omalu behind towatch the horses. Alongside the pier, riding the heavy swells like aduck, lay a peculiar type of boat about thirty feet long, called by theNicaraguans, a bonga. It was carved out of a solid log of mahogany andpainted a bright glaring red inside and out. They clambered down into itby a ladder formed of twisted jungle creepers and a few minutes laterwere skimming the smooth green swells that lay between them and the_Aztec_.
The Boy Aviators in Nicaragua; or, In League with the Insurgents Page 4
