by John Buchan
“No,” said Archie; “I respectfully disagree. I can’t argue properly, but I know what I think. First, I don’t believe you can ever get rid of the human factor. Science has to be applied by mortal men, and the efficiency of its application will depend upon those who use it. You can never create what you call a norm either of character or of brains. Second, I agree that the old rules of war are a back number. A modern army can conquer savages, but in the old style of warfare it can’t conquer another model army. But I believe that one modern nation can still conquer another. You need a wider definition of war, sir. It’s far more than marching and counter-marching, and frontal and flank attacks, and number of men and weight of guns and speed of transport. It’s the effort of one people to smash the morale of another, and there are a thousand ways doing that.”
“I assent. But not in the field.”
“Yes, in the field. We’ve been frozen into convention for two thousand years. The autumn of 1918 saw the end of that regime. Now mankind is going to discover new ways of exercising superiority — in the field, but not by old field tactics. Conquest is always a spiritual conquest, and means will be found for making spirit act directly upon spirit.”
“You are quoting. Whom?” The voice from above had a sudden interest.
“A friend of mine who thinks a lot about these things. You wouldn’t know him.”
“I differ from him absolutely. You are still clinging to the old notion of something incalculable and mystic which can defeat reason. You are wrong, for reason is the only power. Every day we are rationalising life, and what we cannot rationalise we can isolate and nullify. You young people are relics of the Middle Ages.”
“But so is human nature.” It was Barbara who spoke.
“Do not misunderstand me. We allow for the spasmodic impulses of human nature. But we analyse them and evaluate them, and by understanding them we can use them. Liberty, for example. That ancient instinct can be worked out to four places of decimals, and can consequently be used by reason. Is the human intelligence to submit docilely to be governed and thwarted by blind reactions which mankind shares with the brutes?”
“You are very clever, Excellency, but I think that there is always an unknown x which will defeat you. You are too clever, for you would make science and reason rule over a dimension to which they don’t apply. Humility may be the more scientific than arrogance.”
The guest laughed pleasantly. “I think you also are quoting. Whom, may I ask?”
“A friend. Sir Archie’s friend.”
Had anyone been observing Archie closely, he would have noticed that he had looked at his watch, and then made a movement towards the electric button behind his elbow. The act seemed to afford him some satisfaction, for he gave a sigh of relief and lit a cigarette.
The Gobernador had turned to catch Barbara’s reply.
“I should like to meet your friend,” he said, and then suddenly he flung his head back and listened. The throb of the propeller was felt through the vessel, and the ear caught the swish of moving water.
“You will soon have that pleasure,” said Barbara, “for we are taking you to him.”
In an instant the guest was on his feet. “What nonsense is this?” he asked sharply. His tall figure towered menacingly above the others, who remained seated in their chairs.
“It is all right, sir,” said Archie. A change had come over the young man, for the diffidence, the lower-boy shyness, which had been noticeable all the evening, had gone. Now he seemed to be at his ease and to be enjoying himself.
“I know it is a bit of a liberty, and we apologise and all that sort of thing, but it had to be done. You see, we greatly admire you and we want you to be our leader...It is no use shouting for your bodyguard. I’m afraid we had to handle them a little roughly, and at this moment they are trussed up and adrift in a boat. The tide’s all right and they’ll be picked up to-morrow morning in the harbour...Please don’t do anything rash, sir. Our men are all about, and they carry guns. You see, we really mean business.”
The Gobernador had his face averted so the other three could not see his change of mood. But a change there was, for he flung himself down in his chair and refilled his pipe.
“I’m a busy man,” he said, “and you are doing more harm than you can realise. Also I am afraid you are making serious trouble for yourselves. But I suppose I must submit to this prank. I was right when I said you were still in the Middle Ages. You are a set of melodramatic children...I hope you don’t mean it to last long. By the way, where are you taking me?”
Janet clapped her hands. “I have won my bet. I knew you would take it well. I told you when we asked you to dinner that we were going to sit at your feet. That is true, you know. We want you to lead us.”
“We are going to help you to discover America,” said Barbara. “You will be our new Columbus.”
“You will meet the friend,” said Archie, “whom Miss Dasent and I have been quoting.”
“Perhaps you will now tell me his name,” said the Gobernador.
“We call him Sandy,” Archie said casually. “His name used to be Arbuthnot. Now it’s Clanroyden.”
The recovered urbanity of the Gobernador was suddenly broken. A cry escaped him, and he turned his face away to the racing seas, but not before Janet had seen his brows knit in a mood so dark that she unconsciously reached for Archie’s hand.
XII
When the Corinna was beginning to move out of the dusk harbour of Olifa, a wireless message was sent from it to an address in the Gran Seco. That message consisted of two words: Francis First. There had been various schemes agreed upon for the handling of the Gobernador, and the numeral was intended to signify the one which had been adopted. By a happy chance, the first and simplest had succeeded. The receipt of this brief message was like a spark to powder. The events of the next few days in the Gran Seco cannot be told in orderly history. They had the speed and apparent inconsequence of moving pictures, and can only be set forth as flashes of light in a fog of confusion.
At the Universum Mine the manager woke as usual, breakfasted on his veranda, read his mail, and was a little surprised that certain telephone calls, which he had expected, had not come through from Headquarters. He was about to ring for his secretary and bid him call up the Gran Seco city, when the chief engineer, a Texan named Varnay, appeared on the scene and accepted a cup of coffee and a cigar. The manager was a newcomer who had been specially chosen by the Gobernador, a highly efficient machine whose pragmatic soul dwelt mainly in graphs and statistics. The Texan was a lean, lanky, hollow-eyed man, whose ordinary costume was dirty duck trousers and shirt-sleeves. To-day he wore breeches and boots and a drill jacket, and in his belt was an ostentatious revolver. The manager opened his eyes at this magnificence and waited for Varnay to speak. He was itching to get at his secretary and start the day’s routine.
The Texan was in no hurry. He poured himself out a cup of coffee with extreme deliberation, lit his cigar, and blew smoke-rings.
“The new draft will be in by midday,” said the manager.
It was the day in the month when a batch of fresh labour arrived, and what Peters had called the “returned empties” began their melancholy journey to the pueblas.
“Yep,” said the Texan. “The outgoing batch went last night, and the new outfit arrived an hour ago.”
The manager jumped to his feet. “Who altered the schedule?” he cried angrily. “Who the hell has been monkeying with my plans? I’ve had the schedule fixed this last month, and the Universum Mine has got to be run according to it. I’ll flay the man that stuck his clumsy hoof into it.”
He was about to cross the veranda to the bell which would have brought his secretary when the quiet drawl of the other detained him. The Texan had stuck out his long legs, and was regarding with abstracted eyes a butterfly which had perched on his coffee-cup.
“Sit down, mister,” he said. “Things have been happening this morning in this outfit, and I got to put you
wise about them. The Universum is closed down till further notice.”
“By whose order?” the manager barked.
“By the Gobernador’s.”
The manager cursed with vehemence and point. He was the boss, and any instructions from Headquarters came through him. “What misbegotten son of a yellow dog had dared to usurp his authority? If this was a hold-up —
“Say, this love-talk don’t cut no ice,” said the Texan without heat. “You haven’t been let in on this scheme because you’re a newcomer and wouldn’t have got the hang of it. Say, listen. Things have been going crooked in the little old country, and his Excellency is going to straighten them out. Those dagos in Olifa are giving us a dirty deal and we reckon it’s time a white man took charge. It ain’t sense. We’re using up these poor goldarned Indians and chucking them aside like old boots. That’s bad business, mister, and the pueblas won’t stand for it.”
“You fool! What can the Indians do?”
“You’d be surprised,” said Varnay gently. “But it ain’t the Indians only. There’s the Police, and there’s all of us white men who think the time has come for a clean-up.”
“Man, that’s rebellion,” the manager cried, his orderly soul shocked to its roots.
“Why, yes. I guess it’s rebellion. But you’ve no cause to get scared, for we’re not rebelling against the boss. It’s our boss rebelling against Olifa.”
“You’re a liar. Headquarters would never be such God-forgotten idiots. They’re business men and know where their profit lies.”
“I don’t say there mayn’t be some pikers at Headquarters, and a bit of trouble, but I reckon that his Excellency Castor is a mighty clever man, and it’s him we follow. Why, the vaqueros are all wearing medals with his face on them, and they look up to him as a God Almighty.”
The shaken manager at last turned to the telephone. But there was no answer from Headquarters and the bell failed to bring his secretary.
“The lines were cut last night,” said Varnay, “after our orders came through...But see here, mister. We want to treat you on the square. You’ve not been let in on this deal, and you’ve no cause to mix yourself up in it if you don’t want to. We’re going to town presently, but there’s no reason why you shouldn’t get on ahead and judge things for yourself. There’s an automobile at your disposal whenever you like to start.”
The manager took the hint, and departed with a box full of confidential papers and the balances left in the pay-chest. He was loyal to his employers, but it remained for him to find out who these employers were.
At the Alhuema Mine things went with equal smoothness, for the manager there was in the plot. But at the San Tome there was some unpleasantness and for an hour or two a difficult situation. The San Tome manager had only just come, having been before in the Administration at Headquarters. He was a young American from Montana, who had had experience of copper-mining in half a dozen quarters of the globe, and had earned a reputation as a go-getter and a firm handler of coloured human material. He was set on making good, for there was a girl waiting for him at home, and he had the contempt of the youth of his country, scientifically trained and furiously ambitious, for all things which cannot be set out in graphs and figures. Also, having just come from the city and having heard for months the intimate talk of Headquarters, he was not easy to bluff.
The situation was complicated by the fact that the white technical staff of the mine were not unanimous. Three of the engineers had refused to join in the plot, and had only refrained from prematurely exposing it on being assured that the thing had failed and had been abandoned. Moreover, when the ringleader, a Scotsman called Melville, received the message which was to fire the train, it was found impossible to cut the telephone line to Headquarters. The outgoing draft of labour was too slow in starting, and the incoming draft, which was to give the rebels their armed force, was unaccountably delayed. The night was spent anxiously by Melville and his colleagues in a vain attempt to get into touch with Peters and the police. But Peters had his own troubles, for his squadron also had its doubtful elements. Headquarters had taken alarm and had just drafted into it some of the more desperate characters in the Mines guard. The consequence was that there was shooting, and at daybreak, when Peters had his force ready for the road, two dead men and three trussed-up prisoners were left behind.
Early in the morning, when Melville played his hand, the young manager was beforehand with him. The manifesto of the malcontents infuriated him, and their use of Castor’s name did not convince, for he rang up Headquarters and thereby precipitated trouble in the city two hours before it was due. Believing that he had to deal with a piece of common brigandage, and having been promised immediate reinforcements, he resolved to hold the fort. He had the three malcontent engineers, his staff of Olifero clerks, his half-caste servants, and his own stout heart. He put his house into a state of defence, and he had one conspicuous asset, for in the same building was the magazine of explosives, and, with such perilous stuff about, his assailants must go circumspectly.
About 10 a.m. Peters arrived with his police. The manager took them for his reinforcements, and Peters might have entered his house and taken peaceful possession, but for the fact that his greeting by Melville was observed from an upper window. A parley was attempted, and Peters and the manager sat opposite each other in chairs on the veranda, each with a revolver on his knee. The policeman was no diplomatist. His temper had been soured by his difficulties in the night watches, and he talked to the manager like a sergeant to a recruit, and was met by a stiff defiance. Did he imagine that a rising of Indians and a few mutinous police would worry the Gran Seco, much less the republic of Olifa with its potent army? The thing was moonshine. That the Gobernador was a party to it was an impudent lie. The manager knew the mind of the Administration better than any bush policeman. He would hold the place till succour arrived, and if there was any attempt to rush his defences, they would all go to glory — and he nodded towards the magazine. Peters retired discomfited, for he read in the stiff chin and the frosty eyes that this man would be as good as his word.
The impasse continued till noon, while Peters and Melville consulted anxiously, for this delay was dislocating the whole programme. Then at long last the incoming Indian draft arrived, and with it a young man the Olifero called Carlos Rivero, who had chaperoned Janet and Archie on their journey to the Gran Seco. When he heard of the trouble he proposed to interview the manager a second time, and under a flag of truce the two sat again on the veranda. But Rivero had no revolver on his knee.
What he said can only be guessed. But as an Olifero of an ancient stock he must have spoken with an authority denied to Peters. It is probable that he told the manager quite frankly certain things of which Peters had no knowledge. At any rate, he seems to have impressed him, and to in have shaken his obstinacy. But the faithful servant demanded proof. If he were to act without superior instruction, he must be convinced that he yielded to the strongest of all arguments.
“Right,” said Rivero. “You shall have your proof, Senor. You are familiar with the sight of an incoming draft — sullen, wolfish men herded by the police? Come and see what I have brought you. You have my word of honour that, if you are not convinced, you can return to this place and continue your defiance. More, Senor Melville shall be brought here and remain as a hostage.”
The manager accompanied Rivero to the compound behind the Mines buildings which was reserved for the Indian labourers. And this is what he saw. A compact body of five hundred men, mounted on small wiry horses and each carrying a rifle at his saddle-bow. These lithe figures were very unlike the weary, hopeless automata that had been accustomed to stumble into the compound. They held themselves erect, and, if their faces were sullen, it was the sullenness of a grim purpose. There were white officers and sergeants among them in the uniform of the Police, but the impressiveness of the spectacle was not in them, but in the solid, disciplined ranks of fighting men sprung out of an older age.
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“These,” said Rivero, “are the labourers whom the Gobernador is now calling to his side.”
The manager stared, rubbed his eyes, and laughed.
“I reckon the game’s with you,” he said at last. “I climb down. This is sure a business proposition.”
The daily meeting of the heads of departments was held as usual in the Administration Headquarters at ten o’clock with the Vice-President, the Mexican Rosas, in the chair. The members met in a large room on the same floor as the Gobernador’s private office, but at the side of the building away from the main street. The Vice-President said a word to his private secretary, who sat in a little office behind the chair, and when the meeting began the doors were quietly locked, so that the only entrance lay through the secretary’s room. There was a vast amount of detail on the agenda the morning, to which the meeting duly bent its mind.
During the night there had been odd happenings at the railway-station. The daily freight train, which should have left at 9 p.m., did not start; instead the freight train of the day before, which on its up-journey should have passed the other at the frontier station of Gabones, was ordered by telegraph to proceed without delay to the Gran Seco. Also an upcoming passenger train, which was not due to leave Santa Ana till noon, had been expedited, so that it arrived almost empty about daybreak, and intending travellers that day found themselves stranded at Santa Ana without connection. The downgoing train was due to leave 10 a.m., but it did not start. Those who meant to trave it found the station closed and under guard, and the yards full of rolling stock. By 10 a.m. on that morning the whole of the rolling stock of the Gran Seco line, with the exception of a few trucks delayed at Santa Ana, was concentrated at the Gran Seco terminus.
