by John Buchan
Blenkiron, as the plan was unfolded, glanced at the paper in his hands, and at Escrick’s further elucidation with the point of a riding-switch in the thick dust. Then he turned to another man, a heavy red-faced fellow who was perpetually mopping his face with a blue-spotted handkerchief. At his look of inquiry the man nodded.
“The last of the supply waggons leave this afternoon, sir,” he said. “Three of the centres are already stocked up, and the fourth will be completed by midnight. The men should be well on their way before daybreak to-morrow, and all arrangements have been made for mining and blowing-up the roads behind them.”
“You’re not leaving much behind?”
“Not an ounce of flour or a pound of bacon,” was the answer.
“I reckon that’s fair. It’s up to Lossberg to feed the population of the city he captures. What’s it they call them, Luis? The bouches inutiles?”
Luis de Marzaniga smiled. “There won’t be too many of these useless mouths, Senor.”
“Lordy, it’s hot!” Blenkiron sighed. “Let’s get inside the shack and moisten our lips with lime-juice. The maps are there, and I’ll like to have a once-over before we gel back to our jobs.”
A hut in the garden had been transformed into an office, and on one wall hung a big plan made of a dozen sheets pinned together. It had none of the finish of the products of a Government Map Department, being the work of the Mines surveyors. Each of the men had a small replica, which he compared with the original. There followed an hour of detailed instruction as to routes and ultimate concentrations. Four points were marked on the big map with red circles. One, lettered Pacheco, lay in the extreme south-west angle of the Gran Seco. Magdalena, the second, was a hundred miles farther north, under the shadow of the peaks called the Spanish Ladies. The third was near the centre of the northern part of the province, the Seco Boreal, and had the surprising name of Fort Castor: while the fourth, Loa, was at the opening of the neck of land which led to the Courts of the Morning. The commandos under Escrick were to make for the two latter points, while Peters and his forces, which had been fighting in the Mines sector, had the two former for their objectives.
There was also to be a change in the command. Blenkiron, once the city had been surrendered, laid down his duties. The field force in the future would be divided between Escrick and Peters; and, under Castor as generalissimo, the operations as a whole would be directed by him whom the Indians called El Obro.
“I guess we’ll keep to that pet name,” Blenkiron said. “It sounds good, and kind of solemn. We haven’t any use for effete territorial titles in this democratic army, and ‘Sandy’ is too familiar.”
Then he made the men repeat their instructions till each was clear not only about his own task but about the tasks of the others — a vital thing in a far-flung force. After that he lectured them...So far luck had been on their side. Their losses had been small; under estimate in the railway sector, and not thirty per cent. beyond it even after Peters’s rash counter-attack. No officer had fallen, and only six had been wounded. One aeroplane, unfortunately, had been brought down, and the pilot and observer, both young Mines engineers, killed. That was their most serious casualty. “A very nice little exhibition of the new bloodless conduct of war,” said Blenkiron. But this was only the overture; the serious business was now about to begin, when they had to make the country fight Lossberg, as Washington made the geography of America fight Burgoyne and Cornwallis. “It’s going to be a mighty tough proposition, but I reckon if we pay strict attention to business we’ll put it through.”
“Say, though,” said Escrick, “what is going to be the upshot?”
“Peace, sonny. We’ve got to make the Excelentisimo at Olifa so dead-sick of the business that he’ll want to deal. Same game as Robert E. Lee played before Gettysburg. We can’t beat them, but we may make them want to deal. And in that deal Mr Castor is going to state the terms. And those terms are going to fix things more comfortably in this province, but principally they are going to fix Mr Castor. You’ve got the schedule for to-night clear? Then we’d better dissolve this conference. I join you, General Escrick, at twenty minutes after midnight.”
The men entered their dusty cars and departed, while Blenkiron went into his house, accompanied by Luis de Marzaniga, who seemed to be acting as his chief staff-officer.
As they lunched frugally off sardines and biscuits, Blenkiron was in a cheerful mood, but a shadow seemed to hover about the face of the younger man.
“What’s worrying you, Luis?” Blenkiron asked. “Things have panned out pretty well according to plan. There’s snags good and plenty to come, but we needn’t think about them just yet.”
“I think, Senor, that there is one snag which we have forgotten.”
“Meaning?”
“The bouches inutiles whom we are leaving to the care of General Lossberg.”
“Why, man, we can’t do anything else. The civilians in a captured city are not our concern. They’re his funeral, He’s bound to treat them well for...”
“It is scarcely a question of humanity. But some of these bouches may be mischievous.”
“The Bodyguard?”
The young man took a paper from his pocket.
“Here,” he said, “I have a list of the more dangerous of the Bodyguard and of those gentry whom we call the conquistadors. I have made notes on each...Kubek — he was happily killed in this very house. We found his body over there by the window...Ramiro and Molson, they were shot by Peters at the round-up...Sechstein — dead of spotted fever...Snell — died of wounds two hours after Kubek...But Radin and Molinoff are at large — you remember that they broke away in the confusion, when the house in the Calle of the Virgin fell as Peters was taking them to the lock-up...There are others, too. We know nothing of what became of Martel and Carvilho and Magee and Trompetter...and Laschallas, whom we used to think as dangerous as Kubek. Do you know that he, or somebody very like him, was seen last night in a drinking-den near St Martin’s Port?”
“That only means that there are a handful of bad men loose. You can’t corral all the scamps. Besides, a gunman’s not too dangerous in a war where everybody has a gun.”
“I wonder. Remember that these are a very special type of gunman. The Gobernador chose them for their brains out of the rascality of the globe...Then there are the three ruffians you sent with him to Olifa. What were their names?”
“Carreras, Judson, and Biretti.”
“Yes. Well, you may be sure they will come back, if indeed they are not back already...I do not like it, Senor. They are dangerous grit to get into our wheels. I should be happier if I knew that they were in their graves.”
“So should I. But I don’t let that outfit worry me. I reckon they’re part of the legitimate risk of war. Anything more?”
“The Conquistadors.”
Blenkiron laughed aloud. “That pie-faced bunch! Say, Luis, you’re getting fanciful. What harm can those doped owls do us? They’ll be waiting for Lossberg and making a fuss about their comforts. It’s him they’ll bite, not us.”
“I wonder again. Lariarty was in the round-up which Lord Clanroyden organised. He was consorting with the Bodyguard. Is there not something there to make us think?”
“Why, Luis, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Except for Castor, I reckon I know the Conquistadors better than any other man, and I’ve sized them up long-ago. They’re the most dangerous stuff on earth, so long as Castor has the handling of them, but without him they’re no more good than dud shells. They’ve powder enough, but, lacking Castor, they haven’t the current to fire the charge. Let ‘em alone, and they’ll just moon about and rot.”
“And yet Lariarty was at the meeting which was nearly the end of Lord Clanroyden. He sat in the judge’s chair. It is right to assume that he had some part in the plot...I think you are wrong, Senor. I think the Conquistadors are like sick wolves — dying, if you like, but with enough strength to turn and bite. And, remember, their bite will be d
eadly, because it is poisoned.”
Blenkiron looked perturbed. “I can’t bring myself to think that. What could they do? They won’t fit in with Lossberg.”
“No, indeed. General Lossberg, if I understand him, will make nothing of them. He is a conventional soldier, and will fight his battles in the old professional way...But what if the Conquistadors keep the same company that we found Lariarty keeping? They have no scruples. What if a dull anger and a craving for their drug — for presently they will get no more of it — what if that kindles their wits and screws up their nerves sufficiently for one desperate throw? The remnants of the Bodyguard, if they can find them, will be their executants. They will think chiefly of getting to Castor, and, failing that, of revenge.”
“It will be hard to reach the Courts of the Morning.”
“Maybe. But it may be less hard to reach you — or Lord Clanroyden. Our army is not a machine, but a personal following. A well-aimed bullet might make it a rabble.”
Blenkiron sat brooding for a moment. “I think you put the risk too high,” he said at last, “but we can’t neglect any risk. Have you put Intelligence on to the job?”
“Senor Musgrave and his young men have been too busy fighting battles. I have done a little myself.”
“You have told me what gunmen survive, but you haven’t located them. How about the Conquistadors?”
Luis took up another paper. “Lariarty, whom Peters wanted to lock up, was set free by Lord Clanroyden. He has been living quietly in his rooms, playing much music on his piano. There are five others in the Gran Seco, and they profess to be waiting till the Mines are started again, whether by Lossberg or ourselves. They shrug their shoulders, and behave as if there were no war. The dandyism of their clothes has not changed, and they feed solemnly together at the Club or the Regina. What they do beyond that I cannot tell.”
“Who’s here beside Lariarty?”
Luis read from his paper.
“Senores Frederick Larbert, Peter Suvorin, Maximilian Calvo, Jacques D’Ingraville, Luigi Pasquali.”
Blenkiron considered. “After Lariarty I should say that D’Ingraville was the danger. He’s not so deeply dipped, and he’s the youngest. Funny to think that he was once a French flying ace.”
“I have something more to tell you. Romanes is returning. I had information this morning that two days ago he landed in Olifa and that he is now with Lossberg.”
“H’m! I don’t like that. Europe has a bad effect on those lads — breaks their temper and quickens their brains. And he won’t get the dope to quiet him — not unless he goes into the Poison Country, and Peters will have a word to say to that...Darn you, Luis, you’ve given me a thorn to lie on, just when I was feeling comfortable and meaning to hog it on my bed till sundown. What are you going to do?”
“I would beg leave of absence till eight o’clock. You have no need, I think, for my services, and there are one or two inquiries I wish to make before we leave the city.”
So, while Blenkiron, who had slept less than six hours in the past three days, did his best that afternoon to make up arrears, Luis de Marzaniga set out on his own errands.
He visited the Club, and saw in a corner of the deserted dining-room three men lunching. They were just beginning, and in the dislocation of the service their meal was bound to be a slow one. Satisfied with his survey, he joined a young man, who was waiting for him in the street, and the two made a round of domiciliary visits. This young man knew his business, and the outer doors of three flats were neatly opened without damage to the locks. Two of the flats — those of Larbert and D’Ingraville — were in normal order, full of books and bibelots and queer scents, but the third, that of Peter Suvorin, was in a state of supreme untidiness. Its owner had been burning papers in the stove, his bedroom was littered with clothes, while a half-packed valise stood on the bed. “It seems,” said Luis to his companion, “that Senor Suvorin is about to make a journey.”
His next visit was alone, and to the Regina Hotel. There it was plain that he had a friend, for a word to the head-waiter in the almost empty restaurant got him an immediate interview with a servant in a little room behind the office.
“Senor Pasquali’s apartments?” he asked. “You have watched them as I directed?”
“With assiduity. The Senor is going away soon. Where, I do not know, but he has had his baggage prepared as if for a rough journey. Also he has received every night at the hour of ten a visitor.”
The visitor was described: a tall man, with a long dark face and high cheek-bones, like an Indian’s. No, not an Indian — certainly a white man. There was a white scar on his forehead above his right eye. He spoke with Senor Pasquali in French.
Luis whistled. “That is our friend Radin,” he said to himself. “Radin beyond doubt. What has that ugly rogue from the gutter to do with the superfine Pasquali, who plays Scriabin so ravishingly? They may be going travelling together — perhaps also with Suvorin. Luis, my dear, these things must be looked into.”
Luis went out into the glare of the afternoon with a preoccupied face. He walked for a little down the Avenida Bolivar, and then struck through a nest of calles in the direction of the smelting works. His preoccupation did not prevent him keeping a sharp look-out, and presently in a jostle of market-women at a corner he saw a face which made him walk quietly back a little, slip up a side street, and then run his hardest to cut it off. He failed, for the man had disappeared. After a moment’s reflection Luis returned to the Administration Buildings and sought out the room given up to the headquarters of the Air Force. The true air base was the Courts of the Morning, but there was an aerodrome and a single squadron behind the city. There he cross-examined the officer in charge as to whether any Olifa planes had recently crossed their lines. He was told that four had been brought down, but that to the best of Headquarters’ knowledge no voluntary landing had been made.
“But we cannot tell,” said the officer. “We are not holding a continuous line — only two sectors.”
“Then an Olifa plane might land someone in a place from which he could make his way here?”
“It is possible,” was the answer. “Not very likely, but possible.”
In the narrow lane Luis had seen Dan Judson, one of Castor’s three trusties. Where Judson was one might look to find also Carreras and Biretti, and the probability was that all three had been landed from an enemy plane and were now in the city. Suvorin and Pasquali were making a journey, and Radin was privy to it. Luis’s next business was to go to tea with Lariarty, whom he knew a little.
He found that gentleman quite openly preparing for the road. Lariarty’s face was whiter than ever and his eyes looked tortured; but they also looked most furiously alive, and his whole body seemed to have woken into an hysterical life.
“Ho, Senor,” Luis exclaimed. “Do you follow us into exile? I thought you would await the conqueror here — seeing that you have no politics — and advise him wisely about Gran Seco business. That was also Senor Rosas’s belief.”
Lariarty looked at him with a composure which seemed to be the result of a strong effort, for the man was obviously ill at ease.
“Some of us remain,” he said. “But not I. I wish to be at the Gobernador’s side, for his interests are my interests. I have to-day been at Headquarters, and it is arranged that I go with General Escrick.”
“What makes you so certain you will find the Gobernador with Escrick?”
“I am not certain. But if I am with the field army, it stands to reason that I must sooner or later come across the commander-in-chief.”
“Who are staying behind?”
“All the others.”
“Suvorin?”
“Yes.”
“And Pasquali?”
“Certainly. Why do you ask?”
“No reason at all...I congratulate you, Senor, on your courage, for we of Escrick’s command must ride fast and far. You are perhaps out of training for the savannahs and the mountains?”
/> “I am not in good form. But there was a time when I was never off a horse.”
Luis abounded in friendly advice, as from an old campaigner, and finally took his leave. “We shall meet in the darkness,” he said, and was told that Lariarty had orders to report himself at midnight.
It was now within an hour of nightfall and Luis repaired to Blenkiron’s house for a bath. As he splashed in the tepid water, he reflected. “I am certain that they are all going with Escrick,” he told himself. “Lariarty alone will go openly, but the others will be there somehow — Suvorin and Pasquali and Calvo — likewise that trinity of cherubs, Judson, Carreras, and Biretti. Larbert and D’Ingraville will wait here till Romanes comes, and then join them...there’s going to be a gathering of the vultures somewhere in the North...They’re after the Gobernador, and if they fail to get him they may do some miscellaneous looting.”
After his bath Luis made a careful toilet from a store of clothes which he carried in an old saddlebag. A yellow shirt with a fancy collar, flapping trousers of dirty grey, skin brogues, a dark poncho, and a high-crowned, broad-brimmed at transformed him into a mestizo peasant, at least three-quarters Indian. He rolled some cigarettes of leaf tobacco and placed them behind his ear, and then sauntered across the Avenida, down through the narrows of the Market, to the cluster of yards and huts above the dry ravine which separated the city from the smelting works. His disguise was perfect, for he stopped now and then to engage in a street-corner argument, and mixed as naturally with the disputants as if he were one of the vegetable-sellers whose mules lined the causeway.
He found the place he sought, an alley close to the sunken street called St. Martin’s Port, where had stood centuries go a tiny monkish settlement. All had gone except a tooth of ancient brick masonry, which had once been part of an arched gateway. The street was a warren, full of bolt-holes that looked like cul-de-sacs and cul-de-sacs that looked like bolt-holes, but Luis seemed to know his way about it. At the head of a court, the paving of which may have been contemporary with Pizarro, there was a green gate in an adobe wall. He pushed through it and said something to a slatternly half-caste woman, who sat dozing in a chair outside a second door. He opened this and stumbled into what was obviously the back-room of a cafe, the front of which was in another street. Stumbled, for he seemed suddenly to have become rather drunk.
