Captain Macklin: His Memoirs

by Richard Harding Davis

  VI

  I bent my head and drove my spurs into my horse. I did not know wherehe was carrying me. My eyes were shut with tears, and with the horrorof what I had witnessed. I was reckless, mad, for the first time in mylife, filled with hate against my fellow-men. I rode a hundred yardsbefore I heard the scout at my side shouting, "To the right, Captain, tothe right."

  At the word I pulled on my rein, and we turned into the Plaza.

  The scout was McGraw, the Kansas cowboy, who had halted Aiken and myselfthe day we first met with the filibusters. He was shooting from thesaddle as steadily as other men would shoot with a rest, and each timehe fired, he laughed. The laugh brought me back to the desperate needof our mission. I tricked myself into believing that Laguerre was notseriously wounded. I persuaded myself that by bringing him aid quicklyI was rendering him as good service as I might have given had I remainedat his side. I shut out the picture of him, faint and bleeding, andopened my eyes to the work before us.

  We were like the lost dogs on a race-course that run between lines ofhooting men. On every side we were assailed with cries. Even the voicesof women mocked at us. Men sprang at my bridle, and my horse rodethem down. They shot at us from the doors of the cafes, from eithercurbstone. As we passed the barracks even the men of my own nativeregiment raised their rifles and fired.

  The nearest gun was at the end of the Calle Bogran, and we raced downit, each with his revolver cocked, and held in front of him.

  But before we reached the outpost I saw the men who formed it, pushingtheir way toward us, bunched about their gatling with their clubbedrifles warding off the blows of a mob that struck at them from everyside. They were ignorant of what had transpired; they did not know whowas, or who was not their official enemy, and they were unwilling tofire upon the people, who a moment before, before the flag of Alvarezhad risen on Pecachua, had been their friends and comrades. Thesefriends now beset them like a pack of wolves. They hung upon theirflanks and stabbed at them from the front and rear. The air was filledwith broken tiles from the roofs, and with flying paving-stones.

  When the men saw us they raised a broken cheer.

  "Open that gun on them!" I shouted. "Clear the street, and push your gunto the palace. Laguerre is there. Kill every man in this street if youhave to, but get to the palace."

  The officer in charge fought his way to my side. He was covered withsweat and blood. He made a path for himself with his bare arms.

  "What in hell does this mean, Macklin?" he shouted. "Who are wefighting?"

  "You are fighting every native you see," I ordered. "Let loose up thisstreet. Get to the palace!"

  I rode on to the rear of the gun, and as McGraw and I raced on towardthe next post, we heard it stabbing the air with short, vicious blows.

  At the same instant the heavens shook with a clap of thunder, the skyturned black, and with the sudden fierceness of the tropics, heavy dropsof rain began to beat upon us, and to splash in the dust like hail.

  A moment later and the storm burst upon the city. The streets were sweptwith great sheets of water, torrents flowed from the housetop, theskies darkened to ink, or were ripped asunder by vivid flashes, andthe thunder rolled unceasingly. We were half drowned, as though we weredragged through a pond, and our ponies bowed and staggered before thedouble onslaught of wind and water. We bent our bodies to theirs, andlashed them forward.

  The outpost to which we were now riding was stationed at the edge ofthe city where the Calle Morizan joins the trail to San Lorenzo onthe Pacific coast. As we approached it I saw a number of mounted men,surrounding a closed carriage. They were evidently travellers startingforth on the three days' ride to San Lorenzo, to cross to Amapala, wherethe Pacific Mail takes on her passengers. They had been halted by oursentries. As I came nearer I recognized, through the mist of rain,Joseph Fiske, young Fiske, and a group of the Isthmian men. The storm,or the bursting shells, had stampeded their pack-train, and a dozenfrantic Mozos were rounding up the mules and adding their shrieks andthe sound of their falling whips to the tumult of the storm.

  I galloped past them to where our main guard were lashing thecanvas-cover to their gun, and ordered them to unstrap it, and fighttheir way to the palace.

  As I turned again the sentry called: "Am I to let these people go? Theyhave no passes."

  I halted, and Joseph Fiske raised his heavy eyelids, and blinked at melike a huge crocodile. I put a restraint upon myself and moved towardhim with a confident smile. I could not bear to have him depart,thinking he went in triumph. I looked the group over carefully and said:"Certainly, let them pass," and Fiske and some of the Isthmian men, whoappeared ashamed, nodded at me sheepishly.

  But one of them, who was hidden by the carriage, called out: "You'dbetter come, too; your ship of state is getting water-logged."

  I made no sign that I heard him, but McGraw instantly answered, "Yes, itlooks so. The rats are leaving it!"

  At that the man called back tauntingly the old Spanish proverb: "Hewho takes Pecachua, sleeps in the palace." McGraw did not understandSpanish, and looked at me appealingly, and I retorted, "We've alteredthat, sir. The man who sleeps in the palace will take Pecachua tonight."

  And McGraw added: "Yes, and he won't take it with thirty pieces ofsilver, either."

  I started away, beckoning to McGraw, but, as we moved, Mr. Fiske pushedhis pony forward.

  "Can you give me a pass, sir?" he asked. He shouted the words, for theroaring of the storm drowned all ordinary sounds. "In case I meet withmore of your men, can you give me a written pass?"

  I knew that the only men of ours still outside of the city were a fewscouts, but I could not let Fiske suspect that, so I whipped out mynotebook and wrote:

  "To commanders of all military posts: Pass bearer, Joseph Fiske, hisfamily, servants, and baggage-train.

  "ROYAL MACKLIN,

  "Vice-President of Honduras"

  I tore out the page and gave it him, and he read it carefully and bowed.

  "Does this include my friends?" he asked, nodding toward the Isthmianmen.

  "You can pass them off as your servants," I answered, and he smiledgrimly.

  The men had formed around the gun, and it was being pushed toward me,but as I turned to meet it I was again halted, this time by young Fiske,who rode his horse in front of mine, and held out his hand.

  "You must shake hands with me!" he cried, "I acted like a cad." He bentforward, raising his other arm to shield his face from the storm. "Isay, I acted like a cad," he shouted, "and I ask your pardon."

  I took his hand and nodded. At the same moment as we held each other'shands the window of the carriage was pushed down and his sister leanedout and beckoned to me. Her face, beaten by the rain, and with her hairblown across it, was filled with distress.

  "I want to thank you," she cried. "Thank you," she repeated, "for mybrother. I thank you. I wanted you to know."

  She stretched out her hand and I took it, and released it instantly, andas she withdrew her face from the window of the carriage, I dug my spursinto my pony and galloped on with the gun.

  What followed is all confused.

  I remember that we reached the third and last post just after the menhad abandoned it, but that we overtook them, and with them fought ourway through the streets. But through what streets, or how long it tookus to reach the palace I do not know. No one thing is very clear to me.Even the day after, I remembered it only as a bad dream, in which I sawinnumerable, dark-skinned faces pressing upon me with open mouths, andwhite eyeballs; lit by gleams of lightning and flashes of powder. Iremember going down under my pony and thinking how cool and pleasant itwas in the wet mud, and of being thrown back on him again as though Iwere a pack-saddle, and I remember wiping the rain out of my eyes with awet sleeve, and finding the sleeve warm with blood. And then there was apitchy blackness through which I kept striking at faces that sprang outof the storm, faces that when they were beaten down were replaced byother faces; drunken, savage, exulting. I remember the cea
seless boomingof the thunder that shook the houseslike an earthquake, the futilepopping of revolvers, the whining shells overhead, the cries and groans,the Spanish oaths, and the heavy breathing of my men about me, andalways just in front of us, the breathless whir of the gatling.

  After that the next I remember I was inside the palace, and breakingholes in the wall with an axe. Some of my men took the axe from me, andsaid: "He's crazy, clean crazy," and Van Ritter and Miller fought withme, and held me down upon a cot. From the cot I watched the othersmaking more holes in the wall, through which they shoved their riflesand then there was a great cheer outside, and a man came running incrying, "Alvarez and Heinze are at the corner with the twelve-pounders!"Then our men cursed like fiends, and swept out of the room, and asno one remained to hold me down, I stumbled after them into the bigreception-hall, and came upon Laguerre, lying rigid and still upon ared-silk sofa. I thought he was dead, and screamed, and at that theyseized me again and hustled me back to the cot, telling me that he wasnot dead, but that at any moment he might die, and that if I did notrest, I would die also.

  When I came to, it was early morning, and through the holes in theplaster wall I could see the stars fading before the dawn. The gatlingswere gone and the men were gone, and I was wondering if they haddeserted me, when Von Ritter came back and asked if I were strong enoughto ride, and I stood up feeling dizzy and very weak. But my head wasclear and I could understand what he said to me. Of the whole of theForeign Legion only thirty were left. Miller was killed, Russell waskilled and old man Webster was killed. They told me how they had caughthim when he made a dash to the barracks for ammunition, and how, fromthe roof, our men had seen them place him against the iron railings ofthe University Gardens. There he died, as his hero, William Walker, haddied, on the soil of the country he had tried to save from itself,with his arms behind him, and his blindfolded eyes turned upon afiring-squad.

  McGraw had been killed as he rode beside me, holding me in the saddle.That hurt me worse than all. They told me a blow from behind had knockedme over, and though, of that, I could remember nothing, I could stillfeel McGraw's arm pressing my ribs, and hear his great foolish laugh inmy ears.

  They helped me out into the court-yard, where the men stood in a hollowsquare, with Laguerre on a litter in the centre, and with the fourgatlings at each corner. The wound was in his throat, so he could notspeak, but when they led me down into the Patio he raised his eyes andsmiled. I tried to smile back, but his face was so white and drawn thatI had to turn away, that he might not see me crying.

  There was much besides to make one weep. We were running away. We wereabandoning the country to which some of us had come to better theirfortunes, to which others had come that they might set the people free.We were being driven out of it by the very men for whom we had riskedour lives. Some among us, the reckless, the mercenary, the adventurers,had played like gamblers for a stake, and had lost. Others, as theythought, had planned wisely for the people's good, had asked nothing inreturn but that they might teach them to rule themselves. But they, too,had lost, and because they had lost, they were to pay the penalty.

  Within the week the natives had turned from us to the painted idols oftheir jungle, and the new gods toward whom they had wavered were to besacrificed on the altars of the old. They were waiting only until thesun rose to fall upon our little garrison and set us up against thebarrack wall, as a peace offering to their former masters. Only onechance remained to us. If, while it were still night, we could escapefrom the city to the hills, we might be able to fight our way to thePacific side, and there claim the protection of our war-ship.

  It was a forlorn hope, but we trusted to the gatlings to clear a roadfor us, and there was no other way.

  So just before the dawn, silently and stealthily the President and theCabinet, and all that was left of the Government and Army of GeneralLaguerre, stole out of his palace through a hole in the courtyard-wall.

  We were only a shadowy blot in the darkness, but the instant we reachedthe open street they saw us and gave cry.

  From behind the barriers they had raised to shut off our escape, fromthe house-tops, and from the darkened windows, they opened fire withrifle and artillery. But our men had seen the dead faces of theirleaders and comrades, and they were frantic, desperate. They chargedlike madmen. Nothing could hold them. Our wedge swept steadily forward,and the guns sputtered from the front and rear and sides, flashing andilluminating the night like a war-ship in action.

  They drove our enemies from behind the barricades, and cleaned thestreet beyond it to the bridge, and then swept the bridge itself. Wecould hear the splashes when the men who held it leaped out of range ofthe whirling bullets into the stream below.

  In a quarter of an hour we were running swiftly through the sleepingsuburbs, with only one of our guns barking an occasional warning at theghostly figures in our rear.

  We made desperate progress during the dark hours of the morning, butwhen daylight came we were afraid to remain longer on the trail, andturned off into the forest. And then, as the sun grew stronger, ourendurance reached its limit, and when they called a halt our fellowsdropped where they stood, and slept like dead men. But they could notsleep for long. We all knew that our only chance lay in reaching SanLorenzo, on the Pacific Ocean. Once there, we were confident that thewar-ship would protect us, and her surgeons save our wounded. By thetrail and unmolested, we could have reached it in three days, but in thejungle we were forced to cut our way painfully and slowly, and at timeswe did not know whether we were moving toward the ocean or had turnedback upon the capital.

  I do not believe that slaves hunted through a swamp by blood-hounds haveever suffered more keenly than did the survivors of the Foreign Legion.Of our thirty men, only five were unwounded. Even those who carriedLaguerre wore blood-stained bandages. All were starving, and after thesecond day of hiding in swamps and fording mountain-streams, half of ourlittle band was sick with fever. We lived on what we found in the woods,or stole from the clearing, on plants, and roots, and fruit. We were nolonger a military body. We had ceased to be either officers or privates.We were now only so many wretched fellow-beings, dependent upon eachother, like sailors cast adrift upon some desert island, and each workedfor the good of all, and the ties which bound us together were strongerthan those of authority and discipline. Men scarcely able to dragthemselves on, begged for the privilege of helping to carry Laguerre,and he in turn besought and commanded that we leave him by the trail,and hasten to the safety of the coast. In one of his conscious momentshe protested: "I cannot live, and I am only hindering your escape. Itis not right, nor human, that one man should risk the lives of all therest. For God's sake, obey my orders and put me down."

  Hour after hour, by night as well as by day, we struggled forward,staggering, stumbling, some raving with fever, others with set faces,biting their yellow lips to choke back the pain.

  Three times when we endeavored to gain ground by venturing on the leveltrail, the mounted scouts of Alvarez overtook us, or attacked us fromambush, and when we beat them off, they rode ahead and warned thevillages that we were coming; so, that, when we reached them, we weredriven forth like lepers. Even the village dogs snapped and bit at thegaunt figures, trembling for lack of food, and loss of sleep and blood.

  But on the sixth day, just at sunset, as we had dragged ourselves tothe top of a wooded hill we saw below us, beyond a league of unbrokenjungle, a great, shining sheet of water, like a cloud on the horizon,and someone cried: "The Pacific!" and we all stumbled forward, and somedropped on their knees, and some wept, and some swung their hats andtried to cheer.

  And then one of them, I never knew which, started singing, "Praise God,from whom all blessings flow," and we stood up, the last of the Legion,shaken with fever, starving, wounded, and hunted by our fellow-men, andgave praise to God, as we had never praised Him before.

  That night the fever took hold of me, and in my tossings and turningsI burst open the sword-wound at the back of my head.
I remember someoneexclaiming "He's bled to death!" and a torch held to my eyes, and thendarkness, and the sense that I was being carried and bumped about onmen's shoulders.

  The next thing I knew I was lying in a hammock, a lot of naked, brownchildren were playing in the dirt beside me, the sun was shining, greatpalms were bending in the wind above me, and the strong, sweet air ofthe salt sea was blowing in my face.

  I lay for a long time trying to guess where I was, and how I had comethere. But I found no explanation for it, so I gave up guessing, andgazed contentedly at the bending palms until one of the children foundmy eyes upon him, and gave a scream, and they all pattered off likefrightened partridges.

  That brought a native woman from behind me, smiling, and murmuringprayers in Spanish. She handed me a gourd filled with water.

  I asked where I was, and she said, "San Lorenzo."

  I could have jumped out of the hammock at that, but when I tried to doso I found I could hardly raise my body. But I had gained the coast. Iknew I would find strength enough to leave it.

  "Where are my friends?" I asked. "Where are the Gringoes?"

  But she raised her hands, and threw them wide apart.

  "They have gone," she said, "three, four days from now, they sailed awayin the white ship. There was a great fighting," she said, raising hereyes and shaking her head, "and they carried you here, and told me tohide you. You have been very ill, and you are still very ill." She gavea little exclamation and disappeared, and returned at once with a pieceof folded paper. "For you," she said.

  On the outside of the paper was written in Spanish: "This paper willbe found on the body of Royal Macklin. Let the priest bury him and sendword to the Military Academy, West Point, U. S. A., asking that hisfamily be informed of his place of burial. They will reward you well."

  Inside, in English, was the following letter in Aiken's handwriting:

  "DEAR OLD MAN--We had to drop you here, as we were too sick to carryyou any farther. They jumped us at San Lorenzo, and when we found wecouldn't get to Amapala from here, we decided to scatter, and let eachman take care of himself. Von Ritter and I, and two of the boys, aretaking Laguerre with us. He is still alive, but very bad. We hope topick up a fishing-boat outside of town, and make for the Raleigh. Wetried to carry you, too, but it wasn't possible. We had to desert oneof you, so we stuck by the old man. We hid your revolver and money-beltunder the seventh palm, on the beach to the right of this shack. IfI'd known you had twenty double eagles on you all this time, I'd havecracked your skull myself. The crack you've got is healing, and if youpull through the fever you'll be all right. If you do, give this womantwenty pesos I borrowed from her. Get her to hire a boat, and men,and row it to Amapala. This island is only fifteen miles out, and thePacific Mail boat touches there Thursdays and Sundays. If you leave herethe night before, you can make it. Whatever you do, don't go into thevillage here or land at Amapala. If they catch you on shore they willsurely shoot you. So board the steamer in the offing. Hoping you willlive to read this, and that we may meet again under more agreeablecircumstances, I am,

  "Yours truly,

  "HERBERT AIKEN."

  "P.S. I have your gilt sword, and I'm going to turn it over to theofficers of the Raleigh, to take back to your folks. Good luck to you,old man."

  After reading this letter, which I have preserved carefully as acharacteristic souvenir of Aiken, I had but two anxieties. The firstwas to learn if Laguerre and the others had reached the Raleigh, and thesecond was how could I escape to the steamer--the first question was atonce answered by the woman. She told me it was known in San Lorenzo thatthe late "Presidente Generale," with three Gringoes, had reached theAmerican war-ship and had been received on board. The Commandante ofAmapala had demanded their surrender to him, but the captain of theship had declared that as political refugees, they were entitled to theprotection they claimed, and when three days later he had been orderedto return to San Francisco, he had taken them with him.

  When I heard that, I gave a cheer all by myself, and I felt so muchbetter for the news that I at once began to plot for my own departure.The day was Wednesday, the day before the steamer left Amapala, and Idetermined to start for the island the following evening. When I toldthe woman this, she protested I was much too weak to move, but the riskthat my hiding-place might be discovered before another steamer-dayarrived was much too great, and I insisted on making a try for the firstone.

  The woman accordingly procured a fishing-boat and a crew of three men,and I dug up my money-belt, and my revolver, and thanked her and paidher, for Aiken and for myself, as well as one can pay a person forsaving one's life. The next night, as soon as the sun set, I seatedmyself in the stern of the boat, and we pushed out from the shore ofHonduras, and were soon rising and falling on the broad swell of thePacific.

  My crew were simple fishermen, unconcerned with politics, and as Ihad no fear of harm from them, I curled up on a mat at their feet andinstantly fell asleep.

  When I again awoke the sun was well up, and when I raised my head theboatman pointed to a fringe of palms that hung above the water, andwhich he told me rose from the Island of Amapala. Two hours later wemade out the wharves and the custom-house of the port itself, and, lyingwell toward us in the harbor, a big steamer with the smoke issuing fromher stacks, and the American flag hanging at the stern. I was still weakand shaky, and I must confess that I choked a bit at the sight of theflag, and at the thought that, in spite of all, I was going safely backto life, and Beatrice and Aunt Mary. The name I made out on the stern ofthe steamer was Barracouta, and I considered it the prettiest name Ihad ever known, and the steamer the handsomest ship that ever sailed thesea. I loved her from her keel to her topmast. I loved her every lineand curve, her every rope and bolt. But specially did I love the flagat her stern and the blue Peter at the fore. They meant home. They meantpeace, friends, and my own countrymen.

  I gave the boatmen a double eagle, and we all shook hands with greatglee, and then with new strength and unassisted I pulled myself up thecompanion-ladder, and stood upon the deck.

  When I reached it I wanted to embrace the first man I saw. I somehowexpected that he would want to embrace me, too, and say how glad he wasI had escaped. But he happened to be the ship's purser, and, instead ofembracing me, he told me coldly that steerage passengers are not allowedaft. But I did not mind, I knew that I was a disreputable object, butI also knew that I had gold in my money-belt, and that clothes could bebought from the slop-chest.

  So I said in great good-humor, that I wanted a first-class cabin, theimmediate use of the bathroom, and the services of the ship's barber.

  My head was bound in a dirty bandage. My uniform, which I still woreas I had nothing else, was in rags from the briers, and the mud of theswamps and the sweat of the fever had caked it with dirt. I had an eightdays' beard, and my bare feet were in native sandals. So my feelingswere not greatly hurt because the purser was not as genuinely glad tosee me as I was to see him.

  "A first-class passage costs forty dollars gold--in advance," he said.

  "That's all right," I answered, and I laughed from sheer, foolishhappiness, "I'll take six."

  We had been standing at the head of the companion-ladder, and as thepurser moved rather reluctantly toward his cabin, a group of men camedown the deck toward us.

  One of them was a fat, red-faced American, the others wore the uniformof Alvarez. When they saw me they gave little squeals of excitement, andfell upon the fat man gesticulating violently, and pointing angrily atme.

  The purser halted, and if it were possible, regarded me with evengreater unfriendliness. As for myself, the sight of the brown, impishfaces, and the familiar uniforms filled me with disgust. I had thoughtI was done with brawling and fighting, of being hated and hunted. Ihad had my fill of it. I wanted to be let alone, I wanted to feel thateverybody about me was a friend. I was not in the least alarmed, for nowthat I was under the Stars and Stripes, I knew that I was immune fromcapture, but the mere possibility o
f a row was intolerable.

  One of the Honduranians wore the uniform of a colonel, and was, asI guessed, the Commandante of the port. He spoke to the fat man inEnglish, but in the same breath turned to one of his lieutenants, andgave an order in Spanish.

  The lieutenant started in my direction, and then hesitated and beckonedto some one behind me.

  I heard a patter of bare feet on the deck, and a dozen soldiers ran pastme, and surrounded us. I noticed that they and their officers belongedto the Eleventh Infantry. It was the regiment I had driven out of thebarracks at Santa Barbara.

  The fat American in his shirt-sleeves was listening to what theCommandante was saying, and apparently with great dissatisfaction. Ashe listened he scowled at me, chewing savagely on an unlit cigar, androcking himself to and fro on his heels and toes. His thumbs were stuckin his suspenders, so that it looked as though, with great indecision hewas pulling himself forward and back.

  I turned to the purser and said, as carelessly as I could: "Well, whatare we waiting for?"

  But he only shook his head.

  With a gesture of impatience the fat man turned suddenly from theCommandante and came toward me.

  He spoke abruptly and with the tone of a man holding authority.

  "Have you got your police-permit to leave Amapala?" he demanded.

  "No," I answered.

  "Well, why haven't you?" he snapped.

  "I didn't know I had to have one," I said. "Why do you ask?" I added."Are you the captain of this ship?"

  "I think I am," he suddenly roared, as though I had questioned hisword. "Anyway, I've got enough say on her to put you ashore if you don'tanswer my questions."

  I shut my lips together and looked away from him. His tone stirred whatlittle blood there was still left in me to rebellion; but when I saw theshore with its swamps and ragged palms, I felt how perilously near itwas, and Panama became suddenly a distant mirage. I was as helpless as asailor clinging to a plank. I felt I was in no position to take offence,so I bit my lips and tried to smile.

  The Captain shook his head at me, as though I were a prisoner in thedock.

  "Do you mean to say," he shouted, "that our agent sold you a ticketwithout you showing a police-permit?"

  "I haven't got a ticket," I said. "I was just going to buy one now."

  The Commandante thrust himself between us.

  "Ah, what did I tell you?" he cried. "You see? He is escaping. This isthe man. He answers all the descriptions. He was dressed just so; greencoat, red trousers, very torn and dirty--head in bandage. This is thedescription. Is it not so?" he demanded of his lieutenants. They noddedvigorously.

  "Why--a-yes, that is the man," the Commandante cried in triumph. "Lastnight he stabbed Jose Mendez in the Libertad Billiard Hall. He haswanted to murder him. If Jose, he die, this man he is murderer. Hecannot go. He must come to land with me."

  He gave an order in Spanish, and the soldiers closed in around us.

  I saw that I was in great peril, in danger more real than any I hadfaced in open fight since I had entered Honduras. For the men who hadmet me then had fought with fair weapons. These men were trying to takeaway my life with a trick, with cunning lies and false witnesses.

  They knew the Captain might not surrender a passenger who was only apolitical offender, but that he could not harbor a criminal. And at thefirst glance at my uniform, and when he knew nothing more of me thanthat I wore it, the Commandante had trumped up this charge of crime, andhad fitted to my appearance the imaginary description of an imaginarymurderer. And I knew that he did this that he might send me, bound handand foot, as a gift to Alvarez, or that he might, for his own vengeance,shoot me against a wall.

  I knew how little I would receive of either justice or mercy. I hadheard of Dr. Rojas killed between decks on a steamer of this same line;of Bonilla taken from the Ariadne and murdered on this very wharf atthis very port of Amapala; of General Pulido strangled in the launchof the Commandante of Corinto and thrown overboard, while still in thesight of his fellow-passengers on the Southern Cross.

  It was a degraded, horrible, inglorious end--to be caught by the heelsafter the real battle was lost; to die of fever in a cell; to be stabbedwith bayonets on the wharf, and thrown to the carrion harbor-sharks.

  I swung around upon the Captain, and fought for my life as desperatelyas though I had a rope around my neck.

  "That man is a liar," I cried. "I was not in Amapala last night. I camefrom San Lorenzo--this morning. The boat is alongside now; you can askthe men who brought me. I'm no murderer. That man knows I'm no murderer.He wants me because I belonged to the opposition government. It'sbecause I wear this uniform he wants me. I'm no criminal. He has no moreright to touch me here, than he would if I were on Broadway."

  The Commandante seized the Captain's arm.

  "As Commandante of this port," he screamed, "I tell you if you do notsurrender the murderer to me, your ship shall not sail. I will take backyour clearance-papers."

  The Captain turned on me, shaking his red fists, and tossing his headlike a bull. "You see that!" he cried. "You see what you get me into,coming on board my ship without a permit! That's what I get at everybanana-patch along this coast, a lot of damned beach-combers andstowaways stealing on board, and the Commandante chasing 'em all over myship and holding up my papers. You go ashore!" he ordered. He swept hisarm toward the gangway. "You go to Kessler, our consul. If you haven'tdone nothing wrong, he'll take care of you. You haven't got a ticket,and you haven't got a permit, and you're no passenger of mine! Over yougo; do you hear me? Quick now, over you go."

  I could not believe that I heard the man aright. He seemed to be talkinga language I did not know.

  "Do you mean to tell me," I cried, speaking very slowly, for I wasincredulous, and I was so weak besides that it was difficult for me tofind the words, "that you refuse to protect me from these half-breeds,that you are going to turn me over to them--to be shot! And you callyourself an American?" I cried, "and this an American ship!"

  As I turned from him I found that the passengers had come forward andnow surrounded us; big, tall men in cool, clean linen, and beautifulwomen, shading their eyes with their fans, and little children crowdingin between them and clinging to their skirts. To my famished eyes theylooked like angels out of Paradise. They were my own people, and theybrought back to me how I loved the life these men were plotting to takefrom me. The sight of them drove me into a sort of frenzy.

  "Are you going to take that man's word against mine?" I cried at theCaptain. "Are you going to let him murder me in sight of that flag? Youknow he'll do it. You know what they did to Rojas on one of your ownships. Do you want another man butchered in sight of your passengers?"

  The Commandante crowded in front of the ship's captain.

  "That man is my prisoner," he cried. "He is going to jail, to be triedby law. He shall see his consul every day. And so, if you try to leavethis harbor with him, I will sink your ship from the fort!"

  The Captain turned with an oath and looked up to the second officer, whowas leaning over the rail of the bridge above us.

  "Up anchor," the Captain shouted. "Get her under weigh! There is youranswer," he cried, turning upon me. "I'm not going to have this shipheld up any longer, and I'm not going to risk the lives of these ladiesand gentlemen by any bombardment, either. You're only going to jail.I'll report the matter to our consul at Corinto, and he'll tell ourminister."

  "Corinto!" I replied. "I'll be dead before you've passed thatlighthouse."

  The Captain roared with anger.

  "Can't you hear what he says," he shouted. "He says he'll fire on myship. They've fired on our ships before! I'm not here to protect everydamned scalawag that tries to stowaway on my ship. I'm here to protectthe owners, and I mean to do it. Now you get down that ladder, before wethrow you down."

  I knew his words were final. From the bow I heard the creak of theanchor-chains as they were drawn on board, and from the engine-room thetinkle of bells.


  The ship was abandoning me. My last appeal had failed. My condition wasdesperate.

  "Protect your owners, and yourself, damn you!" I cried. "You're noAmerican. You're no white man. No American would let a conch-nigger runhis ship. To hell with your protection!"

  All the misery of the last two months, the bitterness of my dismissalfrom the Point, the ignominy of our defeat and flight, rose in me anddrove me on. "And I don't want the protection of that flag either," Icried. "I wasn't good enough to serve it once, and I don't need it now."

  It should be remembered that when I spoke these words I thought my deathwas inevitable and immediate, that it had been brought upon me by one ofmy own countrymen, while others of my countrymen stood indifferently by,and I hope that for what I said in that moment of fever and despair Imay be forgiven.

  "I can protect myself!" I cried.

  Before anyone could move I whipped out my gun and held it over theCommandante's heart, and at the same instant without turning my eyesfrom his face I waved my other hand at the passengers. "Take thosechildren away," I shouted.

  "Don't move!" I yelled in Spanish at the soldiers. "If one of you raiseshis musket I'll kill him." I pressed the cocked revolver against theCommandante's chest. "Now, then, take me ashore," I called to his men."You know me, I'm Captain Macklin. Captain Macklin, of the ForeignLegion, and you know that six of you will die before you get me. Comeon," I taunted. "Which six is it to be?"

  Out of the corners of my eyes I could see the bayonets liftingcautiously and forming a ring of points about me, and the sight, and myown words lashed me into a frenzy of bravado.

  "Oh, you don't remember me, don't you?" I cried. "You ought to rememberthe Foreign Legion! We drove you out of Santa Barbara and Tabla Veand Comyagua, and I'm your Vice-President! Take off your hats to yourVice-President! To Captain Macklin, Vice-President of Honduras!"

  {Illustration: I sprang back against the cabin}

  I sprang back against the cabin and swung the gun in swift half-circles.The men shrank from it as though I had lashed them with a whip. "Comeon," I cried, "which six is it to be? Come on, you cowards, why don'tyou take me!"

  The only answer came from a voice that was suddenly uplifted at my side.I recognized it as the voice of the ship's captain.

  "Put down that gun!" he shouted.

  But I only swung it the further until it covered him also. The man stoodin terror of his ship's owners, he had a seaman's dread of internationallaw, but he certainly was not afraid of a gun. He regarded it no morethan a pointed finger, and leaned eagerly toward me. To my amazement Isaw that his face was beaming with excitement and delight.

  "Are you Captain Macklin?" he cried.

  I was so amazed that for a moment I could only gape at him while I stillcovered him with the revolver.

  "Yes," I answered.

  "Then why in hell didn't you say so!" he roared, and with a bellowlike a bull he threw himself upon the Commandante. He seized him byhis epaulettes and pushed him backward. With the strength of a bull hebutted and shoved him across the deck.

  "Off my ship you!" he roared. "Every one of you; you're a gang ofmurdering cutthroats."

  The deck-hands and the ship-stewards, who had gathered at the gangway toassist in throwing me down it, sprang to the Captain's aid.

  "Over with him, boys," he roared. "Clear the ship of them. Throw themoverboard." The crew fell upon the astonished soldiers, and drovethem to the side. Their curses and shrieks filled the air, the womenretreated screaming, and I was left alone, leaning limply against thecabin with my revolver hanging from my fingers.

  It began and ended in an instant, and as the ship moved forward andthe last red-breeched soldier disappeared headforemost down thecompanion-ladder, the Captain rushed back to me and clutched me by bothshoulders. Had it not been for the genial grin on his fat face, I wouldhave thought that he meant to hurl me after the others.

  "Now then, Captain Macklin," he cried, "you come with me. You come to mycabin, and that's where you stay as long as you are on my ship. You'reno passenger, you're my guest, and there's nothing on board too good foryou."

  "But I don't--understand," I protested faintly. "What does it mean?"

  "What does it mean?" he shouted. "It means you're the right sort for me!I haven't heard of nothing but your goings-on for the last three trips.Vice-President of Honduras!" he exclaimed, shaking me as though I were acarpet. "A kid like you! You come to my cabin and tell me the wholeyarn from start to finish. I'd rather carry you than old man Huntingtonhimself!"

  The passengers had returned, and stood listening to his exclamations, ina wondering circle. The stewards and deck-hands, panting with their lateexertions, were grinning at me with unmistakable interest.

  "Bring Captain Macklin's breakfast to my cabin, you," he shouted tothem. "And, Mr. Owen," he continued, addressing the Purser, with greatimpressiveness, "this is Captain Macklin, himself. He's going with us asmy guest."

  With a wink, he cautiously removed my revolver from my fingers, andslapped me jovially on the shoulder. "Son!" he exclaimed, "I wouldn'thave missed the sight of you holding your gun on that gang for a cargoof bullion. I suspicioned it was you, the moment you did it. That willbe something for me to tell them in 'Frisco, that will. Now, you comealong," he added, suddenly, with parental solicitude, "and take a cup ofcoffee, and a dose of quinine, or you'll be ailing."

  He pushed a way for me through the crowd of passengers, who fell back intwo long lines. As we moved between them, I heard a woman's voice ask,in a loud whisper:

  "Who did you say?"

  A man's voice answered, "Why, Captain Macklin," and then protested, in arising accent, "Now, for Heaven's sake, Jennie, don't tell me you don'tknow who he is?"

  That was my first taste of fame. It was a short-lived, limited sort offame, but at that time it stretched throughout all Central America. Idoubt if it is sufficiently robust to live in the cold latitudes ofthe North. It is just an exotic of the tropics. I am sure it will neverweather Cape Hatteras. But although I won't amount to much in DobbsFerry, down here in Central America I am pretty well known, and duringthese last two months that I have been lying, very near to death, in theCanal Company's hospital, my poor little fame stuck by me, and turnedstrangers into kind and generous friends.