BRITISH MYSTERIES - Fergus Hume Collection: 21 Thriller Novels in One Volume. Fergus Hume

law of our glorious constitution. Will that liberty which was won by the blood of our fathers, by the heroism of Zuloaga, be trodden under foot at the bidding of this man? He comes, not to implore you to elect him supreme magistrate of the Republic. He comes with an army at his back, and commands you—I say commands you—to make him Dictator!”

      “War! War! Down with Xuarez!”

      “Who is this traitor, to dare our power? He has the fleet, it is true—traitors that they are!—but we have the army. We have money. We can buy a new fleet. Our soldiers shall break up his power. Let us hurl back in his face this insolent defiance, and sweep away Xuarez and his partisans in torrents of blood!”

      “War! War! The opal burns red.”

      “Yes, the opal burns red. And our hearts burn with indignation at the insolence of this man. I swear,” cried the President, drawing his sword. “I swear, by my sword, by the Chalchuih Tlatonac, that I shall not sheath this weapon till it has exterminated these traitors, and purified the Republic. Hear me, God!”

      “Hear us, God!” And a myriad swords flashed in the air.

      “Will I put the offer of the traitor Xuarez to the vote?”

      “No, no! War! war!”

      Ignatius tried to speak, but he saw that the Junta was unanimous in proclaiming war. His cross fell from his nerveless hands; his head sunk on his breast.

      “Holy Mary, have mercy on these misguided men.”

      He passed out of the hall in dejected silence, and after him swept a whirlwind of men, headed by the President. Outside the Palacio Nacional, a crowd of people were waiting to hear the decision of the Junta. Standing on the marble steps of the palace, Don Francisco caused the standard of the Republic to be unfurled, and waved his bare sword in the air.

      “In the name of the Junta! In the name of the free people of the great Republic of Cholacaca, I proclaim war against the traitor Xuarez!”

      “War! war! war!” yelled the mob, frantically. “The opal burns red! War! war!”

      Then, with one accord, the rabble dashed down to the sea-gate of the city.

      “What are they going there for, Tim?” asked Philip, as they were borne along by the living torrent.

      “To hear the cannon answer Xuarez, if I mistake not. Holy Virgin! what devils these are when their blood is up!”

      From the Plaza de los Hombres Ilustres the crowd rolled down the steep of the Calle Otumba, passed into the Calle Mayor, and in a few minutes the city was vomiting hundreds of infuriated men out of her gates on to the beach and wharf.

      Far away on the azure sea lay the vast bulk of The Pizarro, with the flag of the Republic floating at her main-mast, in conjunction with the white pennant of peace. The crowd held their breath, and throughout the vast assemblage there was not a sound. The waves lapping on the beach could alone be heard, and each man in that mighty congregation held his breath.

      “One gun for ‘yes!’ Two guns for ‘no!’” muttered Jack, in Tim’s ear.

      At that instant a puff of smoke broke from an embrasure of the rear fort, and a gun thundered out its defiance to Xuarez. In another minute, before the echo of the first died away, a second gun from the other fort roared out in the still air, and there was an answering roar from the crowd below.

      The flag of peace! the flag of the opal were suddenly lowered from the mast of The Pizarro, and up went a fierce red banner, foretelling war and disaster. The mob yelled with rage, the guns of The Pizarro sent forth an insolent defiance, and in a few minutes, with the smoke pouring black and thick from her funnels, the great vessel stood out to sea.

      The War of Cholacaca had commenced.

Chapter XI.

       The Drama of Little Things

       Table of Contents

      Many things happen!

       They are the daily events of our lives, we note them with idle indifference.

       The lover kisses his dear one, she sighs on his throbbing bosom,

       He springs on his waiting horse, and waving his hand at parting,

       Thinks that the morrow for certain, will bring her again to his kisses,

       Alas! he knows not that Fate is capricious!

       That never again will the dear one respond to his welcome caresses!

       “Good-bye for an hour!” ah, sorrow. That good-bye means “farewell for ever.”

       And yet they know not this future, and so, parting happy,

       Go east and west gladly, to anguish apart till they perish.

      “Quiere a fumar, Juan,” said Dolores, holding out a small case to Jack, with a coquettish smile.

      “Campeacheanos!” replied her lover, selecting one carefully, “these are for men only. I hope you don’t smoke these, mi cara.”

      “No! I but use cigarros de papel. This case belongs to my cousin, Don Rafael. Now it is yours.”

      “What will Don Rafael say?”

      “Say! Why, nothing, of course. He made me a present of the campeacheanos.”

      “Oh, did he?” exclaimed Jack, suspiciously. “You seem to be fond of your cousin, Dolores!”

      “Naturally! It is my duty,” replied Dolores, demurely, and dropped her eyes.

      “Oh!” said Duval, briefly, and busied himself in lighting a cigarette.

      It was late in the afternoon, and they were on the azotea of Maraquando’s house alone, save for the presence of Doña Serafina; but she was asleep, and, therefore, did not trouble them. As before stated, the Casa Maraquando was on the summit of the hill, and from the roof they could look down into the valley below. Ring after ring of houses encompassed the rise, and on the flat, trending towards the sea, street, and house, and plaza, and wall, were laid out as in a map. To the left, the vast space of the parade-ground; to the right, the crowded quarter of the peons, a mass of huddled huts, red-roofed, white-walled, and between the two the broad street leading from the foot of the hill down to the sea-gate.

      On the parade-ground companies of soldiers were manœuvring. Here and there the bright colours of uniforms could be seen in the streets. Sometimes a distant trumpet rang out shrilly, or the muffled thunder of drums came faintly to their ears. Within the walls of the city all was bustle and military pomp, the place was one vast camp. Beyond, the white line of the walls and the infinite stretch of azure sea glittering in the sunshine.

      Peter, in company with Cocom, had gone outside the inland walls for a final butterfly hunt before the outbreak of war, when, in view of the suburbs being deserted, he would have to abandon his favourite pursuit. Down in the Plaza de San Jago, Sir Philip Cassim was assisting Don Rafael to drill his men, and Tim was, as usual, haunting the telegraph-office and the Palacio Nacional. He spent all his time between these two places, collecting news, and despatching messages. Only Jack was idle; Jack, who, decked out in the gaudy uniform of the Regimient de los Caballeros, set on the azotea flirting with Dolores and smoking innumerable cigarettes. With masculine vanity, he had come there especially to show himself to the lady of his heart, in his new uniform, and, finding Doña Serafina asleep, had waited to speak to Dolores for a few minutes before joining Philip in the plaza below. The few minutes had, by this time, lengthened into half-an-hour.

      Without doubt Jack looked remarkably handsome in his uniform, and Dolores acknowledged this to herself as she glanced at him from behind the safe shelter of her fan. He was as fine as a humming-bird, and tinted like a rainbow. The Mexican dress became him admirably, and in that brilliant climate the bright colours did not look too pronounced.