The Missourian

by Eugene P. Lyle

  CHAPTER IV

  THE LACKING COINCIDENCE

  "Achilles absent was Achilles still."--_The Iliad._

  Colonel Dupin helped first one and then the other of his charges uponthe same horse and wrapped them about in the same gaudy serape till onlytwo pair of pretty eyes peeped forth at the rain. The Vera Cruz highwayclung to the mountain side, but the Contra Guerrillas took a venturesomelittle bridle path which dropped abruptly down into the rich valley of athousand or more feet below. Emerging from the dense tropical growth ofthe highland, they beheld a vast emerald checkerboard of cultivation,field after field of sugar cane, and set in each bright square a littlehouse of bamboo with a roof of red piping. After the dreary black gorgesbehind them, the light of the sun seemed boxed in here under a leadencover of cloud. Coming suddenly out of the chill and mist, the two girlsfelt the very rain gratefully warm and the fragrant smells of the wetearth a thing of comfort. As the beauty and the cheer of it subtlygladdened her mood, Jacqueline thought that here at any rate was anadequate mise-en-scene for whatever tremors might befall.

  There was one circumstance that already seemed a portent, and got on aperson's nerves like the stillness of nature just before a Kansascyclone. This was the curious absence of all human life. Except for thegrimly expectant troop around her, and the clanking of metal as theContras rode, she had no token of a fellow creature. The first of theplantations was deserted, and likewise the next. But the house doorswere open. Nothing showed preparation for departure. The riddle wasuncanny. At the third Jacqueline stated that she would go no farther.She hated to tramp down a man's field when the man himself was not aboutto express an opinion, and the ruthless swath made by her escort throughthe cane gave her shame. Besides, it was too much like wading, the wayher skirts brushed the long leaves and knocked off glistening drops bymyriads.

  The third cabin was abandoned too, but there were inducements within forany houseless creature. A hammock was hanging from corner to corner inthe front room, probably to thwart the fauna of tropical stingers, andthere was that comfort unfamiliar to French women, a rocking chair,before a most inviting fireplace, itself a luxury rare in Mexico. Thetwo girls removed their cloaks, and settled themselves to dry theirshoes before a roaring fire which the men lighted for them. Then theCossacks, including their colonel, left on some stealthy businesswithout, and Jacqueline and Berthe were alone.

  Jacqueline tried the rocker, found it good, and smoothed her skirts overher knees to the warmth of the blaze. "We've only to yawn at the flies,eh, ma cherie?" said she.

  "Not a thing else, madame," came a cheery voice from the hammock.

  Jacqueline was at once suspicious. "You absurd little mouse," she cried,"don't I understand that gaiety of yours! And all the while you arereally trembling in fear of terrible bandits. For months now you grievebecause you imagine that I--well, that I am sad. But you'll not make mehilarious, you won't, Berthe, as long as it's 'madame.' Child, child,will you not let me have my friend in you, I who have none, nor a motheror sister! There now, if I'm not to be--ah--pensive--remember there's no'madame' between thee and me, dear!"

  The Bretonne's gentle eyes filled suddenly. Jacqueline had before soughtto change their relations, ever since Berthe's part in Driscoll's rescuefrom execution, but she had always tried to bring it about by playfulbantering. Now, however, Berthe was given to see the utter loneliness ofan orphaned girl in one who for all the rest of the world was thedisdainfully independent little aristocrat, who had met the profferedintimacy of the French empress with a sneer, who was the cold princesswhen among princesses of the Blood. The loyal child of simple Bretonfolk sprang impulsively to the arm of the rocker, and was herselfclasped no less impulsively.

  "But there," said Jacqueline, laughing rather brokenly, "we'reforgetting the flies."

  A belt over the fireplace caught her eye, and she unexpectedlydiscovered that her breath had quickened. She stared fascinated at theletters on the buckle. "C. S. A.," she murmured. Then her startled gazeroved hurriedly over the walls. It became even frightened before a fadedgray cape-coat of the Confederate cavalry and a battered white gauntletsticking from the pocket. Involuntarily, trembling foolishly, she lookedto see if there might not be an old cob pipe also. There was not, butthe other familiar objects made her imagination leap fearfully to whatmight be. Both hope and dread will always override common sense, andconvoy imagination perforce. If _he_ did live here--if they shouldmeet! Could such a coincidence happen, could it, outside the neatordering of a book or play?

  She sprang to her feet and began investigating. She went awesomely asone would tiptoe over a haunted house. In the next room she came uponwhat was an odd treasure trove for an isolated bamboo cabin tucked faraway under the Tropic of Cancer. It was a printer's shop, after afashion. The case was a block of stone, in whose surface the littlecompartments had been chiseled. They were sparsely accoutred with typeand plentifully with cigar ashes. As for a press, there was none. But aform had been made up on a slab of marble, and near by were a tinyhillock of ink, a roller and a mallet. The mysterious printer could atleast take proofs. There was one now on a file. Jacqueline pulled itoff, and contemplated a miniature American newspaper, of one sheet,printed on one side only, and no larger than a magazine cover. At thetop she read the legend, in German caps: "_The CordovaColonist_--_Weekly Independent_."

  "Is that a pun?" she wondered.

  But now at least she could identify the ghostly company of the valley,though not its scribe. That word "Cordova" gave the clue. A year ago onethousand hardy men had ridden into the capital from the north. Theirleader was a fiery, black-whiskered little man with a plume in his hatand the buff sash of a brigadier general around his waist. They were theMissourians, defamed as "Shelby's horse thieves and judges of whiskey,"honored as "The Old Brigade," and so feared and respected under any namethat the City fairly buzzed and stared goggle-eyed. But Maximilian againrefused their offers to enlist under his standard, and they could onlydisband. Some took ship to hunt for Kidd's treasure in the Pacific,others went to Japan and the Sandwich Islands, and a number joined acongenial regiment of veterans, the Zouaves. But the majority, sheremembered now, had been settlers, persuaded thereto by theircountryman, Commodore Maury, who was Imperial Commissioner ofImmigration. Maury had secured a grant of land near the town of Cordova,within a hundred miles of Vera Cruz. There were one-half million acresof rich land, suitable for the three Big C's of southern countries,cotton, cane and coffee. But until now the strip had not beencultivated. The Church had held it fallow. Then the Republic hadnationalized it; and the Empire was selling it to the Americans at $1.25an acre. The hopeful settlement bore the name of Carlota.

  So the cape-coat and those other things were explained. She was deniedher coincidence. But as there was so much of a plot forward anyway, sheought to have been satisfied--as an artist, she ought. She craved anecstasy of peril or of terror, not as the former dilettante of emotions,but as the lotus eater who exacts forgetfulness.

  Meantime she read editorials, and got interested. The _Colonist_never advanced beyond the proof-sheet stage, but as such it circulatedwith avidity over the valley. Eloquence flowed serene under mashed typeand variegated fonts. The editor persisted in viewing the Empire andRepublic as political parties, and the horrors of civil warfare asincidents of an electoral campaign. He had congenial scope for hisunpartisan and independent pen, advising with owl-like sagacity orabusing with peppery virulence, and either, for either side, with blitheimpartiality. At times, though, the strained analogy between ballots andbullets evidently cracked, and rather floored the editor. For instance,in a pot-pourri of long primer and pica with a dash of Old Englishlower-case was the following:

  As we wen[t] to press last week we paused to entertain a torchlight procession of the Young Imperialists' Flambeau [C]lub, which was collecting a campaign contribution in the semblance of our alfalfa stack. The spectacle of citizens taking an active [p]art in the issues before their country ne'er fails to rouse in us a spiri
t of collaboration, so [w]hat could we do but join heartily in the celebration, so that a most excellent time was had. Later our editorial staff, a score who in our canefields teach the tender sprouts [h]ow to shoot, knowing t[h]e same so well themselves, gently laid to rest a score and one Cossacks, past members of the [F]lambeau Club, wh[o] had lingered behind for the reason that they _were_ past. But, we ask, _ad quod damnum_?--i.e., isn't it as futile as cauterizing a wooden leg? How much longer, O Jove, must we let our public-opinion moulds cool off while we chase enthusiastic young patriots away from our alfal[f]a!!!... In conclusion, with a cool brow, we are constrained to say that if the party in power cannot discourage the depredations above ci[t]ed, we shall have to fortify ourselves to the contemplation of a c[h]ange of administration.

  [Transcriber's note: characters in brackets were originally printedas bold Old English lower-case as explained above.]

  "Why," cried Jacqueline, "what an _animal disputans_ it is!" Sheperceived an ink bottle, and exclaimed, "Ah, more milk from the blackcow!" Taking up a wad of copy paper, on which a future editorial wasalready begun, she read, and quickly her amusement changed to a livelierinterest.

  "Rumor goes," she read under the caption, _Ardentia Verba_, "thatFather Augustine, political manager for the administration, vice Eloin,is soon to leave for Europe. He goes to have a pourparler with the Pope.He will concede everything, since the Empire no longer hopes to win overthe moderate Mexicans. But the obstinate though Holy Father willnegotiate a concordat on one basis only, and that is the return to theMexican church of all nationalized church lands.

  "Men of the colony, attention now! We each own something like threehundred acres apiece of these lands. And we are paying for them, we arecultivating them, and we have to defend them against both guerrillas andcontra-guerrillas. And now they are to be confiscated! Our new homes areto be taken from us!! Alas, we who are peaceful settlers, to think thatwe were Trojans on a time!!! Fellow citizens, with us it's a severe caseof _e pluribus unum_. Oh, for a leader! But our incomparable chiefof yore will not stir. Yet there _was_ one, gallant cavalier of theSouth, peerless captain, just the dauntless heart for any forlorn hopeunder the starry vault of heaven, if he were only here! If he, John D.Driscoll, were only----"

  The matter stopped abruptly. More than that, by force of habit thescribe had ringed the figures "30" underneath. They meant "finis." Theeditor had known, then, that he would not return to end his harangue.

  "A flea bite," mused Jacqueline, "would interrupt the penning of anAlexandrian line. Now, I wonder who or what the flea could have been,and what----"

  But there, she would ask herself no question concerning the editoriallymentioned "John D. Driscoll."

  It was mid afternoon when Colonel Dupin, like a shaggy, dripping bear,returned to the house and begged leave to dry himself. Standing beforethe fire, he reloaded his holster pistols. They were tremendous, elegantutensils of French make, with a nine-chambered cylinder, and a secondbarrel underneath that carried a rifle ball. Where no prisoners weretaken on either side, the owner of such a weapon usually reserved themurderous slug for himself, and the loading of that lower barrel becamea sort of ghastly rite. Jacqueline shuddered as she watched him fix onthe cap.

  "How do you explain your desertion of Her Majesty?" she asked. "Our FraDiavolo should thank me for drawing you off."

  The Tiger adjusted the double hammer so that it would play on thecylinder first. A rumbling chuckle came from the depths of his throat.

  "I should be honored with mademoiselle's approval," he said, "for atcourt mademoiselle is a guileful warrior. The casualties there may notbe so sanguinary, but the strategic principle is the same. Know, then,that Rodrigo Galan employs a spy whom I own, body and soul. By nowRodrigo has learned from this spy that the Imperial coach broke down,and that to-night Her Majesty rests--here. So you see that she is notlikely to be attacked----"

  "But I see that _we_ are, parbleu!"

  "Of course," and the Tiger unctuously rubbed his hands in the blaze."It's my chance to trap him. He has only three hundred men."

  "And you, monsieur?"

  "Our mutual spy has told him that I have less than two hundred men. Thebrigand knows that I was forced to leave a garrison at Tampico."

  "But how many have you, really?"

  Dupin motioned her to the window. But she saw not a man, not a musket.She saw only the wet fields of cane, and the black mist-shroudedmountains beyond.

  "Just the same," the Frenchman assured her pleasantly, "they are there,full five hundred of my little tribe. Does mademoiselle approve?"

  "It looks like the curtain on 'Fra Diavolo,'" she replied, shuddering.