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“Where is Ricardo?” he demanded as soon as he was within hearing.
“Where is he, I say? Why should I work if he does not?”
And now such a mingling of voices—Felipe repeating questions to
which he received no answer; the old woman boldly stating
Manuelita’s new domestic status; the girl crying out against her
mother’s hasty planning.
But after a time, when matters became clear to Felipe, he fell silent
to ponder, and the old woman quieted to await his reply. As for
Manuelita, she was sobbing a determination. “I shall follow, I shall
follow,” she declared. “And when I find them, I shall kill!”
“Felipe can go along,” suggested her mother, “and help you.”
Manuelita glanced at Felipe, and recoiled.
“Where have they gone?” he asked her. “Do you know?”
“He took our cubierta, the new machete, and a flask. Yesterday he
threatened to join the Revolutionists.”
“He will go either to Tacarigua or to Rio Chico, in that case,” Felipe
declared. He began to look dubious. Laying an index finger in the
palm of a hand, he did some calculating. It would take not less than
so many days, perhaps. At four reales each day—he counted on his
fingers. “Out so much for just a woman!” he concluded. “I will not
do it.”
But Manuelita did not hear. She was on her feet and getting ready to
leave. The baby, awake and hungry, seemed to know her purpose.
He began a lusty howling.
“Take, mamma.” She pushed him toward her mother.
The old woman caught the squalling child between her knees, hastily
lit a tabaco, put it between her toothless gums to make it burn, and
gave it to him. He grew still at once, seized the long cigar in both
little hands, and fell to smoking industriously.
“Foolish! foolish!” she scolded. “And you will have your trouble for
naught. Can you hold a man who does not want you? No woman
can do that. You had better stay.”
Manuelita ignored the advice. She was putting the last touches to
her preparations. In a bright cotton handkerchief she tied a comb,
several baked plantains, some round thick arepas made of mashed
corn, and her cigarettes; she swung her straw hat over one arm and
dropped the lanza into a sheath of inlaid leather at her belt. Then,
without a glance at mother, child, or neighbour, she went rapidly up
the street and entered the cacao under low-hanging branches.
But soon she paused to consider a moment. What if she were
travelling the wrong way! Suppose they had gone in an easterly
direction, toward Rio Chico. Yet, no, for Juan was there. Besides,
since the hacienda of San Jacinto, a portion of the northern half of
the plain of Barlovento, curves in to meet the Rio Tuy, the couple
would have had to cross the swollen stream at the very start. They
would go north, to Tacarigua. She was sure of that. And, taking off
her alpargatas, she walked in a great semicircle, looking for fresh
footprints.
Across ditch after ditch she went, through black water and blacker
ooze. Sometimes her steps were sure, more often she sank to the
knees, or fell, her hands flattening against a ditch side.
She found fresh footprints in countless numbers, and leading toward
every point of the compass. Some had been made by naked feet,
some by alpargatas. Some were long and wide, some were short
and more narrow. She was bewildered by them.
“Ah! Madre de Dios!” she faltered.
Presently, pointing northward, she found two sets, the one plainly a
man’s, the other smaller. They were new, too, for the ooze still stood
in them. Instantly her attention fixed upon these. She floundered
after them, rod upon rod, as certain that she was upon the right trail
as if she could see Ricardo and the woman ahead of her. Here the
footprints were close together—she ground her teeth. Here they
were farther apart. And here someone had stumbled, for there was
the mark of a naked palm on the soft earth. She laughed, and
stroked the handle of the lanza.
When the tracks left the hacienda of San Jacinto they entered that
of its northern neighbour—Guevara. Here they made a detour to
avoid the cacao court and huts of the plantation’s workers. Then on
again, through mud and mire, keeping always straight toward
Tacarigua. Farther still, when this hacienda was crossed, they
entered the rough path leading northward through the forest, and
were lost.
At midday Manuelita stopped at a deep-shadowed spot on the road
to eat a meal of baked plantain and arepa. The monkeys jabbered
down at her. Now and then she heard strange movements close by
in the jungle. But she felt no fear. A few moments for food, a pull at
a water-filled gourd flask, a few crumbs to a lizard, blinking—head
downward—from a tree trunk at her elbow, and she trotted on.
It was the hour before sunset when, through a tangle, she peered
out from the forest’s edge. Before her was a shallow stream, muddy
though it was flowing over a bed of pebbles. Beyond, a cluster of
red, tiled roofs, was Tacarigua. Tacarigua! And they were there!
She opened her bundle for the comb; bathed quickly face, arms, and
from foot to knee, and carefully rubbed away the caked dirt marring
the bright figures of her skirt. Then, with the sun looking back from
the ragged range of La Silla de Caracas, and a breeze beginning to
stir the leaves that fringed the water, she slipped on her alpargatas,
took the path again, and entered the village.

General Blanco Alcantara, in command of the Revolutionary force at

Tacarigua, sat upon his horse before the green-walled Jefatura Civil.
He looked quite imposing. A broad hat, wound in the blue of his
cause, was set rakishly upon his black hair. A wide sash of webbed
stuff in the same blue ran over his right shoulder and was wrinkled
into the loop of his sabre scabbard, from which, knotted, it fell, ends
free, to a silver spur.
Near him, lounging upon the steps of the building, were several
officers, smoking, talking, and evidently waiting. To one side, also
occupied with their tabacos and gossip, were as many asistentes,
waiting, too, and looking as important as the discarded apparel of
their superiors would permit.
When Manuelita approached the general, he was looking down his
straight nose at the cigarette he was rolling in his fingers. But at the
sound of her voice close to his stirrup, he turned his deep-set black
eyes upon her.
“Señor general,” she began, quaveringly.
He saw eyes as dark as his own, a pale face scarce younger. And his
short upper lip, under its wiry moustache, lifted a little, in what was
meant to be a smile.
“At your order, señorita,” he replied.
And now he saw the girl’s eyes widen and flash, saw the red of
anger run into lip and cheek.
“Señor general,” she continued huskily, “there is a man—one Ricardo
Villegas—who last night left the hacienda San Jacinto to come to
Tacarigua and join La Revolución. Leaving, he took with him our
cubierta, a new machete, and—a woman.”
The general laughed.
“That man of yours was equipped for fighting,” he said.
She was clasping and unclasping her hands with nervous intensity.
“He had best be so,” she answered, “when next he meets me.”
“You will not meet him here.”
“No? no?”—quickly. Suspicion darkened her face. She drew back.
The general was lying, doubtless, to save a much-needed soldier
from his deserts.
“No,” went on Alcantara, lighting his cigarette, “you will not find him
here. I have one hundred men, but each has been with me since
before the beginning of the wet season. No one has joined me of
late.”
She turned about, half murmuring to herself, and made as if to go.
“He went the other way, perhaps,” suggested the general; “to Rio
Chico, where is another force of Los Salvadores.”
She came round upon him, arms raised, set teeth showing between
lips that were pale again.
“I go to Rio Chico,” she said.
“And he will be gone—wait, wait! General Pablo Montilla leaves Rio
Chico to-night with his column.”
“I shall follow.”
“I join him with my men at dawn.”
He saw the light of a terrible hope illuminate her countenance. She
came to his stirrup again.
“Señor general,” she pleaded, “let me go with your soldiers. I am
young and strong—I can cook—I can carry a load——”
Alcantara puckered his lips teasingly, looking down at her. He
marked the plump, well rounded figure, the clear, copper-coloured
skin with its scarlet touches on mouth and cheek, the long braid, the
full, girlish throat.
“You go,” he said.
Child as she was, she knew the men of Venezuela, and she saw and
understood his look.
“I go for revenge, Señor general,” she declared meaningly. “If you
are so good as to allow me to follow you, I—I will be safe? Else I
walk far in the rear—alone.”
“As you like,” answered Alcantara. “There will be two other women
along—Maria, who goes with one of my coroneles, and La Negrita,
the woman of the black general, Pedro Tovar. You may march with
them.”
“And when will you start?” she asked eagerly. “When?”
“We thirst for the blood of Ricardo Villegas,” laughed Alcantara. “Well
——”
A squad was approaching, led by a determined-looking officer. Two
of his men carried large-calibre German Mausers, the third had a
Mauser and a canvas money bag, and the fourth a Mauser and a
rope.
“Comisario,” said the general, as the latter shuffled near and saluted,
“what raciones have you collected?”
An expression of defeat spread upon the commissary’s countenance.
He shook his head dejectedly, and, reaching round, seized and
brought forward the money bag.
“These unreasonable, these unpatriotic people!” he began with heat.
“Actually they decline to give up their miserable savings. Observe!”
Alcantara peeked into the bag. “Oh, not so bad,” he said. “But
perhaps a better display of the rope——”
The other nodded. “I promise you they will be loyal.” Then, his face
more determined than before, the commissary departed. Behind
came the squad, the Mausers, the bag, and the noose.
The general addressed Manuelita. “We shall start at sunset,” he said.
“But you? You have walked all day, you say.”
“It does not matter. I will walk all night, gladly, gladly!”
He bent to arrange the knot of his sash. When he turned back again
she was gone.
At sunset the soldiers of Alcantara left the huts where they had been
quartered and gathered in the Plaza. Ragged and dirty they were,
and unshaven. Some of them were part Indian, with straight black
hair and copper-coloured skins. Others were negroes or half-castes,
with flat noses and kinky heads. But all were without uniforms. Their
drill trousers were of different colours, and held up by lengths of
string or rope. Their tight-fitting, collarless shirts, made of a cheap
woven material, were as vari-coloured. Even their little jackets, that
buttoned up to the neck and were brought in at the waist under a
cartridge belt, were not of the same shade or kind. Here and there
among them, stripped of its red trimmings, showed the khaki
uniform of the government—spoil of a battlefield. All wore
alpargatas; and those fortunate enough possessed straw hats of
generous circumference or brown, furry pelo de guamas, which
displayed, on a narrow divisa sewed around the crown, the corps
and division of the fighter beneath. Over the left shoulder of some of
the men, and passed under the belt, was a rolled, double-wool
poncho, the blue side out, if it so happened, but quite as often, in
unconscious treason, the other, which was dyed the red of the
enemy.
Despite the commissary’s promise of loyalty, when the soldiers came
together there were no cheers from the townspeople, who,
gathering to see the departure, chattered in undertones among
themselves, and eyed the motley force in illy concealed dislike.
And now, obeying the call of a battered bugle, the start was made.
First down the street came General Blanco Alcantara, in fine style;
then the black general, Tovar, astride a lanky horse; after these, a
bevy of mounted officers—three coroneles, two commandantes, and
two capitanes; the privates—on foot and in no formation; the
asistentes, loaded down with the personal effects of their superiors;
and several burros and mules carrying pack saddles heavy with
ammunition; next, each with a bundle balanced on her head, a hat
hung to her arm, a gourd and a smoky pail swinging and clinking
together at her side, and a long tabaco in her mouth, two women;
last of all, a padre, in cassock and shovel hat, riding a gaited mule.
The third woman to accompany the expedition was on the edge of
the town, where the road to Higuerote opens into the forest. She
was watching as she rested, eating an arepa and the remaining
plantain. As Alcantara rode into sight, she stood up, her eyes
shining, her lips parted, her head erect. The command by, she
walked forward sturdily and fell in behind.
Night was falling then, but she was soon spied by those in the rear.
Presently, these had told others, and the soldiers stretched their
necks to look back to where she trudged. There was some
whispering among those nearest her, and presently the padre reined
a little to speak.
“You were not with us when we left the town,” he said. “How come
you to be here?”
“I wish to go to Higuerote,” she answered, but would explain no
further.
Seeing her questioned, one of the asistentes, a kindly old man, fell
back to offer her a cigarette. She took it gratefully.
“And do you ignore the Church?” demanded the padre reprovingly.
The asistente handed over a cigarette, and soon the three were
journeying forward together.
The night breeze swept over them as they went, making the way
cool, and bringing with it the fragrance of growing things. But their
travelling was difficult. The road was only a cart’s width, hard and
stony, rising and falling, too, on broken ground. There was no moon
over the first third of the journey, and every little while a jaguar,
scenting their passing, howled out at them from the dark, vine-hung
forest lining the march.
Bit by bit Manuelita told her companions the story of Ricardo’s flight.
As the padre listened, his round, florid face grew solemn, and he
poked out his under lip dubiously. The asistente, on the other hand,
swore often and pityingly, so that the good priest was kept busy
crossing himself.
“And have you come all the way from the hacienda San Jacinto to-
day?” asked the soldier.
“Since morning,” Manuelita answered.
“In that case,” interposed the padre, settling himself in the saddle,
“to make your walking more easy, you may hold to the tail of my
mule on the up grades.”
Not long after, they were forced to cover their faces and cease
talking. For before the night was half gone, the moon topped the
trees, showing its great, burnished shield upon the starlit sky. And
with the rising of the moon the forest thinned, the way became
more level, but sandy, the walking extremely heavy, and legions of
hungry mosquitoes came swarming upon them. The padre’s mule,
tormented by the pests, made the middle of the track dangerous for
Manuelita. She fell back, and walked in silence beside the old
orderly. Once she uncovered to ask him how far they had got.
“Half-way,” he answered, when she murmured a thanksgiving.
Later she again spoke: “And how long before Higuerote is near?”
“Three hours,” he replied.
Her hands stole to her belt.
“Only one day and one night,” she said, “and yet I am almost upon
them!”
But she was miserably tired by now, and many times would have
stumbled to her knees had not the asistente supported her. He gave
her frequent draughts from his aguardiente flask, and little lumps of
damp brown sugar out of a canvas bag at his thigh. The padre,
riding just in advance, looked back often to speak encouragement,
and as often called the asistente forward to levy upon him for a
cigarette.
Bravely Manuelita persevered. Toward morning her brain seemed to
wander, for she talked meaningless things to the old man lagging
beside her. But a moment’s rest, a swallow of drink, a whispered
reminder, and she struggled forward.
“Santa María!” was her petition, “only give me strength!”
The yellow moon had gone and the dawn was near when, having
arrived at three great sand hummocks thrown up close to the road,
General Alcantara drew rein. Noiselessly the soldiers laid down their
ponchos, partook of cold coffee and a little food, and stretched
themselves for a brief rest. The horses of the officers and the
ammunition animals were led to one side, where they might crop the
grass growing about in clumps. Alcantara and Pedro Tovar walked
apart, conversing. The padre guided his mule to one side and, out of
his saddle, was soon drowsing as comfortably as the mosquitoes
would permit; while Manuelita sought the women, who were
smoking, and squatted on the sand beside them, her face to the
east, her lips moving with soundless words.
Swiftly the day came. A moment of little light, another that was
brighter, and the stars dimmed. Then the unkempt force got to their
feet and moved on—cartridge belts filled and machetes slipped
under them. Above, floating on white-tipped wings, followed a score
of the bald black samuro, their curved beaks lowered in horrid
watchfulness.
When the sun rose, the company made a second halt, behind a line
of scrub growth. From here General Alcantara, dismounting, went
forward alone on hands and knees. He stopped while yet in the
shelter of the dense underbrush and stood up. To his left lay a town
—tile-roofed, low houses, three rows of them, two rows having their
back yards to the sea. Beyond these was a gently shelving beach
strewn with the unpainted, dugout canoes of fishermen. Still farther,
dotted here and there with a dingy sail, was the blue of the
Caribbean, its outermost edge moving up and down upon the paler
blue of the sky. To his right, some two hundred yards away, was the
curving line of a railroad, then beach and boats, then sea again. And
in the very foreground, seated on the sand, under a sagging
telegraph wire, was a man in khaki, fast asleep, with his gun, muzzle
end down, in a land-crab hole.
Alcantara now lowered himself again to creep on, and a moment
later the sentry awoke and found himself a prisoner.
Presently, from the south, there sounded a faint rumble. And soon,
far down the rusty rails, appeared a train. Alcantara gave a signal to
those who had come up from behind, and at once the Revolutionists
in khaki gathered the officers’ mounts and, taking the captured
sentry with them, went back along the road to the shelter of the
sand hummocks. The padre turned his gaited mule and single-footed
after them, concern written large on his round, florid face. The rest
of the company displayed their agitation. The soldiers craned and
gestured, or examined their arms. La Negrita and the other woman
chattered under their breath. The two capitanes ran to and fro
between Alcantara and the black general, taking and bringing
messages. The men with the pack animals proceeded slowly toward
the road gap in the shielding shrub. Only one of them all was giving
the hour a solemn beginning. This was Manuelita, kneeling,
bareheaded, in the sand, her hands clasped, her eyes closed, her
face upturned.
“Santa María!” she whispered, for once more she was praying.
When the train was less than half a mile away Alcantara drew a
small blue flag from his breast. It was of flimsy muslin, and showed
at its centre a cross of yellow, blue, and red. The general, having
unfolded it, held it in his right hand, so low that it could not be seen
from the town. Instantly similar colours were waved from the engine
cab. Again Alcantara signalled those behind, and the black general
led them forward. At their front was borne a large flag of the cause,
fastened to a bamboo pole.
When the train had crawled abreast of the Tacarigua force, its
antique, ramshackle coaches came to a stop. Out of them tumbled
some sixty soldiers, the heavy-set Pablo Montilla commanding.
Alcantara saluted silently and made off with two-thirds of his own
men straight along the track toward a railroad bridge in the town. As
quietly, Tovar took the remaining third, joined Montilla, and started
toward a second bridge, which crossed the Rio Curiepe at the main
street. The train backed. The ammunition-mules and -burros were
held close to the track, where stayed Maria and the other woman.
But Manuelita, marking which way the men of Rio Chico had gone,
ran after, and fell in behind them.
That advance was made in two lines, the soldiers trotting single file.
Those on the track were heard from first. A shot rang out—then
another. Then the battered bugle sounded a few clear notes, which
the Mausers obeyed with a spatter of shots.
Now Tovar turned to his men with a cry: “Adelante, muchachos!”
The soldiers broke into a run, firing willy-nilly, and bunching together
at the bridge end.
“Viva Montilla!” they shouted. “Viva Tovar!”
Then came answering cries from across the bridge, where khaki
uniforms were swarming in a hasty rally, where shots were plentiful
now, and a drum was keeping up a steady thump! thump!
Behind the cluster of men on that bridge was Manuelita. She had no
thought of danger for herself, though the bullets were flying about
her. She did not even watch the khaki figures hurrying to oppose, or
those others spreading out between the bridges, lining the Curiepe
to prevent a crossing. Her gaze was upon the men of Rio Chico. Her
dust-rimmed eyes searched for one figure.
But now Tovar was leading Los Salvadores across the stone-flagged
bridge. Officered by red-sashed men in blue, the front ranks of the
government received them with bayonets. Those in the background
sent upon them a hail of lead.
“Ah!”
The piercing cry that broke from Manuelita was heard above the
clashing of steel, the singing of bullets, the curses and vivas, the
shrieks of agony. There he was, there—in the very front of the fight,
laying about him with his machete. Her whole body trembled, her
heart fluttered, her breath came in gasps, she choked.
“Madre de Dios!” She clutched the spear-shaped knife. “Let me but
get at him first!”
But now she was rudely driven back. The government was gaining—
it was machete to bayonet, and the latter’s deal was the more
deadly. Los Salvadores retreated, one against another, clubbing their
Mausers, filling the air with their yells. Maria’s coronel raced up,
bringing a futile order. For Pedro Tovar was out of earshot, in the
front of them all, still facing the enemy, but backing from the fierce
onslaught of the men in yellow.
But where was Ricardo? Manuelita could not see. Forgetful of
personal safety, she sprang upon the nearer iron rail of the bridge.
And from there, looking beyond the line of hand-to-hand combat,
beyond the van of the government, she saw him—lying flat upon the
flags, arms stretched out, face downward. At his curly head was a
growing pool.
Like a flash, she was down and standing on the bridge. She
flattened herself against the hand rail to keep from being knocked
off her feet. Men of the Revolution struggled by her, bravely
contesting each step of the way. And now Pedro Tovar was beside
her—losing his ground. And now the khaki of the government was
on every side.
“Viva el Gobierno! Viva Domingo Morales!”
Los Salvadores were losing!
She saw more khaki-clad men running up from the tumbled-down
church in the Plaza—running straight toward the bridge, toward
Ricardo, helpless, but moving feebly now, turning his head from side
to side as if in pain. They would cut at him as they passed!
Another cry, and she made her way back along the hand rail to
where Tovar was swinging his black arms. Then on, beyond him, to
where showed the top of the Revolution’s colours. A moment, and
she had seized the bamboo pole, had unfurled the blue flag with its
tricoloured cross. Then, facing about, with cries again, she pushed
her way toward the black general.
“Viva la Revolución!” she cried.
Spent with their night march and with fighting, disheartened by
retreat, the motley forces of Montilla and Tovar now beheld a girl at
their front, waving aloft the flag of their cause. They hesitated; then,
spurred by the sight, stood fast.
And now, with cheers from Alcantara’s men to announce a victory at
the railroad bridge, there came the change of balance in that fight at
the other. A moment and the government was retreating, not foot by
foot, but quickly, up the gentle slope.
“Viva la Revolución!” was the whole shout now. And with a fearful
grin on his black face, Pedro Tovar cried on the men, cursed them
into fiercer fighting, struck them with the flat of his sabre.
And now the wavering blue flag was at the middle of the bridge, was
on the farther slope, was almost to the man lying face downward on
the approach—then, beside him.
Another hand caught the bamboo pole there, saving the riddled
colours from fluttering to the ground. Still the government fell
backward, still the Revolution pressed on. The bridge was cleared,
except where wounded or dead lay stretched upon the stone; the
clash of weapons grew less and less. The retreat of the government
was a rout.
But back at the bridge, unmindful of victory, exhausted, yet not
realising that, sat Manuelita, a soldier’s head pillowed against her
breast, a wet cheek rested against a paler one.
“Santa María!” she sobbed, “he is alive—alive! Madre de Dios, I
thank thee!”
THE END
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