“You cannot hang a man without trial! He must have his trial!”
And when Francis had descended from the scaffold, the Comisario, with the Jefe at his back, arrested Henry Morgan for the murder of Alfaro Solano.
Chapter IV
“We must work quickly,” Francis said to the Solanos on the piazza of the Solano hacienda.
“We must save him!” Leoncia cried out.
“All Gringos look alike to the Jefe,” Francis said. She was splendidly beautiful and wonderful, he thought. “He’ll give Henry no more time than he gave us. We must get him out tonight.”
“Now listen,” Leoncia began again. “We Solanos cannot permit this… this execution. Our pride… our honor. We cannot permit it. Speak! Any of you. Father! Suggest something…”
And while Enrico Solano and his sons talked plans and projects, a house servant came, whispered in Leoncia’s ear, and led her away.
Around the corner, Alvarez Torres, in all the medieval Spanish splendor of dress, greeted her, bowed low with a sombrero in hand.
“The trial is over, Leoncia,” he said softly, tenderly, as one speaks of the dead. “He is sentenced.[50] Tomorrow at ten o’clock is the time. It is all very sad, most very sad. But…” He shrugged his shoulders. “No, I shall not speak harshly of him. He was an honorable man. His one fault was his temper. It was too quick, too fiery.”
“He never killed my uncle!” Leoncia cried.
“And it is regrettable,” Torres said gently and sadly, avoiding any disagreement. “The judge, the people, the Jefe Politico, unfortunately, are all united in believing that he did. Which is most regrettable. But I came to offer my service in any and all ways you may command. My life, my honor, are at your disposal. Speak. I am your slave.”
Dropping suddenly and gracefully on one knee before her, he caught her hand from her lap.
“I knew you when you were small, Leoncia, so very, very charmingly small, and I loved you always. No, listen! Please. My heart must speak. When you returned from schooling abroad, a woman, a grand and noble lady, I was burnt by your beauty. I have been patient. I refrained from speaking.”
She listened patiently. Henry… And Francis… Why did this stranger Gringo so enamore her heart? Was she a wanton? Was it one man? Or another man? Or any man? No! No! She was not fickle nor unfaithful. And yet?… Perhaps it was because Francis and Henry were so much alike, and her poor stupid loving woman’s heart failed properly to distinguish between them. And she could follow Henry anywhere over the world, but now she would follow Francis even farther. She loved Henry, her heart solemnly proclaimed. But she loved Francis, too. There was a difference in her love for the two men; so she, the latest and only woman of the house of Solano, was a wanton.
Torres continued:
“You have been the delicious thorn in my heart. I have dreamed of you… and for you. And I have my own name for you. The Queen of my Dreams. And you will marry me, my Leoncia! We will forget this mad Gringo who is as already dead.[51] I shall be gentle, kind. I shall love you always. For you… I shall love you so that it will be impossible for the memory of him to arise between us and.”
Leoncia was silent. How to save Henry? Torres offered his services.
“Speak!” Torres urged.
“Hush! Hush!” she said softly. “How can I listen to you, when the man I loved is yet alive?”
Loved! The past tense of it! She had said “loved”. She had loved him, but no longer. Torres was glad. The one thing is clear: if he wants to win Leoncia quickly, Henry Morgan must die quickly.
“We will speak of it no more… now,” he said with gentleness, as he gently pressed her hand, and rose to his feet.
“Come,” she said. “We will join the others. They are planning now, or trying to find some plan, to save Henry Morgan.”
“I have a plan, if you will pardon me,[52]” Torres began. He smiled, and twisted his mustache.
“There is one way, the Gringo, Anglo-Saxon way, and it is simple. That is just what it is. We will go and take Henry out of jail in brutal and direct Gringo fashion. It is the one thing they will not expect. Therefore, it will succeed. There are enough rascals on the beach with which we can storm the jail. Hire them, pay them well, but only partly in advance, and the thing is accomplished.”
Leoncia nodded. Old Enrico’s eyes flashed. And all looked to Francis for his opinion or agreement. He shook his head slowly.
“That way is hopeless,” he said. “Why should all of you risk your necks in a mad attempt like that?”
“You mean you doubt me?” Torres bristled. “You mean that I am forbidden by you from the councils of the Solanos who are my oldest and most honored friends.”
Old Enrico began to speak.
“There are no councils of the Solanos from which you are barred, Senor Torres. You are indeed an old friend of the family. Your late father and I were comrades, almost brothers. But truly your plan is hopeless. To storm the jail is truly madness. Look at the thickness of the walls. They could stand a siege of weeks.”
Torres briefly apologized and departed for San Antonio.
“What have you against Senor Torres? Why did you reject his plan and anger him?” Leoncia demanded of Francis.
“Nothing,” was the answer, “except that we do not need him. He is a fool and he will spoil any plan. Maybe he can’t be trusted. I don’t know. Anyway, what’s the good of trusting him when we don’t need him? Now his plan is all right. We’ll go straight to the jail and take Henry out. And we don’t need to trust to rascals. Six men of us can do it.”
“There is a dozen guards at the jail,” Ricardo,[53] Leoncia’s youngest brother, a lad of eighteen, objected.
Leoncia frowned at him; but Francis took his part.
“That’s true,” he agreed. “But we will eliminate the guards.”
“The five-foot walls,” said Martinez Solano,[54] twin brother to Alvarado.[55]
“That’s what I mean. You, Senor Solano, have plenty of saddle horses?[56] Good. And you, Alesandro,[57] can you supply me with a couple of sticks of dynamite? Good, and better than good. And do you have in your store-room a plentiful supply of rye whiskey?”
Chapter V
It was in the mid-afternoon, and Henry, at his barred cell-window, stared out into the street. The street was dusty and filthy. Next, he saw a light wagon drawn by a horse. In the seat a gray-headed, gray-bearded ancient man strove vainly to check the horse.[58]
Henry smiled. When directly opposite the window, the old man made a last effort. The driver fell backward into the seat. Then the wagon was a wreck. The old man swung the horse in a circle until it stopped.
The gendarmes erupted from the jail. The old man went hurriedly to the wagon and began an examination of the several packing cases, large and small, which composed its load. One of the gendarmes addressed him.
“Me? Alas senors, I am an old man, and far from home. I am Leopoldo Narvaez.[59] I have driven from Bocas del Toro. It has taken me five days, and business has been poor. My home is in Colon. But tell me, is there Tomas Romero[60] who dwells in this pleasant city of San Antonio?”
“There are many Romeros who dwell everywhere in Panama,” laughed Pedro Zurita,[61] the assistant jailer.[62] “Do you mean the rich Tomas Romero who owns many cattle on the hills?”
“Yes, senor, it must be he. I shall find him. If my precious stock-in-trade[63] can be safely stored, I shall seek him now.” As he talked, he took out from his pocket two silver pesos and handed them to the jailer.
Pedro Zurita and the gendarmes began to carry the boxes into the jail.
“Careful, senors, careful,” the old one pleaded, greatly anxious. “Handle it gently. It is fragile, most fragile.”
Then he added gratefully: “A thousand thanks, senors. It has been my good fortune to meet with honest men with whom my goods will be safe. Tomorrow I shall return, and take my goods. Adios, senors, adios!”
* * *In the guardroom, fifty feet away from Henry’s cell, the gendarmes were robbing Leopoldo Narvaez. Pedro Zurita made a profound survey of the large box.
“Leave it alone, Pedro,” one of the gendarmes laughed at him. The assistant jailer sighed, walked away and sat down, looked back at the box, and sighed again.
“Take the hatchet there and open the box,” he said. “Open the box, Ignacio,[64] we will look, we will only look. Then we will close the box again.”
“Whiskey! The old man was a fool,” laughed gendarmes. “That whiskey was his, all his, and he has never taken one little sip!”
In few minutes everybody was drunk. Pedro Zurita became sentimental.
“My prisoners,” he maundered. “I love them as brothers. Life is sad. My prisoners are my very children. My heart bleeds for them. Behold! I weep. Let us share with them. Let them have a moment’s happiness. Ignacio, carry a bottle of this elixir to the Gringo Morgan. Give him my love. He will drink and be happy today.”
The voice outside caught Henry’s attention, and he was crossing his big cell to the window when he heard a key in the door. Ignacio came in, completely drunk, bottle in hand, which he gravely presented to Henry.
“With the high compliments of our good jailer, Pedro Zurita,” he mumbled. “He says to drink and forget that he must stretch your neck tomorrow.”
“My high compliments to Senor Pedro Zurita, and tell him from me to go to hell along with his whiskey,” Henry replied.
The gendarme suddenly become sober.
“Very well, senor,” he said, then passed out and locked the door.
In a rush Henry was at the window just in time to encounter Francis face to face. Francis was thrusting a revolver to him through the bars.
“Henry,” Francis said. “Stand back in your cell, because there’s going to be a hole in this wall. The Angelique is waiting for you. Now, stand back.”
Hardly had Henry backed into a rear corner of his cell, when the door was clumsily unlocked and opened.
“Kill the Gringo!” cried the gendarmes.
Ignacio fired wildly from his gun, missing Henry by half the width of the cell. The next moment he went down under the impact of Henry’s bullet. Henry waited for the explosion.
It came. The window and the wall beneath it became all one aperture. Francis dragged him out through the hole.
“The horses are waiting up the next alley,” Francis told Henry, as they gripped hands. “And Leoncia is waiting with them. Fifteen minutes’ gallop will take us to the beach, where the boat is waiting.”
“The gendarmes got full of whiskey and decided to finish me off right away,” Henry grinned. “Funny thing that whiskey. An old man broke a wagon right in front of the jail.”
“A noble Narvaez, eh, senor?” Francis asked.
“It was you!”
Francis smiled.
Chapter VI
Jefe Politico of San Antonio, leaned back in his chair with a quiet smile of satisfaction proceeded to roll a cigarette. The old judge gave judgment according to program. And the Jefe was two hundred dollars richer for the transaction. His smile was even broader as he greeted Alvarez Torres.
“Listen,” said the latter, whispering low in his ear. “We can kill both Morgans. Henry hangs tomorrow. Francis should go out today.”
The Jefe remained silent.
“I have advised him to storm the jail. The Solanos have listened to his lies and are with him. They will surely attempt to do it this evening. They could not do it sooner. Francis Morgan will be killed in the fight.”
“For what and for why?” the Jefe asked. “Henry must be out of the way. But let Francis go back to his beloved New York.”
“It is imperative that the Francis be kept away from New York for a month if forever, and I do not misunderstand Senor Regan, so much the better. Money matters, you know.”
“But you have not told me how much you have received, nor how much you will receive,” the Jefe said.
“It is a private agreement, and it is not so much as you may fancy. He is a hard man, this Senor Regan, a hard man. But I will divide fairly with you.”
The Jefe nodded, then said:
“Will it be as much as a thousand?”
“I think so. And five hundred is yours if Francis leaves his bones in San Antonio.”
“It must be more than a thousand,” the Jefe persisted.
“And he may be generous,” Torres responded. “He may even give me five hundred over the thousand, half of which, naturally, as I have said, will be yours as well.”
“I shall go from here immediately to the jail,” the Jefe announced. “You may trust me, Senor Torres, as I trust you. Come. We will go at once, now, you and I, and you may see for yourself the preparation I shall make for this Francis Morgan’s reception. So this Gringo will storm our jail, eh? Come.”
He stood up. But, half way across the room, a boy plucked his sleeve and whined:
“I have information. You will pay me for it, Senor? I have run all the way.”
“I’ll sent you to the jail!” was the reply.
The boy cried: “You will remember I brought you the information, Senor. I ran all the way until I am almost dead!”
“Yes, yes, animal, I will remember. What is your information? It may not be worth a centavo.[65]”
“The jail,” the boy quavered. “The strange Gringo, the one who was to be hanged yesterday, has blown down the side of the jail. The hole is as big as the steeple of the cathedral! And the other Gringo, the one who looks like him, the one who was to hang tomorrow, has escaped with him out of the hole. This I saw, myself, with my two eyes, and then I ran here to you all the way, and you will remember…”
“I don’t believe it has been accomplished. It is not possible. Even a fool Gringo would not dare.”
Rafael,[66] the gendarme, rifle in hand, came through the courtroom door.
“We are devastated,” were Rafael’s first words. “The jail is destroyed. Dynamite! A hundred pounds of it: A thousand! We came bravely to save the jail. But it exploded the thousand pounds of dynamite. I fell unconscious, rifle in hand. When sense came back to me, I looked about. All others, the brave Pedro, the brave Ignacio, the brave Augustino[67] – all, all, lay around me dead! They lay dead. The cell of Morgan was empty. There was a huge and monstrous hole in the wall. I crawled through the hole into the street. There was a great crowd. But the Gringo Morgan was gone. They rode toward the beach. There is a schooner that is not anchored. Francis Morgan rides with a sack of gold on his saddle. It is a large sack.”
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