PAGE 7
Rope’s End
by
In full appreciation of your supreme qualities as a soldier and statesman, it is with admiration that I salute you.
Respectfully,
ANTOINE LEBLANC.
When the letter was finally read to Inocencio he nodded; but the French clerk said, doubtfully:
“This Laguerre is a man of force, I believe. I should not care to trifle with him in this way.”
“I, too, am a man of force,” said the mulatto.
“He is your enemy?”
“To the death.”
The white man shook his head. “Danger lurks along the Haytian coast; many things happen there, for the people are barbarians. I should prefer to forgive this Petithomme rather than oppose him, even though he were my enemy.”
Inocencio scowled. “When I die I shall have no enemies to forgive, for I shall have killed them all,” he said, simply.
* * * * *
Jacmel lay white in the blazing sun as the Stella dropped anchor. The trades were failing, and the schooner drifted slowly under a full spread of canvas. Near where she came to rest lay a Haytian gunboat, ill-painted, ill-manned, ill-disciplined, and Inocencio regarded her with some concern, for her presence was a thing he had not counted upon. It argued either that Laguerre had won the support of her commander or that she had been sent by the government as a check upon his activities. In either event she was a menace.
A band was playing in the square, and there were many soldiers. Inocencio did not go ashore. Instead he sent the letter by a member of his crew, a giant ‘Bajan whom he trusted, and with it he sent word that he hoped to meet His Excellency, General Laguerre, that evening at a certain drinking-place near the water-front.
The sailor returned at dusk with news that set his captain’s eyes aglow. Jacmel was alive with troops; there had been a review that very afternoon and the populace had hailed the commandant as President. On all sides there was talk of revolution; the whole south country had enrolled beneath the banner of revolt. The gunboat was Laguerre’s; all Hayti craved a change; the old familiar race cry had been raised and the mulattoes were in terror of another massacre. But the regular troops were badly armed and the perusal of Inocencio’s letter had filled the general with joy.
Captain Ruiz was early at the meeting-place, but he waited patiently, drinking rum and listening to the chatter of the street. His Spanish accent, his identity as the master of the schooner in the offing, and, above all, his threatening eyes, won him a tolerance which the warlike blacks did not accord to Haytians of his color; therefore he was not molested. He soon confirmed his sailor’s story; revolution was indeed in the air; the country was seething with unrest. Many houses already had been burned–sure token of an uprising. The soldiers had had a taste of pillage and persecution. The streets were thronged with them now; merchants were on guard before their shops; from every side came the sounds of revelry and quarreling.
Laguerre arrived, finally, a huge, forbidding man of martial bearing, and he was heralded by cheers. He was much older and infinitely prouder than when Inocencio had seen him. His uniform had been blue at that time, but now it was parrot-green; his epaulettes were broader, the golden braid and dangling loops were heavier, and he was fat from easy living. With age and power he had coarsened, but his eyes were still bloodshot and domineering.
“Captain Ruiz?” he inquired, pausing before the yellow man.
“Your Excellency!” Inocencio rose and saluted. The seaman’s eyes were smoldering, but his lips were cold, for he felt the dread of recognition.
Time, it seemed, had dulled the sharp outlines of Laguerre’s memory as it had changed the younger man’s features, for he continued, unsuspectingly: