The Thin Red Line; and Blue Blood Part 42

Alicante was the great centre of his operations on this side, and there, by means of dealers and contractors, he speedily collected a large supply of mules. They were kept in the bull-ring and the grounds adjoining, a little way out of the town. A number of native muleteers were engaged to look after them, and McKay succeeded in giving the whole body of men and mules some sort of military organisation.

They were a rough lot, these local muleteers, the sc.u.m and riff-raff of Valencia--black-muzzled, dark-skinned mongrels, half Moors, half Spaniards, lawless, turbulent, and quarrelsome.

Fights were frequent amongst them--sanguinary struggles, in which the murderous native knife played a prominent part, and both antagonists were often stabbed and slashed to death.

The local authorities looked askance at this gathering of rascaldom, and gave them a wide berth. But McKay went fearlessly amongst his reprobate followers, administering a rough-and-ready sort of discipline, and keeping them as far as possible within bounds.

It was his custom to pay a nightly visit to his charge. He went through the lines, saw that the night-patrols were on the alert, and the rest of the men quiet.

Repeatedly the overseers next him in authority cautioned him against venturing out of the town so late.

"There are evil people about," said his head man, a worthy "scorpion,"

whom he had brought with him from Gibraltar. "Your worship would do better to stay at home at night."

"What have I to fear?" replied McKay, stoutly. "I have my revolver; I can take care of myself."

They evidently did not think so, for it became the rule for a couple of them to escort him back to town without his knowledge.

They followed at a little distance behind him, carrying lanterns, and keeping him always in sight.

One night McKay discovered their kind intentions, and civilly, but firmly, put an end to the practice.

Next night he was attacked on his way back to the hotel. A man rushed out on him from a dark corner, and made a blow at his breast with a knife. It missed him, although his coat was cut through.

A short encounter followed. McKay was stronger than his a.s.sailant, whom he speedily disarmed; but he was not so active. The fellow managed to slip through his fingers and run; all that McKay could do was to send three shots after him, fired quickly from his revolver, and without good aim.

"Scoundrel! he has got clear away," said McKay, as he put up his weapon. "Who was it, I wonder? Not one of my own men; and yet I seemed to know him. If I did not think he was still at Gibraltar, I should say it was that miscreant Benito. I shall have to get him hanged, or he will do for me one of these days."

The pistol-shots attracted no particular attention in this deserted, dead-alive Spanish town, and McKay got back to his hotel without challenge or inquiry.

A day or two later, as the organisation of his mule-train was now complete, and transports were already arriving to embark their four-footed freight, he returned to Gibraltar, meaning to go on to the Crimea without delay.

Of course he went to Bombardier Lane, where he was received by the old people like a favourite son.

Mariquita, blushing and diffident, was scarcely able to realise that her Stanislas was now at liberty to make love to her, openly and without question.

The time, however, for their tender intercourse was all too short.

McKay expected hourly the steamer that was to take him eastward, and his heart ached at the prospect of parting. As for Mariquita, she had alternated between blithe joyousness and plaintive, despairing sorrow.

"I shall never see you again, Stanislas," she went on repeating, when the last mood was on her.

"Nonsense! I have come out harmless so far; I shall do so to the end.

The Russians can't hurt me."

"But you have other enemies, dearest--pitiless, vindictive, and implacable."

"Whom do you mean? Benito?"

"You know without my telling you. He has shown his enmity, then? How?

Oh, Stanislas! be on your guard against that black-hearted man."

Should he tell her of his suspicions that it was Benito who had attacked him at Alicante? No; it would only aggravate her fears. But he tried, nevertheless, to verify these suspicions without letting Mariquita know the secret.

"Is Benito at Gibraltar?" he asked, quietly,

"We have not seen him for weeks. Since--since--you know, my life!--since you came to our house he has kept away. But I heard my uncle say that he had left the Rock to buy mules. He was going, I believe, to Alicante. Did you see him there?"

"I saw many ruffians of his stamp, but I did not distinguish our friend."

"You must never let him come near you, Stanislas. Remember what I say.

He is treacherous, truculent--a very fiend."

"If he comes across my path I will put my heel upon him like a toad.

But let us talk of something more pleasant--of you--of our future life. Shall you like to live in England, and never see the sun?"

"You will be my sun, Stanislas."

"Then you will have to learn English."

"It will be easy enough if you teach me."

"Some day you will be a great lady--one of the greatest in London, perhaps. You'll have a grand house, carriages, magnificent dresses, diamonds--"

"I only want you," she said, as she nestled closer to his side.

It was sad that stern duty should put an end to these pretty love pa.s.sages, but the moment of separation arrived inexorably, and, after a sad, pa.s.sionate leave-taking, McKay tore himself away.

Mariquita for days was inconsolable. She brooded constantly in a corner, weeping silent tears, utterly absorbed in her grief. They considerately left her alone. Since she had become the affianced wife of a man of McKay's rank and position, both the termagant aunt and cross-grained uncle had treated her with unbounded respect. They would not allow her to be vexed or worried by any one, least of all by Benito, who, as soon as the English officer was out of the way, again began to haunt the house.

It was about her that they were having high words a day or two after McKay's departure.

Mariquita overheard them.

"You shall not see her, I tell you!" said La Zandunga, with shrill determination. "The sweet child is sad and sick at heart."

"She has broken mine, as you have your word to me. I shall never be happy more."

He spoke as though he was in great distress, and his grief, if false, was certainly well feigned.

"Bah!" said old Pedro. "No man ever died of unrequited love. There are as good fish in the sea."

"I wanted this one," said Benito, in deep dejection. "No matter; I am going away. There is a fine chance yonder, and I may perhaps forget her."

"Where, then?" asked the old woman.

"In the Crimea. I start to-morrow."

"Go, in Heaven's keeping," said Tio Pedro.