WAR TO THE KNIFE.
Since we left him at Gibraltar McKay had led a busy life. The "Horse Purchase" was in full swing upon the north front, where, in a short space of time, many hundreds of animals were picketed ready for shipment to the East. Having set this part of his enterprise on foot, he had proceeded to the Spanish ports on the Eastern coast and repeated the process.
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 scum 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 assailant, 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 passages, but the moment of separation arrived inexorably, and, after a sad, passionate 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.
"And never let us see you again," added La Zandunga, whose sentiments towards Benito had undergone an entire change in the last few months.
"May I not see her to say good-bye?"
"No, you would only agitate her."
"Do not be so cruel. I implore you to let me speak to her."
"Be off!" said the old woman, angrily. "You are importunate and ill-bred."
"I will not go; I will see her first."
"Put him out, Pedro; by force, if he will not go quietly."
Tio Pedro rose rather reluctantly and advanced towards Benito.
"Hands off!" cried the young man, savagely striking at Pedro.
"What! You dare!" said the other furiously. "I am not too old to deal with such a stripling. Begone, I say, quicker than that!" and Tio Pedro pushed Benito towards the door.
There was a struggle, but it was of short duration. Within a few seconds Benito was ejected into the street.
By-and-by, when the coast was clear, and Mariquita felt safe from the intrusion of the man she loathed, she came out into the shop.
By this time the place was quiet. Tio Pedro had gone off to a neighbouring wine-shop to exaggerate his recent prowess, and La Zandunga sat alone behind the counter.
"Where is Benito? Has he gone?" asked Mariquita, nervously.
"Yes. Did he frighten my sweet bird?" said her aunt, soothing her. "He is an indecent, ill-mannered rogue, and we shall be well rid of him."
"Well rid of him? He really leaves us, then? For the Crimea?"
"You have guessed it. Yes. He thinks there is a chance of finding fortune there."
Was that his only reason? Mariquita put her hand upon her heart, which had almost ceased beating. She was sick with apprehension. Did not Benito's departure forebode evil for her lover?
Just then her eye fell upon a piece of crumpled paper lying on the floor—part of a letter, it seemed. Almost mechanically—with no special intention at least—she stooped to pick it up.
"What have you got there?" asked her aunt.
"A letter."
"It must be Benito's; he probably dropped it in the scuffle. Do you know that he dared to raise his hand against my worthy husband?"
"If it is Benito's I have no desire to touch it," said Mariquita, disdainfully.
"Throw it into the yard, then," said her aunt.
Mariquita accordingly went to the back door and out into the garden, round which she walked listlessly, once or twice, forgetting what she held in her hand.
Then she looked at it in an aimless, absent way, and began to read some of the words.
The letter was in Spanish, written in a female hand. It said—
"Wait till he goes back to the Crimea, then follow him instantly. On arrival at Balaclava go at once to the Maltese baker whose shop is at the head of the bay near Kadikoi; he will give you employment. This will explain and cover your presence in the camp. You will visit all parts of it, selling bread. You must hang about the English headquarters; he is most often there; and remember that he is the sole object of your errand. You must know at all times where he is and what he is doing.
"Further instructions will reach you through the baker in the Crimea. Obey them to the letter, and you will receive a double reward. Money to any amount shall be yours, and you will have had your revenge upon the man who has robbed you of your love."
After reading this carefully there was no doubt in Mariquita's mind that Benito's mission was directed against McKay. Her first thought was the urgency of the danger that threatened her lover; the second, an eager desire to put him on his guard. But how was she to do this? By letter? There was no time. By a trusty messenger? But whom could she send? There was no one from whom she could seek advice or assistance save the old people; and in her heart, notwithstanding their present extreme civility, she mistrusted both.
She was sorely puzzled what to do, but yet resolved to save her lover somehow, even at the risk of her own life.