He made a sign with his gloved hand, somebody called out sharply, a line of men moved forward a pace or two, and there was a jingle and clatter as the rifles went up to the hip. Appleby saw the lame lad shrink back towards the wall, and one of the peons with bound hands awkwardly pull forward his hat over his eyes, but the other stood bolt upright with his at his side.
Once more a voice rang sharply through the stillness, the rifles went up to the shoulder, and Appleby, who set his lips and clenched his hands, turned his eyes aside. For a second or two it was horribly and intensely still, and then a hoarse, strained voice, one of the peons’ Appleby fancied, cried, “Viva la libertad!”
It was followed by a crash, a whisp of smoke drifted past him, there was an inarticulate cry from the crowd, and he dimly saw the firing party moving through the smoke. Beyond them he had a blurred glimpse of a figure that swayed upon its knees, and another lying full length clawing at the stones. Then he shivered and gazed up at the crowded housetops and dazzling sky, and by a grim effort held himself stiffly erect. Harper’s voice reached him through the murmur of horror from the crowd.
“Lord!” he said hoarsely. “They’ve bungled it!”
Again the rifles crashed, and the men came back, two of them, Appleby noticed, walking a trifle unsteadily. The faces of the rest were set and grim, and he braced himself for an effort as the man with the paper moved forward again. His turn and Harper’s was coming now, but what he had seen had stirred him to a fierce anger that drove out physical fear, and it was impotent fury he strove to hold in check. Then he saw Morales apparently conferring with one or two of his officers who seemed to be glancing towards him and Harper, while the latter gripped his shoulder until he winced.
“Why can’t they be quick?” he said. “I’ll take one of those soldiers’ rifles and empty the magazine into them in another minute.”
Then there was a louder hum of voices and a surging of the crowd, for the men of the firing party, waiting no order, brought their rifles down with a crash. They were young men of the Barremeda company, which, as Appleby had heard, was not above suspicion, though that was, perhaps, why Morales had appointed them the task. A lieutenant appeared to be gesticulating in front of them, but the men stood immovable, with ordered rifles and set brown faces, and there was now a murmur from the ranks behind them, while a great cry went up from the crowd.
Santa Marta was a loyalist town, that is, the men who had anything to lose supported the rule of Spain, but they were for that reason mostly men of position and refinement, and what they had seen had proved almost too much for them. The rest who had nothing were, for the most part, insurgents at heart, even if they refrained from actively expressing their sympathies, which was not certain, and the last cry of the butchered peon coupled with the affront put upon the priests had stirred them to fury. When the hot Iberian blood takes fire events are apt to happen somewhat rapidly, and Morales, it seemed, had gone a trifle too far.
He flung himself from the saddle, and moved forward with gleaming sword, which he brandished in front of the flank man of the firing party, but the set faces were resolutely turned upon him, and now the brown fingers were convulsively tightening on the rifles. The tumult was growing louder, and shouts of “Libertad!” and “Viva la revoluçion!” came out of the clamor. In one place the double line of men with bayonets bent in, and a section of the Barremeda company broke their ranks.
“Lord!” said Harper hoarsely. “With ten of the Sin Verguenza I’d take Santa Marta now.”