Appleby laughed a little, but his face grew grave again as they turned towards the banker’s house to inquire how Tony was progressing. There was no change, they were told, but the doctor, who was busy elsewhere, had left imperative instructions that no one was to see him.
Appleby was glad he had little leisure for reflection during the rest of the day, which was passed in strenuous activity. There were defences to be improvised, and ambulance corps to organize, barricades built, and men driven to their posts from the wine-shops, for Candotto’s Peninsulares would shortly arrive. They never came, however, but instead of them two hundred dusty men with rifles from Brena Abajo marched in, and a horde of peons from every aldea in the vicinity armed with staves and machetes followed them when dusk was closing down. Then once more the bells clashed exultantly above the clamorous town.
The soft darkness had descended upon Santa Marta, and there was quietness again, when Appleby and Harper took their places at the banquet in the Alcalde’s house where Maccario had decided he would establish the provisional administration. The great room blazed with light, the tables were piled with such luxuries as could be found in the city, fruits and flasks of wine, and Appleby, who was seated at Maccario’s right hand, gazed with a vague interest down the long rows of faces. They were exultant, eager, inscrutable, and anxious, for the loyalist citizens had evidently considered it advisable to comply with the leader of the Sin Verguenza’s invitation.
Maccario was now dressed immaculately, and the handful of loyalists with Castilian taste and precision, but there were also men with the grime of conflict still upon their brown faces, and garments foul with smoke and dust. It seemed to Appleby that he would never again sit down with so incongruous a company. At last, when all had eaten or made a pretence of it, there was a curious stillness as Maccario stood up at the head of the table. Every eye was turned upon him, and the olive-tinted faces grew intent, for among those who watched him were men who knew that their ruin or prosperity depended upon what he had to say.
“What we have accomplished to-day will last,” he said “The flag of Spain will never float over Santa Marta again.”
There was a murmur from the Sin Verguenza, and Appleby saw the faces of one or two of the loyalists harden, while the rest grew anxious. Maccario, however, smiled as he proceeded.
“A wise man yields to the inevitable,” he said. “The Sin Verguenza hold this town, and you have seen that from here to the mountains the country has declared for liberty. Men are flocking in, and there are rifles to arm the battalions we are raising in the cuartel. War with the Americans is now certain, and there can be only one result of that war, my friends, while Santa Marta stands alone, a place of no importance to the Spanish generals, who will be too busy to trouble about what happens there. Now you comprehend the position.”
He stopped, and it was evident that none of the loyalists could controvert him, though one rose to his feet.
“It is admitted, señor,” he said gravely. “What follows?”
“That,” said Maccario, “is for you and the others to decide. Martial law that will grind those who rebel against it into the dust, or, I think, prosperity, with due submission to a provisional administration. You see before you the head of it, and, at least, there will not be anarchy while he has two or three strong battalions to do his bidding. In the meanwhile the direction of affairs will be placed in the hands of ten men. Five will be nominated by myself, and I will ask your Alcalde to summon four others when he has consulted the wishes of the citizens.”