Possessing all the pride of a full-blooded man, I resented the calm assertion that I had been ensnared by a flirt, and a somewhat acrimonious argument followed, but, in looking back at it now, I am willing to admit that probably my friend was right about it. Perhaps Ialla was not, after all, the perfect woman that, under the magic spell of her marvellous beauty, I imagined her to be, and possibly if I had not surrendered so suddenly to her charms Arabi Pasha might have been freed and Egypt might now be an Empire. Whether or not that is true, I have no regrets on the subject, except that I never saw Ialla again. My moonlight meetings with her were, at least, a diversion, and they gave me great enjoyment while they lasted.

Though it went against the grain I was compelled to admit that my friend’s advice was the best I could get, and I reluctantly followed it. Feeling that for once my destiny had played it a bit low down on me I crossed the Mediterranean and took a French liner for New York. I had spent four months and much money in studying the Sphinx, but I did not count them as lost. Ialla’s loveliness was in my mind for a long time and while it remained I cherished the hope that I would be recalled to carry out the plan for the rescue of her uncle, but the summons never came. Eleven years later Arabi was pardoned and returned to Egypt, but his influence among his own people was gone; the fact that he had accepted a pardon implied, to their astute minds, a secret agreement with their enemies and caused him to be regarded as a tool of the British. But, as very recent events have demonstrated, the fires of freedom are still burning, and now and again signal smoke is seen rising over India.

CHAPTER XIV
RAPID-FIRE REVOLTS

THE friendliness of Fate, in throwing me in the way of adventures which were beyond my discernment, was never more plainly evidenced than on my return to New York from Australia and Egypt in 1890. On the trip across the Atlantic my mind had wandered away from the West Indies and I experienced an increasing desire to return to South America, but one of the first things I heard on my arrival was that my old friend Guzman Blanco had finally been shorn of his supreme power in Venezuela only a few months before. He had been betrayed by his friends, after the established fashion of that captivating country, and Dr. Anduesa Palacio, one of his enemies of years, had been made President with the approval and assistance of Dr. Rojas Paul, the dummy whom Guzman had left as titular head of the government while he was revelling in Paris, his foreign capital. This discouraged me for a time in my half-formed plan to return to my Southern stamping ground, and as I had plenty of money and was not averse to a rest, I concluded to wait around, Micawber like, for something to turn up. But it was not long until a silent voice began calling me to South America; softly, at first, and then so loudly that it came as a command. I had heard the same sort of an order before, and only very recently, and was not disposed to disregard it. I felt sure it would not lead me into disappointment twice in succession.

Without knowing where or how the cruise would end, but confident it would lead to trouble—though I did not imagine how much of it there really would be or how unpleasant it would prove—I bought the “Alice Ada,” a brigantine of three hundred tons, laid her on with Thos. Norton & Sons, and got a general cargo for Rosario, Brazil, on the River Parava. From Rosario I went one hundred miles up the river to St. Stephens and took on a cargo of wheat for Rio Janiero. As soon as I had looked around a little in Rio, while the cargo was being unloaded, I understood why I had gone there, for my expectant eye distinguished signs of a nice little revolution which was just being shaped up. These indications, though somewhat vague to even an experienced new arrival, were so encouraging in their promise of exciting events that I sold my ship and took quarters at the Hotel Freitas to watch developments. I had not long to wait before the young republic celebrated its first revolution, but it was accomplished in such a disgracefully quiet way, and in such marked contrast with that sort of proceeding in Venezuela, and in Central America and the West Indies, that I was thoroughly disgusted with the country and was tempted to move on again into new fields. A land in which the government is changed by the force of public sentiment alone, and without the booming of cannon and the bursting of bombs, has no charm for me.

When the last Emperor of Brazil, Dom Pedro II, was dragged out of bed at night and deported without the firing of a shot, in the “Peaceful Revolution” of November 15, 1889, Deodoro da Fonseca was made President by the lovers of liberty and equality, which purely imaginary conditions of life never will be found in any country. Before his weakness had become apparent he was made Constitutional President and Floriano Peixotto was elected Vice-President. Deodoro had neither the firmness nor the initiative that the situation demanded. His policy was weak and vacillating and his popularity waned rapidly. The revolution which was in the process of formation when I arrived on the scene was, I discovered, being quietly fomented by Floriano, the Vice-President. He soon had the army at his back and, as the people were beginning to clamor for him, it was an easy matter to gain the support of Admiral Mello, the ranking officer of the Brazilian Navy, and Admiral Soldanha da Gama, commandant of the naval academy. They brought matters to a head on the morning of November 23, 1891. Mello took up a position at the foot of the main street of Rio in the cruiser “Riachuelo,” the finest ship in the navy, trained his guns on the palace of Itumary, and sent word to Deodoro that he would open fire on him in two hours if he did not abdicate in favor of Floriano. Deodoro abdicated in two minutes, and dropped dead soon afterward from heart disease, and Floriano was proclaimed President.

Before he had time to get his new chair well warmed he had a row with Mello, and as soon as I heard of it I foresaw another revolution, which pleasing prospect prompted me to remain in Brazil, for I did not believe it could possibly prove as uninteresting as those that had preceded it. Mello regarded himself as the President-maker and considered that he was rightfully entitled to be the power behind the throne. However, Floriano was not at all constituted for the role of a mere figurehead and he made it plain to Mello that while he might make courteous suggestions and even give friendly advice, he could not go an inch beyond that. Floriano was really a remarkable man. He was perhaps one-half Indian and the rest corrupted Portuguese; sixty years old, with clear, brown eyes and iron gray hair and whiskers. A strong, fine character he was; perfectly fearless, absolutely honest and devoted to his country, whose interests he greatly advanced. He was proud of his Indian blood, which he made a synonyme for courage and fairness, and often referred to it. He was the best President I have ever known, not excepting even the great Guzman.

Mello was a younger man and more of a Spaniard in his blood and his characteristics. He had considerable bravery, of the kind that is best displayed in the presence of a large audience, but he was impetuous and at times foolish. He was abnormally ambitious and believed in a rule or ruin policy. At that, he was more a man after my own heart, for he stood for revolt and anarchy, while Floriano stood for law and order. Soldanha da Gama, the third figure in the drama, was a strange mixture of naval ability, cowardice, and theatrical bravery.

When Floriano refused to be dictated to or even influenced in his views as to what was best for Brazil, Mello proceeded to plot against him with even more earnestness than he had displayed in the plans to overthrow Deodoro. He worked chiefly among the naval officers, the aristocrats, the adherents of Dom Pedro, and the Catholic clergy, and in the end they all became his allies. He was unable to shake the army, though he tried repeatedly to create dissatisfaction among the troops, and the influence of the priests was minimized by the fact that the people generally were blindly in love with the new scheme of self-government, which sounded well and appealed strongly to their sentimental natures, and were loyal to Floriano.

As Mello’s plot shaped up I began to suspect that his real purpose was to restore Dom Pedro to the throne and make himself the power behind it. Mello cared nothing for titles; it was his ambition to be the dictator of Brazil, with power as absolute as that which Guzman Blanco had exercised for many years in Venezuela. It was natural for him to suppose that if he reëstablished the Empire under its old ruler, Dom Pedro would be so grateful to him, and to him alone, that he would be thoroughly subservient to his influence. Later events confirmed me not only in the belief that this was what was in Mello’s mind, but that he had an understanding with Dom Pedro and, through him, with several European rulers, who were keenly anxious to see the “divine right of kings” perpetuated in South America. Mello considered that the dictator to an Emperor would have more power than the dictator to a President, and he may have even dreamed that he would some day take the throne himself and establish a new dynasty. Dom Pedro had issued a protest against his deposition as soon as he reached Europe, in which all the princes of Coburg joined, and was conducting an active campaign for his restoration. It is interesting to note, in passing, that there is still a pretender to the throne of Brazil. When Dom Pedro died he left his lost crown to Donna Isabella, wife of Count D’Eu, a Bourbon prince. She passed it over to her eldest son, Peter, when he became of age, and only recently he transferred all of his shadowy rights and prerogatives to his younger brother, Louis, who now considers himself the rightful ruler of Brazil. The Old World has a way of keeping up pretenderships that is almost as ridiculous as some of the revolutions of the New World.