“The commandant of the ward wishes me to say that during these disturbances, in the state of martial law in which we live, foreigners not vouched for by the municipalities in which they sojourn are required to repair on board the ships of the nations to which they belong, or to such other ships as will receive them. Which of you have carnets signed by your municipal authorities?”
None had any such papers.
“None?” the prim-lipped man said. “Very well, then, you will repair on board the ships of your respective nations. A guard will take you from here to the Mole, where boats are now engaged in taking those qualified to go. I will give you here this paper to sign, opposite to your names.”
When all had signed their names, the commandant called an officer, to whom he gave charge to embark the eight at the Mole. The officer called them out to the plaza below the church steps, where troops were halted. Some of the soldiers stood in groups of four facing a blank wall where a flare was burning.
“Firing parties,” someone said. “Some poor devils in the church are for it.”
Hi, looking back, saw the white columns of the portico, with the yellowness of candlelight inside the door, and the blackness of Pluma Verde standing like a death. A squad of troops formed about the eight: the officer gave the order to march. One of the eight began to hum a Dead March.
“We are well out of that,” someone said. “They’ll clear most of that bunch up against the wall.”
“These darned foreigners: why can’t they agree? They’re like a lot of children.”
“Children? They’re like a lot of savages.”
“Well, we come out at the thin end of the horn, whatever they are. We’ll not get ashore again till Lord knows.”