“Here is my verdict, Graydon: Trial by general court-martial, or your resignation for the good of the service. I may have no right to offer you that alternative, but your record merits it. With all my heart I wish that you may be able to disprove these damnable charges. I will give you a fortnight and the assistance of any officer you may name.”
His fine old face was twitching, and his voice a bit shaky.
The fortnight had expired, a space of veritable exile. At its end the net of circumstantial evidence had tightened slowly and inexorably. He had dully accepted the alternative of resignation, for he had to find sanctuary for a while, some place where he would have time to think more clearly. But the thought rankled in his mind that his choice would be construed as a tacit admission of his guilt.
It was the admiral himself who had suggested Santander as a temporary anchorage in which he might have time to plan his course. Santander was in the vicinity, and its rich coffee and sugar plantations and its forests of hardwoods might lead to some business opening, while he fought for vindication.
The schooner tied up alongside the wharf at Santander, with disorderly tumult. Its very antithesis of the orderly man-of-war discipline that was steeped in his blood brought a wry smile to his lips. He made his way to the Hotel Grande Centrale, a rambling white hostelry facing the Plaza Concepcion.
The inevitable statue of a general, with cocked hat and brandished sword, astride of a fiery rocking-horse, dominated the sleepy plaza. At its sight Stanley Graydon’s native optimism was beating back to full tide. He raised his hat in mock salute.
“Greetings, old-timer!” he said softly. “I knew you when you were masquerading as Dessalines, in the Champ de Mars, at Port-au-Prince. I ran across your bows in Caracas, as Simon Bolivar. The day we hit the beach in Guatemala last March, you were holding the spotlight of a dusty old square as Carrera. Some day I’ll set up a little banana republic of my own. Then I’ll write out a treasury warrant for the price of ‘One (1) statue, imitation bronze. Model AA, Series 2408,’ and the big mail-order house in Chicago will ship me your twin brother. Wait until I get into the café, my dear general, and I’ll drink your health.”
A barefooted waiter placed a green “swizzle” on his marble-topped table. As he raised it to his lips, he was aware that a group of officers at a near-by table was watching him with undisguised interest. One was a swaggering, swarthy giant of a man, with a sweeping black mustache and the rank devices of a colonel on his shoulders and cuffs. The others were, with one exception, conventional tyes of Central American soldiery. The exception was a youngster, barely out of his teens, but with a captain’s devices on the freshly starched khaki, with its red piping. His face was oval, and his features were clearly cut. Stanley Graydon appraised him as far superior in birth and breeding to his mates.
The swarthy colonel returned his casual glance with an ill-favored scowl. He turned to the others, and a ripple of laughter swept over them at his remark. It was clear to Stanley Graydon that they were in the mood for sport with a gringo. He paid his score, and, as he passed their table, a roar of derisive, raucous laughter followed.
“Damned ‘spigs!’” he muttered contemptuously. “Probably had as much as two drinks, and feeling them.”