What follows will be the final portion of the of 'Rope's End,' written by Rex Beach; the story that 'A Sainted Devil' was based on. My commentary to follow.
Rex Beach (September 1, 1877 - December 7, 1949)
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Time, it seemed, had dulled the sharp outlines of Laguerre’s memory as it had changed the younger man’s features, for he continued, unsuspectingly:
“You are the agent of Monsieur Leblanc, I believe.”
“The same.”
“Good! Now these rifles–you have them near by?”
“Within gunshot, Excellency. They are in the harbor at this moment.”
Laguerre’s face lighted. “Ha! A man of business, this Leblanc. You will fix the price, as I understand it.”
There followed a certain amount of bickering, during which the general allowed himself to be worsted. He agreed weakly to Inocencio’s terms, having already decided to appropriate the God-sent cargo without payment. The latter had counted upon this, and, moreover, he had rightfully construed the light in those bloodshot eyes.
“Monsieur le General must see these rifles for himself, to appreciate them, and he must count them, too, else how can he know that I am not deceiving him? We must observe caution, for there may be spies–” Inocencio spoke craftily.
“Pah! Spies? In Jacmel?”
“Nevertheless, there is a gunboat in the harbor and she flies the flag of the Republic. My skiff is waiting; we will slip out and back again–in an hour the inspection will be completed. You must see those rifles with your own eyes, Excellency. They are wonderful–the equal of any in the world; no troops can stand before them. They are magnificent.”
“Come!” said Laguerre, rising.
“But alone!” Inocencio displayed a worthy circumspection. “This is hazardous business. That war-ship with the flag of the Republic–my employer is a man of reputation.”
“Very well.” Laguerre dismissed an aide who had remained at a distance during the interview, and together the two set out.
“You arrived barely in time, for we march tomorrow,” said the general; “at least we march within the week. My defiance has gone forth. My country cries for her defender. There will be bloody doings, for I tell you the temper of the people is roused and they have no stomach for that tyrant at Port au Prince.”
“Bloody doings!” Inocencio smiled admiringly upon his companion. “And who could cope with them better than yourself? You have a reputation, Excellency. The name of Petithomme Laguerre is known, even in my country.”
“Indeed!” The black general’s chest swelled.
“We have heroes of our own–men who have bathed in blood defending our rights–but our soldiers are only soldiers, they are not statesmen. We are not so fortunate as Hayti. We would welcome, we would idolize such a one. Would that we had him; would that we boasted a–Petithomme Laguerre.”
The hearer was immensely gratified at this flattery and he straightened himself pompously, saying:
“But we are favored by God, we Haytians, and we have bred a race of giants. We have gained our proud position among the nations at the price of blood. Believe me, we are not ordinary men. Our soldiers are braver than lions, our armies are the admiration of the world, we have reached that level for which God created us. It requires strong hands to guide such a people. My country calls. I am her servant.”
The moon was round and brilliant as they walked out upon the rotting wharf–all wharves in Hayti are decayed–the night had grown still, and through it came the gentle whisper of the tide, mingled with the babel from the town. Land odors combined with the pungent stench of the harbor in a scent which caused Inocencio’s nostrils to quiver and memory to gnaw at him. He cast a worried look skyward, and in his ungodly soul prayed for wind, for a breeze, for a gentle zephyr which would put his vengeance in his hands.
He had dropped anchor well offshore, hence the row was long, but as they neared the Stella a breath came out of the open. It was hot, stifling, as if a furnace door had opened, and the yellow man smiled grimly into the night.
The crew were sleeping on the deck as the two came overside, but at sight of that glittering apparition of green and gold they rubbed their eyes open and stared in speechless amazement. They were reckless fellows, fit for any enterprise, but Inocencio had learned to keep a silent tongue, so they knew nothing of his present plans.
They heard him saying: “Into the cabin, Monsieur le General, if you will be so good. It is dark, yes, but there will be a light presently, and then–a sight for any soldier’s eyes! Something that will gladden the heart of any patriot!” They went below, leaving the sailors open-mouthed. “A miserable place, Excellency,” came the soft voice, “but the Cause! For Hayti one would suffer–A match, if you will be so kind. The lamp is at your hand.” The skylight glowed a faint yellow, then was brightly illuminated. “For Hayti one would endure–much.”
There followed the sound of a blow, of a heavy fall, then a loud, ferocious cry, and a subdued scuffling, during which the crew stared at one another. The giant ‘Bajan crept forward finally and was met by Inocencio, emerging from the cabin. The captain was smiling, and he carefully closed the hatch before he gave orders to make sail.
The breeze was faint, so the schooner gathered headway slowly, but as the lights of Jacmel and of the anchored gunboat faded out astern Inocencio sat upon the deck-house and drummed with his naked heels upon the cabin wall. He lit one cigarette after another, and the helmsman saw that he was laughing silently.
Dawn broke in an explosion of many colors. The sun rushed up out of the sea as if pursued; night fled, and in its place was a blistering day, full grown. The breeze had died, however, and the Stella wallowed in a glassy calm, her sails slatting, her booms creaking, her gear complaining to the drunken roll. The slow swells heeled her first to one side, then to the other, the decks grew burning hot; no faintest ripple stirred the undulating surface of the Caribbean. Afar, the Haytian hills wavered and danced through a veil of heat. The slender topmast described long measured arcs across the sky, like a schoolmaster’s pointer; from its peak the halyards whipped and bellied.
“Captain!” The ‘Bajan waited for recognition. “Captain!” Inocencio looked up finally. “There–toward Jacmel–there is smoke. See! We have been watching it.”
The mulatto nodded.
“The smoke of a ship.”
“Ah! A ship!” Inocencio smiled and the negro recoiled suddenly.
All night long the master of the Stella had sat upon the deck-house, staring at the sea and smoking. At times he had laughed and whispered to someone whom the helmsman could not see, but this was the first time he had smiled at any member of his crew.
In fact, it was the first time the sailor had ever seen him smile. The ‘Bajan withdrew and went forward to consult with his fellows. They eyed their employer curiously, fearfully, for much had happened to alarm them, not the least of which had been a furious commotion from below.
Frightful curses had issued from the cabin, threats which had caused their limbs to tremble, but they had affected the captain like soothing music. It was very strange. It caused the sailors to look with concern upon that thin, low streamer in the distance; it led them to go aft in a body finally and speak their minds.
“The smoke is growing larger,” they declared, and Inocencio roused himself sufficiently to look. “It is the war-ship. We are pursued. Who is this big man below?”
“He is a–friend of mine, Petithomme Laguerre–“
“Laguerre!”
“What did I tell you?” exclaimed the ‘Bajan, breathlessly.
“What shall we do?” one of them inquired in a panic. “That smoke! The wind has forsaken us.” He shuffled his bare feet uncomfortably. “We will be shot for this.”
Inocencio tossed away his cigarette and rose; he lifted his eyes aloft. The slim topmast arrested his attention as it swept across the sky, and he watched it for a moment; then to the giant sailor he said: “You will find a new rope forward. Make it fast to the end of this halyard and run it through yonder block.” He slid back the hatch and descended leisurely into the cabin.
Laguerre was sitting in a chair with his arms and legs securely bound, but he had succeeded in working considerable havoc with the furnishings of the place as well as with his splendid uniform. His lips foamed, his eyes protruded at sight of his captor; a trickle of blood from his scalp lent him a ferocious appearance.
Inocencio seated himself, and the two men stared at each other across the bare table.
Laguerre spoke first, his tongue thick, his voice hoarse from yelling. Inocencio listened with fixed, unwavering gaze.
“You tricked me neatly,” the former raved. “You are a government spy, I presume. The government feared me. Well, then, it was bold work, but you will listen to what I say now. We will settle this matter quickly, you and I. I have money. You can name your price.”
The hearer curled his thin lips. “So! You have money. You offer to buy your life. Old Julien had no money; he was poor.”
Petithomme did not understand. “I am too powerful to remain in prison,” he declared. “The President would not dare harm me; no man dares harm me; but I am willing to pay you–“
“All Hayti could not buy your life, Laguerre!”
Some tone of voice, some haunting familiarity of feature, set the prisoner’s memory to groping blindly. At last he inquired, “Who are you?”
“I am Floréal.”
The name meant nothing. Laguerre’s life was black; many Floréals had figured in it.
“You do not remember me?”
“N-no, and yet–“
"0r perhaps you will remember another–a woman. She had a scar, just here.” The speaker laid a tobacco-stained finger upon his left cheek-bone, and Laguerre noticed for the first time that the wrist beneath it was maimed as from a burn.
“It was a little scar and it was brown, in the candle-light. She was young and round and her
body was soft–”
The mulatto’s lean face was suddenly distorted in a horrible grimace which he intended for a smile. “She was my wife, Laguerre, by the Church, and you took her. She died, but she had a child–your child.”
The huge black figure shrank into its green-and-gold panoply, the bloodshot eyes rested upon Inocencio with a look of terrified recognition.
“I have no children, Laguerre; no wife; no home! I am poor and you have become great. There was an old man whom you stretched by the wrists, in the moonlight. Do you remember him? And the old woman, my mother, whom one of your soldiers shot?
Maximilien did it, but I killed him and Congo! And now there is only you.”
“That was–long ago.” The prisoner rolled his eyes desperately; his voice was uncertain as he whined, “I am rich–richer than anybody knows.”
“Others had more money than we, eh?”
The general nodded.
“Pierrine is dead, and you would have been the President. It is well that I came in time.”
Again Captain Ruiz smiled, and the corpulent soldier was shaken loosely as by an invisible hand. “Come now! Your friends are approaching and I must prepare you to greet them.”
He untied the knots at Laguerre’s ankles, then motioned him toward the cabin door.
That streamer of smoke had grown; it was a black smudge against the sky when the two gained the deck, and at sight of it the general shouted:
“My ship! The gunboat! Ho! If harm comes to me–“
Inocencio took one end of the new rope which had been run through the block at the masthead, and knotted it about his prisoner’s wrists, then with his knife he severed the other bonds.
“Give way!” he ordered.
The crew held back, at which he turned upon them so savagely that they hastened to obey. They put their weight upon the line; Laguerre’s arms were whisked above his head, he felt his feet leave the deck. He was dumb with surprise, choked with rage at this indignity, but he did not understand its significance.
“Up with him! In a rush!” cried the captain, and hand over hand the sailors hauled in, while upward in a series of jerks went Petithomme Laguerre. The schooner listed and he swung outward; he tried to entwine his legs in the shrouds, but failed, and he continued to rise until his feet had cleared the crosstree.
“Make fast!” Inocencio ordered.
Laguerre was hanging like a huge plumbob now, and as the schooner heeled to starboard he swung out, farther and farther, until there was nothing beneath him but the glassy sea. He screamed at this, and kicked and capered; the slender topmast sprung to his antics. Then the vessel righted herself, and as she did so the man at the rope’s end began a swift and fearful journey. Not until that instant did his fate become apparent to him, but when he saw what was in store for him he ceased to cry out. He fixed his eyes upon the mast toward which the weight of his body propelled him, he drew himself upward by his arms, he flung out his legs to break the impact. The Stella lifted by the bow and he cleared the spar by a few inches. Onward he rushed, to the pause that marked the limit of his flight to port, then slowly, but with increasing swiftness, he began his return journey. Again he resisted furiously and again his body missed the mast, all but one shoulder, which brushed lightly in passing and served to spin him like a top. The measured slowness of that oscillation added to its horror; with every escape the victim’s strength decreased, his fear grew, and the end approached. It was a game of chance played by the hand of the sea. Under him the deck appeared and disappeared at regular intervals, the rope cut into his wrists, the slim spar sprung to his efforts. In the distance was a charcoal smear which grew blacker.
After a time Laguerre heard Inocencio counting, and saw his upturned face.
“Ha! Very close, Monsieur le General, but we will try once again. Ship’s timber is not so hard as cocomacaque, but sufficiently hard, nevertheless. And the rope bites, eh? But there was old Julien–What? Again? You were always lucky. His flesh was cold and his bones brittle, yet he did not kick like you. If Pierrine were here to see this! What a sight–the liberator of his country–God’s blood, Laguerre! The sea is with you! That makes five times. But you are tiring, I see. What a sight for her–the hero of a hundred battles dangling like a strangled parrot. It is not so hard to die, monsieur, it–Ah-h!”
A cry of horror arose from the crew who had gathered forward, for Petithomme Laguerre, dizzied with spinning, had finally fetched up with a crash against the mast. He ricocheted, the swing of the pendulum became irregular for a time or two, then the roll of the vessel set it going again. Time after time he missed destruction by a hair’s-breadth, while the voice from below gibed at him, then once more there came the sound of a blow, dull, yet loud, and of a character to make the hearers shudder. The victim struggled less violently; he no longer drew his weight upward like a gymnast. But he was a man of great vitality; his bones were heavy and thickly padded with flesh, therefore they broke one by one, and death came to him slowly. The sea played with him maliciously, saving him repeatedly, only to thresh him the harder when it had tired of its sport. It was a long time before the restless Caribbean had reduced him to pulp, a spineless, boneless thing of putty which danced to the spring of the resilient spruce.
They let him down finally and slid him into the oily waters, overside, but the breeze refused to come and the Stella continued to wallow drunkenly. The sky was glittering, the pitch was oozing from the deck, in the distance the Haytian mountains scowled through the shimmer.
Inocencio turned toward the approaching gunboat, which was very close by now, a rusty, ill-painted, ill-manned tub. Her blunt nose broke the swells into foam, from her peak depended the banner of the Black Republic, symbolic of the motto, “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity.” The captain of the Stella rolled and lit a cigarette, then seated himself upon the cabin roof to wait. And as he waited he drummed with his naked heels and smiled, for he was satisfied.
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It seems to me that it is not difficult to understand why Rudy and Natacha felt this would be a perfect story for Rudy to film. It had all the elements that made for a great chance for Rudy to show his many talents.
Rudy would have embodied Floréal wonderfully -- not only did he have 'IT,' but he possessed the 'S' factor -- he was sexy, sensuous, smoldering and swarthy. He could have definitely handled the physicality the role demanded, and I think we can all see Walter Long as his enemy!
However, the studios wanted to steer away from anything to do with war, because they simply felt that society was not primed for a war story. Oh, but for Rudy, they would have gone there. Probably much quicker than they did for the sad film that 'A Sainted Devil' turned out to be, it was just a rehash of the ongoing Latin Lover.
Forrest Halsey, who wrote the screen-play for this, totally and utterly destroyed this story. It held no semblance whatsoever to Rex Beach's idealism and the lovely darkness which taught a lesson in so many ways. But Halsey did his job ... he destroyed the story that Natacha had approved, even further alienating her from Rudy, as it turned out in the end.
Forrest Halsey (November 9, 1877 - September 30, 1949)
The story of 'A Sainted Devil,' what little we know of it, is nothing like 'Rope's End.' Not even remotely.
I hope that someone is reading this little story as it has been presented to you here. I hope so, because I feel it is a really, really good piece of work, not something we see much of these days. This is a real, admittedly fictional story; by a real author ... Rex Beach.
During future blog posts, I plan to go over all of Rudy's films,. Not in order, and not all at once. Just whenever I feel like it. This is not a Rudy-blog, but I do enjoy blogging about his work once in a while. I will try to present them in a unique way, as I did 'A Sainted Devil.' Sometimes it helps to compare the books the movies were inspired by, if such books exist.
Darkmum
THANK YOU FOR READING MY BLOG! I ALWAYS WELCOME NEW READERS!
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