CHAPTER XLI.A BOLD ATTEMPT.
About fifteen minutes after the gray steam launch containing Virginia, Reyes, and Gale had left the battleship, another of theKearsarge’shooded fifty-footers darted away from the starboard gangway apparently, from the course she took, bound for the landing at Puerto Cabero. But after this little craft had gone far enough away to be out of sight of the battleship, it suddenly changed its course, and, making a wide detour, sped toward the fortress of El Torro.
Presently the lone sentry, pacing the narrow strip of land in front of that ugly gray building, brought his rifle smartly down from his shoulder as the boat reached the beach and a tall figure stepped ashore.
“Halt! Who goes there?” the picket demanded. But without waiting for an answer he abandoned his menacing attitude and respectfully presented arms. For, although it was dark, he was able to discern that the man who had stepped ashore from the battleship’s launch wore the uniform of a captain of the army of Baracoa, and that his eyes were screened by a pair of familiar blue spectacles. The newcomer stiffly acknowledged the salute, then turned to shake hands with the natty young American naval officer in charge of the launch’s crew. “Well, good-by, Captain Reyes,” the sentry heard the naval officer say, addressing the bespectacled man in Spanish. “Sorry that you areobliged to leave us before the fun is all over. I trust we shall meet again soon.”
The launch started back toward the battleship, whose gayly illuminated outline the sentry had been gazing at wistfully all night, wishing that he wore epaulets so that he, too, might be wining and dining instead of doing wearisome picket duty; but after the little boat had gone a short way it stopped, as though something might be the matter with its machinery.
The sentry might have paid more attention to this maneuver if the bespectacled man in the captain’s uniform had not at that moment addressed him.
“You can go,” the latter announced. “You are relieved. I will take your place.”
The words, which were in Spanish, were spoken with a thickness which, in the picket’s opinion, seemed to account for the unusualness of the incident. He observed, too, that the other swayed as he spoke. By which token he deduced that the supply of champagne aboard the battleship had been plentiful.
As the sentry hesitated, the man with the epaulets turned upon him fiercely. “What are you waiting for?” he demanded. “Do you not understand? You are relieved.” His utterance had grown even thicker than before, and his voice did not sound much like that of Captain Reyes, but, considering his condition, the soldier saw nothing strange about that. Promptly the latter once more presented arms. Tipsy or sober, the man in the blue spectacles was his superior officer, and it was not for a common soldier to question his orders.
Watching this scene from the launch, Lieutenant Ridder exhaled a deep breath of relief as he saw the sentry walk away and disappear within the fortress. “He got away with it, all right,” he muttered joyously. “But,” he added grimly, “the worst is yet to come.”
The next five minutes were the most anxious ones that Ridder had ever passed through in all his life. As he sat, with his hands gripping the wheel of the launch, straining his eyes in an effort to see what was going on ashore, his teeth were clenched and his heart was pounding against his ribs.
The man in the blue spectacles had disappeared behind a row of tall bushes in front of the fortress. Presently—it seemed like ages to the anxious naval officer—there came from behind this foliage a flash of light and a dull boom like an explosion of wet powder.
Ridder gave vent to an ejaculation of joy. “By Jove, he’s done it!” he muttered. “Good old Hawley!” As he saw a slim figure dart out from behind the bushes and approach the water’s edge, he gave the wheel in his hand a swift turn and sent the launch dashing toward the beach.
But short as was the distance the boat had to cover to reach his comrade, he was too late. Led by a stout man in civilian garb, a swarm of soldiers had rushed out of the fortress and seized the Camera Chap just as the latter, perceiving that the launch would not get to him in time, was about to throw himself into the water.
“What have we here?” exclaimed the corpulent personin civilian garb, savagely tearing the blue spectacles from the prisoner’s face. Then, as he recognized Hawley, he uttered an exclamation of mingled astonishment and joy.
“Ah, I perceive it is our brave and ingenious Yankee snapshotter!” he sneered. “So you have come back to Baracoa, señor! Permit me to compliment you upon the brilliancy of your latest exploit, and to condole with you that such a brave and clever attempt should have met with such poor success. We——”
He did not finish the sentence, for at that moment Lieutenant Ridder with the three sailors of the launch at his heels, rushed up to the group.
“Let this man go!” the naval officer bellowed, brandishing a revolver. “He’s an American citizen, and you daren’t touch him.”
The fat man laughed ironically. “You appear to have an extremely vague idea of international law, my impetuous friend,” he remarked; “surprisingly vague, in view of the uniform you wear. I should advise you, señor, to go back to your ship, and to congratulate yourself that you, too, are not placed under arrest. Unless you depart immediately, the consequences are liable to be serious for both yourself and your country.”
“For my country!” Ridder began derisively. “Why, you chump——”
“Hold on, there, old man!” Hawley broke in, smiling at his friend’s recklessness. “You’d better do as he says, and go back to the ship. You can’t do any good, and, if you attempt to interfere, you may indeed causeinternational complications. Especially,” he added, with a chuckle, “if you are guilty of such a grave breach of decorum as to call his excellency, the President of Baracoa, a chump.”
Ridder gave a start of surprise. Until that moment, the identity of the stout man in civilian attire had not been known to him. With the instinctive respect which his training as a naval officer caused him to feel for the head of a sister republic, no matter what he might think of the man personally, for a moment he was abashed at what he had done. But a second later he was guilty of a still greater breach of decorum.
Stepping up to Portiforo, before anybody could realize what he was about to do, he pressed the muzzle of his revolver against that startled dignitary’s “corporation.” “So this is the president!” he cried, with a triumphant laugh. “Well, so much the better! We may be outnumbered, but I guess we hold the trump card. Get into the boat, Frank, old man, and beat it back to the ship. These fellows can’t stop you.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” the president gasped, his bloated face turning pale. “Do you realize, señor, that this is the greatest outrage in all history?”
Lieutenant Ridder, of the United States navy, did realize that. He was aware that his mad act was likely to “raise the deuce at Washington,” cause a howl of protest to go up from every nation on the globe, and possibly bring on an international trouble. He had every reason to believe, too, that even if he managed to escape Portiforo’s vengeance—which contingencywas extremely doubtful—he was going to be put out of the service for acting in a manner unbecoming an officer and a gentleman. But, just the same, he kept the muzzle of his revolver pressed against the stomach of the chief gentleman of Baracoa. For he was not Lieutenant Ridder, of the United States navy at that moment. He was plain John Ridder, of New York City, who had once had the life almost kicked out of him by a gang of toughs in New York’s Chinatown, and who, ever since then, had been yearning for an opportunity to pay his debt to the plucky young man who had saved him from that fate. Possibly his actions were influenced also by the consideration that while the person whom he was threatening was the ruler of a friendly nation, he was also a tyrant and a usurper, and that his rascality might be revealed to the world if only Hawley could get away with the photographic proof of the dastardly conspiracy.
“I assure you, Mr. Portiforo, that I do mean exactly what I say,” he said quietly. “You had better instruct your soldiers to let go of my friend and permit him to enter the launch, for as sure as there are bullets in this gun—and I hope, for your sake, you have no doubts on that score—if they attempt to stop him there’s going to be an immediate change of administration in Baracoa.”
Desperate as was his act, it might have succeeded, for the soldiers who held the Camera Chap captive, appreciating the peril of their president, looked to the latter irresolutely for instructions, and Portiforo,realizing that, temporarily, at least, this rash young man with the bulldog jaw held, as he had boasted, the trump card, was about to give orders to his soldiers to do as Ridder demanded. But just at that moment, the naval officer’s arms were pinned to his sides, and his right wrist was grasped so tightly that the revolver fell to the ground.
A second launch from the battleship had landed quietly at the fortress, and two men, disembarking therefrom, had run along the beach toward the group. It was one of these men who, taking in the situation, had crept up stealthily behind Ridder and taken him by surprise.
As the lieutenant struggled in the grasp of his assailant and a half dozen of the soldiers who went to the latter’s assistance, Portiforo’s face resumed its normal hue, and he expressed his relief by a hearty chuckle.
“Well done, Captain Reyes!” he cried approvingly. “Splendid work, my brave Ernesto!”