GENERAL CALIXTO GARCIA.
My first view of General Calixto Garcia was a disappointing one. For some reason, probably from the reports I had heard concerning his bravery, I had expected to see a man of great proportions and commanding aspect. Instead, I saw an elderly gentleman of fair figure, with mild eyes and almost white mustache and beard, the latter trimmed close. But the eyes, though mild, were searching, and as he turned them upon me I felt he was reading me through and through.
He was evidently surprised to see a boy, and an American at that. He spoke but little English, but an interpreter was close at hand, who immediately demanded to know who I was, where I had come from, and what I wanted.
“My name is Mark Carter, and I have journeyed all the way from Santiago de Cuba,” I replied. “I heard that my father and his friend, Señor Guerez, had joined General Garcia’s forces.”
“You are Señor Carter’s son!” exclaimed theCuban officer, and turned quickly to General Garcia. The two conversed for several minutes, and then the under-officer turned again to me.
“General Garcia bids you welcome,” he said, and at the same time the great Cuban leader smiled and extended his hand, which I found as hard and horny as that of any tiller of the soil. “He knows your father and Señor Guerez well.”
“And where are they now?” I asked quickly.
“They were with the army two days ago, but both went off to escort the ladies of Señor Guerez' family to a place of safety. The señor was going to take his wife and daughters to an old convent up a river some miles from here.”
This was rather disheartening news, yet I had to be content. I asked if my father was well.
“Very well, although hardly able to walk, on account of a leg he broke some time ago.”
“And have you seen Alano Guerez? He is about my own age, and was with me up to this morning,” I went on, and briefly related my adventures on the road, to which the officer listened with much interest.
“We have seen nothing of him,” was the reply I received. “But he may be somewhere around here.”
The officer wished to know about the Spanish detachment we had met, and I told him all Iknew, which was not much, as I had not understood the Spanish spoken and Alano had not interpreted it for me. But even the little I had to say seemed to be highly important, and the officer immediately reported the condition of affairs to General Garcia.
By this time some of the soldiers who had taken part in the fight at the foot of the plateau came back, bringing with them several wounded men, including the negro whose wound I had bound up. The disabled ones were placed in a temporary hospital, which already sheltered a dozen others, and General Garcia rode off with his horsemen, leaving the foot soldiers to spread out along the southeastern slope of the mountain.
Left to myself, I hardly knew what to do. A black, who could speak a few words of “Englis',” told me I could go where I wanted, but must look out for a shot from the enemy; and I wandered over to the hospital and to the side of the fellow I had formerly assisted.
The hospital, so called, consisted of nothing more than a square of canvas stretched over the tops of a number of stunted trees. From one tree to another hammocks, made of native grass, were slung, and in these, and on piles of brush on the ground, rested the wounded ones. Only one regular doctor was in attendance, and as hissurgical skill and instruments were both limited, the sufferings of the poor fellows were indeed great.
“Him brudder me—you help him,” said the black who spoke “Englis',” as he pointed to the fellow whose wound I had dressed. “Jorge Nullus no forget you—verra good you.”
“Is your name Jorge Nullus?”
“Yeas, señor—him brudder Christoval.”
“Where did you learn English?”
“Me in Florida once—dree year ago—stay seex months—no like him there—too hard work,” and Jorge Nullus shrugged his shoulders. “You verra nice leetle man, señor,” and he smiled broadly at his open compliment.
“Do you know Señor Guerez?” I questioned quickly.
“Me hear of him—dat’s all.”
“Do you know where the old convent on the river is?” I continued.
The Cuban nodded. “Yeas—been dare many times—bring 'taters, onions, to Father Anuncio.”
“Could you take me there—if General Garcia would let you go?”
“Yeas, señor. But Spaniards all around—maybe shoot—bang!—dead,” and he pointed to his wounded brother. The brother demanded to know what we were talking about, and the two conversed for several minutes. Then Jorge turned again to me.
“GENERAL GARCIA, THE GALLANT SOLDIER WHO HAD FOUGHT SO HARD IN THE CAUSE OF CUBAN LIBERTY.”
“GENERAL GARCIA, THE GALLANT SOLDIER WHO HAD FOUGHT SO HARD IN THE CAUSE OF CUBAN LIBERTY.”
“Christoval say me take you; you verra good leetle man, señor. We go now, you say go.”
“Will you be allowed to go?”
“Yeas—General Garcia no stop me—he know me all right,” and the negro grinned and showed his teeth.
I was tempted to start at once, but decided to wait until morning, in the hope of finding Alano. In spite of the fact that I knew my chum would be doubly cautious, now we were separated, I felt decidedly anxious about him. The Spanish troops were on every side, and the soldiers would not hesitate to shoot him down should they learn who he was.
The night passed in comparative quietness. Toward morning we heard distant firing to the northwest, and at five o’clock a messenger dashed into camp with the order to move on to the next mountain, a distance of two miles. Through Jorge I learned that the Spaniards had been outwitted and driven back to the place from whence they had come.
There now seemed nothing for me to do but to push on to the convent on the river, in the hope of there joining my father. We were, so I was told, but a few miles from Guantanamo,but the route to the convent would not take us near the town.
Jorge’s brother felt much better, so the negro went off with a light heart, especially after I had made it plain to him that my father would reward him for any trouble he took on my account. I told him about Alano, and before leaving camp we walked around among the sentries in the hope of gaining some information concerning him. But it was all useless.
“Maybe he went on to Father Anuncio’s,” said my negro guide, and this gave me a grain of comfort.
The soldiers and Jorge and myself left the camp at about the same time, but we did not take the same road, and soon my guide and I found ourselves on a lonely mountain trail overlooking a valley thick with brush and trees. The sun shone brightly, but the air was clear and there was a fine breeze blowing, and this made it much cooler than it would otherwise have been.
I missed the horse, and wondered if Alano still had the animal he had captured. It might be possible he had ridden straight on to Guantanamo, and was now bound from there up the river. If that was so, we might meet on the river road.
“Werry bad road now,” said Jorge, as wecame to a halt on the mountain side. “Be careful how you step, Señor Mark.”
He pointed ahead, to where a narrow trail led around a sharp turn. Here the way was rocky and sloped dangerously toward the valley. He went on ahead, and I followed close at his heels.
“No horse come dis way,” observed Jorge, as he came to another turn. “Give me your hand—dis way. Now den, jump!”
We had reached a spot where a tiny mountain stream had washed away a portion of the trail. I took his hand, and we prepared to take the leap.
Just then the near-by crack of a rifle rang out on the morning air. Whether or not the shot was intended for us I cannot say, but the sound startled me greatly and I stumbled and fell. Jorge tried to grab me, but failed, and down I shot head first into the trees and bushes growing twenty feet below the trail!
A PRISONER OF WAR.
By instinct more than reason, I put out both hands as I fell, and this movement saved me from a severe blow on the head. My hands crashed through the branches of a tree, bumped up against the trunk, and then I bounced off into the midst of a clump of brush and wild peppers.
“Hi, yah!” I heard Jorge cry out, but from my present position I could not see him. “Is you killed?” he went on.
“No, but I’m pretty well shook up and scratched up,” I answered.
“Take care—somebody shoot,” he went on.
I concluded I was pretty well out of sight, and I kept quiet and tried to get back the breath which had been completely knocked out of me. A few minutes later I heard a crashing through the brush, and my guide stood beside me.
“Lucky you no killed,” he observed. “Bad spot dat.”
He searched around and soon found a hollow containing some water, with which I bathed the scratches on my face and hands. In the meantimehe gazed around anxiously in the direction from which he imagined the shot had come.
“Maybe no shoot at us,” he said, quarter of an hour later. “Me find out.”
With his ever-ready machete he cut down a young tree and trimmed the top branches off, leaving the stumps sticking out about six inches on every side. On the top of the tree he stuck his hat, and then, having no coat, asked me for mine, which he buttoned about the tree a short distance under the hat, placing a fluttering handkerchief between the two.
With this rude dummy, or scarecrow, he crawled up the side of the gully until almost on a level with the trail. Then he hoisted the figure up cautiously and moved it forward.
No shot was fired, and after waiting a bit Jorge grew bolder and climbed up to the trail himself. Here he spent a long time in viewing the surroundings, and finally called to me.
“Him no shoot at us. Maybe only hunter. Come up.”
Not without some misgivings, I followed directions. To gain the trail again was no easy matter, but he helped me by lowering the end of the tree and pulling me up. Once more we proceeded on our way, but with eyes and ears on guard in case anybody in the shape of an enemy should appear.
By noon Jorge calculated we had covered eight miles, which was considered a good distance through the mountains, and I was glad enough to sit down in a convenient hollow and rest. He had brought along a good stock of provisions, with which the rebel camp had happened to be liberally provided, and we made a meal of bread, crackers, and cold meat, washed down with black coffee, cooked over a fire of dead and dried grass.
“We past the worst of the road now,” remarked Jorge, as we again moved on. “Easy walkin' by sundown.”
He was right, for about four o’clock we struck an opening among the mountains where there was a broad and well-defined road leading past several plantations. The plantations were occupied by a number of Cubans and blacks, who eyed me curiously and called out queries to Jorge, who answered them cheerfully.
The plantations left behind, we crossed a brook which my guide said ran into the river, and took to a path running along a belt of oak and ebony trees, with here and there a clump of plantains. We had gone but a short distance when we crossed another trail, and Jorge called a halt and pointed to the soft ground.
The hoofprints of half a dozen horses were plainly visible, and as they were still fresh weconcluded they had been made that very day, and perhaps that afternoon.
“Who do you think the horsemen are, Jorge?” I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Can’t say—maybe soon tell—me see,” and on he went, with his eyes bent on the ground.
For my part, I thought it best to keep a watch to the right and the left. We went on slowly until the evening shadows began to fall. Then Jorge was about to speak, when I motioned him to be silent.
“There is something moving in yonder brush,” I said, pointing with my hand. “I think I saw a horse.”
We left the road and proceeded in the direction, moving along slowly and silently. I had been right; there was not one horse, but half a dozen, tethered to several stunted trees.
No human beings were present, but from a distance we presently heard the murmur of voices, and a minute later two Spanish soldiers came into view. Jorge drew his pistol, but I restrained him.
The soldiers had evidently come up to see if the horses were still safe. Satisfied on this point, one passed to the other a roll of tobacco for a bite, and both began to converse in a low but earnest tone.
Jorge listened; and, as the talk ran on, his face grew dark and full of hatred. The backs of the two Spaniards were toward us, and my guide drew his machete and motioned as if to stab them both.
I shook my head, horrified at the very thought. This did not suit Jorge, and he drew me back where we might talk without being overheard.
“What is the use of attacking them?” I said. “Let us be on our way.”
“Them men fight General Garcia’s men—maybe hurt my brudder,” grunted Jorge wrathfully. “They say they have prisoner—kill him soon.”
“A prisoner?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“At camp down by river. They kill udder prisoner, now rob dis one an' kill too. Bad men—no good soldiers.”
I agreed with him on this point. Yet I was not satisfied that he should go back and attack the pair while they were off their guard.
“It would not be fair,” I said, “and, besides, the noise may bring more soldiers down upon us. I wish we could do something for their prisoner, whoever he is.”
We talked the matter over, and, seeing thesoldiers depart, concluded to follow them. We proceeded as silently as two shadows, and during the walk Jorge overheard one soldier tell the other that the prisoner was to be shot at sunrise.
A turn in the path brought us to a broad and roughly flowing stream. Here a temporary camp had been pitched. Half a dozen dirty-looking Spaniards were lolling on the ground, smoking and playing cards. From their talk Jorge said they were waiting for some of their former comrades to join them, when all were to travel back to where the Spanish commander, Captain Campona, had been left.
“There ees the prisoner,” said Jorge, in a whisper, and pointed along the river shore to where rested a decaying tree, half in and half out of the water. The prisoner was strapped with rawhides to one of the tree branches, and it was—my chum Alano!
A RESCUE UNDER DIFFICULTIES.
Mere words cannot express my astonishment and alarm when I saw who the prisoner tied to the tree was. As I gazed at Alano my heart leaped into my throat, and like lightning I remembered what Jorge had told me the Spaniards had said, that the prisoner was to be shot at sunrise.
Alano shot! I felt an icy chill creep over me. My own chum! No, no, it must not be! In my excitement I almost cried aloud. Noting how strangely I was affected, my guide placed his hand over my mouth and drew me back into a thicket.
“It is Alano Guerez!” I whispered, as soon as I was calm enough to speak—“Señor Guerez' son!”
“Ah, yah!” ejaculated Jorge. “I see he is but a boy.Perros![Dogs!]”
“We must save Alano,” I went on. “If he was shot, I—I would never forgive myself.”
Jorge shrugged his shoulders. “How?” he asked laconically. “Too many for us.”
“Perhaps we can do something when it grows darker.”
The guide drew down the corners of his mouth. Then, as he gazed at the river, his big black eyes brightened.
“Yeas, when it is darker we try. But must be careful.”
“Perhaps we can get to him by the way of the river.”
Jorge smiled grimly. Catching me by the arm he led me along the bank, overgrown with grass and rushes. Not far away was something that looked like a half-submerged log covered with mud. Taking a stone he threw it, and the “log” roused up and flopped angrily into the stream.
“Alligators!” I cried, with a shiver. “No, we won’t be able to get to him by way of the river. But we must do something.”
“We cross river, and I tell you what we do,” replied my guide.
Crossing was not an easy matter, as neither of us cared to attempt swimming or fording with alligators in the vicinity. But by passing along the bank we presently discovered a spot where half a dozen rocks afforded a footing, and over we went in the semi-darkness, for the sun was now setting.
As we hurried down the course of the streamagain, Jorge cut several cedar and pine branches which appeared to be particularly dry. Then he handed me a number of matches, of which, fortunately, he had an entire box.
“We will put one pile of branches here,” he said, “and another further down, and one further yet. Den I go back to camp. You watch tree over there. When you see light wait few minutes, den light all dree fires.”
“But how will that help us?”
“Soldiers see fires, want to know who is dar—don’t watch Alano—me go in and help him. After you make fires you run back to where we cross on stones.”
Jorge’s plan was not particularly clear to me, yet I agreed to it, and off he sped in the gloom. Left to myself, I made my way cautiously to the water’s edge, there to await the signal he had mentioned.
It was a hot night and the air was filled with myriads of mosquitoes, gnats, flies, and other pests. From the woods behind me came the occasional cry of a night bird, otherwise all was silent. Frogs as big as one’s two hands sat on the rocks near by, on the watch for anything in the shape of a meal which might come their way.
But bad as the pests around me were, I gave them scant consideration. My whole mind wasconcentrated upon Alano and what Jorge proposed to do. Silently I prayed to Heaven that the guide might be successful in rescuing my chum.
About half an hour went by,—it seemed an extra long wait to me,—when suddenly I saw a flash of fire, in the very top of a tree growing behind the Spaniards' camp. The flash lasted but a second, then died out instantly.
Arising from my seat, I ran to the furthest pile of boughs and waited while I mentally counted off a hundred and eighty seconds, three minutes. Then I struck a match, ignited the heaped-up mass, and ran to the second pile.
In less than ten minutes the three fires, situated about three hundred feet apart, were burning fiercely, and then I ran at topmost speed for the spot where the river had been crossed. I had just reached the locality when I heard a shout ring out, followed by two musket shots.
A painful, anxious two minutes followed. Were Alano and Jorge safe? was the question I asked myself. I strained my eyes to pierce the gloom which hung like a pall over the water.
Footsteps on the rocks greeted my ears. Someone was coming, someone with a heavy burden on his back. Once or twice the approaching person slipped on the rocks and I heard a low cry of warning.
“Mark!”
It was the voice of Alano, and my heart gave a joyful bound. In another second my Cuban chum appeared in view, carrying on his manly back the form of Jorge.
“Alano,” I ejaculated excitedly, “what is the matter with him?”
“He has been shot in the leg,” was the reply. “Come on, help me carry him and get to cover. I am afraid they are on my track!”
“Run into the woods!” groaned Jorge. “Den we take to trees—dat’s best.”
As Alano was almost exhausted, I insisted that the guide be transferred to my back, and this was speedily done, and on we went, away from the river and directly into the forest. Of course, with such a burden I could not go far, and scarcely a hundred yards were traversed when I came to a halt, at the foot of a giant mahogany tree.
Not without a good deal of difficulty Jorge was raised up into the branches of the tree, and we followed.
“Still now and listen!” cried Jorge, with a half-suppressed groan.
With strained ears we sat in the mahogany tree for fully half an hour without speaking. We heard the Spaniards cross the river and move cautiously in the direction of the threefires, and presently they returned to their own camp.
“Thank fortune, we have outwitted them!” murmured Alano, the first to break the silence. “You poor fellow!” he went on to Jorge; “you saved my life.”
He asked about the wound which had been received, and was surprised, and so was I, to learn that it was but slight, and what had caused the guide’s inability to run had been a large thorn which had cut through his shoe into his heel. By the light of a match the thorn was forced out with the end of Jorge’s machete, and the foot was bound up in a bit of rag torn from my coat sleeve, for I must admit that rough usage had reduced my clothing to a decidedly dilapidated condition.
As we could not sleep very well in the tree without hammocks, we descended to the ground and made our way to a bit of upland, where there was a small clearing. Here we felt safe from discovery and lay down to rest. But before retiring Alano thanked Jorge warmly for what he had done, and thanked me also.
“I thought you were a goner,” he said to me. “How did you escape when the horse balked and threw you into the stream?”
I told him, and then asked him to relate his own adventures, which he did. After leavingme, he said, his horse had taken the bit in his teeth and gone on for fully a mile. When the animal had come to a halt he had found himself on a side trail, with no idea where he was.
His first thought was to return to the stream where the mishap had occurred, his second to find General Garcia. But Providence had willed otherwise, for he had become completely tangled up in the woods and had wandered around until nightfall. In the morning he had mounted his horse and struck a mountain path, only to fall into the hands of the Spanish soldiers two hours later. These soldiers were a most villainous lot, and, after robbing him of all he possessed, had decided to take his life, that he might not complain of them to their superior officer.
“From what I heard them say,” he concluded, “I imagine they have a very strict and good man for their leader—a man who believes in carrying on war in the right kind of a way, and not in such a guerrilla fashion as these chaps adopt.”
“I don’t want any war, guerrilla fashion or otherwise,” I said warmly. “I’ve seen quite enough of it already.”
“And so have I,” said my Cuban chum.
Of course he was greatly interested to learn that his father was on the way to place hismother and sisters in the old convent on the river. He said that he had seen the place several years before.
“It is a tumbled-down institution, and Father Anuncio lives there—a very old and a very pious man who is both a priest and a doctor. I shouldn’t wonder if the old building has been fitted up as a sort of fort. You see, the Spaniards couldn’t get any cannon to it very well, to batter it down, and if they didn’t have any cannon the Cubans could hold it against them with ease.”
“Unless they undermined it,” I said.
“Our people would be too sharp for that,” laughed my Cuban chum. “They are in this fight to win.”
Jorge now advised us to quit talking, that our enemies might not detect us, and we lay down to rest as previously mentioned. I was utterly worn out, and it did not take me long to reach the land of dreams, and my companions quickly followed suit.
In the morning our guide’s heel was rather sore, yet with true pluck he announced his readiness to go on. A rather slim and hasty breakfast was had, and we set off on a course which Jorge announced must bring us to the river by noon.
A TREACHEROUS STREAM TO CROSS.
I must mention that now that we had gained the high ground of the mountains the air was much cooler and clearer than it was in the valleys, and, consequently, traveling was less fatiguing.
Jorge went ahead, limping rather painfully at times, but never uttering a word of complaint. Next to him came Alano, while I brought up in the rear. It is needless to state that all of us had our eyes and ears wide open for a sight or sound of friend or enemy.
The road was a hard one for the most part, although here and there would be found a hollow in which the mud was from a few inches to several feet deep. Jorge always warned us of these spots, but on several occasions I stepped into the innocent-looking mud only to find that it was all I could do to get clear of the dark, glue-like paste.
It was but eleven o’clock when we came in sight of the river, which at this point was from thirty to forty feet wide. Looking up anddown the water-course, we saw that it wound its way in and out among the hills in serpentine fashion. The bottom was mostly of rough stones, and the stream was barely three to four feet deep.
“How will we get over?—by swimming?” I questioned, as we came to a halt on a bank that was twenty feet above the current.
“Find good place by de rocks,” said Jorge. “Must be careful. Water werry swift.”
I could see that he was right by the way the water dashed against the rocks. Our guide led the way along the bank for a distance of several hundred feet and began to climb down by the aid of the brush and roots.
“That doesn’t look pleasant,” remarked Alano, as he hesitated. “Just look at that stream!”
Picking up a dry bit of wood he threw it into the water. In a few seconds it was hurried along out of our sight.
Nevertheless, we followed Jorge down to the water’s edge. Before us was a series of rocks, which, had the stream been a bit lower, would have afforded an excellent fording-place.
“De river higher dan I think,” said our guide. “You take off boots, hey?”
“That we will,” I answered, and soon had my boots slung around my neck. Alano followedmy example, and with extreme caution we waded down and out to the first rock.
“Any alligators?” I cried, coming to a pause.
“No 'gators here,” answered Jorge. “Water too swift—'gators no like dat.”
This was comforting news, and on I went again, until I was up to my knees. The water felt very refreshing, and I proposed to Alano that we take advantage of our situation and have a bath.
“I feel tremendously dirty, and it will brace us up. We needn’t lose more than ten minutes.”
My Cuban chum was willing, and we decided to take our bath from the opposite shore. Jorge declined to go swimming and said he would try his luck at fishing, declaring that the river held some excellent specimens of the finny tribe.
We had now reached the middle of the stream. I was two yards behind Alano, while Jorge was some distance ahead. We were crossing in a diagonal fashion, as the fording rocks ran in that direction.
Suddenly Alano muttered an exclamation in Spanish. “It’s mighty swift out here!” he cried. “Look out, Mark, or——”
He did not finish. I saw him slip and go down, and the next instant his body was rollingover and over as it was being carried along by the rushing current.
“Jorge, Alano is gone!” I yelled, and took a hasty step to catch hold of my chum’s coat. The movement was a fatal one for me, and down I went precisely as Alano had done. The water entered my eyes and mouth, and for the moment I was blinded and bewildered. I felt my feet touch bottom, but in the deeper water to obtain a footing was out of the question.
When my head came up I found myself at Alano’s side. I saw he had a slight cut on the forehead and was completely dazed. I caught him by the arm until he opened his eyes and instinctively struck out.
“We’re lost, Mark!” he spluttered.
“Not yet,” I returned. “Strike out for the shore.”
With all the strength at our command we struck out. To make any headway against that boiling current was well-nigh impossible, and on and on we went, until I was almost exhausted. Alano was about to sink when he gave a cry.
“The bottom!” he announced, and I put down both feet, to find the stream less than three feet deep. With our feet down, we were now able to turn shoreward; and five minutes later Jorge had us both by the hands and was helping us out.
“Well, we wanted a bath and we got it,” were Alano’s first words. “Have you had enough, Mark?”
“More than sufficient,” I replied, with a shudder. “Ugh, but that is a treacherous stream, and no mistake!”
“You lucky boys,” said Jorge. “Horse get in and roll over, he lose his life.”
We stopped long enough to wring out our clothing and put on our boots, and then followed our guide again. Half an hour later we reached a sheltered spot and here took dinner. By the time the repast was ended our light summer suits were almost dried. Luckily, through it all each of us had retained his hat.
“We haven’t had the fish Jorge promised us,” said Alano, as we were preparing to resume our journey. “A bit of something baked wouldn’t go bad.”
“Fish to-night,” said the guide.
“Have you a line and hook, Jorge?” I asked.
“Yes, always carry him,” he answered; and, upon further questioning, I learned that to carry a fishing outfit was as common among the rebels as to carry a pistol or the ever-ready machete. They had to supply themselves with food, and it was often easier and safer to fish in the mountain streams than to shoot game or cattle.
We made a camp that night under the shelterof a clump of grenadillo trees; and, as Jorge had promised, he tried his luck at fishing in a little pool under some rocks. He remained at his lines, two in number, for nearly an hour, and in that time caught four fish—three of an eel-like nature and a perch. These were cooked for supper, and tasted delicious.
“When will we reach the old convent?” I asked, as we were about to turn in.
“Reach him by to-morrow afternoon maybe, if no storm come,” said Jorge.
“Do you think there will be a storm?”
The guide shrugged his shoulders.
“Maybe—time for storm now.”
The fire had been put out as soon as the fish were baked, that it might not attract the attention of any Spaniards who might be in the neighborhood. At eight o’clock we turned in, making our beds on a number of cedar boughs, which were easy to obtain in this mountainous locality. We had no coverings but our coats, but found these sufficient under the shelter of the grenadillos.
How long I slept I did not know. I awoke with a start and raised up. All was silent. I gazed around in the gloom, and saw that Alano and our guide slumbered soundly.
“I must have been dreaming,” I muttered to myself, when a rustle in the brush behind mecaused me to leap to my feet. There was another rustle, and then came what I imagined was a half-subdued growl of rage.
Fearful that we were on the point of being attacked by some wild animal, I bent over my companions and shook them.
“Wake up! Wake up!” I cried. “There are wild beasts about! Quick, and get your pistols ready!”
And then I looked toward the bushes again, to see an ugly, hairy head thrust forward and a pair of glaring eyes fastened full upon me!
ALONE.
“What is it?” cried Alano, as he scrambled to his feet.
“I don’t know!” I yelled. “Look! look!”
As I spoke I pulled out my pistol. By this time Jorge was also aroused.
“Que ha dicho V.?[What did you say?]” he demanded, leaping up and catching at his machete.
“An animal—a bear, or something!” I went on. “There he is!”
I raised my pistol, and at the same time our guide looked as I had directed. I was about to pull the trigger of my weapon when he stopped me.
“No shoot!Puerco!” he cried, and gave a laugh. Leaping forward, he made after the animal, which turned to run away. But Jorge was too quick for him. Presently there was a grunt and a prolonged squeal, and then I understood what my wild beast was—nothing but a wild pig! In a couple of minutes Jorge came back to camp dragging the tough little porker by thehind legs. He had killed the animal in true butcher’s style.
“We have pork to-morrow,” he grinned, for Cuban negroes are as fond of pig meat as their Northern brothers. Taking a short rope from one of his pockets, he attached it to the pig’s hind legs and hung the body up on a convenient tree branch.
The incident had upset my nerves, and for the balance of the night I slept only by fits and starts, and I was glad when dawn came and the rising sun began to gild the tops of the surrounding hills. The sight was a beautiful one, and I gazed at it for some time, while Jorge prepared some pork chops over a tiny fire he had kindled.
“We carry what pork we can,” he said. “No use to leave it behind. Father Anuncio very glad to get pig, so sweet!” and once again Jorge grinned. After breakfast the guide cut up the balance of the animal, wrapped the parts in wet palm leaves, and gave us each our share to carry.
Our involuntary bath had done me good, and I stepped out feeling brighter and better than I had for several days. I was becoming acclimated, and I was glad of it, for had I been taken down with a fever I do not know what I would have done.
Alano was as eager as myself to reach the old convent on the river, and we kept close upon Jorge’s heels as our guide strode off down the mountain side toward a forest of sapodillas and plantains.
“I trust we find everybody safe and sound,” I remarked. “The fact that your father thought it best to conduct your mother and sisters to the convent would seem to indicate he was disturbed about their safety.”
“I am hoping he did it only to be clear to join the rebel army,” replied Alano. “I hope both your father and mine are in the ranks, and that we are allowed to join too.”
I did not wish to discourage my Cuban chum on this point, yet I had my own ideas on the subject. I was not anxious to join any army, at least not while both sides to the controversy were conducting the contest in this guerrilla-like fashion. I was quite sure, from what I had heard from various sources, that up to that date no regular battle had been fought in the eastern portion of Cuba, although the western branch of the rebel army, under General Gomez, was doing much regular and effective work.
The reasons for this were twofold. In the first place, General Gomez' forces were composed mainly of white men, while a large portion of the soldiers under General Garcia wereblack. Nearly all of the Americans who came to Cuba to fight for Cuban liberty, came by way of Havana or Jibacoa and joined General Gomez, and these fellows brought with them a large stock of arms and ammunition. It was said that there were three armed men in the West to every man who had even a pistol in the East. Many of the negroes were armed only with their machetes, which they tied to their wrists with rawhides, that they might not lose this sole weapon while on the march or in a skirmish. To shoot off a cartridge in a pistol without doing some effective work with it was considered under General Garcia and his brother officers almost a crime.
The guerrilla warfare in the mountains I felt could be kept up for a long time, perhaps indefinitely. The Spanish troops had sought to surround General Garcia a dozen times, only to discover, when too late, that he and his men had left the vicinity. The Cuban forces moved almost always at night, and often detachments of soldiers were sent off on swift horses to build false campfires dozens of miles away from the real resting-place of the army.
In the valley we crossed through a large coffee plantation. In the center was a low, square house with several outbuildings. The house was closed tightly, and so were the otherbuildings, yet as we drew close I fancied I heard sounds from within.
I notified Jorge, and a halt ensued. Hardly had we stopped than the door of the house flew open and out rushed half a dozen well-dressed Spanish soldiers.
“Halte!” came the command, but instead of halting we turned and fled—I in one direction, and Alano and our guide in another. Bang! bang! went a couple of guns, and I heard the bullets clipping through the trees. Surprised and alarmed, I kept on, past a field of coffee and into a belt of palms. Several of the soldiers came after me, and I heard them shouting to me to stop and promising all sorts of punishment if I did not heed their command.
But I did not intend to stop, and only ran the faster, past the palms and into a mass of brushwood growing to a height of ten or twelve feet. At first the bushes were several feet apart, and I went on with ease; but soon the growth was more dense, and numerous vines barred the way; and at last I sank down in a hollow, unable to go another step, and thoroughly winded.
I remained in the hollow at least half an hour, trying to get back my breath and listening intently to the movements of my pursuers. The soldiers passed within fifty feet of me, but that was as close as they got, and presently theywent off; and that was the last I heard of them.
In the excitement of the chase I had dropped my pig meat, and now I discovered that nearly all of my other traps were gone, including my pistol, which had left my hand during a nasty trip-up over a hidden tree root. The trip-up had given me a big bump on the temple and nearly knocked me unconscious.
Crawling around, I found a pool of water, in which I bathed my forehead, and then I set about finding out what had become of Alano and Jorge. I moved with extreme caution, having no desire to be surprised by the enemy, who might be lying in ambush for me.
Moving onward in the brush I soon discovered was no light undertaking, and it was fully an hour before I found my way out to where the vines grew less profusely. The spot where I emerged was not the same as that at which I had entered the undergrowth, and on gazing around I was dismayed to find that the whole topography of the country looked different.
I was lost!
The thought rushed upon me all in an instant, and I half groaned aloud as I realized my situation. I must be all of a mile from the plantation, and where my friends were I had not the remotest idea.
The sun beat down hotly in the valley, and it was not long before I was both dry and hungry. I searched around for another pool, but could not find any, and had to content myself with the taste of a wild orange, far from palatable.
Noon came and went and found me still tramping around the valley looking for Alano and Jorge. In my passage through the bushes my already ragged clothing was torn still more, until I felt certain that any half-decent scarecrow could discount me greatly in appearance.
At four o’clock, utterly worn out, I threw myself on the ground in a little clearing and gave myself up to my bitter reflections. I felt that I was hopelessly lost. Moreover, I was tremendously hungry, with nothing in sight with which to satisfy the cravings of my appetite. Night, too, was approaching. What was to be done?
THE CAVE IN THE MOUNTAIN.
I lay in the clearing in the valley for all of half an hour. Then, somewhat rested, I arose, unable to endure the thought that night would find me in the wilds alone and unarmed.
I could well remember how the sun had stood when I had separated from my companions, and now, using the sun as a guide, I endeavored once more to trace my steps to the path leading down to the river. Once the stream was gained, I resolved to search up and down its banks until the old convent was sighted.
My course led me up the side of a small mountain, which I climbed with great difficulty, on account of the loose stones and dirt, which more than once caused my ankle to give a dangerous twist. A sprained ankle would have capped the climax of my misfortunes.
Just as the sun was beginning to set behind the peaks to the westward of me, I reached a little plateau which divided a ridge from the mountain proper. Here I rested for a few minutes and obtained a refreshing drink at a springunder some rocks. Then I went on, in some manner satisfied that I was on the right path at last.
But, alas! hardly had I taken a score of steps than I stepped on a bit of ground which appeared solid enough, but which proved to be nothing but a mass of dead brushwood lying over a veritable chasm. The whole mass gave way, and with a lurch I was hurled forward into black space.
As I went down I put out my hands to save myself. But, though I caught hold of several roots and bits of rocks, this did not avail; and I did not stop descending until I struck a stone flooring twenty feet below the top of the opening. Fortunately the floor was covered with a large mass of half-decayed brush, otherwise the fall must have been a serious if not a fatal one.
As I went down, on hands and knees, a lot of loose branches, dirt, and small stones rolled on top of me, and for the minute I had a vision of being buried alive. But the downfall soon ceased; and, finding no bones broken, I crawled from under the load and surveyed the situation.
I felt that I was now worse off than ever. The well-hole—I can call it nothing else—was about ten feet in diameter, and the walls werealmost smooth. The top of the opening was far out of my reach, and, as for a means of escape, there seemed to be none.
However, I was not to be daunted thus easily, and, striking a match and lighting a cedar branch, I set about looking for some spot where I might climb up. But the spot did not present itself.
But something else did, and that was an opening leading directly into the mountain. On pulling at a projecting rock, I felt it quiver, and had just time to leap back, when it fell at my feet. Behind the rock was a pitch-black hole, into which I thrust the lighted branch curiously. There was a cave beyond—how large was yet to be discovered.
I had no desire to explore any cave at that moment, my one idea being to get out of the well-hole and proceed on my way. But getting out of the hole was impossible, and I was forced to remain where I was, much to my disgust and alarm.
Jorge had been right about the coming storm. At an hour after sunset I heard the distant rumble of thunder, and soon a lively breeze blew through the trees and brush on the mountain side. A few flashes of lightning followed, and then came a heavy downpour of rain.
Not wishing to be soaked, I retreated to thecave I had discovered, although with caution, for I had no desire to take another tumble into a deeper hole. But the floor of the cavern appeared to be quite level, and with rising curiosity I took up my lighted cedar branch, whirled it around to make it blaze up, and started on a tour of investigation and discovery.
That I should not miss my way back, I lit a pile of small brush at the mouth of the opening. Then I advanced down a stony corridor, irregular in shape, but about fifty feet wide by half as high.
The opening appeared to be a split in the mountain, perhaps made ages before by volcanic action. I felt certain there was an opening above, for in several spots the rain came down, forming small pools and streams of water.
Suddenly the idea struck me to watch which way the water ran, and I did so and learned that its course was in the very direction I was walking. Moreover the tiny streams merged one into another, until, several hundred feet further on, they formed quite a water course.
“If only this stream flows into the main river!” I thought, and on the spur of the moment resolved to follow it as far as I was able, satisfied that if it led to nowhere in particular I could retrace my steps to its source.
I now found the cave growing narrower, and presently it grew less than a dozen feet in width, and the stream covered the entire bottom to the depth of several inches. Throwing my boots over my shoulders, I began wading, feeling sure of one step ere I trusted myself to take another.
It took me fully ten minutes to proceed a hundred feet in this fashion. The stream was now not over six feet wide and all of a foot deep.
Making sure that my torch was in no danger of going out, I continued to advance, but now more slowly than ever, for in the distance I could hear the water as it fell over a number of rocks. There was a bend ahead; and this passed, I fervently hoped to emerge into the open air, on the opposite side of the mountain and close to the bank of the river for which I was seeking.
At the bend the water deepened to my knees, and I paused to roll up my trousers, in the meantime resting the torch against the wall, which afforded a convenient slope for that purpose.
I had just finished arranging my trouser-legs to my satisfaction, when a rumble of thunder, echoing and re-echoing throughout the cavern, made me jump. My movement caused the cedar branch to roll from the rocks, and it slipped with a hiss into the stream. I made a frantic clutch for it, and, in my eagerness to saveit from going out or getting too wet, I fell on it in the very middle of the stream.
With a splutter I arose to find myself in utter darkness. Moreover, the cedar branch was thoroughly soaked, and it would take a good many matches to light it again. And what was still worse, every match my pocket contained was soaked as badly as the torch.
I must confess that I was utterly downcast over my mishap, and if there had been any dry ground handy I would have thrown myself down upon it in abject despair. But there was only water around, and, disconsolate as I was, I felt I must either go forward or backward.
How I became turned about I do not know, but certain it is that, in essaying to return to the spot from whence I had come, I continued on down the stream. I did not notice the mistake I had made until fifty yards had been passed and I brought up against an overhanging rock with my shoulder. Putting up my hands, I was dismayed to discover that the passage-way was just high enough to clear my head.
Realizing that I must be walking into a trap, I endeavored to turn about, when I slipped and went down again. Before I could gain my footing I was swept around a bend and into a much broader stream. All was as dark as before, and I soon learned that the bottom of the new water-coursewas beyond my reach. Putting my hand up, I learned that the rocky ceiling was not over two feet above the surface of the water, and the distance between the two was gradually but surely growing less!
SEÑOR GUEREZ.
I was horrified over the discovery that I had made. Here I was, in absolute darkness, hemmed in by water and rocky walls, and drifting rapidly I knew not whither.
In my terror I cried aloud, but only echo answered me—a peculiar echo which made me shiver from head to foot.
On and on, and still on, was I dashed by the underground current, which seemed to grow more powerful as I advanced, until my head grazed repeatedly against the wall over me, and I felt like giving myself up for lost. Oh, how bitterly I regretted the curiosity which had led me to explore the cavern in which chance had so strangely placed me!
But now what was this—a light? At first I could scarcely believe the evidence of my senses. There was a bright flash—then total blackness again.
What could it mean? Perhaps I was dreaming—or the fearful situation had turned my brain. Then came a second flash and a revelation.
It was the lightning from without, shining through some opening into the waters under and around me! I was nearing the outer world. Oh, for a breath of fresh air again!
Even as the thought crossed my mind, my head struck the rocky ceiling again, and under I went, to find that I could not come up, the water now rising to the very rocks. But a stronger light could be seen, and I dove along, came up once, twice—and then emerged into the open air with a splutter and a gasp, on the verge of exhaustion.
The underground stream emerged at the very base of the mountain, and on both sides were level stretches of swamps, covered with rushes and other tropical growths. Swimming for the nearest bank, I drew myself up and fell on my breast, too worn out to stand.
It did not matter to me just then that it was night, that I was alone, and that it was raining in torrents. I was safe from drowning—that was my one thought, and never was a thought sweeter to a boy.
For fully fifteen minutes I remained on the bank of the stream. Then, having recovered somewhat from the effects of my awful experience, I arose and took as good a view of my situation as was possible. I waited for a strong flash of lightning, and by this saw that my formerwish had been realized and that I was within a few hundred feet of the river upon which the convent was said to be located.
While the storm and the night lasted there was nothing to do but to seek shelter wherever it might be found; and, as the lightning now appeared to die away, I walked to the very mountain side, and found shelter under an overhanging rock, flanked by several tall trees. Here I wrung what water I could from my clothing and made myself as comfortable as my miserable condition permitted.
Never was a person more glad to see the sun than I. Old Sol came up clear and strong, and my clothing quickly dried upon my body as I walked along.
Passing around the swamps, which were full of monstrous toads and numerous lizards, I reached the bank of the larger stream and started to hunt for the convent for which Alano, Jorge, and myself had been bound. As I hurried on, as rapidly as the formation of the ground permitted, I could not help but wonder what had become of my chum and our negro guide. Had they escaped, to roam around looking for me, or had they fallen into the hands of the Spaniards at the coffee plantation?
Having had no breakfast, it was not long before I began to feel hungry. To satisfy thecravings of my appetite I picked several almost ripe plantains, which, however, proved rather poor eating. I also spent some time in a hunt for berries, but none were to be found.
By noon I calculated I had covered four or five miles, and reached a narrow woods, growing on both sides of the river. Beyond the woods was a village, a decidedly poor-looking settlement composed of a score of rude dwellings built of logs and thatched with palm leaves to keep out the rain.
I did not know whether to enter the village or not, and remained in the woods for some time, watching the inhabitants, consisting of a score of men and women and perhaps fifty children of all ages. The children were dirty, and wore hardly any clothing, but they seemed to be as happy as though such a thing as war had never been mentioned. Most of the men were at work curing some wild-hog meat, while the women were engaged in braiding mats and other articles for sale or exchange.
At last three of the children, running close to the woods, espied me, and set up a shout of wonder and alarm, at which the men stopped work and came rushing forward with their clubs and machetes. Seeing there was no help for it, I stepped out into the open, and was immediately surrounded.
Not a soul in the settlement, which went by the name of Jiawacadoruo, could speak a word of English, and for the time being I was partly at a loss to make them understand that I came as a friend who meant no harm. At the word “Americano” they grinned, and one of them queried “Cuba libre?[For Cuban liberty?]” and I nodded. Then I pointed to my mouth and stomach to signify that I was hungry.
At once half a dozen of the women rushed off, and soon I was presented with several bowls of broth, made of chicken meat and vegetables, strongly flavored with the inevitable garlic, and a pot of strong black coffee. There was also a dish of boiled arrowroot, made from the native maranta, and this tasted best of all to me.
While I was eating I tried, by every means in my power, to make these Cubans understand that I wanted to find the old convent, but failed utterly. Finally an idea struck me, and I essayed to carry it out. Tearing a page from a blank book in my pocket, I drew upon it a rough representation of a river and pointed to the stream, at which the men gathered around nodded that they understood.
Next I drew the picture of a boy at one end of the river, and pointed to myself. I am not by any means an artist; but we had had drawing lessons at Broxville Academy, and I managedto represent the boy as walking rapidly, as if in a great hurry to get to where he was going. This caused the men to laugh heartily.
The next thing to do was to draw the old convent. Never having heard the structure described, I had to draw entirely upon my imagination, and my knowledge of convent architecture was decidedly limited. Yet I managed to draw a fairly good representation of a ruined stone building, with a cross at the top, and before it put a priest, to whom, by an inspiration, I suddenly pointed and cried “Father Anuncio.”
A dozen exclamations followed, and the men nodded to show that they now knew what was wanted. A parley followed, and one tall negro stepped forth and motioned that he was ready to be my guide by pointing first to me and then to my picture of the old convent.
Luckily I still retained a few silver pieces in my pocket, and before leaving I left two of these behind, to be divided among the crowd of negroes, for let me say in passing that all of the inhabitants of Jiawacadoruo are people of color. With my newly made guide I started up the river, and the settlement was soon lost to sight.
I wondered how long it would take to reach the old convent, and tried to put the question to Bumbo, as I made his name out to be, but withoutsuccess. Instead of answering with his fingers or by pointing to the sun, he merely grinned and walked faster, until it was all I could do to keep up with him.
It was almost sundown when we passed a bend in the stream and mounted a bluff overlooking a wide expanse of swamp land. The topmost point of the bluff reached, the guide pointed ahead, and there, almost at our feet, I saw the massive outlines of what long years before had been an imposing Spanish convent, planted in that out-of-the-way spot for certain noble families who had left Spain under a cloud during the wars of the seventeenth century.
As we approached the building, which was now little more than a mass of ruins, I saw several men standing just outside of the inclosed courtyard. One was a priest, and two others were in the uniform of officers in the Cuban army. One of the latter I recognized as Señor Guerez, having met the gentleman once while he was on a business visit to the United States.
“Señor Guerez!” I called out, as I ran to him; and he turned in amazement.
“Mark Carter!” he ejaculated, with a strong Spanish accent. “I am much astonished.”
“Is my father with you?” I demanded eagerly, as I looked around.
“No, my boy; I am sorry to say it.”
“And where is he?” I went on, my heart rising to my throat, as I saw a look of anxiety cross the gentleman’s bronzed features.
“Your father was made a prisoner by the Spanish authorities two days ago,” replied the señor, and the answer all but prostrated me.