A BATTLE ON LAND AND WATER.
It was about eight o’clock in the morning that the door of the prison cell was opened and Gilbert Burnham and I were ordered to march out into a larger apartment.
The order was given by a Spanish officer who spoke fairly good English, and the officer was backed up by a guard of eight men, all well armed.
“They are going to run no chances on us now,” remarked the newspaper correspondent, as he arose from the floor, upon which he had been resting.
“We had better be as civil as possible,” I answered. “If we anger them they have it in their power to make us mighty uncomfortable.”
“I’ll keep as civil as my hot-headedness will permit,” he grumbled.
We were led from one end of the fort to the other, where there was a narrow room, provided with a small, square table and half a dozenbenches. At the table sat several officers I had seen before. One was a particularly ugly-looking fellow, and Burnham nudged me and said this chap was the fellow he had knocked down.
“And he’s got it in for me,” he added.
I was marched to the front of the table, and the officer who could speak English forced me to clasp my hands behind me. This done, one of the officers at the table asked a number of questions in Spanish.
“No habla V. castellano?[Do you not speak Spanish?]” he asked me.
“No, señor,” I replied.
He glared at me suspiciously for a moment, then spoke to the other officer.
“Who you are?” demanded the latter.
“I am Mark Carter, an American boy. I came to Cuba to join my father, who was stopping at a plantation near Guantanamo.”
This was repeated in Spanish. At the mention of my name several of those present exchanged glances.
“You son of Richard Carter?” was the next question.
“Yes, señor. I understand he is a prisoner. Is it true?”
My question remained unanswered, and it was plain that my captors intended to give me no information.
“Why you break in the fort? Did this man pay you to do that?” And the Spanish officer pointed to Gilbert Burnham.
“I never saw or heard of this man before, señor. I broke in because I thought my father was a prisoner there. I heard an American was there, and I thought it must be he.”
“Aha, I see! Well, your father is not here, as you have found out.”
“Where is he?”
This question also remained unanswered. The officers began to consult among themselves, and then I was ordered back to the cell. I tried to protest, and pleaded for liberty, for a chance to find my parent, but it was all in vain. I was hustled off without ceremony and made as close a prisoner as before.
It was nearly noon before Gilbert Burnham joined me. In the meantime I had had nothing to eat or drink, and was beginning to wonder if my enemies meant to let me die of hunger and thirst.
The face of the newspaper correspondent was much downcast.
“I’m to catch it now,” he said. “To-morrow morning they are going to start to transport me to some regular fortress, and there I suppose I’ll be permitted to languish until this bloody war is over. I wish I had made a dash for liberty when I was out in that courtroom.”
“They would have shot you dead. They were too well armed for anything of the sort.”
“Maybe. But this is tough. Is there a pitcher of water anywhere?”
“Not a drop.”
At this he stormed more than ever, and finally shouted to the guard to bring someagua. But no one paid any attention to his cries, further than to order him to be silent, under penalty of being gagged, and then he subsided.
Slowly the morning wore away. The sun was shining brightly outside, and the cell, with only one narrow window, high up to the ceiling, was like a bake-oven. Once I climbed up to the window sill and looked out, only to have the muzzle of a gun thrust into my face, while a guard outside ordered me to drop. I dropped, and made no further attempt to get a whiff of fresh air.
I wondered if Jorge had escaped in safety and if Captain Guerez would do anything to save me. I felt certain he would be very angry over the way I had acted, and, looking back, I felt that I richly deserved to be censured.
It was high noon, and I and my companion were walking the floor, impatient for food and drink, when the door opened and a guard came in with a platter and an earthenware pitcher.He set both on the floor and withdrew without a word.
“Well, here’s something, anyway,” remarked Gilbert Burnham. “Bah! a stew of onions and garlic, not fit for a dog to eat. Let me have some of the water.”
Neither of us could do more than taste the mess which had been served; and as for the water, it looked as if it had been scooped from the river, and was both warm and muddy. I had just finished taking a gingerly drink, when a shot from outside startled both of us. Several more shots followed, and then came a blast on a trumpet from somewhere in the distance.
“Hullo! that means a fight!” ejaculated Gilbert Burnham, his face brightening. “I hope it’s a body of rebels to the rescue.”
“So do I, and I further hope they release us,” I replied.
At the first shot an alarm had been sounded in and about the fort. We could hear the soldiers hurrying in several directions and a number of orders issued in Spanish. The firing now continued to increase, and presently we heard a crash of splintered woodwork.
“It’s getting interesting, eh, Carter?” said Gilbert Burnham. “If only they don’t grow too enthusiastic and fire in here!”
Scarcely had he spoken than we heard a littlenoise up at the window. A bullet had entered and buried itself in the woodwork opposite.
“Better lay down,” I urged, and set the example, which the newspaper man was not long in following. The firing and shouting kept on steadily, and we heard the occasional splashing of water, telling that the encounter was taking place on the river as well as on land.
The battle had been going on with more or less violence for half an hour, when there came a wild rush through the fort, and some shooting just outside of our cell. Then the door went down with a crash, and we found ourselves confronted by a score or more of dusky rebels, all of whom wore the flag of Cuba pinned to their hats and coats.
“Americano!” shouted one of them, and allowed us to come outside. Then, without waiting to question us, the crowd dashed to the entrance of another cell and succeeded in liberating several of their own countrymen. But now the soldiers of the fort rallied, and the intruders were driven back.
Feeling it was our one chance to escape, we went with the insurgents, and soon found ourselves on the outskirts of Cubineta, in a spot backed up by a forest of palms and oaks. As we ran along Gilbert Burnham paused and pointed to the dead body of a Spanish soldier.
“He won’t need his weapons any more, poor fellow,” he said, and stooping down secured two pistols, one of which he gave to me. There was also a belt of cartridges, and this was speedily divided between us.
“I think the road to the camp I left is behind us,” I remarked, as I took a view of the situation, in the meantime screening myself from our enemies by diving behind a clump of trees. “I think I’ll go in that direction. Do you want to come along?”
My companion was willing to go anywhere, so long as we kept clear of the Spanish forces, and off we went on an easy run down the highway, keeping our pistols in our hands and our eyes to the right and the left, as well as ahead. Quarter of an hour of this sort of traveling brought us to the spot where I had left Alano and the others.
The temporary camp was deserted.
LOOKING FOR MY CUBAN CHUM.
“Gone, eh?” remarked Gilbert Burnham, as he saw the disappointed look upon my face. “Well, you could hardly expect anything different, with the fighting going on. It’s more than likely they took part in the attack.”
“I presume so,” I answered. “But where can they be now? The firing has about ceased.”
“The rebels have withdrawn from the town, that’s certain. Let us try to find the main body of the insurgents, and there we’ll probably learn of the whereabouts of your friends.”
I considered this good advice, and, leaving the vicinity of what had been the former camp, we struck out on a trail which took us in a semi-circle around Cubineta.
It was one of the hottest days I had yet experienced since landing on the island, and we had not progressed a half-mile before I was fairly panting for breath. As for Gilbert Burnham, he declared that he must halt or collapse.
“Talk about balmy groves and summer skies,” he growled. "I would rather be at theNorth Pole any time. Why, I’ll bet a dollar you could bake bread on that bit of ground out there!" and he pointed to a stretch of dark soil, dried as hard as stone by the fierce rays of the sun.
“The average Cuban never thinks of traveling in the sun between eleven and three o’clock, and I don’t blame him,” I rejoined. “Let us climb a tree and take it easy.”
We mounted an oak, I making certain first that there was no snake on it, and took seats near the very top. By parting the branches we could get a fair view of Cubineta, and we saw that the attack was at an end. The rebels had retreated out of sight, but not before setting fire to the fort, which was burning fiercely, with nothing being done to save it from destruction.
“To me it looks as if the rebels were bunched in the woods to the north,” I said, after a long and careful survey. “I wish we had a field-glass.”
“I’m glad we took the pistols, Carter. They may come in very handy before we reach safe quarters again.”
“I’m sure I don’t want to shoot anyone, Burnham,” I answered.
“But you believe in defending yourself?”
“Yes. But what do you propose to do, now you have escaped?”
“Get back to the coast and take the first vessel I can find for the United States.”
“Then you’ve had sufficient of reporting down here?”
“Yes, indeed! If any other young man wants to come down here and take my place, he is welcome to do so.” And Gilbert Burnham spoke with an emphasis that proved he meant every word he uttered.
As soon as we were cooled off and rested, we resumed our way, through a heavy undergrowth which, on account of the entangling vines, often looked as if it would utterly stay our progress. But both of us were persevering, and by four o’clock had reached the section of country I had fancied the rebels were occupying.
My surmise was correct. Hardly had we proceeded a dozen yards along a side road than three Cubans leaped from behind some brush and commanded us to halt. We did so and explained that we were Americans, at the same time pointing to the burning fort and then crossing our wrists as though tied.
The rebels understood by this that we had been prisoners, and as we did not attempt to draw our pistols, they shouldered their long guns and conducted us to the officer in command.
“Look for Captain Guerez?” said the officer,whose name I have forgotten. “He ride off dat way!” and he pointed with his hand to the westward. “He look for you, I tink.”
This was comforting news, and I asked if Alano’s father had taken part in the attack on Cubineta, to which I received the reply that both the captain and all under him had taken part and that one of the insurgents had been killed.
“Was it his boy Alano?”
“No, man named Ciruso.”
I waited to hear no more, but, thanking the officer for his trouble, hurried off down a trail leading to the westward, with Burnham at my side.
We were descending a short hill, covered with a stunted growth of brush, which tripped us up more than once, when my companion suddenly uttered a howl and tumbled over me in his effort to retreat.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Spiders, or crabs, as big as your foot,” he cried. “Look! look!” He pointed to several holes in the sand, beside a small brook. At the entrance to each hole sat an enormous land crab, gray in color, with round, staring eyes, well calculated to give anyone a good scare.
“They are only crabs, and won’t hurt you, unless you try to catch hold of them,” I laughed.“Alano told me of them, and I’ve met them before.”
“More of the beauties of this delightful country,” said Burnham sarcastically.
I advanced and stamped my foot, and instantly each crab scampered for his hole, in the clumsy fashion all crabs have. I fancied some of them hissed at us, but I might have been mistaken.
The brook crossed, we ascended the next hill and entered a plantain grove where the fruit hung in profusion on all sides. We found some that was almost ripe, and made a refreshing meal.
“Hullo, Mark!”
The welcome voice rang out from a grove of oaks on the other side of the plantains. I started, then rushed ahead, to find myself, a minute later, in Alano’s arms, with Captain Guerez looking on, highly pleased.
“We thought you were killed!” ejaculated my Cuban chum, when our greeting was over. “Where on earth have you been?”
“Haven’t you seen Jorge?”
“No,” put in Alano’s father.
“It’s a long story. Let me introduce another American,” and I presented Gilbert Burnham.
Sitting down in as cool a spot as we couldfind, each related all he had to tell. My story is already known.
“When you did not show up in camp I was much worried,” said the captain, “and I sent men out at once to hunt up both you and Jorge. During this search one of the men, Circuso, met some of the Spanish troops, and fought desperately to escape them, but was shot and killed.”
“Poor chap!” I could not help but murmur. “Did he leave a family?”
“No; he was a bachelor, without kith or kin.”
“I think he might have escaped,” put in Alano, “but he was so fierce against the soldiers from Spain. He said they had no right to come over here and fight us, and he was in for killing every one of them.”
“While the hunt for you and Jorge was going on,” continued Alano’s father, "the rebel leader, Captain Conovas, arrived and said he had instructions to attack Cubineta and make an attempt to release the prisoners at the fort. I decided to join him in the attack, at the same time thinking you might be a prisoner with your father.
“We operated from the south and from across the river, and soon took possession of the fort, only to be repulsed with a heavy loss. Then our party withdrew to this quarter, and here we are.”
“And what of my father?” I asked anxiously. “He was not at the fort, nor have I been able to hear anything of him.”
“The Cuban forces captured several prisoners, and they are being held in a valley just below here. I was on the point of journeying hither to interview them on that point when Alano discovered you coming through the plantain grove,” answered Captain Guerez.
“Then let us go and question them now,” I cried.
The captain was willing, and off we hurried on horseback, Burnham and myself being provided with steeds which had belonged to the Spanish prisoners.
Riding was much more comfortable than walking, and the road being fairly level the distance to the valley mentioned was soon covered. Here it was found that four of the Spaniards had died of their wounds, but there were six others, and these Captain Guerez proceeded to examine carefully, taking each aside for that purpose.
“Your father isen routefor Santiago,” he said, when the examination was over. “When he arrives there he is to be tried by court-martial for plotting against the life of a certain Spanish leader, General Gonza. If we wish to save him we must start after him without an instant’s delay.”
ONCE MORE AMONG THE HILLS.
Fortunately the road leading to the northern shore of Santiago Bay was well known to Captain Guerez, who at one time had been a commissioner of highways in that district.
“I do not know how we will fare on this trip,” he remarked, as we rode off only four strong—the captain, Alano, Burnham, and myself. “At one spot we will have to pass the railroad, and I understand that is now under strict Spanish surveillance.”
“We’ll have to take matters as they come,” I returned. “We must save my father at any cost—at least, I shall attempt to do so.”
“I am with you, Mark,” said the captain earnestly. “Next to my family, there is no one to whom I am more attached.”
“And I go in for helping any American,” put in Burnham.
Alano simply smiled at me. But that smile was enough. I felt that my Cuban chum could be depended upon to stick to me through thick and thin.
Nightfall found us in the midst of a longrange of hills, covered with a heavy growth of oaks, cedars, and mahogany. The vines which I mentioned before were here as thick as ever, and in the darkness Gilbert Burnham suddenly gave a yell and slid from the back of his horse to the ground.
“What’s the matter?” we cried in chorus.
“Matter!” he growled. “Nothing, only a vine caught me under the chin, and I thought I was about to be hung.”
We laughed at this, but my humor was soon short, as another vine slipped over my forehead, taking my Panama hat with it.
After this we were more careful, fearful that some of us might be seriously injured, and a little later we went into camp in the midst of a tiny clearing.
We were just finishing our supper when a most doleful howl arose on the air, coming from the rear and to the right of us. I leaped up and drew my pistol, expecting to be attacked by some wild animal.
“Here’s excitement!” ejaculated the newspaper correspondent. “What can it be—a bear?”
He had hardly finished when a perfect chorus of howls arose, coming closer. I gazed in alarm at Captain Guerez and Alano. My chum laughed outright.
“Don’t get scared, Mark; they are only wild dogs.”
“Wild dogs!” put in Burnham. “Well that is the worst yet! And they are not dangerous?”
“If you met a large number of them alone they might be,” replied Captain Guerez. “But they won’t think of attacking such a party as ours. They’ll hang around until we leave and then search the camp for stray food.”
In spite of this explanation, however, Burnham insisted that a guard be kept during the night, and we each took two hours at the task. Before the sun had struck us from over the treetops, we had breakfast and were off. Sure enough, the wild dogs rushed in the moment we had left the opening. They were a lean and ugly-looking set of curs.
“It’s a terrible thing when these wild dogs and a bloodhound on the trail meet,” observed Captain Guerez. “Of course one wild dog cannot do much, but the whole pack will fall on the bloodhound, and in the end the larger dog will be killed and literally torn to shreds.”
A storm was approaching, but this did not discourage us, although Burnham growled as usual. In fact, we soon found that he was a chronic fault-finder, but then he seldom meant half that he said, and, taken all in all, he was good company.
“If the storm grows heavy it will give us a good chance to cross the railroad tracks,” remarked the captain. “The sentries will relax their vigilance and more than likely seek shelter under the trees.”
“Won’t we strike some settlement before that?” I asked.
“Oh, yes; we are on the outskirts of Los Hanios now.”
Five minutes later we rode into a small village occupied principally by half a hundred cattlemen, for we were now coming to the meadows and valleys in which immense herds of cows and sheep are pastured. The people of Los Hanios took but little interest in the revolution, and as a consequence had been but little molested either by the Spaniards or Cubans, although a portion of their cattle had been confiscated.
From one of the head cattlemen Captain Guerez learned that a body of Spaniards had passed through the village the afternoon before bound for Santiago. They had several prisoners, who were tied hands and feet, and fast to the mules which carried them. At least one of the prisoners had beenun Americano.
At Los Hanios we procured dinner, a splendid meal—the best I had eaten since leaving the steamer, for it consisted of prime roast beef done to a turn, potatoes and beans and coffee. Burnhamattended to the cooking, saying he had cooked many a meal for himself during his Bohemian life at the “Hub,” and consequently all the dishes were turned out in true American style, garlic and such stuff being for once tabooed.
Yet I hurried matters, wishing to catch up with my father as soon as possible. I wondered if he knew I was after him, and how he was faring. I felt certain that to be bound to the back of a mule over these rough trails could be anything but a pleasant sensation.
While we were still in sight of Los Hanios it began to rain, and we had not made over a mile when the downpour became very heavy. Burnham wished to take shelter under some trees, but I would not hear of it, and Alano and his father backed me up in my idea.
“We can rest a-plenty when Mr. Carter is once more safe,” said the captain, and that ended the discussion.
On and on we went, until, looking ahead, we espied a turn in the road. Beyond this was a bank six or eight feet in height, and this was where the railroad tracks were located.
“We had best dismount and go ahead on foot,” said the captain. “A sentry could easily see our animals if he had his eyes about him.”
“If he wasn’t asleep,” put in Burnham. "Ifancy these Spaniards and Cubans do a lot of sleeping whenever they get the chance."
“Not in war-times,” said Alano, who did not fancy this slur upon his countrymen. “Of course we are not so nervous and impatient as some of the Americans,” he added pointedly, and Burnham took the hint and said no more on the subject.
A fierce rattle of thunder stopped all talking soon after. The lightning became almost incessant, and glared and flared along the railroad tracks as far as eye could see. We came together close to a clump of berry bushes.
“Wait a moment,” whispered Captain Guerez. “I think I saw a sentry not over fifty feet away!”
At this announcement all of us crouched down, and each looked to his weapons, feeling that a crisis might be at hand. Alano’s father moved like a shadow up to the railroad bank.
“I was right,” he announced, after a particularly bright flash of lightning; “I saw his gun-barrel plainly.”
“Can we pass him?” asked Alano.
“We can try, but——”
“If he sees us why can’t we make him a prisoner?” I broke in. “If we did that, we would have a chance to bring our horses up the bank and over the tracks.”
“I was thinking as much,” said the captain.“The horses must be gotten over; that is necessary.”
He deliberated for a minute, and then motioned us forward, warning us at the same time to keep perfectly silent. On we went, to where something of a trail led up over the railroad embankment. There were a few bushes growing in the vicinity, and we skulked beside these, almost crawling along the ground.
Several minutes passed, and the top of the embankment was reached and we stood on the glistening tracks. Down we plunged on the opposite side, and not over a dozen paces from where the Spanish sentry was standing.
“Halte!” came the unexpected cry, and the man rushed forward, pointing his gun as he ran. But for once fate was in our favor. A trailing vine tripped him up and he went headlong.
Before the Spanish soldier could collect his senses, or make a movement to rise, Captain Guerez and myself were on him. The captain sat down astride of the fellow’s back, while I secured his gun and clapped my hand over his mouth, to keep him from calling for assistance. A second later Alano and the newspaper man came up, and the Spaniard was our prisoner.
“Now bring the horses over, as quickly as possible!” said the captain to his son and Burnham. “Mark and I will guard this fellow.”
At once Alano and Burnham departed. The prisoner struggled wildly to escape, but we held him fast, and presently Captain Guerez pulled out his sword and pointed it at the fellow’s throat.
“Not a sound, on your life!” he commanded in Spanish, and the prisoner became mute instantly.
The sharpness of the lightning and the deafening thunder had frightened our animals a good deal, and Alano and the newspaper man had all they could do to bring them up the embankment, which in one spot was quite steep. Just as the railroad tracks were reached one of the horses broke away, and with a loud snort ran down the road, his hoofs clattering loudly on the ties and the iron rails. Alano endeavored to catch him, with the result that another broke loose and went up the road in the same fashion.
“Halte!” came from half a dozen different directions, and as if by magic as many Spanish sentries showed themselves along the embankment. A flash of lightning revealed Alano and Burnham, and crack! crack! crack! went three carbines almost simultaneously. The alarm was taken up on several sides, and soon we found the best part of a company of Spanish soldiery swooping down upon us.
THE BATTLE AT THE RAILROAD EMBANKMENT.
“We are lost!” cried my Cuban chum, as he came stumbling down to where his father and I stood, with our prisoner between us.
“We’re in for it, that’s a fact!” ejaculated Gilbert Burnham, as he came after Alano, bringing the remaining two horses. “Come on, can’t we ride two on a horse and escape them?”
Captain Guerez shook his head. There was no time left to answer, for some of the soldiers were already less than a score of yards away. The captain waved his hand and ran off, followed by all of us, and leaving our late prisoner standing with mouth wide open in amazement.
To try to go back whence we had come, and thus expose ourselves on the top of the railroad embankment, would have been foolhardy. Instead, the captain led the way directly into a grove of sapodilla trees some distance up the track.
Our Spanish pursuers called upon us to halt, not once, but many times; and when we did not heed their repeated commands, they opened firein a manner which made us feel far from comfortable, for a bullet grazed the captain’s hand, and another whizzed so closely to my ear that I nearly fell from ducking. There may be those who can stand up coolly under fire; but I must confess I am not one of them, and I am willing to give a flying bullet all the room it wishes in which to spend itself.
Hardly had we reached the grove of sapodillas than Captain Guerez swung around and began to use his own pistol in a most effective way, wounding two of the soldiers in advance of the main body of the Spaniards. Seeing this, the rest of us took courage and also opened fire, although I must confess I aimed rather low, having no desire to kill anyone. The cracks from our four pistols brought consternation to our pursuers, and they halted and fell back a dozen paces.
“Come on,” whispered Captain Guerez. “Our only hope is to lose ourselves in the woods. The enemy outnumbers us five to one.”
Away he went again, with all of us close upon his heels. Another volley from the Spaniards rang out, but did no damage, as the trees and brush now hid us from view.
We had passed along a distance of a hundred feet when we heard a crashing in the brush comingfrom a direction opposite to that being taken by ourselves. Fearing another company of Spanish infantry was coming up, Captain Guerez called us to his side.
“Here is a narrow ravine, leading under the railroad tracks,” he said hurriedly. “Let us go down into that and work our way to the other side of the embankment.”
No opposition was made, and into the ravine we fairly tumbled, just as the soldiers came up once more. Bushes and stones hid us from view, and we went on only when the thunder rolled, that no sounds of our progress might reach our enemies' ears.
Ten minutes later found us close to the railroad embankment. But here we came to a halt in dismay. The ravine had been filled up by the recent rains, so that crawling under the tracks was out of the question.
“Now what is to be done?” asked Alano in a low voice. “We can’t stay here, that’s certain.”
“Some of the soldiers are coming up the ravine after us!” exclaimed Burnham a moment later. “Hark!”
We listened, and found that he was right. At least half a dozen of the Spaniards were advancing in a cautious manner, their guns ready for immediate use.
“Let us climb this tree,” said Captain Guerez,pointing to a tall monarch of the forest, whose spreading branches reached nearly to the opposite side of the embankment. “Be quick, all of you!”
He leaped for the tree, and Burnham followed. I gave Alano a boost up, and he gave me a hand; and inside of forty seconds all of us were safe for the time being. As we rested on the upper branches of the tree we heard the far-away whistle of a locomotive.
“A train is coming!” said Alano.
“If we could only board it!” I put in eagerly. “It would carry us part of the way to Guantanamo, wouldn’t it?”
“It would—going in that direction,” said Captain Guerez, with a wave of his hand. “But the train may be filled with Spanish soldiers, and what then?”
The locomotive kept coming closer, and presently we heard the rattle of the cars as they bumped over the rails, which were far from being well ballasted. The captain was peering out from behind the tree branches, and he gave a deep breath as a flash of lightning lit up the scene.
“It is a freight train!” he exclaimed softly. “Come down to the branch below, all of you!”
We understood him, and one after anotherwe dropped to the branch mentioned. It was directly over the track upon which the freight was pounding along, and we calculated that the distance to the top of the tallest cars would not be over six or eight feet.
“We can’t jump with that train running at twenty or thirty miles an hour,” I said, with a shudder. “We’ll slip and be ground to death under the car wheels.”
“Mark is right—a jump is out of the question,” added Gilbert Burnham. “I’d rather risk staying here.”
“The train may have supplies for the soldiers about here and stop,” whispered Captain Guerez. “Watch your chances.”
On and on came the train, and in a few seconds more we realized that those in charge had no intention of stopping in that vicinity. Yet as the headlight came closer we lowered ourselves in readiness to make a leap.
Suddenly there was a shrill whistle, and down went some of the brakes on the long train. I glanced in the opposite direction from whence the freight had come and saw on the tracks one of our runaway horses, which stood staring in alarm at the glaring headlight. Evidently the engineer had been startled by the sudden appearance of the animal, and, not realizing exactly what it was, had, on the impulse of the moment,reversed the locomotive’s lever and whistled for brakes.
The train could not be stopped in time to save the beast, which was struck and sent rolling over and over down the embankment. Then the train went on still further, the locomotive finally coming to a halt about fifty yards beyond the tree upon which all of us were perched.
As it slowed up the top of one of the tall freight cars rolled directly beneath us. Giving the word to follow, Captain Guerez let himself drop on the “running board,” as it is termed by train hands—that is, the board running along the center of the top of a freight car from end to end. All of us came after him, the quartette landing in a row less than two yards apart. As soon as each had struck in safety he lay down flat, that those below the embankment, as well as those on the train, might not have such an easy chance to discover us.
Scarcely had the train halted than some of the Spanish soldiers came running up to ascertain why it had stopped. But their shouting evidently frightened the train hands, who possibly thought a band of rebels was at hand and that the horse on the track had been a ruse to stop them. The engineer whistled to release brakes, and put on a full head of steam, and on went thetrain, while the Spaniards yelled in dismay and flourished their weapons.
“By Jove! that was a move worth making!” remarked Gilbert Burnham, after the long train had covered at least an eighth of a mile. “We are clear of those chaps now.”
“Where will this train take us?” asked Alano of his father.
“The next village is Comaro, but I do not know if the train will stop,” was the reply. “Two miles further on is Los Harmona, but we must not go there, for I understand there is a strong Spanish garrison stationed in the village. Let us get down between the cars and watch our chance to spring off. If we remain here some of the brakemen may come along and give the alarm.”
The lightning and thunder were decreasing in violence, and the rain had settled into a thin but steady downpour. The captain was nearest to the front end of the freight car, and led the way down the narrow ladder to the platform below. Once on this, and on the platform of the car ahead, we divided into pairs on either side and awaited a favorable opportunity to leave the train.
Comaro was reached and passed in the darkness, and the long freight began to pull out for Los Harmona at a steady rate of twenty-fivemiles or more an hour. No chance had been given us to jump off without great danger, and now it began to look as if we would be carried right into the fortified town, or further.
“Some distance below here is, unless I am greatly mistaken, a wide patch of meadow,” said Captain Guerez. “I do not believe a leap into the water and mud would hurt any of us very much, and, under the circumstances, I am in favor of taking the risk, in preference to being carried into Los Harmona.”
“If you go I will follow,” I said, and Alano said the same.
“Well, I don’t intend to be left alone,” smiled Burnham grimly. “But what will we do after we strike the meadow?”
“The meadow is not very broad,” answered the captain, “and beyond is a highway leading almost directly into Guantanamo. We will take to this highway and trust to luck to get on as originally intended. Of course the loss of our horses is a heavy one, but this cannot be helped. If we—— Ha!”
Captain Guerez stopped short, and not without good reason. From the interior of the freight car had come the unmistakable sounds of human voices. We heard first two men talking, then a dozen or more. The conversation was in Spanish, and I did not understand it. But Alanoand his father did, and my Cuban chum turned to Burnham and me in high excitement.
“What do you think!” he whispered. “This car is filled with Spanish soldiers bound for Guantanamo! They heard us talking, and they are going to investigate and find out where we are and who we are!”
A LEAP IN THE DARK.
My readers can readily believe that all of us were much alarmed at the prospect ahead. We had not dreamed that the freight car contained soldiers, although all of us had heard that the Spanish Government was transporting troops by this means wherever the railroads ran.
Alano had scarcely explained the situation, when Captain Guerez motioned us to withdraw from the side edges of the platforms, so that the soldiers looking out of the broad side doors of the car could not catch sight of us.
“We must jump as soon as the meadow appears,” whispered the captain. “Be prepared, all of you.”
He had scarcely finished when we heard a clatter of feet, and knew that one or more of the Spaniards had crawled from a side door to the top of the car. Then followed cautious footsteps in the direction of the rear platform. Finding no one there, the Spanish soldiers came forward.
“Ha!” cried one, as he espied Captain Guerez. “Who are you?”
“Friends,” was the reply, of course in Spanish.
“Friends? And why ride out here, then?”
“We have no money,capitan. We are dirt-poor.”
“And where do you intend to go?”
“Los Harmona—if the train will ever reach there.”
“What will you do there?”
“We may join the Spanish soldiery,capitan—if you will take us.”
“Ha!” The Spanish officer tugged at his heavy mustache. He was only a sergeant, but it pleased him to be called captain. “Why did you not come into the car instead of sneaking around outside? If you want to become soldiers we will take you along fast enough. But you must not play us false. Come up here.”
“I am afraid—I may fall off,” answered Alano’s father, in a trembling voice.
All the while the conversation had been carried on he had been peering sharply ahead for the meadow and the water to appear. We now shot out of the woods, and on either side could be seen long stretches of swamp. He turned to us and spoke in English. “All ready to jump?”
“Yes,” we answered in concert.
“Then jump—all together!”
And away we went, leaving the rude steps of the freight cars with an impetus that took each several yards from the tracks. I made a straight leap and landed on my feet, but as quickly rolled over on my shoulder in the wet grass. Burnham came close to me, but took a header, which filled his nose and one ear with black mud. Alano and his father were on the opposite side of the track.
A pistol shot rang out, followed by half a dozen more, but the bullets did not reach any of us. In a moment the long train had rolled out of sight. We watched its rear light for fully an eighth of a mile, when it disappeared around a bend behind a bit of upland.
“Hullo, Mark, how are you?” It was the voice of Alano, who came up on the tracks directly the freight had passed. He was not hurt in the least. Captain Guerez had scratched one arm on a bit of low brush, but outside of this the entire party was uninjured.
“Come now, follow me; there is no time to be lost,” said the captain. “Those soldiers may take it into their heads to have the train run back in search of us.”
“Yes, that’s true,” said Burnham. “Which way now?”
“We’ll walk back on the tracks until we reach dry ground.”
The plunge into the wet meadow had completed the work of the rain in soaking us to the skin, but as the night was warm we did not mind this. Keeping our eyes on the alert for more Spanish sentries, we hurried along the railroad embankment for a distance of several hundred yards. Then we left the tracks and took a trail leading southward.
Our various adventures for the past few hours had completely exhausted Burnham, while the others of the party were greatly fatigued. The newspaper man was in favor of stopping under a clump of palm trees and resting, but Captain Guerez demurred.
“We’ll reach a hut or a house ere long,” he said. “And there the accommodations will be much better.”
“Well, we can’t reach a resting-place too soon,” grumbled Burnham. “I can scarcely drag one foot after the other, and it’s so close my clothing is fairly steaming.”
“You are no worse off than any of us,” I made answer, as cheerfully as I could.
The highway was a stony one, and the rains had washed away what little dirt there was, making walking difficult. However, we had not very far to go. A turn brought us in sight of a long, low house built of logs and thatched with palm; and Captain Guerez called a halt.
“I’ll go forward and investigate,” he said. “In the meantime be on guard against anybody following us from the railroad.”
He was gone less than quarter of an hour, and on returning said it was all right. A very old man named Murillo was in sole charge of the house, and he was a strong Cuban sympathizer.
The place reached, we lost no time in divesting ourselves of a portion of our clothing and making ourselves comfortable in some grass hammocks spread between the house posts.
“We ought to start early in the morning,” I said, my thoughts still on my father.
“We will start at four o’clock,” announced Captain Guerez. “So make the most of your rest.”
The captain had intended to divide up the night into watches, but Murillo came forward and volunteered to stand guard.
“You go to sleep,” he said in Spanish. “I sleep when you are gone. I know how to watch.”
Feeling the old man could be trusted, we all retired. In a few minutes Burnham was snoring, and shortly after the others also dropped asleep.
It lacked yet a few minutes of four o’clock in the morning when Murillo came stealing into the house and shook everyone by the shoulder.
“Spanish soldiers down by the railroad,” he explained hurriedly. “They intend to come up this road.”
“Then let us be off!” cried Captain Guerez.
All of us were already arranging our toilets. In a few seconds we were ready to leave, and Murillo was paid for the trouble he had taken in our behalf.
“Have they horses?” asked Captain Guerez; and Murillo nodded.
“Then come, all of you!” cried Alano’s father. He started out of the door, and we came after him. Hardly, however, had he taken a dozen steps than he pushed each of us behind a clump of bushes.
“Soldiers!” he muttered. “They are coming from the opposite direction!”
“We are caught in a trap!” exclaimed Alano. “We cannot go back, and we cannot go forward.”
“Here is a how d’ye do!” put in Burnham. “I’m sure I don’t want to take to those beastly swamps.”
Murillo had followed us to the doorway. His face took on a troubled look, for he wanted us to get away in safety.
“More soldiers coming the other way!” he cried. “What will you do? Ah, I have it! Come into the house at once?”
“But what will you do?” queried Captain Guerez impatiently.
“I’ll show you. Come, and you shall be safe.”
The old man spoke so confidently that we followed him inside at once. Pushing aside a rude table which stood over a rush matting, he caught hold of a portion of the flooring. A strong pull, and up came a trapdoor, revealing a hole of inky darkness beneath.
“Into that, all of you!” he cried; and down we went, to find ourselves in a rude cellar about ten feet square and six feet deep. As soon as the last of us was down, Murillo replaced the trapdoor, matting, and table, and we heard him throw off some of his clothing and leap into one of the hammocks.
We had been left in total darkness, and now stood perfectly still and listened intently. Not more than three minutes passed, when we heard the tramping of horses' hoofs on the rocky road. The house reached, the animals came to a halt, and several soldiers dismounted. A rough voice yelled out in Spanish:
“Hullo, in there! Who lives here?”
“I do,” replied Murillo, with a start and a yawn, as though he had just awakened from a long sleep.
“Have you seen anything of four strangers around here?”
“No,capitan.”
There was a pause, and the leader of the soldiers came tramping inside.
“You are sure you are telling me the truth?”
“Yes,capitan.”
“It is strange.”
The newcomer was about to go on, when a shout from outside attracted his attention. The soldiers from the opposite direction had come up. A short conference was held, of which, however, we heard nothing distinctly. Then some of the soldiers came inside, and we heard their heavy boots moving directly over our heads.
“You say you saw nobody?” was again asked of Murillo.
“No,capitan, not a soul. But then I have been asleep since evening. I am an old man, and I need a great deal of rest.”
“You are lazy, no doubt,” came with a rough laugh. “Andros, what do you think?”
“What should I think? There seems to be no one around. We might make a search.”
“Yes, we’ll do that. It can do no harm. Tell the other men to scour the woods and brush.”
The order was given; and a moment later those who had first come in began to search the house.
CAPTAIN GUEREZ MAKES A DISCOVERY.
We listened in much consternation while the soldiers overhead moved from one portion of the dwelling to another. Would they discover us?
“Be prepared for anything!” whispered Captain Guerez, and they were the only words spoken.
There was no second story to the house, so the search through the rooms took but a few minutes, and the soldiers came to a halt around the table.
“I suppose you are a rebel,” said the officer abruptly to Murillo.
“I am an old man,capitan; I wish to end my days in peace.”
“I know your kind.” The officer paused. “Well, comrades, we may as well be on our way.”
These words caused me to utter a deep sigh of relief. They had not discovered us, and now they were going away. But the next words sent a chill down my backbone.
“Can there be a cellar under the house?” questioned one of the others.
“There is no cellar,” said Murillo simply. “There is a little hole, half full of water. You can look down if you wish.”
“We will.”
What could it mean? We held our breath as the old man led the way to the apartment used as a kitchen. We heard him raise another trapdoor, some distance behind us.
“Humph! A man would be a fool to get in there!” we heard the officer remark, and then the trap was dropped again into place. “We will go.”
The soldiers passed through the kitchen and toward the front door. One of them must have taken a last look around, for suddenly he uttered a cry.
“Ha! what is this? A collar and a tie! Do you wear these?”
“Confound it, my collar and tie,” murmured Burnham. “I knew I forgot something.”
“They belong to my nephew,” said Murillo calmly.
“Your nephew? Where is he?”
“He is now at Baiquiri at work on one of the shipping wharves.”
“He must dress well?” remarked the officer dryly.
“Alfredo earns much money. He was educated at the college.”
The officer tapped the floor with his heavy boot. “You tell a good story,” he said. “Beware lest we find you have been lying. Come!” The last word to his companions.
The soldiers went outside, and we heard a call to the men sent out into the woods and brush. A few minutes later there followed the sounds of horses' hoofs receding in the distance.
“Now we can get out of this hole, thank goodness!” burst out Burnham.
“Wait—Murillo will inform us when the coast is clear,” said Captain Guerez.
Fully five minutes passed before the old man raised the trap. His face wore a satisfied smile.
“We fooled them nicely, did we not,capitan?” he said.
“You did well, Murillo,” said Alano’s father. “Here is a gold piece for your trouble.”
But the old man drew back, and would not accept the coin. “I did it not alone for you,” he said. “Cuba libre!”
We all thanked him heartily, and then Alano’s father asked him in what directions the two bodies of soldiers had gone. That from the railroad had taken the highway to Canistero.
“We will have to take another road, not quite so short,” said Captain Guerez. “It is unfortunate, Mark, but it cannot be helped. Forward!”
Much refreshed by our night’s rest, we struck out rapidly, and by noon calculated that we had covered eight miles, a goodly distance in that hilly district. A little before noon we came out on a clearing overlooking a long stretch of valley and swamp lands.
“Just below here is the village of San Luardo,” said the captain. “It is there we ought to find out something concerning your father. It may be possible he is quartered somewhere in the village, that is, if the journey to Santiago has been delayed.”
“Is the village under guard?” I questioned anxiously, my heart giving a bound when I thought how close to my parent I might be.
“Yes, every village in this district is under Spanish rule.”
“Then how can we get in?”
“I have been trying to form a plan,” was the slow answer. “Let us get a little closer, and I will see what can be done.”
We descended from the clearing, and just before noon reached the outskirts of the village. The captain had been right; two companies of freshly imported soldiers were in control of San Luardo.
As we surveyed the situation from a bit of woodland, we heard the heavy creaking of an ox-cart on the stony road. Looking down wesaw the turnout coming slowly along, loaded with hay and straw, probably for the horses of the Spanish soldiers.
“I will go into town in that!” cried Captain Guerez. “Stop that fellow!” and he indicated the driver.
A rush was made, and the ox-cart came to a sudden halt. When the dirty fellow who drove it saw us he turned pale, but a few words from Alano’s father soon reassured him, and he readily consented to allow the captain to hide himself under the hay and straw and thus pass the guards. The driver was working for the Spaniards, but his heart was with the insurgents.
Stripping himself of his coat and everything else which gave him a military appearance, Captain Guerez rubbed a little dirt on his face, neck, and hands, leaped into the ox-cart, and dove beneath the straw. If discovered, he intended to explain that he was out of work and was willing to do anything the Spaniards desired.
Once more the cart creaked on its way toward the village, and we were left alone. Withdrawing to a safe and cool shelter, we sat down to rest and to await the captain’s return.
“I wish I could have gone along,” I said to my chum.
“Father can do the work better alone,” repliedAlano, who had great faith in his parent’s ability.
“Perhaps so. He wouldn’t want me anyway—after the mess I made of it when I discovered Mr. Burnham.”
“Mess!” cried the newspaper man. “Why, it was through you that I escaped, my boy. You’re all right. But I fancy Captain Guerez knows just exactly what he wishes to do, and probably one person can do it better than two.”
“The fact that you are an American would make everyone regard you with suspicion,” added Alano.
Two hours went by, which to me seemed a day, and then came a peculiar whistle from the road. At once Alano leaped to his feet.
“My father is back!” he announced, and we ran forth to meet the captain. At first we hardly knew him, for he had taken some grease and some burnt cork and transformed himself into a negro. He was out of breath, and one of his hands was much scratched.
“I had a narrow escape,” he panted. “Come with me! There is not a moment to lose!”
Although almost out of breath, he ran off, and we went with him through the woods and up the side of a small hill, which course took us around San Luardo. Not until the town was left well behind did the captain stop and throw himselfon a patch of deep grass. He was too exhausted to speak, yet he saw my anxiety and smiled.
“Don’t worry, Mark; so far your father is safe,” were his brief words.
“That’s good!” I cried, with a weight lifted from my heart, for during the wait I had conjured up any number of dreadful thoughts concerning my parent.
“Yes, so far he is safe. They have him a prisoner at San Luardo, but they intend to remove him to Santiago before nightfall.”
“Before nightfall!” My heart seemed to stop beating. “How will they do it? Can’t we stop them and rescue him?”
“We must rescue him,” was the reply. “That is why I hurried back. If they get him to Santiago he will be—that is, Mark, I am afraid you will never see him alive again.”
I understood Captain Guerez only too well. My father was doomed to die the death of a spy, and he would be shot very shortly after his removal to the seaport town.