NED AND THE MULE-DRIVER.
We had two sets of native auxiliaries. One consisted of a fine lot of
Spanish baggage-mules, strong hardy beasts, thoroughly acclimatized,
and remarkably sure-footed; and the other a little bevy of guides,
interpreters, and spies, without whose aid we could have accomplished
little or nothing, for we were entirely ignorant of the country we were
about to traverse, and our knowledge of Spanish was confined to about a
dozen words or so.
The spies, some of whom were negroes and the others half-castes,
assured us that they had tracked the mutineers for some distance, and
were well acquainted with the route they had taken, which was a beaten
track leading straight into the interior. These swarthy fellows also
asserted that a body of insurgents had accompanied the lawless crew
of the _Flying-fish_ in their retreat. We questioned them as to any
knowledge they might have acquired with regard to the whereabouts
of the valuable cargo which it was the object of our expedition to
recover. About that they declared that they knew nothing whatever,
although they confessed to having heard rumours that large bodies of
men were passing and repassing between the shores of the creek and
the spurs of the inland hills during the whole of the day before the
_Rattler’s_ arrival upon the scene.
“’Tis a good thing we’ve no field-guns and limber-waggons with us,”
said Ned Burton to me as we marched along; “they’d have delayed us
terribly, and prevented our making forced marches.”
“You think we’ll soon come up with them then?” said I. “For my own part
I hope the fun won’t be over too soon. If we returned victorious in a
couple of days, the fellows left on board would be sure to jeer at us,
and say we had only gone for a sort of picnic into the mountains.”
“Ah, ’twill take more than a couple of days even under the
most favourable circumstances,” answered Ned. “I take it these
merchant-service fellows haven’t got marching-legs, so to speak, and
are perhaps encumbered with wounded men, but still they’ve got a pretty
fair start, you see, and that ain’t a thing to be sneezed at.”
“The difficulty will be to find where they have hidden away the booty,”
I said; “no doubt the insurgents have put them up to a wrinkle or two,
knowing every inch of the country as they do.”
“Doesn’t the _Rattler_ look jolly?” exclaimed an enthusiastic voice at
my elbow.
I turned and beheld Fitzgerald, who still had a slight limp as a legacy
from the morning’s _fracas_.
“Poor old ‘hop-and-go-one,’ what’s he trying to say?” I asked in a
jocose tone, and clapping him on the shoulder rather harder than was
altogether necessary.
“‘Do you bite your thumb at me, sir?’” demanded Fitzgerald, tapping his
sword-hilt with his left hand, and trying hard but very unsuccessfully
not to laugh.
“‘I do bite my thumb, sir,’” I answered promptly, and trying to put on
a swashbuckler air; “but I need not say that I should infinitely prefer
to bite yours or even Mr. Triggs’s.”
“Then old ‘hop-and-go-one’ and old ‘hop-o’-my thumb’ would be sworn
chums for ever and ever,” laughed Fitzgerald; “but at this moment I
don’t want to fall out with you, honour bright! I want you to look back
at that magnificent view, and the dear old _Rattler_ in the middle of
it. I never saw a more lovely picture!”
Fitz was an artist of no mean capacity, and I strongly suspected
that he had at that moment a paint-box and brushes in his pocket.
Hand-cameras would have enchanted him, but they had not then been
invented.
It certainly was a lovely view, and I felt grateful to my brother-middy
for calling my attention to it.
We had been winding gradually along the summit of a low range of
hills, on the outermost spur of which was situated the fort we had
just evacuated. The gradient was upwards, though in no place steep,
and we had now reached a somewhat extensive plateau covered with short
springy sward. From this point of vantage we had a full and extensive
view of the winding tortuous creek; the hills, clad with palm groves,
which enclosed it; and the broad blue sea beyond, glittering in the
sunshine, and here and there barred with purple cloud-shadows. For the
primrose streaks of colour in the sky had melted away as if by magic,
and the glorious sun had recalled a sleeping world to life. In the
roadstead our beautiful frigate lay calmly and serenely at anchor,
her guns frowning from the portholes, and her shapely hull and taut
spars and rigging reflected with extraordinary fidelity in the waters
which appeared to sleep in the warm rays of the sun. Astern lay the
_Flying-fish_, which, though a well-built vessel, lacked the trim
appearance and impressiveness of the British man-of-war. Above, the
blue vault of heaven stretched away into limitless infinity, its tint
of deepest azure only broken here and there by a few sluggishly-moving
clouds and the white wings of innumerable sea-gulls.
As we gazed admiringly at our floating home we saw the proud white
ensign slowly ascend to her gaff, drooping listlessly in the stagnant
air; and the distant strains of “God save the Queen” came faintly to
our ears through the still, clear atmosphere of a Cuban early morning.
“Eight bells!” I cried. “If we were on board the old hooker, Fitz, we
should be just sitting down to eat salt-junk and swill gunroom catlap.”
“Instead of which we’re out upon the war-path,” said Fitzgerald, “and,
like Fenimore Cooper’s Indian braves, are dying to scalp the enemy.”
A halt was called just at this moment on account of a stampede amongst
some of the baggage-mules.
The gunnery lieutenant, who was very anxious to push on and find traces
of the enemy, was exceedingly angry at this unlooked-for delay.
“Mr. Darcy,” he sang out to me, “ascertain at once the cause of that
stampede among the mules; and if it was due in any way to the cruelty
of the Spanish drivers, have the delinquents brought before me, and
I’ll give them a lesson they won’t forget in a hurry.”
I touched my cap and ran off to the rear to make inquiries, expecting
endless difficulties in having to conduct an investigation with native
mule-drivers who were most probably as ignorant of the English language
as I was of Spanish.
Meanwhile about a dozen of the mules were careering about wildly in the
neighbouring ravines, pursued by their shouting and screaming owners.
Some of the frightened animals had already rid themselves of their
burdens, and the ground was strewn with bags of biscuit, preserved
provisions, and cases of ammunition.
The worthy Mr. Triggs proved to be a friend in need to me, for on
reaching the spot where the main body of the baggage-animals was
collected, I found him firmly holding a swarthy Cuban by the scruff of
the neck and administering to another portion of his body some hearty
kicks.
“This is the rascal that caused all the mischief with the mules, Mr.
Darcy,” he exclaimed in rather breathless tones as I ran up. “The
cruel brute broke several sticks over the back of a poor mule that
had gone dead lame, and the wretched animal was in such pain and so
frightened that it broke away, and seems to have infected a lot of the
others with its terror.”
I promptly seized the culprit by one arm.
“You come along with me,” I said; “our chief is going to have you
tried by a drumhead court-martial, and perhaps shot, according to the
regulations of war.”
I do not know if the wretch understood what I was saying, but he
commenced to struggle and shout defiantly in his native tongue.
Mr. Triggs, however, seized him by the other arm in an iron grip, and,
in spite of his writhings and kickings, we hurried him forward to the
spot where the gunnery lieutenant was standing awaiting events.
The gunner related to his superior in a few words how he had caught the
culprit in the very act of brutally ill-treating a helpless lame mule.
“Is there an interpreter there?” demanded Mr. Thompson.
A respectable-looking elderly Spaniard stepped forward and took off his
sombrero with a sweeping bow.
“Be good enough to tell this fellow that he is a heartless cowardly
brute,” said the lieutenant sternly, and pointing to the still
defiant-looking mule-driver; “ask him what he means by such conduct.”
The Spaniard interpreted the officer’s words, but the culprit
obstinately and sullenly refused to answer a word.
“Where is the stick with which he belaboured the poor mule?” demanded
the gunnery lieutenant.
“Here it is, sir,” said Ned Burton, coming up at that moment with a
long, business-like cane in his hand.
“We’ll now give him a taste of what the poor mule felt,” said the
lieutenant. “A couple of you smart blue-jackets tie the fellow up to
that stump of a tree.”
The culprit resisted with all his strength, and attempted to bite,
scratch, and kick; but the two brawny seamen made short work of his
struggles, and soon had him securely lashed to the tree.
“One dozen,” said Mr. Thompson, nodding to Ned Burton significantly.
My coxswain touched his cap, grinned, and rolled up his sleeve in a
workmanlike manner.
“Trust me to polish him off!” I heard him mutter to himself; “I can’t
abide them furriners that wreaks their bad temper on dumb animals that
can’t ’it you back agin—smother me if I can!”
As soon as the fellow’s flogging was over, he was turned out of the
camp and told that his services were no longer required. Then, the
scattered mules having been secured again, we once more set out on our
march towards the interior.
The sun had now attained to a considerable altitude in the heavens, and
as there was an absence of wind, even upon the heights, the heat and
glare became intense. Not a single grumble was heard, however, the men
being much too gay and light-hearted to care whether they were baked
like salamanders or not. Our spirits were kept up by the novelty and
excitement of active service on shore and the assurances of the guides
that ere long we should reach the outskirts of a forest, which it would
be necessary to traverse, and where plenty of shade would shield us
from the sun’s overpowering rays.
“Give me old Father Sol and an open country,” observed Ned Burton to
me, “in preference to jungle and the shade of trees. I’d sooner chance
a sunstroke than the ambush of a skulking enemy!”
“You think they may lie in wait for us,” I said. “If they do we shall
give them a drubbing.”
“I wouldn’t put it past them,” said my coxswain. “These Cubans, I
believe, are as wily as sarpents; and as to drubbing them and their
mutinous pals, it’s just a question of whether they’ve the sperrit to
meet us in the open or not. If they _have_, well, we shall just eat ’em
up. Trust the _Rattler_ boys for an out-and-out shindy, Mr. Darcy.”
I was on the point of replying to my coxswain, when my attention was
entirely absorbed by the sudden apparition of a large and compact cloud
of horsemen emerging from behind some steep scarped rocks immediately
in front, and some four or five hundred yards distant from the head of
our column. They appeared to be about to charge us.
“Cavalry, as I’m a living sinner!” exclaimed Ned, slipping a cartridge
into his rifle. “I’m jiggered if that don’t beat everything!”
It was certainly strange to find that the enemy had already secured
some mounted allies. It looked as if we should find this expedition no
child’s play—in fact, a great deal more like catching a Tartar.
“Prepare for cavalry!” thundered the gunnery lieutenant. “Keep steady,
men, and we’ll soon send them to the right about.”
The horsemen were evidently provided with carbines, for as they wheeled
up into position they fired a wild volley at us, and then dashed
forward at full gallop straight in our direction.