THE BEGINNING OF THE TRAIL.
“Don Rafael Manada? Yes, sir! Front, show the gentleman to No. 48.”
A few minutes later Ashley is ushered into one of the most sumptuous and
expensive suites in the big hotel.
He bows gracefully to the tall gentleman who advances to meet his
visitor, bearing in his hand the card that has preceded him. Don Rafael
is a man at whom even the least observant would be likely to take a
second glance. Of perhaps 40 years of age, his hair of raven hue and
unusual abundance is still unflecked by gray. The face is of olive hue,
cleanly shaven save as to heavy mustachios, which by an odd freak of
nature are snow white; heavy eyebrows of the same hue as the hair
surmount eyes of piercing brilliancy; a long, aquiline nose, lips and
mouth a trifle too sensuous for the rest of the features, complete a
singularly interesting countenance.
“You came from the Hemisphere?” queries Don Manada, in melodious tones,
with hardly a trace of the Castilian accent. “I am pleased to greet a
representative of that great journal, whose influence is always cast on
the side of right and justice. I read with the deepest emotions of
gratitude this morning an editorial in your journal protesting against
the proclamation which the administration has issued against the fitting
out of expeditions designed to aid the insurrection in Cuba. Your paper
properly urged that the United States government should recognize the
Cubans as belligerents. Ah, my dear sir, could that be done, Cuba would
be a free republic within the twelvemonth,” finishes Manada,
enthusiastically.
“It was to secure an expression of opinion from you on the outlook in
Cuba and the preparations being made in this country that I have been
commissioned to interview you, Don Rafael,” says Jack Ashley.
“Anything that it would be proper for me to say, as the agent of the
Cuban revolutionary party, I shall be glad to give,” continues Manada,
smilingly.
And now the Cuban patriot becomes imbued with nervous energy as he
reverts to the absorbing hope and ambition of his life—the freedom of
Cuba. He paces the floor with erect, military tread, as he speaks
rapidly:
“This war is not a capricious attempt to found an independence more to
be feared than useful. It is the cordial congregation of Cubans of
various origin, who are convinced that, in the conquest of liberty,
rather than abject abasement, are acquired the virtues necessary to
maintain our freedom. This is no race war.
“In the Spanish inhabitants of Cuba the revolutionists expect to find
such affectionate neutrality or material aid, that through them the war
will be shorter, its disasters less and the subsequent peace more easy
and friendly. We Cubans began the war; the Cubans and Spanish together
will terminate it. If they do not ill-treat us, we will not ill-treat
them. Let them respect and they will be respected. Steel will answer to
steel and friendship to friendship. In the bosom of the son of the
Antilles there is no hatred, and the Cuban salutes in death the Spaniard
whom the cruelty of a conscript army tore from his home and hearth and
brought over to assassinate in many bosoms the freedom to which he
himself aspires. But rather than salute him in death the revolutionists
would like to welcome him in life.”
“Very good, indeed, Don Manada,” comments Ashley as he hastily jots down
a skeleton of the impassioned words of the Cuban.
“Now, to leave generalities,” says Jack, “upon what specific elements of
strength, or of weakness on your opponents’ part do you base your hopes
of ultimate success?”
Manada smiles. “All our elements of strength, nor all the Spanish
sources of weakness, we may not divulge yet. First, and of this I
believe you newspaper men need not be assured, the information that
comes from Cuba or from Madrid is entirely untrustworthy, distorted,
colored and manufactured to suit Spanish ideas and hopes. It tells you
that the insurrection is limited to three or four provinces. Yet you
will notice to-day’s dispatches from Madrid state that a blockade of
every port of Cuba is imminent, large and small, and an additional
squadron of ten Spanish gunboats has been dispatched from Cadiz to aid
the big fleet now patrolling Cuban waters. Think you that the Madrid
government would declare that blockade if the insurrection were limited
to three or four paltry provinces? Bah! I can assure you, while they may
not now be ready or willing to declare themselves, yet touch every Cuban
in the heart, let him whisper to you his sentiments, and you will find
them to a man praying for the success of the revolution. You Americans,
in the full enjoyment of true liberty, can form but a faint idea of the
real situation in Cuba. Imagine a land where no one is free to write or
say anything except what the government judges deem proper! Imagine a
government ever ready to throw you into prison, confiscate your
property, bring ruin to everything that is dear to you on earth, and to
set over you a Spaniard to watch your acts, almost your thoughts! That
is the way we live in Cuba. Of late the number of these spies has been
increased by hordes. They are not all men. Some of them—and the
shrewdest and most harmful to our cause—are women, who ingratiate
themselves with prominent revolutionists, sometimes becoming possessed
of invaluable plans, which they promptly reveal to the Spanish
government. It is believed that some of these women are located in
cities in the United States, where it is thought their presence may be
useful to spy upon the movements of the friends of Cuba in this country.
But of course that is a game two can play at, and we ourselves are not
wholly unaware of the secret plans of the enemy.”
“Reference has been made in some of the dispatches from Key West, Don
Manada, to the fact that the revolutionists have become possessed of a
steamer which has been remarkably successful in evading the Spanish
cruisers and landing men and ammunition from the Dominican and Florida
coasts?”
Manada’s lip curls scornfully at Ashley’s use of the word “evading.”
Then he smiles.
“Did you happen to read in any of the press dispatches an account of the
loss of the Spanish man-of-war Mercedes?”
Ashley has seen a casual reference to the disaster. “She ran on a reef
near the Great Exuma, while pursuing a suspected filibustering steamer,
did she not?”
“The Mercedes was sunk in forty fathoms of water in fair and open fight
with the Cuban cruiser Pearl of the Antilles,” in slow and measured
tones responds Manada, his black eyes glittering. “The Spanish
government has strenuously sought to conceal that fact, but it has
leaked out, and only yesterday I received from Le Director de la Guerra
a copy of El Terredo’s report of the battle. Ah, that was glorious! The
Mercedes went down in less than seven minutes, while the Pearl was
unharmed. Senor Ashley, we have to thank the inventive genius of your
countrymen for the success of our gallant cruiser, for El Terredo states
that it was the wonderful effectiveness of the new dynamite cannon and
the Yankee gunner that accomplished the feat.”
Ashley’s unfailing scent for news assures him that this interview is
good for at least a two-column leader in the Hemisphere. Here is
information that will make a sensation in the morning. The American
public has been wholly in the dark as to this new element in the
insurrection, this Cuban cruiser, with her patent dynamite gun and
Yankee gunner, that has destroyed one of the most powerful of Spain’s
cruisers.
“El Terredo? Is he the captain of the Pearl of the Antilles, Don
Manada?”
“He is, and one of the bravest and most successful of our commanders on
land as well as sea. Why, there is not a cruiser of the Spanish navy now
in Cuban waters that alone would dare engage the Pearl! They are well
aware of her prowess and the skill and bravery of her commander, whom
they have rightly named ‘El Terredo,’ ‘the terror.’
“Then we have other plans the details of which cannot be revealed. Do
you remember how the sinking of De Gama’s Brazilian ironclad was
effected in the revolution in that country? It did not require another
man-of-war to destroy her. Only a little instrument less than five feet
in length—whish! boom!—and the resistless water is gushing in a torrent
through the sides of the ironclad. Ah, warfare is different in these
modern days, Senor Ashley, and victory does not always rest on the side
of the heaviest guns.”
“It is said in a Washington dispatch, Don Manada, that the Spanish
minister has received information that a formidable filibustering
expedition is about to leave this city for Cuba. Have you any knowledge
of the fact?”
Manada shrugs his shoulders. “Quien sabe? Are not all vessels clearing
for any port obliged to obtain papers stating their destination? And
does not the President’s proclamation warn against the shipping of arms
and ammunition to Cuba from American ports? But of this be assured—Cuban
patriots will not be without arms and ammunition to bring this war to a
successful conclusion. It is true that is what we most need now.
Ammunition especially is not as plentiful as we could wish, but had we
none at all, with his trusty machete a Cuban patriot is more than a
match for a brace of the puny, boyish conscripts Spain is sending to
find early graves on Cuban soil. In the battle of Siguanoa, of which
also I have just received an authentic account, our comrades finally
charged with their machetes, which they handle with wonderful skill, and
completely routed the Spanish troops. The actual fighting masses of the
revolutionists, senor, the soldados raso, are no mean soldiers, even
from a northerner’s point of view. And they are not all Cuban born or
Spanish born who have settled in Cuba and become identified with the
island. You would be surprised, I doubt not, to learn that not a few of
your own nationality are fighting for human liberty on the side of the
revolutionists.”
“And the character of the Spanish officers?” inquires Ashley, getting
more and more interested.
Manada frowns. “Gen. Truenos, the new captain-general, we know as yet
only by reputation. His chief of staff, the Madrid papers state, is to
be Gen. Murillo, who is now in this country—in this city, if I mistake
not. He poses as a diplomat and is the head of the spy bureau. Of the
other leading Spanish officers in Cuba, they are of the usual
foreign-service character. Some veterans, some young and inexperienced,
seeking to win laurels in this war, a few Spanish noblemen, whom the
exigencies of the family purse have forced into the army. By the way,
attached to the new captain-general’s staff, I learn there is a young
American, a sugar planter. His name, I am told, was Felton, but he
changed it to Alvarez. More Spanish, you see.”
Felton! A question is on Ashley’s tongue, when the utter absurdity of
connecting Ralph Felton’s identity with that of a young Cuban planter
occurs to him and he refrains.
“Well, Don Manada, I am obliged to you for the half-hour you have
accorded me, and I only hope your words will have as convincing an
effect on the readers of the Hemisphere as they have had on me.”
“Thank you, Senor Ashley. I shall ever be pleased to meet you when your
duties may oblige you to seek one of the Cuban revolutionary party.
Adios.”
“Well,” remarks the interviewer to himself, as he stops a moment to
strengthen his memory by a fresh Havana, “if my friend of the bleached
mustachios is not a rainbow chaser of the latest approved political
character, Gen. Truenos and the Spanish army—and navy, too—have
considerable work cut out for them in the vicinity of the Caribbean Sea.
Hello!” he exclaims, staring at a graceful figure that is crossing
Twenty-third Street in his direction. “If that isn’t Miss Louise
Hathaway of Raymond, Vt., my memory for faces is entirely destroyed.”
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