THE FLAG OF CUBA.
“We shall have a race, Don Manada—a battle royal. The new United States
cruiser America has just steamed out of the bay ahead of us and we shall
soon be abreast of her.”
“A race, Senor Van Zandt? Santissimo! We shall have racing enough before
we get to Cuba without challenging unsuspicious warships and courting
investigation.”
Van Zandt laughs at the Cuban gentleman’s anxious tones. “I told you, my
friend, that once on the high seas nothing short of a cannon ball can
overhaul the Semiramis. Come on deck in an hour, senor, and I will prove
to you what may now seem an idle boast.”
For excellent reasons Manada is keeping in the background as much as
possible. But he finds the luxurious cabin of the Semiramis much to his
liking, and he smokes and dreams of “Cuba Libre” while the Semiramis
steams down the bay and out upon the bosom of the Atlantic, and when he
goes on deck, wrapped in the long semi-military cloak which effectually
conceals his person, the sight which greets his eyes fills him with
apprehension, though challenging his liveliest interest.
The battle of steam is well under way. The America is less than a dozen
lengths astern and presents a beautiful sight to the people on the
Semiramis. The glistening white hull plows the water at a speed which
dashes the spray high in air from the delicately carved cut-water, and
the triple funnels vomit great clouds of inky smoke. Manada’s eyes rove
to the United States flag whipping out in the breeze and he mutters a
favorite malediction as he thinks of the insurgent arms stored in the
hold of the Semiramis.
But as he grows aware that the yacht of his strange friend is drawing
away from the American man-of-war he becomes the incarnation of
suppressed excitement. And when Van Zandt claps him on the shoulder and
shouts in his ear, “Well, senor, what do you think of the Semiramis?”
the Cuban shouts back enthusiastically: “El Semiramis es un diablo
verdadero!”
Without the change of a muscle in his weather-beaten face, Capt. Sam
Beals paces the bridge of the Semiramis, while the exciting duel of
steam and steel continues, not a gesture or ejaculation indicating that
the beautiful yacht is literally steaming away from the cruiser—a vessel
heralded far and wide as the speediest craft among all the navies of the
world.
But if the chief officer is apparently undisturbed, the same cannot be
said of any other person on board. The excitement of the race has roused
the owner of the yacht from his cold reserve, and as with sparkling eye
and eager step he hurries from the engine-room to the quarterdeck,
noting with each return the slowly but steadily lengthening space of
open water that separates the two vessels, Louise Hathaway mentally
retracts her decision that Phillip Van Zandt is cold and unsympathetic.
As for Miss Hathaway herself, she is thoroughly imbued with the spirit
of the race. Securely sheltered from the fierce rush of wind which the
tremendous speed of the Semiramis causes to sweep over the deck, she
makes an attractive picture as she watches the race. The svelte form is
outlined in a gown of navy blue; the beautiful face is framed in a
golden aureole of wavy locks; the matchless blue eyes glisten with
unwonted excitement, and a delicate color tints her cheek. It is not
strange that Van Zandt divides his time between the race and his fair
passenger.
Even pale, stern-faced Cyrus Felton has for the nonce became stirred by
the infectious excitement, and with a zest that he has not manifested
for years he watches the unavailing efforts of the warship to overhaul
the pleasure craft.
“Isn’t there more and blacker smoke pouring from the America’s stacks?”
inquires Miss Hathaway, as the owner of the Semiramis returns from a
brief interview with the engineer, with the cheery assurance that the
engines are running as smoothly as if the yacht were moving at
quarter-speed.
“She is surely making more smoke and, if I mistake not, more speed,”
answers Van Zandt, a shade of anxiety replacing his almost boyish
enthusiasm. “Mr. Beals, what think you of it?” turning to the executive
officer; “is she gaining on us?”
“She has just put on her forced draught, sir, and is now running at her
top speed. She is gaining, now, but—”
Without finishing the sentence the captain presses the electric bells
which communicate with the engine-room. It is soon apparent that the
yacht has not until now reached the limit of her speed. The regular
vibrations that mark the revolutions of the twin shafts become one
prolonged shiver, and the black hull is hurled through the water at
incredible speed.
The effect becomes noticeable in short order. The white mass astern
grows “fine by degrees and beautifully less,” and as Capt. Beals closes
his glass with a snap he remarks, complacently: “She’ll be hull down in
an hour or two if she doesn’t blow out a cylinder head before that
time.”
Just about this time Van Zandt and Manada go below and reappear a few
moments later with a closely rolled silken flag, which Van Zandt hands
to the captain with the command that it be hoisted to the breeze.
Without even examining the emblem, the imperturbable executive officer
bends the silken roll upon the halyards. A few hearty pulls by a
stalwart blue-jacket and the ensign reaches the masthead, where the
stiff breeze quickly breaks it out.
As a singular flag, with a solitary star in a triangular field of blue,
is revealed to the wondering gaze of passengers and crew, Don Manada
reverently bares his head and his lips frame the words “Viva Cuba
Libre!”
Suddenly there is borne to their ears, above the whistling of the wind
and the mighty pulsations of the machinery, the sullen boom of cannon.
All eyes instinctively seek the America. A puff of white issues from her
forward barbette, and as Capt. Beals returns his glass to its socket, he
tells Van Zandt:
“She has saluted the Semiramis and dipped her ensign. She is bearing off
to windward and gives up the race.”
“She saw the flag, do you think?”
“Doubtless,” Mr. Beals replies, with a grim smile. “Shall we slacken
speed, sir?”
“Only to natural draught. I wish to make our destination as soon as
possible. And by the way, Mr. Beals, you may haul down the flag. It has
served its purpose for the present,” pointing to the enraptured Don
Manada.
Then Van Zandt conducts his passengers below and is prepared for Miss
Hathaway’s question:
“Is that your personal emblem, Mr. Van Zandt?”
“No, Miss Hathaway,” is the calm response. “That is the flag of the
Cuban Republic. You are now under the protection of the provisional
government of the gem of the Antilles. Permit me to introduce to you Don
Rafael Manada, minister of war of the infant republic. Long may she
wave!”
Manada bows low and looks vastly gratified by the official title
jestingly conferred upon him. Cyrus Felton’s face, however, is darkened
by a frown and Miss Hathaway is not at all pleased.
“Will you not take seats and make yourselves entirely easy?” Van Zandt
proceeds, unruffled by the cold demeanor of his passengers.
“Perhaps I should have told you before you embarked,” explains Van
Zandt, with a glance at Miss Hathaway that does much toward reassuring
her, “that although we are bound for Cuba, our primary destination is
not Santiago. The Semiramis has a cargo of arms and ammunition which I
have undertaken to deliver to the Cuban revolutionists. Senor Manada is
the supercargo. Believe me,” he adds, as Miss Hathaway pales at the word
“revolutionists,” “there is absolutely no danger, not the slightest—and
least of all to you. Even if my yacht were apprehended—though I do not
believe there is a vessel on the waters of the globe that can overtake
her—you would be subject to no annoyance and but little inconvenience.
After we have discharged our cargo we will proceed at once to Santiago,
and you will be landed much earlier than if you had gone by a regular
steamer. And I am sure this vessel is fully as comfortable as any of
those stuffy, crowded craft.”
“Then we are aboard a filibustering expedition,” declares Mr. Felton,
harshly.
“Hardly that. You are on board an American yacht, manned by American
seamen, with just one Cuban patriot, a man as honorable and true as
yourself, Mr. Felton.” Van Zandt’s voice is stern and dignified. “I am
not a Cuban partisan, but liberty to me is as precious as the air of
heaven. Until a few hours ago there was no thought of the cargo now
beneath us. The arms were designed to go by another vessel. But at the
last moment the plans of the patriots were betrayed. Then it was that I
stepped in and offered the services of my yacht to convey the
much-needed aid to the down-trodden men of the Antilles.”
“And meanwhile you have jeopardized the safety of Miss Hathaway and
myself,” Mr. Felton sneers. “Suppose we are intercepted by a Spanish
warship? Think you that they will not regard us—myself at least—as
members of this expedition? What then, Mr. Van Zandt?”
The latter’s lip curls slightly. “Again I assure you that there is
absolutely no danger. I will answer for your safety on this voyage with
my life.” Then to Louise, with a look that brings a flush to her fair
face: “Have you no faith in the yacht, if not in her owner, Miss
Hathaway?”
“I think that Mr. Felton is needlessly alarmed,” is that young lady’s
composed reply. “As for the yacht, I am quite carried away with it,
figuratively as well as literally. This is my first voyage, Mr. Van
Zandt, and if you will insure me against mal de mer, that dread bugbear
of the voyageur, I will try to brave, with becoming equanimity, the
perils of the Spanish main.”
Cyrus Felton, however, is decidedly alarmed by Van Zandt’s admission of
the incidental errand of the Semiramis. A strong distrust of her owner
begins to grow in his mind; this added to the qualms of seasickness,
which have begun to make themselves felt, renders him thoroughly
miserable in spirit and body, and without raising another objection he
asks to be shown to his stateroom.
It must be confessed that Van Zandt does not manifest heartfelt regret
at Mr. Felton’s unhappy condition, and even Miss Hathaway is somewhat
perfunctory in her expressions of sympathy. An unaccountable confidence
in the handsome owner of the Semiramis has replaced her early distrust,
and, happily exempt from the “dread bugbear of the voyageur,” she
accepts with pleasure Van Zandt’s proposition that they explore the
yacht.
The Semiramis is fair to look upon, from capstan to rudder, and from
keelson to main truck. The Vermont maiden marvels at the comfort,
convenience and luxury on every hand. The palatial saloon, with its
unusually high ceiling, furnished in oriental magnificence and including
a superb upright piano, Miss Hathaway’s eye notes approvingly; the
commodious staterooms, arranged en suite, with the respectable appearing
stewardess in charge; the plain but ample and scrupulously neat quarters
of the crew; the engine-room, with its masses of highly polished steel
and brass—all possess elements of interest to the girl.
That night, as she lays her head on her pillow, “rocked in the cradle of
the deep,” she suddenly starts as if from a dream. For there comes to
her ears again, from somewhere, that melody strangely sweet, yet filled
with subtle melancholy, the andante of her beloved sonata.
Then a light goes up, as the Germans have the saying, and Miss Hathaway
understands now her blindly placed confidence in the master of the
Semiramis. For Don Caesar de Bazan is Phillip Van Zandt and—and—
But what Miss Hathaway thinks about as Atlantic’s waves lull her to
slumber would certainly interest the young man who sits up far into the
night, chatting and smoking with the “minister of war of the Cuban
republic” while the Semiramis rushes on her eventful voyage to the
tropics.
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