AN AFFRONT AND AN APOLOGY.
The Semiramis rests stationary upon the surface of the water, but there
are scenes of activity in the engine-room. The columns of smoke from her
stacks grow into thick black volumes, and the roar of escaping steam
drowns ordinary conversation.
On deck, officers, passengers and crew are watching the rapidly growing
spot upon the horizon. That the approaching vessel is steaming very fast
is apparent. Her upper works are visible as Capt. Beals signals for the
Semiramis to steam ahead at full speed. The course of the latter is laid
to pass the stranger a mile or two to windward, if she does not change
her present course.
Don Manada has possessed himself of the captain’s glasses and is
earnestly scanning the distant steamer. Suddenly, in a very paroxyism of
joy he embraces the owner of the yacht.
“It is the Pearl!” he cries; “the Pearl of the Antilles! Santisima! Now
will you display the flag of Cuba Libre?” The English language fails to
express the sentiments of the Cuban patriot at this juncture, and he
launches a flood of Castilian that bewilders Van Zandt.
At a nod from the latter, however, Capt. Beals causes the fateful emblem
of Cuba to be run up to the masthead. The silken banner is barely
unfurled by the wind ere there are signs of excitement on board the
strange steamship. A duplicate of the Semiramis’ ensign is displayed,
and then the course of the vessel is changed and she steams rapidly
toward the yacht. Don Manada is not mistaken. The steamship is the
famous Pearl of the Antilles.
The Semiramis has slowed down her engines, and awaits the approach of
the insurgent cruiser. As the latter nears the yacht the resemblance of
the two steamships becomes more striking. The Pearl is almost precisely
the length of the Semiramis, and like her is rigged with two masts. Her
two smokestacks are set at the same angle as those of the yacht and like
the latter she is equipped with twin propellers. On deck, however, there
is a decided difference. The engines of the Pearl are protected by heavy
plates of steel, while on her forward deck a sort of turret has been
improvised, within which, the people on the Semiramis can readily guess,
is the famous “Yankee gun,” the dynamite cannon whose well-aimed
projectile sent the Spanish Mercedes to the bottom.
Five lengths away the Pearl becomes stationary on the waves, while
through a speaking tube, the voluble Manada acquaints her commander with
the character and mission of the yacht. A boat is lowered from the
insurgent craft and is rowed to the side of the Semiramis, and a moment
later a distinguished-looking man in the undress uniform of an officer
of the Spanish navy is clasped in the arms of Don Manada.
“Senor Van Zandt,” the latter says, “permit me to present to you Capt.
Gerardo Nunez, the commander of yonder vessel. Senor Van Zandt,” he
explains extravagantly to Capt. Nunez, “is the good angel who rendered
it possible for us to convey the much-needed arms and ammunition in our
hold to our struggling compatriots.”
Capt. Nunez cordially grasps the hand of Van Zandt. “Senor,” he says, “I
am more than pleased to meet you, and join with Don Manada in expressing
the gratitude of our people for your services in the cause of liberty.”
Van Zandt waves his hand. “’Tis nothing. My sympathies are with the
insurgents and being in position to help Don Manada out of a box”—the
Cuban flushes at the recollection of his last conversation with Mrs.
Harding—“I was only too glad to do it. But what is the latest news from
the seat of war?”
Capt. Nunez’ eyes light up with enthusiasm. “Glorious!” he says. “Gen.
Masso has just achieved a victory over 3,000 Spanish troops in the
Puerto Principe District. El Terredo is receiving constant additions to
his forces and the outlook was never brighter. It is to equip El
Terredo’s army that these arms and ammunition will be used.”
“El Terredo?” inquires Van Zandt. “Is he not attached to the Pearl of
the Antilles?”
“He has been up to within a week, but is now on shore duty. By the way,
senor,” remarks the Cuban commander, casting a glance over the deck of
the Semiramis, “you have a magnificent yacht, and I doubt not she is as
speedy as she is handsome.”
“Speedy!” breaks in Don Manada. “She is as swift as the wind! She sailed
away from the America, the fastest cruiser in the United States Navy,
and as for the Infanta Isabel—poof! She snaps her fingers at her!”
Capt. Beals approaches the group at this moment and is introduced to the
Cuban captain.
“I think, sir,” he says to Van Zandt, “if we are to transfer our cargo
it would be advisable to waste no time. There is no knowing when a
Spanish gunboat will show up.”
This advice is manifestly so timely that no time is lost in following
it. The two hulls are laid side by side, the smoothness of the water
permitting the operation in safety and hundreds of brawny arms are
quickly at work transferring the cargo from the Semiramis to the Pearl.
At last the work is completed and Van Zandt looks inquiringly at Don
Manada.
“Will you continue with the yacht or accompany the cargo on board the
Pearl?” he asks.
The Cuban emissary hesitates. “If I might add to the already heavy debt
of gratitude I owe you—”
“Oh, that’s all right,” interrupts Van Zandt. “So you will remain with
us. I am glad of your company. We sail for Santiago and afterward”—he
hesitates a moment, his eyes wandering to Miss Hathaway, who is watching
curiously the motley crew of the Pearl—“well, eventually back to New
York.”
Manada nods gratefully. “I am of more service to the cause in America
than I could possibly be in Cuba,” he says, apologetically.
The adieus are said, the lines cast off, and the Semiramis and Pearl
move slowly apart. The latter shapes her coarse for the little harbor of
Cantero, where the arms and ammunition are to be landed.
“We are but ten hours’ sail from Santiago, Miss Hathaway,” Van Zandt
remarks, as Louise idly watches the rapidly disappearing Pearl. “Then
you will bid adieu to the Semiramis.”
“Regretfully, indeed, Mr. Van Zandt. The last few days have sped all too
quickly.”
“‘We take no heed of time but by its flight,’” quotes Van Zandt. “How
long do you expect to remain in Cuba?”
Louise turns a troubled face toward the owner of the yacht. “That I
cannot say. It depends upon Mr. Felton. He has business interests to
look after, and if the climate agrees with him we may remain several
months.”
There is a silence for a little, the thoughts of both dwelling on the
coming parting at even.
“Miss Hathaway,” says Van Zandt, suddenly. “I am but an idle fellow,
with nothing to call me hence but my own inclinations. Would it be
distasteful to you if I should attach myself to your party while in
Cuba? The country is necessarily unsettled during the war and perhaps I
might be of service. I am familiar with the Spanish language, which I
believe Mr. Felton is not, and I should like to see something of the
country. Please tell me frankly if for any reason I would be de trop?”
Van Zandt’s luminous orbs are fixed on the fair face of Louise as he
awaits the answer to his question. For a moment her blue eyes return his
gaze. Then the golden-fringed lids fall and a soft blush mantles her
face.
“I certainly should not be averse to your joining our party,” she
murmurs softly, “if—if it be your pleasure.”
“Thank you,” Van Zandt returns, simply, and a moment after Miss Hathaway
retires to her stateroom.
“Well, Manada,” remarks Van Zandt, slapping the Cuban upon the back,
“your first engagement as supercargo must be rated a success, eh? The
arms and ammunition—the biggest single consignment ever sent from the
States, I think you said—have been safely delivered into the hands of
the insurgents, without the loss of a single Winchester or cartridge.
Why this pensive look?”
“Only thoughts of the past, senor. I was—”
What were Don Manada’s thoughts will never be known, for the people on
the yacht are electrified by the hail from the bridge, “Ship ahoy!”
followed a second later by the additional information, “Dead ahead and
bearing this way!”
“There is no special necessity for evading her now, whoever she is, I
presume, sir?” inquires Capt. Beals, removing his glasses from his eyes.
“None whatever,” is Van Zandt’s prompt reply. “Our papers are straight
and we have nothing contraband, unless it be the Don there. Let them
look us over if they wish.”
“She’s not a very large craft,” comments the taciturn executive officer
of the yacht, as the two vessels continue to lessen the distance between
them.
“Probably one of the blockading fleet,” is Van Zandt’s surmise.
He is evidently right, for the stranger at this point displays the
Spanish flag and at the same time the report of a cannon echoes across
the water.
“Show our colors,” orders Van Zandt, and the flag of the great republic
is caressed by the soft southern breeze. Another shot is fired from the
Spaniard, and as the Semiramis slows up a third cloud of white floats
from the side of the war vessel, followed by the sudden boom of a
heavier gun.
As the Semiramis steams slowly toward the Spaniard, now distant less
than a mile, a fourth report is heard.
“Shotted, by heaven!” ejaculates Capt. Beals, his eyes glued to the
glass; “and the Don has changed her course and is standing off to pepper
us. He is one of those tin-clad gunboats, only half our tonnage, and
pays no attention to our flag.” Still another shot is fired, and a solid
shot skips over the waves, barely two lengths astern of the yacht.
“Shall we ram him, sir? We can send him to Davy Jones’ locker in ten
minutes, and not harm the yacht, either.”
Van Zandt’s eyes glance aloft at the Stars and Stripes standing out
clear and free from the maintop, and then his eyes turn to the Spanish
gunboat.
“Steam toward him full speed,” he says at length, “and if he fires on
the American flag again”—the white teeth shut with an ominous click—“ram
him full amidship, let the consequences be what they may.”
But the flag is not fired upon again. The Spaniard has once more laid a
new course and is now bearing down full on the yacht. The two craft are
quickly within hailing distance, and from the gunboat comes the inquiry
in Spanish as to the name and character of the yacht.
“The Semiramis, pleasure craft, New York for Santiago,” is Capt. Beals’
reply.
The Spanish captain is profuse in apologies for firing on the yacht. She
closely resembles a rebel craft, he explains, and the gunboat was sure
she was that vessel, even if she did fly the American flag. Would the
Semiramis accept his most humble apologies? His gunboat, La Pinta, was
about to proceed to Santiago for orders; and if it please los Americanos
they might sail thither in company, which would insure the stranger
against the annoyance of being overhauled by some of the other numerous
Spanish vessels blockading the ports.
Van Zandt consults with Capt. Beals.
“He wants to make sure we don’t land anything,” remarks the latter. “It
might save some trouble to accompany him to Santiago.”
Yes, the Spaniard is informed, the American accepts the apology and the
escort of the gunboat to Santiago.
Before the brief southern twilight has drifted into night the Semiramis
is lying at anchor in the harbor of Santiago, under the guns of the
Spanish gunboat La Pinta.
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