THE FATE OF THE SEMIRAMIS.
“And now, what?”
The boats have reached the Semiramis. Louise Hathaway has been tenderly
assisted to the deck by Van Zandt, followed by Navarro and Barker, and
the dead form of Cyrus Felton has been reverently conveyed aboard.
A sort of council of war is being held on the quarter-deck of the yacht,
participated in by Van Zandt, Navarro and Capt. Beals. The master of the
Semiramis looks inquiringly at the insurgent leader as he utters the
words quoted above.
“For me personally there is but one course,” replies Navarro. “I must
land somewhere in the night and make my way to Gen. Masso’s camp. That
will not be a difficult matter. It is your own situation that I am
considering. The American man-of-war, is she still in the harbor?”
Capt. Beals shakes his head. “She sailed an hour ago for Key West, for
supplies and instructions. She will not return for at least two days.”
Navarro’s face grows grave. “Then you are not safe from molestation even
in this vessel and under that flag,” he says, pointing to the red, white
and blue floating from the masthead. “Without a man-of-war to protect
you, the Spaniards, knowing that El Terredo is aboard, will search your
yacht, possibly confiscate her and subject you to no end of annoyance,
even though they should not find El Terredo. They respect no flag, no
emblem, no rules of civilized nations, unless they are absolutely
compelled to by superior force. You saw how they treated the American
flag above the consul’s own residence. There are now three Spanish
gunboats in the harbor. Within the hour I fear your yacht will be
surrounded.”
“Then there is but one thing to do,” promptly replies Van Zandt. “Capt.
Beals, have steam got up at once and weigh anchor. We will follow the
America to Key West.”
There is silence on the quarter-deck for a few moments. Miss Hathaway
has retired to her former stateroom immediately upon setting foot upon
the yacht, and Barker is intently watching the shore from the bridge.
For the time being Van Zandt and Navarro are alone. Suddenly the former
breaks the silence.
“You are not a Cuban,” he says. “Why are you enlisted with the
nondescript army of the insurrectionists?”
Navarro flushes at the word nondescript, but does not reply at once.
Finally he says quietly: “No, I am not a Cuban. I am, like yourself, an
American. But my ancestors were Cuban, back more than six generations.
Until ten months ago,” continues Navarro, in a less-impassioned tone, “I
was a careless, happy-go-lucky American youth, without any specific aim
in life. But when the Cuban insurrection broke out, I was consumed with
an overmastering desire to help free Cuba from the accursed yoke of
Spain. I have sacrificed everything to that end, and now I am known to
the Spaniards as ‘El Terredo,’ the terror. I believe I have been of some
service to the struggling natives, and so I shall continue until Cuba is
free, or–”
Navarro does not complete the sentence. While he was speaking the smoke
has been pouring out of the chimneys of the yacht in steadily increasing
volume, and now the clank of the steam windlass announces that the
vessel is getting under way. Without replying to Navarro’s words, Van
Zandt hastens below to inform Miss Hathaway of the destination of the
yacht. Capt. Beals has taken his station on the bridge and the graceful
vessel steams slowly toward the narrow entrance to the harbor of
Santiago.
Navarro watches intently the three Spanish warships by which the
Semiramis must pass within half a mile. As the yacht draws nearer, the
watcher notes with anxiety a boat hastily putting out from the
government wharf and evidently making for the flagship of the fleet, the
Infanta Isabel. He communicates his discovery to Van Zandt, who has
returned from below, with the comment: “They are evidently notifying the
cruiser to have her stop this vessel. Rather than that she fire on the
yacht and endanger the lives of those on board, including the young
lady, you must surrender me. Then they may permit you to go unmolested.”
“No man leaves this ship for a Spanish prison or the garrote,” replies
Van Zandt, his eyes burning with excitement, “as long as there is a
timber of her afloat. It is less than six miles to the entrance to the
harbor, and once outside we can snap our fingers at a whole fleet of
Spanish cruisers. Besides, with all the various craft scattered about
the harbor, they will not dare to fire on us.”
Navarro shakes his head skeptically, but does not reply. The boat has
reached the side of the war vessel. The Semiramis is now nearly abreast
of the latter and distant less than half a mile. Suddenly a puff of
smoke rises from the forward deck of the Spaniard, followed by the sharp
crack of a rifle.
“There! She has signaled you to heave to,” remarks Navarro. “As I told
you, you must surrender me.”
“This is my answer,” replies the owner of the Semiramis, drawing his
revolver and firing two shots in the air. Then to Capt. Beals on the
bridge he sings out: “Full speed ahead!”
Smoke is now pouring from the stacks of the warship, and it is evident
that she is preparing to pursue the American yacht, but she does not, as
Navarro predicted, fire on the latter. Before the cruiser gets well
under way the Semiramis is within four miles of the channel that marks
the entrance to the harbor.
Van Zandt smiles at Navarro. “We will lead him a merry race if he thinks
to catch the Semiramis,” he remarks. “This yacht can go two miles to his
one. And if he hasn’t improved in his marksmanship I will risk his guns.
Ah, there goes the first one!”
The Spaniard has succeeded in getting within range of the yacht without
endangering any of the other craft, and the roar of his forward gun is
heard as Van Zandt speaks.
“An eighth of a mile to windward,” observes the latter, as he watches
the solid shot skip over the water. “He can’t race and shoot, too.”
Evidently the pursuer has come to the same conclusion, for he fires no
more guns, but doggedly plows the placid waters of the harbor after the
great black yacht.
And now the latter is less than half a mile from the cleft in the
precipitous coast line. Capt. Beals has slowed down the engines and the
yacht is picking her way by the reefs that guard the channel.
“Ship ahoy!” suddenly rings out from the lookout forward. All eyes are
turned ahead. A steamer, inward bound, has just come into view in the
channel.
“Permit me,” Navarro takes the glasses and focuses them upon the
stranger. “It is the Spanish dispatch boat Pizarro,” he says. “When the
cruiser recognizes her she will doubtless signal her to intercept the
yacht, and in the narrow channel she can make serious trouble, I fear.”
The report of another cannon, followed by two more in quick succession,
shows that the man-of-war has indeed recognized her compatriot almost as
soon as the American. An answering gun from the dispatch boat also shows
that she has heard and understands.
Capt. Beals looks inquiringly at Van Zandt. “We must continue straight
on and take our chances in the channel with that craft,” the latter
says. Then to Navarro: “Do you know what her armament is?”
“Oh, she is not a fighting ship. She has no armament, merely one gun for
saluting purposes, and her crew cannot number over fifty.”
“Then we are all right. If she gets in our way she must take the
consequences.”
But the dispatch boat evidently does not intend that the American shall
pass. She has taken a position in the narrowest part of the channel and
lies stationary, presenting her broadside to the oncoming yacht.
“Signal that we propose to pass to port,” Van Zandt says to Capt. Beals,
“and if the Spaniard gets in our course run him down.”
Capt. Beals nods and a second later the hoarse whistle of the Semiramis
echoes over the waters. The signal is answered with a rifle shot from
the Spaniard’s forward deck and the dispatch boat moves forward two
lengths, so that she lies fair and square in the announced course of the
yacht.
But there are no signs of slackening on the part of the latter, and her
black hull looks threatening indeed to the officers of the dispatch
boat.
Caramba! Surely she will not run down the royal vessel! Yet it looks
very like it! But they will not dare! Still—the Spanish commander
hesitates no longer. He signals his vessel to back at full speed.
Too late!
The Pizarro has moved less than half a length when the American yacht
crashes into her. There is a grinding shock that brings Louise Hathaway
in terror to the deck of the Semiramis, and then the yacht continues on
her course, apparently unharmed. Van Zandt catches a glimpse of a great
jagged hole in the bow of the Spaniard, into which the water is pouring
in a cataract; of a panic-stricken crew rushing frantically for the
boats; and then he turns to Miss Hathaway. It is nothing, he assures her
tenderly; a slight collision, but the yacht is all right and perhaps she
had better return to her stateroom for the present. Later on—and Louise
smiles, a little sadly, but permits Van Zandt to conduct her to the
saloon.
Capt. Beals is awaiting Van Zandt as the latter bounds up the steps a
minute later. “We are badly stove forward,” he reports, “and are making
water quite rapidly. With the steam pumps going, we may keep afloat
three or four hours, but the yacht is doomed.”
Van Zandt is so startled at the news that for a moment he is speechless.
His eyes rove back to the Spanish warship, and then at the nearly
perpendicular cliffs by which the Semiramis is steaming.
He looks for the dispatch boat, but it is not in sight. “The Spaniard?”
he inquires, mechanically.
“Gone to the bottom,” laconically replies the captain.
“Then there is no hope for us but to keep on and try to land by the
boats somewhere on the coast,” Van Zandt says. “The Spaniards will treat
us all as enemies, now that we have sunk one of their boats. How long
can we keep up this speed?”
“Perhaps an hour, perhaps more. The water will put out the fires.”
“Well, have the boats quietly prepared and keep within reach of land. Do
you think the Spaniards will continue the pursuit?”
“Undoubtedly. They will stop only to pick up the crew of the Pizarro,
and then will keep on after us. If there was some little bay near here
where we could beach the yacht, but there isn’t.”
The noble craft continues to plow the waves and her injured bow still
tosses the foam on either side, but her speed is sensibly diminishing.
All on board have recognized the fact that the yacht is doomed, but
there is no confusion, no manifest anxiety. The boats have been prepared
and each member of the crew has secured in a little package his most
valued possessions. On the quarter-deck Van Zandt, Navarro, Barker and
Louise Hathaway are silently watching the Spanish warship. The latter is
gaining now, for the Semiramis is steadily settling.
Navarro, his hat drawn over his eyes and his coat wrapped about him so
that his countenance is partially veiled, has carefully avoided Louise.
When she returns to the deck he walks over to where John Barker is
leaning against the rail and remarks in Spanish:
“If you do not desire to be shot as a deserter I should advise you to
borrow a suit of clothes from our friend, the owner of the yacht.”
The detective starts. “I guess you’re right,” he replies in English, and
turns to Van Zandt. Five minutes later he emerges from the cabin attired
in a fashionable suit of gray.
“The water is within two inches of the boilers,” reports the engineer,
and Van Zandt sighs heavily.
“Well,” he says, “we may as well take to the boats. Come.” He leads
Louise to the steamer’s launch.
“And he?” Louise points to where the body of Cyrus Felton lies, covered
by its winding sheet of canvas.
“He will go down with the Semiramis. He could have no nobler tomb.”
Boom! The roar of the Spanish gun is the salute the people of the
Semiramis hear as the boats pull away from the doomed yacht. The cruiser
is within range and though her commander must be aware that the American
vessel is sinking he is firing on her.
“The coward!” grits Van Zandt. “But the Semiramis will not strike her
flag. She sinks with the stars and stripes flying.”
“Pull hard!” shouts Capt. Beals. “Pull hard! She’s going down!”
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