Transcriber’s Notes:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.
* * * * *
VOL. 1 NO. 1 NEW YORK, MAY 7, 1898 5 CENTS
STREET & SMITH Publishers.
STARRY FLAG WEEKLY
THRILLING STORIES OF OUR VICTORIOUS ARMY
[Illustration]
UNDER BLANCO’S EYE OR HAL MAYNARD AMONG THE CUBAN INSURGENTS
* * * * *
Starry Flag Weekly
_Issued Weekly--By Subscription: $2.50 per year. Entered as Second
Class Matter at the N. Y. Post Office._ STREET & SMITH, _81 Fulton St.,
N. Y. Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1898, in the
Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C._
No. 1. NEW YORK, May 7, 1898 Price Five Cents.
_Under Blanco’s Eye_;
OR, _HAL MAYNARD AMONG THE CUBAN INSURGENTS_
By DOUGLAS WELLS.
* * * * *
First Part.
CHAPTER I. “THE ONLY AMERICAN IN HAVANA.”
“Stop!”
A boy of some eighteen or nineteen years rushed frantically out upon a
wharf bordering the harbor of Havana.
“Hold on!”
Elbowing his way through the dark-skinned crowd, he reached the
string-piece, now waving his arms wildly.
At the top of his voice came the fervent appeal:
“Don’t leave me behind!”
Unheedful of the Spanish crowd about him, the boy gazed anxiously at
the fast receding stern of the United States steamer Fern.
That crowd was bent on mischief. It had jeered itself nearly hoarse
when the little steamer left her berth.
Now it saw in this shouting, gesticulating youth a closer victim of
their sport.
“Swim!” jeered one low-browed, dirty Spaniard.
To this came an echoing shout of:
“Make him swim!”
“Yes! Throw the Yankee dog into the harbor. He will find company in
the sailors of the Maine!”
A yell went up--a yell that was partly derisive and partly defiant.
It had one effect that the victim was quick to notice--it utterly
drowned out his appealing shouts to those on the deck of the Fern,
causing him to gasp:
“Am I the only American left behind in Havana?”
It looked like it.
Further from the pier, nearer every moment to the entrance of Havana
harbor went the Fern, the last of the United States steamers to leave
Cuba’s capital city on that memorable afternoon of the ninth of April,
1898.
Aboard the Fern was that sturdy American hero, General Fitzhugh Lee.
Up to the last moment he had served the interests of the United States
and her citizens as consul general at Havana.
Now, when the state of affairs there had become intolerable, General
Lee had sailed on the Fern.
After indomitable efforts extending over several days, he had succeeded
in shipping, as he believed, the last American in that danger-infested
city.
Then, and not until then, had General Lee stepped aboard the Fern.
His coming had been the signal for the start. A moment later the little
steamer’s prow was cutting the muddy, blood-stained waters of Havana
harbor.
Close to the wreck of the United States’ once proud battleship Maine
passed the Fern.
Standing on deck, General Lee and his immediate party had bared their
heads in silent respect and grief for the two hundred and sixty-six
sailors whom Spanish treachery had destroyed.
General Lee believed that he had succeeded in bringing the last
American away.
He certainly had, so far as he knew. He had done his duty like an
American.
Yet, all unknown to him, one American remained behind--Hal Maynard, the
boy who now stood watching the receding Fern with a look of mingled
anxiety and wistfulness.
Suddenly Hal uncovered. His glance had rested on the Stars and Stripes
at the steamer’s stern.
It was a courageous thing to do--to salute the hated Yankee flag in
this stronghold of that flag’s bitterest enemies.
But Hal did it, without bluster or hesitation.
There was a choking sensation in the boy’s throat; tears glistened in
his eyes.
“My country’s flag,” he murmured brokenly. “May God always bless your
folds, and protect them! May those Stars and Stripes soon come back
here, and float a supreme warning that treachery and tyranny can never
flourish in the New World!”
It may be that some of the Spaniards grouped about him heard him. If
so, they did not understand, or it would have been worse for this
American boy.
“The senor does not like our climate!”
Jeeringly the words were uttered.
Half turning, Maynard gazed unto the speaker’s eyes.
The latter was a Spaniard, a peon or laborer. Ragged, barefooted,
dirty, he had the appearance of a man half-starved.
The fellow’s tattered sombrero rested at an angle on his head. His
gleaming, glittering eyes, made brighter by that nondescript illness,
slow starvation, had an ugly light in them.
In whatever direction Maynard turned he saw others like this
fellow--thousands of them.
Every wharf and pier, every building near the water front, every
available spot of view was crowded by Spaniards who had come out to
watch the departure of America’s consul general, and, watching, to jeer.
It was no use to gaze longer after the Fern, yet Hal Maynard found
himself unable to stir.
“If I never see the flag again, I must see it to the last to-day,” he
murmured.
“Senor does not like our climate?” again jeered the fellow at his elbow.
Hal made no answer, not even turning this time.
But his tormentor would not quit.
“Perhaps it is our people that the senor does not like? I have heard
that there were some Americans who do not love the Spanish!”
Still Hal stood with his eyes fastened on the flag.
“If the senor is a good friend of Spain,” continued the fellow, with
mocking insinuation, “he will shout, ‘viva Espana!’”
Long live Spain? Hal Maynard would have died a dozen deaths sooner than
utter such a detestable wish!
Those black, gleaming eyes were fastened on him pitilessly,
until--until the tormentor found himself ignored.
Then he swiftly turned to his fellow Spaniards.
“Here is an American!” he cried.
A laughing chorus greeted the announcement.
“He wanted to go home!”
More laughter greeted this stupid sally.
“And now,” continued the announcer, “he is crying to find himself left
here with us!”
“There is yet time for him to swim after the vessel!” jibed another
Spaniard.
“Or let him cruise home on the Maine!”
At this there was a cyclonic burst of laughter.
Instantly the other Spaniards began to cast about for sayings which the
crowd would regard as being witty.
Hal Maynard’s eyes flashed.
A fight would be helpless--hopeless, leaving him only the fate of death
at the hands of this jibing, vicious mob.
Yet no sooner was the word “Maine” uttered than he turned once more to
where the wreck of the Maine lay and lifted his hat with a motion of
reverence.
It was grit--clear grit! That much even the Spaniards could appreciate.
It was a defiance, too, and in a moment angry murmurs went up.
“Let us see if a Yankee pig can swim!”
“And if he steers toward that battered iron scow, we can shoot him from
the wharf.”
“As we will shoot all Yankees who dare to come here after this!”
shouted another.
Hal faced them, head erect and shoulders thrown back.
He fully expected to be thrown into the muddy water, but he did not
propose to flinch.
For a moment the crowd hesitated, ready to follow any caprice, but
waiting for a leader.
After waiting a moment for the attack, Hal felt a sudden thrill of
misgiving.
His hand had touched, accidentally, on something under his coat.
That recalled him to his duty, to the reason for his being in Havana,
to the cause of his being left behind.
Hidden away in his clothing was a bag. It contained two thousand
dollars, the property of another, confided to his care.
“This mob is made up of worthless fellows,” muttered the boy. “They
don’t know any better than to do as they are doing. They are so
ignorant that not one in a dozen of them would know his own name
in print. They shall not make me forget my duty. Since there is no
American ship here, I will try to find an English one.”
Then, ignoring the crowd that surged about him, he turned again to scan
the line of wharves.
Less than a quarter of a mile away lay a brig from whose masthead
floated the Union Jack of Great Britain.
“I shall be safe there,” murmured Hal. “I can leave Havana on that
craft. It may even be that the brig is bound for an American port.”
His mind made up, he turned to leave the wharf, meaning to walk along
the river front until he came to the brig’s wharf.
But his original tormentor put himself fairly in the boy’s path.
“Where is the Yankee pig going to root?” he demanded.
Other murmurs went up.
“Do not let him leave us!”
“Not until he has cried ‘viva Espana!’”
“Gentlemen,” said Hal, trying to speak calmly, “I find that I am not on
the right wharf. Will you allow me to pass?”
“Certainly, senor!”
“Way for the gentleman!”
“Let the Yankee pig find his wallow!”
Click-clack! click-clack! Way on the outskirts of the crowd a man had
picked up a cobblestone, on which he now began to whet his knife.
It was a most suggestive sound. The crowd roared with merriment,
craning their necks to see whether this Yankee blanched.
But Hal, though he knew that a spark would be sufficient to touch off a
mine of Spanish mob-treachery, retained his composure.
“I am in a hurry, if you please,” he said, trying to edge his way
through.
The crowd pretended to make way, yet each Spaniard took pains to get
only more in the way.
They were playing with him, as a cat does with a mouse, enjoying their
sport with true feline ferocity.
One of the crowd suddenly divined our hero’s purpose.
“He wants to reach that English ship. The gringo fancies he will be
safer there than with us. Let us convince him that our hospitality is
genuine.”
Still laughing, the crowd made way for Hal to pass off the pier, but
the instant that he tried to walk along the shore in the direction of
the bridge, he found himself confronted by the dense ranks of a barring
crowd.
“No, no, senor! Straight back into Havana.”
“I guess I might as well go to a hotel,” Hal acquiesced, inwardly.
“From there, an hour later, I may be able to get a closed carriage to
the brig.”
There was a driver within call. To him Hal signaled.
The jehu came up, but on hearing the name of the hotel, he shook his
head and scowled.
“No, no, senor,” he protested, “I cannot drive Yankees.”
“I will walk, then,” rejoined Hal.
But the crowd protested that he must ride.
“If the senor will pay three fares,” declared the jehu, “I will take
him.”
“Very well,” muttered Hal, stepping into the carriage.
“Ha! Senor Maynard, wait! I must see you!” cried a man, making his way
through the crowd.
“Vasquez!” thrilled the boy, recognizing his accoster.
Then, for the first time that day, Hal Maynard turned pale.