[Illustration: Frontispiece]
The Boy
Fortune Hunters
in Yucatan
By
FLOYD AKERS
Author of
“The Boy Fortune Hunters in Alaska”
“The Boy Fortune Hunters in Panama”
“The Boy Fortune Hunters in Egypt”
“The Boy Fortune Hunters in China”
[Illustration: Publisher logo]
CHICAGO
THE REILLY & BRITTON CO.
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT 1910 BY
THE REILLY & BRITTON CO.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I We Meet Lieutenant Allerton 9
II We Listen to a Strange Proposition 26
III We Undertake the Yucatan Adventure 39
IV We Scent Danger Ahead 55
V We Inspect a Novel Aerial Invention 65
VI We See an Astonishing Thing 72
VII We Outwit the Enemy 80
VIII We Fight a Good Fight 95
IX We Find Ourselves Outnumbered 105
X We Escape Annihilation 113
XI We Enter the City of Itza 125
XII We Sight the Quarry 137
XIII We Seek Safety in Flight 150
XIV We Interview the Red-Beard 164
XV We Become Prisoners of the Tcha 179
XVI We View the Hidden City 191
XVII We are Condemned by the Tribunal 204
XVIII We Argue with the High Priestess 214
XIX We Save a Valuable Life 231
XX We Find the Tcha Grateful 239
XXI We Lose Poor Pedro 254
XXII We Face a Deadly Peril 265
XXIII We Become Aggressive 277
XXIV We Witness a Daring Deed 287
XXV We Repel the Invaders 298
XXVI We Hear Strange News 314
XXVII We Settle an Old Score 332
XXVIII We Win and Lose 340
The Boy
Fortune Hunters
in Yucatan
CHAPTER I
WE MEET LIEUTENANT ALLERTON
“What do you say, Sam, to making a stop at Magdalena Bay?” asked Uncle
Naboth, as we stood on the deck of the _Seagull_, anchored in Golden
Gate Harbor.
“Magdalena!” I exclaimed; “why, it’s a wilderness.”
“I know,” he replied; “but the torpedo fleet is there, doin’ target
practice, an’ Admiral Seebre has asked us to drop some mail an’
dispatches there, as well as a few supplies missed by the transport that
left last Tuesday.”
“Oh, Admiral Seebre,” I rejoined. “That puts a different face on the
matter. We’ll stop anywhere the admiral wants us to.” Merchantmen though
we are, none of us can fail in genuine admiration for Uriel Seebre, the
most typical sea dog on earth—or on water, rather.
So we waited to ship the supplies and mail, and by sunset were shrouded
in golden glory as we slowly steamed out of the harbor and headed south.
It’s a pretty trip. Past old Santa Barbara, the man-made harbor of San
Pedro—the port of Los Angeles—and along the coast of beautiful Coronado,
we hugged the shore line to enjoy the splendid panorama of scenery; but
once opposite the Mexican coast we stood out to sea until, three days
afterward, we made Magdalena Bay and dropped anchor amid the rakish,
narrow-nosed fleet of the torpedo flotilla.
There isn’t much to see at Magdalena. The bay itself is fairly
attractive, but the shore is uninteresting and merely discloses a motley
group of frame and adobe huts. Yet here the Pacific Squadron comes
semiannually to practise target shooting.
As it was four o’clock when our anchor reeled out we decided to lie in
the bay until sunrise next morning. We signaled “mail and supplies” and
two boats put out from the _Paul Jones_, the flagship of the miniature
but formidable fleet, and soon boarded us. They were in charge of
Lieutenant Paul Allerton, whom we found a very decent fellow, without a
hint of that contempt for merchantmen affected by so many Annapolis
fledglings.
We soon had the stores lowered—they were not many—and delivered the mail
pouch and dispatch box, getting a formal receipt for them. As supercargo
and purser, I attended to this business personally.
“I’m glad to have met you, Mr. Steele,” said Lieutenant Allerton, “and
to have seen your famous boat, the _Seagull_. We’ve heard a good deal of
your curious adventures, you know.”
I laughed, and Uncle Naboth Perkins, who stood beside me, remarked:
“Our days of adventure are about over, I guess, Mr. Allerton.”
“Have you bagged so much treasure you are ready to retire?” asked the
officer.
“It isn’t that,” replied my uncle. “We’ve been tramps a long time, an’
sailed in many seas; but the life’s a bit too strenuous for us, so’s to
speak. These boys o’ ours are reckless enough to git us inter a heap o’
trouble, an’ keep us there, too, if we didn’t call a halt. So, seein’ as
life counts for more’n anything else, Cap’n Steele an’ I hev made the
youngsters turn over a new leaf. We’re now on our way to the Atlantic,
’round the Horn, an’ perpose to do peaceful tradin’ from now on.”
Allerton listened with thoughtful interest. He seemed on the point of
saying something in return, but hesitated and then touched his cap.
“I must be going, gentlemen. You know how grateful we exiles are for the
mail and tinned stuff, and I tender the thanks of the fleet for your
courtesy.”
Then he went away and we considered the incident closed.
We were a strangely assorted group as we congregated on the deck of our
beautiful craft the _Seagull_, after dinner that evening, and perhaps
here is an excellent opportunity to introduce ourselves to the reader.
Our ship, which we believe has been termed “the pride of the merchant
marine,” was constructed under our personal supervision, and sails or
steams as we desire. It is about a thousand-tons burden, yacht built,
and as trim as a man-o’-war. It is commanded by my father, Captain
Richard Steele, one of the most experienced and capable sailors of his
time. He is one-third owner, and I have the same interest, being proud
to state that I furnished my share of the money from funds I had
personally earned. Uncle Naboth Perkins, my dead mother’s only brother,
owns the remaining third.
Uncle Naboth is a “natural born trader” and a wonder in his way. He
isn’t a bit of a practical sailor, but has followed the seas from his
youth and has won the confidence and esteem of every shipper who ever
entrusted a cargo to his care. He has no scholastic learning but is very
wise in mercantile ways and is noted for his sterling honesty.
My father has a wooden leg; he is old and his face resembles ancient
parchment. He uses words only for necessary expression, yet his reserve
is neither morose nor disagreeable. He knows how to handle the _Seagull_
in any emergency and his men render him alert obedience because they
know that he knows.
I admit that I am rather young to have followed the seas for so long. I
can’t well object to being called a boy, because I am a boy in years,
and experience hasn’t made my beard grow or added an inch to my height.
My position on the _Seagull_ is that of purser and assistant supercargo.
In other words, I keep the books, check up the various cargoes, render
bills and pay our expenses. I know almost as little of navigation as
Uncle Naboth, who is the most important member of our firm because he
makes all our contracts with shippers and attends to the delivery of all
cargoes.
Over against the rail stands Ned Britton, our first mate. Ned is
father’s right bower. They have sailed together many years and have
acquired a mutual understanding and respect. Ned has been thoroughly
tested in the past: a blunt, bluff sailor-man, as brave as a lion and as
guileless as a babe. His strong point is obeying orders and doing his
duty on all occasions.
Here is our second mate, too, squatted on a coil of rope just beside
me—a boy a year or two younger than I am myself. I may as well state
right here that Joe Herring is a mystery to me, and I’m the best and
closest friend he has in all the world. He is long and lanky, a bit tall
for his age and has muscles like steel. He moves slowly; he speaks
slowly; he spends hours in silent meditation. Yet I have seen this boy
in action when he moved swift as a lightning bolt—not striking at
random, either, but with absolute intelligence.
Once Joe was our cabin boy, promoted to that station from a mere waif.
Now he is second mate, with the full respect of Captain Steele, Ned
Britton and the entire crew. He wears a common sailor suit, you’ll
notice, with nothing to indicate his authority. When he is on duty
things go like clockwork.
And now I shall probably startle you by the statement that Joe is the
rich man, the financial autocrat, of all our little group. His bank
account is something to contemplate with awe and reverence. He might own
a dozen more expensive ships than the _Seagull_, yet I question if you
could drive him away from her deck without making the lad absolutely
miserable. Money counts for little with Joe; his associates and his
simple if somewhat adventurous life completely satisfy him.
Reclining at my feet is a burly youth rejoicing in the name of Archibald
Sumner Ackley. He isn’t a sailor; he isn’t a passenger even; Archie is
just a friend and a chum of Joe’s and mine, and he happens to be aboard
just because he won’t quit and go home to his anxious parents in Boston.
I fear that at the moment of this introduction Archie doesn’t show up to
the best advantage. The boy is chubby and stout and not exactly handsome
of feature. He wears a gaudy checked flannel shirt, no cravat, yellowish
green knickerbockers, and a brown jacket so marvelously striped with
green that it reminds one of a prison garb. I never can make out where
Archie manages to find all his “striking” effects in raiment; I’m sure
no other living being would wear such clothes. If any one ever asks:
“Where’s Archie?” Uncle Naboth has a whimsical way of putting his hand
to his ear and saying: “Hush; listen!”
With all this I’m mighty fond of Archie, and so are we all. Once on a
time we had to get used to his peculiarities, for he is stubborn as a
mule, denies any one’s right to dictate to him and is bent on having his
own way, right or wrong. But the boy is true blue in any emergency;
faithful to his friends, even to death; faces danger with manly courage
and is a tower of strength in any encounter. He sails with the _Seagull_
because he likes the life and can’t be happy, he claims, away from Joe
and me.
And now you know all of us on the quarter deck, and I’ll just say a word
about our two blacks, Nux and Bryonia. They are South Sea Islanders,
picked up by Uncle Naboth years ago and devoted now to us all—especially
to my humble self. We’ve been together in many adventures, these ebony
skinned men and I, and more than once I have owed my life to their
fidelity. Nux is cabin master and steward; he’s the stockiest of the big
fellows. Bryonia is ship’s cook, and worthy the post of chef at
Sherry’s. He can furnish the best meal from the least material of any
one I’ve ever known, and with our ample supplies you may imagine we live
like pigs in clover aboard the _Seagull_.
Our crew consists of a dozen picked and tested men, all but one having
sailed with us ever since the ship was launched. We lost a man on the
way back from China a while ago, and replaced him in San Francisco with
a stalwart, brown-skinned Mexican, Pedro by name. He wasn’t one of the
lazy, “greaser” sort, but an active fellow with an intelligent face and
keen eyes. Captain Hildreth of the _Anemone_ gave us the man, and said
he had given good service on two long voyages. But Pedro had had enough
of the frozen north by that time and when he heard we were short a man
begged to join us, knowing we were headed south. Captain Hildreth, who
is our good friend, let us have him, and my father is pleased with the
way the Mexican does his work.
The _Seagull_ was built for commerce and has been devoted mainly to
commerce; yet we do not like the tedium of regular voyages between given
ports and have been quite successful in undertaking “tramp” consignments
of freight to be delivered in various far-off foreign lands. During
these voyages we have been led more than once into dangerous “side”
adventures, and on our last voyage Joe, Archie and I had barely escaped
with our lives—and that by the merest chance—while engaged in one of
these reckless undertakings. It was this incident that caused Uncle
Naboth and my father to look grave and solemn whenever their eyes fell
upon us three, and while we lay anchored in San Francisco harbor they
announced to me their decision to avoid any such scrapes in the future
by undertaking to cover a regular route between Cuba and Key West,
engaging in the tobacco and cigar trade.
I did not fancy this arrangement very much, but was obliged to submit to
my partners and superiors. Archie growled that he would “quit us cold”
at the first Atlantic port, but intended to accompany us around the
Horn, where there might be a “little excitement” if bad weather caught
us. Joe merely shrugged his shoulders and refrained from comment. And so
we started from the Golden Gate en route for Cuba, laden only with our
necessary stores for ballast, although our bunkers were full of
excellent Alaska coal.
The stop in Magdalena Bay would be our last one for some time; so, being
at anchor, with no duties of routine confronting us, we sat on deck
enjoying the beautiful tropical evening and chatting comfortably while
the sailors grouped around the forecastle and smoked their pipes with
unalloyed and unaccustomed indolence.
The lights of the near-by torpedo fleet were beginning to glimmer in the
gathering dusk when a small boat boarded us and we were surprised to see
Lieutenant Allerton come on board again and approach our company. This
time, however, he wore civilian’s clothes instead of his uniform.
Greeting us with quiet respect he asked:
“May I sit down, gentlemen? I’d like a little talk with you.”
Captain Steele pointed to a chair at his side.
“You are very welcome, sir,” he answered.
Allerton sat down.
“The despatches you brought,” said he, “conveyed to me some joyful news.
I have been granted a three months’ leave of absence.”
As he paused I remarked, speaking for us all:
“You are to be congratulated, Lieutenant. Isn’t that a rather unusual
leave?”
“Indeed it is,” he returned, laughingly. “I’ve been trying for it for
nearly two years, and it might not have been allowed now had I not
possessed an influential friend at Washington—my uncle, Simeon Wells.”
“Simeon Wells!” ejaculated Uncle Naboth. “What, the great electrician
who is called ‘the master Wizard’?”
“I believe my uncle has gained some distinction in electrical
inventions,” was the modest reply.
“Distinction! Why, I’m told he can skin old Edison to a frazzle,”
remarked Archie, who was not very choice in his selection of words, as
he rolled over upon his back and looked up at the officer wonderingly.
“Didn’t Wells invent the great storage battery ‘multum in parvo’, and
the new aeroplane motors?”
“Uncle Simeon is not very ambitious for honor,” said Mr. Allerton
quietly. “He has given the government the control of but few—a very
few—of his really clever electrical devices. His greatest delight he
finds in inventing. When he has worked out a problem and brought it to
success he cares little what becomes of it. That, I suppose, is the mark
of an unpractical genius—unpractical from a worldly sense. Still, his
relations with the government, limited as they are, proved greatly to my
advantage; for when he found my heart was set on this leave of absence,
he readily obtained it.”
“The request of Simeon Wells ought to accomplish much more than that,
considering his invaluable services,” I suggested.
“For that reason he has warned me he will not interfere again in my
behalf,” answered Allerton; “so I must make the most of this leave. It
is this consideration that induced me to come to see you to-night.”
We remained silent, waiting for him to proceed.
“I understood from what you said this afternoon that you are bound for
Cuba, by way of the Horn,” he resumed, after a moment of thought.
Captain Steele nodded.
“You have a fast ship, you leave immediately, and you are going very
near to my own destination,” continued Allerton. “Therefore, I have come
to ask if you will accept me as a passenger.”
I cast an inquiring glance at Uncle Naboth, and after meeting his eye
replied:
“We do not carry passengers, Lieutenant Allerton; but it will please us
to have you accept such hospitality as we can offer on the voyage. You
will be a welcome guest.”
He flushed, as I could see under the light of the swinging lantern: for
evening had fallen with its usual swift tropical custom. And I noticed,
as well, that Mr. Allerton seemed undecided how to handle what was
evidently an unexpected situation.
“I—I wanted to take my man with me,” he stammered.
“Your servant, sir?”
“One of our seamen, whose leave I obtained with my own. He is a Maya
from Yucatan.”
“Bring him along, sir,” said my father, heartily; “it’s all the same to
us.”
“Thank you,” he returned, and then sat silent, swinging his cap between
his hands. Allerton had a thin, rather careworn face, for so young a
man, for he could not be more than thirty at most. He was of medium
height, of athletic build, and carried himself erect—a tribute to his
training at the Naval Academy and his service aboard ship. There was
something in the kindly expression of his deep-set, dark eyes and the
pleasantly modulated tones of his voice that won our liking, and I am
sure we were sincere in declaring he would be a welcome guest on the
ensuing voyage.
“I—I have several boxes—chests,” he said, presently.
“We’ve room for a cargo, sir,” responded Uncle Naboth.
“At what hour do you sail?” inquired Allerton, seeming well pleased by
our consideration for him.
“Daybreak, sir.”
“Then may we come aboard to-night?”
“Any hour you like,” said I. It was Joe’s watch, so I introduced him
more particularly to our second mate, as well as to the other members of
our party.
“Shall we send for you, Mr. Allerton?” asked Joe.
“Oh, no,” he replied. “The ship’s boat will bring me aboard, thank you.
The boys are sorry to see me go so suddenly, but I feel I must take
advantage of this fortunate occasion to secure passage. I might wait
here a week or two before any sort of tub came this way, and I need
every minute of my leave. Cuba lies only a hundred and twenty miles
across the channel from Yucatan.”
With this he returned to the torpedo boat he served, and so accustomed
were we to little surprises of this nature that we paid small heed to
the fact that we had accepted an unlooked for addition to our party for
the long voyage that loomed ahead of us. We were quite a happy family
aboard the _Seagull_, and Lieutenant Allerton appeared to be a genial
fellow who would add rather than detract from the association we
enjoyed.