IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY
As Walter did not understand what was said, he was not aware of his
peril until the Spanish soldier began to climb the tree. Then he
realized the truth, and his heart sank within him.
"It's all up with me now," he half groaned. "I wonder what they will do
with me after they find me."
Reaching the top of the opening, the soldier paused and shouted
something to his companions regarding the darkness of the hole below.
"Light a match and drop it down," ordered Corporal Ruz. "This rascal
carries nothing," he went on, disappointedly, having found Carlos's
pockets empty of anything of value. The negro did carry a message, but
it was on a small patch of thin paper, which had been rolled up tightly
and concealed in his thick woolly hair.
The match was lit and dropped, and all ablaze it landed upon Walter's
head. He caught it in silence and put it out, but the movement was
noticed from above.
"There is some one else in the tree--a white man," cried the soldier.
"Come out of that!" he continued.
Walter guessed what the command meant, and as further concealment would
have been useless he attempted to crawl from the hole. But this was not
so easy, and in the end the soldier had to lend a hand, and then both
leaped to the ground together.
"_Un Americano!_" ejaculated Corporal Ruz. "_De donde viene V.?_" he
added, asking Walter where he came from.
At this the boy shook his head. "I don't understand you," he said.
"_No habla V. castellano?_" continued the corporal, asking if he did not
speak Spanish.
Again Walter shook his head.
"Yankee pig!" murmured the corporal, using a term quite common in Cuba
during the war. "Why does he not learn our beautiful language? Does he
expect we will learn his dirty English?"
He turned to the soldier who had discovered Walter, and between them
they searched the lad's clothing thoroughly, and even took off his
shoes and stockings.
"Nothing," growled the under-officer. "It is strange."
Carlos had been almost unconscious, but was now recovering. "We are in
serious trouble, I am afraid," said Walter, addressing him; but Carlos
pretended not to understand, not wishing the Spaniards to know that he
spoke English, for then they would have been more certain than ever that
he was a spy.
In a few minutes the entire party had left the hut and was making its
way along the trail, Carlos on horseback and the others walking, Walter
between the corporal and a Spanish private, and Josefina bringing up in
the rear as if unwilling to leave her brother.
The soldiers were eight in number, and each was armed with a Mauser
rifle of recent pattern. They were a hungry-looking set and their
uniforms were sadly in need of repair. Six were of middle age, but the
other two were no older than Walter, for conscription into the Spanish
army begins at as early an age as it does in the navy--some of the
soldiers and sailors being scarcely fifteen to sixteen years old!
The course of the party was upward, over rocks and trailing vines, and
through a woods where hardly a breath of air was stirring. The heat soon
made Walter's head ache again, and he was glad enough when a small
Spanish camp was gained and he was allowed to sit down in the shade of a
plantain and rest.
The encampment was in the open, the only shelter being that provided for
the officer in charge, Captain Coleo--a bit of dilapidated canvas
stretched between four trees fifteen or twenty feet apart. Under this
shelter were located a couple of hammocks, a small folding table for
writing, and a camp chair.
Walter found Captain Coleo a thorough gentleman despite his
surroundings. He was well educated and spoke English fluently, with a
soft accent which under other circumstances would have been quite
pleasing.
"So you are an American youth?" he said, after he had listened to his
corporal's report and examined Carlos. "And where did you come from, and
what are you doing here?"
Feeling there would be no use in concealing the truth, Walter told his
story. At the mentioning of the _Merrimac_ the Spanish captain's brow
grew dark.
"It was a brave deed, but it will do your countrymen small good," he
said. "The boat is not directly across the channel, so the harbor pilots
have discovered. All of your comrades are now prisoners in Morro Castle,
and I presume that is where I shall have to send you."
"As a prisoner of war?"
"As a prisoner of war. And you can be thankful that in trying to escape
you were not shot down," continued Captain Coleo.
Walter was very thirsty, and said so. "You look as if you were getting
ready to have the fever," was the captain's comment, and he had a
soldier bring Walter a tin cup full of _guarapo_, water sweetened with
sugarcane ends, and said to be healthier than the plain article. Good
water in Cuba is scarce, and although Walter did not know it, it was
only the captain's natural good-heartedness that obtained for him what
he wanted.
It had threatened rain for some hours, and as nightfall came on, the
first drops of a violent tropical storm descended. Soon from a distance
came the rumble of thunder, and spasmodic flashes of lightning lit up
the woods. The soldiers huddled under the shelter of a clump of low
trees, while Captain Coleo sought the protection of the canvas,
accompanied by Walter, Carlos, and a guard. Walter's hands had been
bound behind him, and he was allowed to sit on a small block of wood
beside one of the hammocks in which the wounded negro reclined.
"We will not move to Santiago to-night," said the Spanish captain. "I
think the storm will clear away by morning."
He was busy making out a report, and sat at his little table for the
purpose, a spluttering Mambi taper fastened to a stick driven into the
soil being his only light. The taper went out half a dozen times, but
there was nothing to do but to light it again, and this Captain Coleo
did without the least show of impatience. To him war was a business, and
he was satisfied to take matters just as they came.
The guard trudged around and around the patch covered by the canvas, his
rifle on his shoulder and the never-failing Spanish cigarette in his
mouth. Occasionally he glanced toward Walter and the negro, but his
interest in the prisoners soon gave way to his own discomforts, and he
gave them no more attention.
Presently Walter felt a hand steal over his shoulder. "What you
think--we run for it, maybe?" whispered Carlos.
"I'd like to run, but we may get shot," whispered Walter in return.
At this Carlos shrugged his shoulders. With two Mauser bullets in him
the tall negro rebel was still "game." It was such men as he who had
kept this unequal warfare in Cuba going for three long years despite
Spain's utmost endeavors to end the conflict.
"Raise up a bit and I untie rope," he said, as the guard made another
round and walked from them. "Maybe we can go when big thunder and
lightning come--not so?"
"All right--I'll go you," cried Walter, lowly, and in a bit of Western
slang. "A fellow can't die but once, and I have no desire to be taken to
the dungeon of Morro Castle, or to any other Spanish lockup."
He raised up, and in a trice Carlos had the cords about his wrists
unloosened. Captain Coleo still sat writing. But now the taper went out
again and he paused to relight it.
At that instant came a blinding flash of lightning and a loud peal of
thunder which startled the few horses the camp possessed and caused them
to prance about madly. "Now!" cried Carlos, and with one quick leap he
cleared six feet of ground between the hammock and the nearest patch of
woods. Walter also leaped, and away they went side by side through the
wind, rain, and darkness.
Crack! crack! It was the reports of two Mausers, and the ping of a
bullet from the Spanish captain's pistol followed. Walter felt a strange
whistling by his ear, and putting up his hand found it covered with
blood. The bullet from the pistol had scratched the side of his head.
Had his aim been an inch closer, gentlemanly Captain Coleo would have
killed the youth on the spot.
"You are hit?" queried Carlos, breathing heavily, for loss of blood had
made him weak.
"I--I reckon it's not much!" panted Walter. "But hurry up--they are
coming after us!"
The boy was right; both the captain and the guard were following the
pair with all possible speed, while three others brought up in the
rear, the other soldiers remaining behind to manage the horses, three
of which had broken their tethers and were bounding down the trail at a
breakneck speed.
Could he manage to escape? Such was the one question which Walter asked
himself as he stumbled on in the darkness. A very few minutes would
suffice to answer the all-important query.