BACK TO THE "BROOKLYN" AGAIN
The steam launch was the neatest craft of the kind Walter had ever seen,
and he had come in contact with a great number while sailing on Lake
Erie. It was fifty-five feet long, about twelve feet wide, and as
beautiful a boat as a designer could plan. It was manned by eight
stalwart men, all well drilled to their duties, and carried in addition
six marines, each of whom was a sharpshooter, and also a rapid-firing
gun of small caliber.
The launch rode the waves like a thing of life and easily made ten miles
an hour. Soon Guantanamo was left behind, and they began to creep up the
coast in the direction of Baiquiri. In the bow was a lookout, who had a
marine glass which was constantly turned shoreward.
"A flag!" said the lookout, about noontime, and immediately the launch
came to a stop.
"Where is it, Parkhurst?" asked the officer in charge of the craft.
"Yonder, just below that stretch of rocks, sir," answered the lookout,
and handed over his glasses. The commander of the launch took a long
look, then ordered the craft turned to starboard, and they steamed into
a little harbor not a great distance from a tiny Cuban settlement. A
small boat was thrown out, the commander and two launch hands leaped in,
and it at once advanced. Then those on the larger craft saw a dozen men
rush from the shelter of some brush, one holding a white and the other a
Cuban flag.
The small boat was beached in true nautical style, and the Cubans and
Americans entered into a conversation lasting the best part of half an
hour. Letters were exchanged, and then the party broke up as rapidly as
it had gathered. Although Walter did not know it, the letter delivered
by the American commander was for the rebel leader, General Calixto
Garcia, while that received in return was for Admiral Sampson and
General Shafter. All related to the landing of the army of invasion, now
so close at hand.
The conference over, the launch darted on her way, and dinner was
served, to the officers and sharpshooters first, and then to the crew
and Walter. "Oh, we're doing some fine work along this coast," said one
of the crew to the youth, while eating. "Those Dons will be greatly
astonished some day--when our boys in blue fall on 'em."
It was night before the _Brooklyn_ came into view, looking exactly as
she had when Walter had so unceremoniously left her. How the youth's
heart beat at the sight of his ship! How would those on board receive
him, and what would they say when his story was told?
"Russell!" exclaimed the officer of the deck, when he came up over the
side. "Why, we all thought you had fallen overboard and been drowned."
"I came pretty near being drowned," was the reply. "You can't imagine,
sir, how glad I am to get back!"
"But where have you been?"
"I've been on the _Merrimac_, among the Cubans and the Spaniards, and in
a Spanish prison, besides being down to Guantanamo Bay with the marines
from the _Panther_, sir."
"Great Scott, boy, do you expect me to believe all that!" burst out the
officer, in sheer astonishment.
"As you will, sir; it's true, though."
"But--but--let me see; you said you were on the _Merrimac_?"
"Yes, sir."
"And on shore among the Cubans, and then among the enemy?"
"Yes, sir."
"And then among the marines at Guantanamo Bay?"
"Exactly, sir. I escaped from a Spanish prison, and was lucky enough to
fall in with the marines by accident. I fought with them too, sir."
"Russell, after you disappeared Surgeon Barker said you had been
sick--had been troubled with some sort of fever in your head. Don't you
believe you went out of your head entirely, and imagined all this?"
"No, sir."
"Well, I reckon that's the truth of the matter, and the best thing you
can do is to turn yourself over to the surgeon again for further
treatment. How is your head?" And the officer of the deck placed his
hand on Walter's forehead. "Ah, rather hot, as I thought. You had
better go to bed." And he turned away.
"I don't think I'll go to bed just yet," murmured Walter, and lost no
time in reaching the berth deck. Here he came up behind Si and Caleb
playing one of their favorite games of checkers, while Paul stood
looking on.
"Crown that man," Caleb was saying, when he chanced to glance up,
"Walter! or is it a ghost?" he fairly yelled, and leaped up, scattering
board and men in all directions. "Walter, where on earth did you come
from?" And he reached out his hand.
"It is Walter, back from the grave!" ejaculated Si, and grasped the
other hand, while Paul caught the youth by the neck.
"We thought you were drowned!" said all three, simultaneously.
"They said you had gone out of your mind, and committed suicide," added
Paul.
"Well, I didn't commit suicide, and I'm as well as ever," was the merry
return. "But--but--I don't believe you'll think I'm telling the truth
when I give you my story."
"That depends on what sort of a yarn you spin," returned Caleb, dryly.
"Where have you been--sinking Cervera's fleet single-handed?"
"Not quite, but I've been pretty close to the fleet, and pretty close to
the Spaniards." And dropping on a box Walter told his story, interrupted
every few minutes by some newcomer who advanced to shake him by the
hand, for since joining them he had made many friends among the jackies
and petty officers.
"I don't wonder the officer of the deck wouldn't believe you, lad,"
remarked Caleb, when he had finished. "It's a big yarn; beats Jonah and
the whale all to pieces--not but what _that's_ a true story, seeing as
how it's in the Good Book. You are certain you wasn't taken down with
the fever while you were on shore?"
"Not enough to lose my mind."
"I believe Walter," put in Si. "But if I were you I wouldn't tell this
tale to the others," he added in a lower tone. "They'd be jealous of
you, you know."
"I don't care, I'm telling the simple truth," answered Walter, stoutly.
That evening word was passed to him to report at the captain's cabin,
and he went, just as soon as he could slip on his best suit of
clothing, wash up, and comb his hair, for on board of every man-o'-war a
visit to "headquarters" is a big thing to any of the crew, and a
"sprucing up" is, consequently, indispensable.
This was the first time Walter had visited the cabin of the _Brooklyn_,
and the elegant surroundings immediately caught his eye. But in days
gone by, before he had been compelled to live with the miserly Job
Dowling, he had been used to a home furnished just as handsomely, and
therefore the surroundings did not overawe him.
There was a small table in the centre of the cabin, at one end of which
sat Commodore Schley, looking over a map of the Cuban coast. At the
other end of the table sat Captain Cook, the firm and strict, yet
well-beloved commander of the flagship.
"You sent for me, sir," said Walter, as he came in, "toed the mark," and
saluted.
"You are Walter Russell?" asked Captain Cook, while Commodore Schley
dropped the map and looked on with interest.
"Yes, sir."
"You have been absent from the ship ever since June the second, or
third?"
"Yes, sir. But I couldn't help it. I was sick and fell overboard,--and
I've had a whole lot of adventures since."
"So the officer of the deck tells me," answered the captain, dryly. He
looked at the commander of the squadron. "Commodore Schley, would you
like to ask Russell any questions?"
At this the commodore smiled and pulled meditatively at the little
goatee he wore. "Russell, you can tell us your story in detail. But do
not take over ten minutes," he said, and covered his eyes with his
hands, as if in deep thought--one of his favorite attitudes.
Standing as before and still "toeing the mark," Walter told his story
again, simply but forcefully. Whether his hearers were listening or not
he could not tell, for not a word was said until he had finished.
Then, however, came a flood of questions concerning the spot at which he
had landed after leaving the _Merrimac_, the names of the various Cuban
and Spanish leaders that he had encountered, and the names of the
marines with which he had fought. He was also questioned about the
trails and their conditions.
"Could loaded wagons get over them, in your estimation?" asked Commodore
Schley.
"Not very well, sir. In one place I saw an ox-team with a load of fruit,
and the load was in danger of being dumped every minute. Some of the
paths are not fit for a pack-mule to use."
"What of the Cubans you met? Were they well armed?"
"A few of them had guns, but most of them had nothing but their
machetes, sir. Ammunition, I was told, was very scarce."
"What of food?"
"That was scarce, too." And Walter smiled. "A good eater would starve to
death on what both the Spaniards and the Cubans have to offer."
"Do the Spaniards expect an army of invasion--that is, did you hear any
talk on the subject?"
"I caught a few words, sir. I cannot speak Spanish myself."
Commodore Schley mused for a moment. "That is all," he said, addressing
Captain Cook. "The boy has certainly had some remarkable adventures. He
is better off than poor Lieutenant Hobson."
"That's true," responded the commander of the _Brooklyn_. He turned to
Walter. "You can go, Russell; if we want you again, we will send for
you."
"Yes, sir," was the youth's reply, and, saluting, he turned and left the
cabin. The interview had been a very formal one, but he was proud to
think that he had come into personal contact with his gallant captain
and his equally gallant commodore.