GENERAL CALIXTO GARCIA.
My first view of General Calixto Garcia was a disappointing one.
For some reason, probably from the reports I had heard concerning
his bravery, I had expected to see a man of great proportions and
commanding aspect. Instead, I saw an elderly gentleman of fair figure,
with mild eyes and almost white mustache and beard, the latter trimmed
close. But the eyes, though mild, were searching, and as he turned them
upon me I felt he was reading me through and through.
He was evidently surprised to see a boy, and an American at that. He
spoke but little English, but an interpreter was close at hand, who
immediately demanded to know who I was, where I had come from, and what
I wanted.
"My name is Mark Carter, and I have journeyed all the way from Santiago
de Cuba," I replied. "I heard that my father and his friend, Señor
Guerez, had joined General Garcia's forces."
"You are Señor Carter's son!" exclaimed the Cuban officer, and turned
quickly to General Garcia. The two conversed for several minutes, and
then the under-officer turned again to me.
"General Garcia bids you welcome," he said, and at the same time the
great Cuban leader smiled and extended his hand, which I found as hard
and horny as that of any tiller of the soil. "He knows your father and
Señor Guerez well."
"And where are they now?" I asked quickly.
"They were with the army two days ago, but both went off to escort the
ladies of Señor Guerez' family to a place of safety. The señor was
going to take his wife and daughters to an old convent up a river some
miles from here."
This was rather disheartening news, yet I had to be content. I asked if
my father was well.
"Very well, although hardly able to walk, on account of a leg he broke
some time ago."
"And have you seen Alano Guerez? He is about my own age, and was with
me up to this morning," I went on, and briefly related my adventures on
the road, to which the officer listened with much interest.
"We have seen nothing of him," was the reply I received. "But he may be
somewhere around here."
The officer wished to know about the Spanish detachment we had met, and
I told him all I knew, which was not much, as I had not understood
the Spanish spoken and Alano had not interpreted it for me. But even
the little I had to say seemed to be highly important, and the officer
immediately reported the condition of affairs to General Garcia.
By this time some of the soldiers who had taken part in the fight at
the foot of the plateau came back, bringing with them several wounded
men, including the negro whose wound I had bound up. The disabled ones
were placed in a temporary hospital, which already sheltered a dozen
others, and General Garcia rode off with his horsemen, leaving the foot
soldiers to spread out along the southeastern slope of the mountain.
Left to myself, I hardly knew what to do. A black, who could speak a
few words of "Englis'," told me I could go where I wanted, but must
look out for a shot from the enemy; and I wandered over to the hospital
and to the side of the fellow I had formerly assisted.
The hospital, so called, consisted of nothing more than a square of
canvas stretched over the tops of a number of stunted trees. From one
tree to another hammocks, made of native grass, were slung, and in
these, and on piles of brush on the ground, rested the wounded ones.
Only one regular doctor was in attendance, and as his surgical skill
and instruments were both limited, the sufferings of the poor fellows
were indeed great.
"Him brudder me--you help him," said the black who spoke "Englis'," as
he pointed to the fellow whose wound I had dressed. "Jorge Nullus no
forget you--verra good you."
"Is your name Jorge Nullus?"
"Yeas, señor--him brudder Christoval."
"Where did you learn English?"
"Me in Florida once--dree year ago--stay seex months--no like him
there--too hard work," and Jorge Nullus shrugged his shoulders. "You
verra nice leetle man, señor," and he smiled broadly at his open
compliment.
"Do you know Señor Guerez?" I questioned quickly.
"Me hear of him--dat's all."
"Do you know where the old convent on the river is?" I continued.
The Cuban nodded. "Yeas--been dare many times--bring 'taters, onions,
to Father Anuncio."
"Could you take me there--if General Garcia would let you go?"
"Yeas, señor. But Spaniards all around--maybe shoot--bang!--dead," and
he pointed to his wounded brother. The brother demanded to know what
we were talking about, and the two conversed for several minutes. Then
Jorge turned again to me.
[Illustration: "GENERAL GARCIA, THE GALLANT SOLDIER WHO HAD FOUGHT SO
HARD IN THE CAUSE OF CUBAN LIBERTY."]
"Christoval say me take you; you verra good leetle man, señor. We go
now, you say go."
"Will you be allowed to go?"
"Yeas--General Garcia no stop me--he know me all right," and the negro
grinned and showed his teeth.
I was tempted to start at once, but decided to wait until morning, in
the hope of finding Alano. In spite of the fact that I knew my chum
would be doubly cautious, now we were separated, I felt decidedly
anxious about him. The Spanish troops were on every side, and the
soldiers would not hesitate to shoot him down should they learn who he
was.
The night passed in comparative quietness. Toward morning we heard
distant firing to the northwest, and at five o'clock a messenger dashed
into camp with the order to move on to the next mountain, a distance
of two miles. Through Jorge I learned that the Spaniards had been
outwitted and driven back to the place from whence they had come.
There now seemed nothing for me to do but to push on to the convent on
the river, in the hope of there joining my father. We were, so I was
told, but a few miles from Guantanamo, but the route to the convent
would not take us near the town.
Jorge's brother felt much better, so the negro went off with a light
heart, especially after I had made it plain to him that my father would
reward him for any trouble he took on my account. I told him about
Alano, and before leaving camp we walked around among the sentries in
the hope of gaining some information concerning him. But it was all
useless.
"Maybe he went on to Father Anuncio's," said my negro guide, and this
gave me a grain of comfort.
The soldiers and Jorge and myself left the camp at about the same
time, but we did not take the same road, and soon my guide and I found
ourselves on a lonely mountain trail overlooking a valley thick with
brush and trees. The sun shone brightly, but the air was clear and
there was a fine breeze blowing, and this made it much cooler than it
would otherwise have been.
I missed the horse, and wondered if Alano still had the animal he had
captured. It might be possible he had ridden straight on to Guantanamo,
and was now bound from there up the river. If that was so, we might
meet on the river road.
"Werry bad road now," said Jorge, as we came to a halt on the mountain
side. "Be careful how you step, Señor Mark."
He pointed ahead, to where a narrow trail led around a sharp turn. Here
the way was rocky and sloped dangerously toward the valley. He went on
ahead, and I followed close at his heels.
"No horse come dis way," observed Jorge, as he came to another turn.
"Give me your hand--dis way. Now den, jump!"
We had reached a spot where a tiny mountain stream had washed away a
portion of the trail. I took his hand, and we prepared to take the leap.
Just then the near-by crack of a rifle rang out on the morning air.
Whether or not the shot was intended for us I cannot say, but the
sound startled me greatly and I stumbled and fell. Jorge tried to grab
me, but failed, and down I shot head first into the trees and bushes
growing twenty feet below the trail!