CAST INTO A SANTIAGO DUNGEON.
"Those fellows evidently mean business," whispered Mr. Raymond, as an
angry discussion drifted down to us. "Is it possible they got wind that
we are on board?"
"Let us hope not," shuddered my father. "Hist! they are coming down
into the cabin!"
After this we remained as quiet as mice, hardly daring to breathe.
We heard loud talking, partly in Spanish and a few words in very bad
English. "I know they are here," growled one Spaniard. "We shall make a
large hunt, _capitan_."
"If you insist, I cannot help myself," answered Captain Brownley. "But
it is a most unusual proceeding."
At this the Spaniard muttered something in his own language. He began
to hunt in one direction, while his followers hunted in another. Soon
two of the men came to the pantry and forced the door. We tried to
escape observation, but could not manage it, and were ordered forth at
the point of several long pistols.
"Ha! as I suspected! All _Americanos_!" muttered the Spanish commander
of the revenue cutter. "A fine haul! A fine haul, indeed!"
Then turning to his second in command he issued orders that some irons
be brought on board. At the same time a dozen Spanish marines from the
cutter were formed in line, with loaded carbines, to cover the crew of
the _Rosemary_.
"I place all of you under arrest," said the Spanish captain.
"You"--pointing to my father, Burnham, Mr. Raymond, and myself--"as
spies; and you and your men"--this to Captain Brownley--"as enemies of
Spain, assisting these spies to escape."
In vain Captain Brownley tried to argue the matter. The Spanish
commander would not listen to a word. "The Yankee pigs have declared
war on us!" he burst out at last. "Now let them take care of
themselves."
"Then war is really declared?" came from several of us simultaneously.
"Yes, war has been declared. More than that, we have already
whipped the Yankee pigs who dared to attack our noble ships in the
Philippines," said the Spaniard bombastically.
But, as all American boys know, the Spaniard was mistaken. The American
squadron under Commodore, afterward Admiral, George Dewey, was not
defeated. Instead, it gained a most glorious victory, some of the
particulars of which will be related in a volume to follow this, of
which more later.
The news was staggering, and while we talked it over among ourselves,
each of us was handcuffed, I being linked to Mr. Raymond, while my
father was linked to Burnham. Captain Brownley and his first mate
were also handcuffed, and the sailors were told to obey the Spanish
captain's orders or run the risk of being shot down.
The announcement that a naval battle had been fought in the Philippines
seemed to worry Mr. Raymond a good deal. "I wonder if Oliver knows
anything of this?" he half muttered.
"Oliver, who is he?" I asked.
"Oliver is my son," answered the merchant. "He took a trip to China
a year ago, and from there went to Manila, the principal city of the
Philippines. I haven't heard of him for a number of months now. He is
perhaps a year older than you."
"I never heard much of the Philippines," I answered. "I know they are
a good way off--somewhere between Australia, the Hawaiian Islands, and
China. Do they belong to Spain?"
"Yes, but she is having as much trouble to hold them as she is having
to hold Cuba."
We were now ordered to keep silent, and compelled to march from the
cabin of the _Rosemary_ to the deck of the Spanish vessel. Here we were
made to stand in a line, our weapons having previously been taken from
us. The course of the sailing vessel had been eastward toward Cape
Maysi, but now both craft were headed westward.
"I'll wager we are bound for Santiago," murmured Burnham, who stood
beside me, and he was right, for in a little over an hour the narrow
entrance to Santiago Bay came into view, with Morro Castle, a famous
old fortress, standing high upon the rocks to the right.
The bay is several miles long, and Santiago stands well in on the
northeast shore. The land-locked harbor was alive with vessels, but not
one of them floated the familiar Stars and Stripes of our own country.
"There is where we made our way across the bay when first Alano Guerez
and I escaped from Santiago," I whispered. "I am afraid I'll not get
another such chance now."
Soon one of the numerous docks in front of the city was reached, and we
were marched ashore. The news of our capture had spread, and a large
crowd of curiosity-seekers gathered, to jeer and pass all sorts of
unpleasant remarks. The city was now under stricter Spanish rule than
ever before, and as we marched from the dock to the city prison not
another American was to be seen.
At the prison a brief examination was held. When it was learned that my
father was present, I was thrust aside and told that he could speak for
me. Yet he was allowed to say but little. The authorities were certain
that he, Burnham, and Mr. Raymond were spies, and the four of us were
sentenced to confinement in another prison several squares away--a low,
dingy pile of stone, every opening of which was heavily barred and
grated.
Within this prison came the hardest parting of all. I was separated
from my father, and, when I remonstrated, received a sharp blow on my
shoulder from a jailer's sword. Mr. Raymond and I were paired off as
before, and conducted through a long stone passage-way and down a dirty
flight of steps. Sunshine and fresh air were left behind, and the way
was lit up by a smoky kerosene lamp. We were taken to a dungeon cell
several feet below the sidewalk and locked in, and then our jailer left
us.
I was too overcome to speak when we were left alone. Mr. Raymond
strained his eyes and peered around at the four bare walls, the bare
ceiling overhead, and the stone flooring with its water pitcher and
heap of musty straw in one corner.
"This is awful!" he murmured. "Mark, how long do you think you can
stand living in this place?"
"No longer than I have to!" I cried. "I'll get out just as fast as ever
I can."
"If we ever do get out!" he concluded significantly.
The remainder of the day passed slowly. For supper the jailer brought
us some stale bread and some more water, no fresher than that already
in the pitcher. That night I did not sleep a wink.
I expected that another examination would be held the next day, or,
at the latest, within a week; but I was doomed to disappointment. No
one but the jailer came near us, and he only to bring us our bread
and water and occasionally a stew of ill-flavored meat and potatoes,
reeking with garlic. Of this both of us tried bits of the potatoes, and
sometimes mouthfuls of the meat, but it was all we could do to choke
them down.
"How long is this to last?" I asked Mr. Raymond one day, as both of us
walked up and down the narrow cell like two caged animals.
"God alone knows, Mark," he answered. "If there is no change soon I
shall go mad!"
"It is inhuman!" I went on. "A Christian would not treat a dog like
this."
"They are very bitter against us Americans, Mark. Now the United States
have declared war against them, they must realize that Cuban freedom is
assured."
Another week went on, and then we were taken up into the prison yard.
Here I saw my father,--thin, pale, and sick,--but I was not permitted
to converse with him. We were placed in two rows with a hundred other
prisoners, and inspected by General Toral, the military governor of
Santiago and surrounding territory. After the inspection we went back
to our various dungeon cells; and many weary weeks of close confinement
followed.
One day a curious booming reached our ears, coming from we knew not
where. I heard it quite plainly, and called Mr. Raymond's attention to
it.
"It is the discharging of cannon," he said. "And it is not a salute
either," he added, as the booming became more rapid and violent.
It was not until long afterward that I learned the truth, that a fleet
of Spanish warships commanded by Admiral Cervera had been "bottled
up" in Santiago Bay by our own warships under Admiral Sampson and
Commodore Schley, and that the Yankee gunners were now trying what they
could do in the way of bombarding Morro Castle and the ships which lay
hidden from them behind the mountains at the harbor's entrance.
The booming of cannon kept up for several hours and then died away
gradually, but a few days later the bombardment was continued. We
now felt certain that a battle of some sort was on, and Mr. Raymond
questioned the jailer.
"The Yankee pigs will be well whipped," growled the fellow, and that
was all we could get out of him.
Again the days lengthened into weeks, and nothing of importance
happened--to us. But in the outside world great events were taking
place. The entrance to Santiago Bay was being blockaded by the vessels
under Sampson's command, and an army of invasion was gathering at
Tampa, Fla., to land on the southeastern coast of Cuba and attack
Santiago from the rear. The army of invasion, under command of General
Shafter, was sixteen thousand strong, and left Tampa in between thirty
and forty transports.
A landing of the army was effected at Baiquiri and other points, and
here General Shafter consulted with General Garcia, and it was decided
that about three thousand Cuban troops should co-operate with the
United States forces. Among the Cuban troops was the company commanded
by Alano's father; and my chum, let me add right here, was in the fight
from start to finish.
The Spanish authorities now saw what the Americans were up to, and
without delay Santiago was fortified from end to end. Every road
leading from the city was barricaded with logs and earthworks, and
barriers of barbed wire were strung in various directions. Thousands
of Spanish troops had been gathered in the vicinity, and these were
hurried to San Juan Hill, El Caney, and other points of vantage just
outside of Santiago proper.
As the American forces advanced closer and closer to the city Admiral
Cervera became anxious for the safety of his fleet. He knew that if
Santiago was captured there would be nothing left for him to do but to
try to escape from the bay, and that would mean to go forth and fight
the American warships stationed on the blockade beyond Morro Castle.
One day the jailer came in evidently much depressed. We had expected
the usual stew that day, but got only a chunk of dry bread. "And you
are lucky to get even so much," said the Spaniard, as he hurried out.
"Something has gone wrong," remarked Mr. Raymond, as he translated the
fellow's words to me. "I begin to believe that Santiago is suffering
some sort of an attack."
He had hardly spoken when the dull booming of cannon broke once more on
our ears. It was a strange sound, and I threw myself down on our straw
bed to listen.
I was half in a doze,--dreaming of my school days at Broxville,--when
suddenly came an awful crash that to me sounded like the crack of doom,
and the dungeon was filled with pieces of stone, dirt, and cement, and
a thick smoke that all but choked us. Mr. Raymond was hurled flat on
top of me, and for the space of several seconds neither of us could
speak or move.