THE RESCUE
Jack and Hugh watched the gradually approaching village with anxious
interest, Jack from his post in the radio cockpit, Hugh from the seat
beside Captain Taylor. Soon, without the aid of the glasses, they could
pick out familiar features: the little church, the barracks, the parade
ground, General Roza’s headquarters; the latter by the flag above it.
Already it was evident to those aboard the airship that Perdero was
in a mild ferment. Troops were moving like little yellow ants between
barracks and parade ground, mounted soldiers galloped along the road, a
machine-gun battery deployed on the plain east of the town.
“Have they any anti-aircraft guns?” asked Captain Taylor of Hugh.
“I think not. At least, we saw nothing of the sort.”
“And you think they have but one airplane available?”
“Pretty certain of that, sir. In fact, they may not have any, for the
engine of that one was down two or three days ago.”
“Well, they probably won’t show fight, but we’ll soon know. I don’t see
but that you located the place pretty well, Clode. The mark on this map
is only some six or eight miles out of the way. You had it a bit too
far to the north. Would you say that that was the entire garrison out
there beyond the town?”
“I think it is, sir; between four and five hundred is what we
estimated. Roza’s supposed to have several thousand men in his army,
but we never saw many of them. I guess they’re pretty well scattered.”
“We had a report two days ago that they were deserting wholesale. Fancy
he hasn’t been paying them their wages lately. They’ve been drifting
across the border in bunches, they say.”
As the _F 8_ drew nearer the village the machine-gun battery was seen
to move into the town and, although it was lost to sight, those in the
dirigible presumed that it had taken a position about the general’s
headquarters. The infantry also presently marched into the village and
a troop of cavalry――Hugh was almost certain that he could distinguish
Captain Fosdes amongst them――followed. By this time the _F 8_ was
almost above the town and Hugh, after a moment’s perplexity, was able
to point out the _cárcel_ to the captain.
“Right! That’s where we don’t want to drop any bombs, then, Clode.
Not that I think we’ll have a chance to drop any, however. All that
exhibition is just bluff, I guess.” He turned his head and spoke to the
engineer officer. “We’ll swing around when we’re over the building with
the flag, Mr. Carey, and hold her there with her nose into the wind.
Guernsey and one other flyer will land. Our business is to be ready in
case the greasers show fight. That’s all, Mr. Clode. Better get back to
your post.”
The _F 8_ turned widely above the center of the town and the _9_
followed. Below, some six hundred feet away, the flat-topped buildings,
the wide street, the stunted trees had the appearance of a Noah’s Ark
village spread out there in the clear sunlight by some child at play.
The street was gay with the colorful rags of the inhabitants, all of
whom, or so it appeared, had gathered out of doors to stare upward at
the visitors. Even the market place was deserted, save for a handful
of old women. Machine guns guarded the approach to the general’s
headquarters and soldiers were strung all along the street from end
to end of the town. In front of headquarters, looking upward, stood a
group of officers. The _F 8_ straightened her nose into the breeze
and floated quietly and the sister ship swung abreast some two hundred
yards southward. Overhead the airplanes were circling slowly. Then
one started downward and a second followed and a minute later they
were rolling across the drill ground north of the town. When they had
stopped Lieutenant Guernsey climbed out of the foremost machine and
a second officer from the other. Together they proceeded composedly
toward headquarters. As they went, the remaining planes circled lower
and lower and in the bows of the two dirigibles the machine guns,
already slid outboard on their transverse platforms, were tilted until
their shining noses pointed almost straight downward. At the beginning
of the street, near the hut that had served the Americans as quarters,
the two officers were challenged by the Mexican soldiers. After a
moment’s conference a cavalryman trotted to headquarters. The officers
waited. Presently the cavalryman returned and the officers went on. Up
in the after cockpit Jack and Hugh watched apprehensively. Those two
khaki-clad figures below looked terribly helpless amidst that throng.
Hugh instinctively drew his automatic. There was, however, no evidence
of concern on the part of the two flyers. Under the scowling regard
of the civilians and between the double line of soldiers they walked
unhurriedly. Then they reached the group of officers where the green
and yellow flag fluttered. Salutes were given and returned. In the
doorway appeared a small figure.
“Roza,” exclaimed Jack.
The general descended and joined the group. Much talk followed. For
more than a quarter of an hour, while the dirigibles hung overhead
and the three planes that remained aloft circled about, Americans and
Mexicans conferred. Then the two flyers turned and, escorted by guards,
went back the way they had come. Hugh and Jack stared at each other
wonderingly. Lieutenant Guernsey climbed into his machine and a moment
later the telephone in the _F 8_ was busy.
“Roza declares that our men are not here,” said Lieutenant Guernsey.
“Says that they set out on foot at one o’clock yesterday for a village
called Comatila about thirty miles northeast of this place. I think
he is lying. There’s no such village on my map, and, anyhow, he was
too smooth. He says that it had been arranged for the whole party to
get away yesterday in the dirigible, that the two radio men disobeyed
orders and that the balloon became unmanageable or something and went
off with only the radios aboard. He denies having detained any of
the party by force and says that he gave every assistance to Weeks
in repairing the balloon. And a lot more lies. What’s the next move,
Captain?”
“Wait a moment, please.” Captain Taylor repeated the report to the
others. “Do you think he’s telling us the truth, Mr. Clode?” he asked
of Hugh. Hugh shook his head decidedly.
“I’m certain he isn’t, sir. Mr. Weeks and the others are here somewhere.
They wouldn’t start off on foot. We talked that over a dozen times.
There’s no water for miles and almost no trails. Besides, I never heard
of this Comatila place before, sir.”
“Let’s see if our map shows it. No, it doesn’t. San José’s is the
nearest town in that direction, and that’s a lot further than thirty
miles. Of course, it’s possible that there’s a small settlement that’s
not shown here. No, I’m inclined to think, with you, Clode, that our
men are still here. But whether they’re still alive is another matter.”
“I think they are, sir,” said Hugh. “Don’t you, Jack?”
“Yes. The way I figure it, Captain, is that Roza needs money badly and
hates to lose the chance of getting the ransoms. If we could look into
that jail down there I guess we’d find them.”
Captain Taylor thought a moment. Then he lifted the telephone again.
“Lieutenant Guernsey? Our wireless officers are agreed that Roza is
bluffing. We’ll meet his bluff. Return to him, please, and tell him
that I am giving him exactly fifteen minutes to produce the prisoners.
Tell him that if they are not out there beside your planes in that
time we will blow up his rotten little town. And tell him the first
bomb will light on headquarters. Got that? All right. Keep your eyes
open and your automatic handy. We’ve got the crowd covered. If trouble
starts, get under cover, for we’ll turn loose mighty sudden!”
Again the two flyers demanded audience and a second conference took
place. Now, however, less time was consumed. In the end Lieutenant
Guernsey’s voice again came over the telephone. “He sticks to it,
Captain. So do the others. I’m beginning to think he may be telling
the truth. I don’t believe, though, that he thinks we will carry out
the threat. He says now that Weeks and his party agreed to pay some
fines imposed by a court-martial and that they were released on that
understanding. They are to send the money after they reach home.
Somehow, it sounds sort of plausible.”
“But he said before that they weren’t held, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he certainly did.”
“Of course! Besides, we’ve got our witnesses right here. We’ll proceed
as planned, Lieutenant. Time will be up at two-nine. Don’t think it
will be necessary for the planes to take a hand. We’ll do the bombing.
Better stand ready to get up again in case they get nasty.”
Captain Taylor arose from the telephone and again glanced at his watch.
“Seven minutes yet,” he announced. He looked down into the village. The
street was already emptying as news of the threat circulated. The group
of officers still lingered in front of the headquarters building, but
Jack thought he could detect signs of uneasiness amongst them. Captain
Taylor sought the telephone again and issued instructions to the _F 9_.
“We don’t want to kill or wound, so try to drop in the street or in
open places,” he ended.
On the tick of two o’clock the _F 8’s_ propeller, which had been
revolving only fast enough to hold the dirigible in position, spun more
rapidly and the ship turned slowly above the town. Below in the broad,
winding street only the soldiers remained, although here and there a
face could be seen looking cautiously forth from some doorway. The knot
of officers dissolved. None entered the headquarters building, however.
Instead, they proceeded briskly away from that structure. Several,
a figure that might have been that of General Tito Roza amongst the
number, hurried along the street and across to the little church and
disappeared within. The captain took his eyes from his watch and
nodded. Into the frame affixed to the starboard engine outrigger the
engineer’s assistant had already placed one of the six bombs which had
been brought up from below and now stood in readiness. They were not
large, those sharp-nosed metal cylinders; scarcely fourteen inches
long and less than five in diameter; but each contained thirty pounds
of nuvonitro, the most powerful explosive known to science. Captain
Taylor stepped to the ledge and peered down as the _F 8_ moved slowly
forward. His hand reached for the brass trigger. Jack and Hugh stared
fascinatedly from the rear cockpit. The engineer officer stood hand on
throttle. Six hundred feet below, the green and yellow flag whipped
briskly in the sunlight and its pole pointed straight up to the silvery
nose of the balloon. Seconds passed during which the subdued throb of
the port engine alone broke the silence. Then the captain’s hand tugged
gently and there was a faint click as the trigger sprang, and――
“_Speed!_” he shouted.
The engine roared and a rush of wind swept the boat as the dirigible
plunged forward. Between balloon and earth the sun glinted momentarily
on a speeding messenger of destruction. A burst of yellow vapor, a
hollow roar, a concussion that seemed to shake the dirigible as she
tore onward, and in a cloud of dust and flying fragments General Tito
Roza’s headquarters utterly disappeared. Looking backward and down as
the _F 8_ turned widely, Jack saw beneath the brownish pall of dust
only a great hollow where the mud-walled building had stood. Then his
gaze leaped further beyond, for a second detonation had sounded. The _F
9_ had dropped a bomb in the wide, rutted street back near where the
peddlers congregated and another great hole appeared, the front wall of
a house toppled forward and the roof slowly sagged and then fell in.
Four frightened, but apparently uninjured, Mexicans evolved from the
cloud of smoke and dust and sped like rabbits down the street. As the
_F 8_ swung her nose back toward the scene of destruction a second bomb
was swung into place, and at that moment Jack’s gaze fell on a fleck of
white beside the giant cactus by the church. A second look brought into
view the figure of the priest, cloaked and derby-hatted. Across the
threshold of the little sanctuary he went and down into the street, and
from there, gazing upward, waved a white cloth, perhaps taken from the
altar within.
“The only brave one of the lot,” commented Captain Taylor. “Well, I
guess they’ve had enough.” In answer to the signal of surrender, the
dirigible swung eastward again and stood off toward the edge of the
village and the _F 9_ followed. A moment later forms issued from the
church, soldiers who a second before had been invisible sprang into
sight again from doorways and again the street became inhabited. A
squad of Roza’s ragged infantrymen set off toward the _cárcel_, and,
ere one could have counted a hundred, five figures emerged from the
door of the squalid hut and in the after cockpit of the _Fate_ two
boys leaned over the side and waved their caps and shouted wildly.
Along the street toward the drill ground where the two airplanes stood
marched the little group. Well short of the planes the soldiers came to
a halt and turned back, but the five others went on across the ground;
Lieutenant Commander Weeks and Lieutenant Traine ahead, Lieutenants
Gandell and Jordan next, Engineer’s Mate Dan Wason lounging along
behind. From the dirigible, high above, they saw the flyers hurry
forward, saw the men clasp hands, and then a shout from Lieutenant
Sandborn in the cockswain’s seat turned their attention elsewhere.
Across the village a yellow airplane was leaving the ground. The roar
of her motors came distinctly as, gathering speed and height, she swung
westward in flight. One of the American planes, far above, started in
pursuit, but Captain Taylor seized the telephone.
“Let him go!” he called. “If it’s Roza, as I think it is, maybe he’ll
get killed. Let’s give him the chance, anyway!”
Then, speaking to the pilot ahead: “We’ll make a landing,” he said.
“About two hundred yards beyond our planes looks all right. Mr. Clode!
Tell the _F 9_ we will land north of the two planes, spacing two
hundred yards.”
* * * * *
Shortly before midnight a white light showed in the purple darkness
southwest of Camp Stanton. It came and went far up in the heavens for
several minutes, while at the camp a khaki-uniformed man, smothering a
yawn, read the message and then picked up his telephone.
“_F 8_ and _F 9_ returning, sir! Reconnaissance trip successful.
Captain Taylor reporting.”
Ten minutes later two big shadows, picked out by twinkling lights,
hovered over the landing field. Below, the ground crews gathered,
the doors of the sheds trundled open and the great flood-lights were
turned on. Down settled the dirigibles like tired monsters of the air,
their silken envelopes shimmering in the radiance. Megaphoned orders
sounded, cables dropped and were manned, bells tinkled in the engine
compartments. Then: “Steady, port! Haul away at the bow! Easy now!
Bring that stern around! That’ll do! Walk her in!”
Five minutes afterwards the _F 8_ was back home again, her engines
still, her lights out, and down the ladder climbed a tired but
triumphant seven. Mr. Weeks led the way. The other members of the
rescued party had returned in the _F 9_ and two of the planes.
Welcoming hands awaited the lieutenant commander as he reached the
ground, for news of the arrival of the balloons had sped about the camp.
“The Old Man wants you to come around for a minute before you turn in,
Bob,” announced a brother officer, when he had wrung Mr. Weeks’ hand.
“He’s waiting up for you in a pair of sky-blue pajamas.”
“All right, Charley. Speaking of pajamas, though, my own are going to
look mighty good to me. Just a minute. I want to speak to a couple of
my chaps. Clode, are you there? And you, Sterling? Oh, here you are!
Look here, fellows, I forgot something this afternoon. It isn’t much,
but it may interest you.” He dropped his voice. “You two fellows are
the real heroes of this little stunt, and we all realize it. I’ve
thanked you personally, as the others have, but I’m going to try to
see that the Navy thanks you too. Understand me?”
“Not quite, sir, I’m afraid,” answered Hugh.
“Well, I’m going to get you recommended for promotion. And if I
have any influence with Rear Admiral Thomas, Clode, you’ll get your
lieutenancy; and you, too, Sterling. And there’s another thing I’m
going to do, too, by Jove! I’m going to see that you fellows stick to
the old _Fate_. If, as they say here to-night, we’re really going to
war with Mexico, I want you with me! Good night! Sleep well!”
“Sleep!” murmured Jack as Mr. Weeks hurried away and he and Hugh made
their way out of the shed. “Gee, I’m not going to do any sleeping! I’m
going to lie awake all night and call myself ‘Lieutenant Sterling’!”
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
――Obvious punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently
corrected.
――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.