A WILLING CAPTIVE
The sun was high the next morning before Phil awakened from his sound
sleep. He had tossed on his hard bed listening to the half morbid
ravings of poor Tillotson. Ever before him was the fear that after all
he would be unable to save him. He knew only too well the difficulties
that must be overcome before a rescue were possible. He recalled the
difficult trails over which he and O’Neil had been led. At every point
they had been under the eyes of unseen men on top of the mountain and
within the range of modern rifles. There was not a tree nor rock large
enough to offer cover to the men who on the morrow would assault the
stronghold. His heart ever beat faster as he pictured the fight in his
imagination: The natives behind intrenchments, cornered, no retreat
open to them, fighting with the courage of despair; and the American
soldiers, fearlessly charging upward, giving no heed to the danger at
the top. On the summit, the lad knew, it would be a fight to the death.
The part he was to play had seemed only too simple in the light of day,
but now in the silence of the night, bound as he was hand and foot, and
guarded by cruel enemies who would gladly shoot him down at the first
show of force, all seemed different. O’Neil’s healthy body had long
since been wrapped in slumber and when Phil’s feverish eyes opened he
was up and seated calmly by the lad’s side.
“There are over a thousand of these gugus here in the camp,” he
exclaimed as Phil with difficulty arose and endeavored to stretch his
cramped limbs. “I have been spying from the door there, and I see Lopez
has encamped his men right at the top of the trail, and the men who
were there have been sent somewhere else. The natives who are guarding
us are our own men, and one of ’em tried to stick his bayonet in me
when I asked him for some water to wash in. I wish they were not so
careful of appearances,” he added with a grim smile.
This was certainly cheering news. Lopez then had won his first point
with the insurgent leader. Espinosa had believed his story.
Lieutenant Tillotson still lay like a log, completely overcome from
exhaustion, caused by his torture of yesterday. Phil looked with
compassion on the weak, boyish face; he was breathing evenly, but his
skin was of an unhealthy pallor.
“He looks ill, sir,” O’Neil declared as Phil turned away with a sigh.
“A few more days will do for him. He’s got too sensitive a nature for
soldiering.”
The doorway was darkened by the entrance of two natives. Phil regarded
them coldly as they advanced, and led him not ungently by the arm out
into the sunshine. There they cut his binding cords and gave both him
and O’Neil a bucket of water to wash in. They had been on the point of
arousing Tillotson by a cruel kick, but through Phil’s insistence, they
left the shack without disturbing the sleeping man.
After eating and enjoying a scanty breakfast, the two Americans
surveyed with great interest the scenes about them.
“Do you see that gun there, sir?” O’Neil exclaimed, suddenly nodding
his head toward a Spanish howitzer mounted on the cliff just to the
right of the trail. “It’s manned by Espinosa’s men!”
“That’s bad,” Phil replied anxiously; “and you notice, it commands the
river.”
“Good-morning,” in Spanish from behind them caused Phil to swing about
quickly and gaze into the amused but wicked eyes of Colonel Salas. “So
we are to have the pleasure of your company as our guest, after all?”
the Filipino continued tauntingly. “General Espinosa is making great
preparations for your reception. It is needless for me to tell you how
delighted he is that you have changed your mind. He was very angry at
me for not insisting on your coming with me the other day.”
Phil regarded the little native, a fine scorn in his eyes. He would
have liked nothing better than to have answered him in the same
ironical vein, but he realized that to do so and anger him would only
make more difficult their position.
“He will be here to pay his respects shortly,” Salas continued
ironically. “Ah! here he comes now.”
With his heart beating fast and the muscles in his throat tightening,
Phil saw Espinosa sauntering toward them. He was dressed in the uniform
of a Filipino general, made in the Spanish fashion, of a mouse-colored
duck with a rolling collar, on which a silver star glistened. He came
slowly forward, a wicked smile on his face.
“Señor Perry! So! I have you now in my power?” he said in a low, hard
voice. “I knew that my time would come. Your cleverness caused me
some inconvenience. Colonel Martinez is still to be accounted for.
But”--and he shrugged his shoulders--“that is but a matter of days.
You can see that I am now master of the situation. I shall annihilate
your untried, inefficient volunteers with as much ease as I can kill
flies on the wall of a butcher shop. Your general dare not call in his
men from the garrisons in the north. After I have worn out and killed
those sent against me, then I shall attack Palilo itself. Then when I
have the city in my hands and your general has withdrawn or surrenders,
I shall wire to Manila my willingness to accept civil government. I
shall go through the form of surrendering to the vanquished Americans,
and shall be made the governor of Kapay. I shall then carry on my
authority under your own flag. Is it not a very clever plan? Ah, there
is one point that I have forgotten, a governor of an island as rich as
Kapay must have a suitable dwelling. Very well. Señor Rodriguez is no
more; his house is vacant and adequate for the worthy purpose; and the
señorita--how well the title of wife to the governor of Kapay would
become her!
“So you see, señor, after all, Espinosa has lost nothing,” he ended
with mock politeness.
Phil glared angrily at this vain, boastful Malay half-breed. How dare
he even think of marrying a girl like Maria Rodriguez? Phil knew that
she would rather die first.
“Every man in the American army will fight you to the last fence,” Phil
exclaimed savagely. “Your villainy and treachery are too well known
among even your own people, who serve you only through fear. You will
never be made a governor under the civil government. That won’t aid you
to carry out your vengeful purposes upon those whom you might choose
to call your enemies.”
Espinosa’s face paled slightly, and his eyes kindled in anger.
“I am sorry that I cannot allow you to remain alive to see my prophecy
come true,” he replied with a cruel shrug. “And before I am found out,
as you Americans say, and displaced, I shall have enough money put
aside in banks outside of the Philippines to live in ease and luxury
for the remainder of my life.
“These thoughts,” he added, “may cheer your last hours. It should be a
pleasure to you to know that you haven’t done me as much harm as you
supposed.”
Phil glared at his tormentor, a bitter hatred in his eyes. How cleverly
had this half-breed played upon the credulity of the Americans! For
months this despicable native had ruled over both the warring parties;
on one hand controlling the native bands of insurgents, telling them
how, when and where to attack their enemy and then by his plausible
words and treacherous cunning had exerted sufficient influence
over General Wilson and his aides to enable him to so dispose the
scattered American troops as to make them impotent, helpless against
the insurgent ambushes and attacks. The lad noticed with a certain
satisfaction that the native wore his left arm in a sling. Was that
then the effect of his shot the night of the meeting of the Katipunan
society? How he blamed himself for not having taken a more careful aim;
he remembered with disappointment that when he had pulled the trigger
of his revolver, his aim had been to the left of Espinosa’s body.
Phil’s gaze was not lost on the half-breed. With a snarl he glanced
down at his almost helpless arm.
“For this I took Rodriguez’s life with my own hands, although Garcia
had been chosen for the deed,” he exclaimed darkly, “and for this I
shall force his daughter to become the wife of Manuel Espinosa.”
Phil gasped, a flood of angry blood mounting to his temples.
“It was I who fired the shot,” the lad cried exultantly, “and the next
time you won’t get off so easily.”
Espinosa in sullen rage regarded the angry midshipman through his
slit-like eyes.
“You?” he cried in unfeigned surprise. “How did you get there?”
“I was there,” Phil replied quickly, a keen satisfaction entering his
thoughts at being able to beard the lion in his den, “and afterward
exposed you to the general--but,” he asked suddenly, “why did you
desert? If you hadn’t we would have had a pleasant little hanging party
in the Plaza the next morning.”
Espinosa was evidently enraged at the lad’s daring words.
“You are brave,” he said suddenly, a spark of suspicion coming into his
mind, “to speak this way before me knowing that I can have you hung, or
tortured, by simply giving the order.”
“I know your yellow soul too well,” Phil declared in answer, “to
believe that anything I might say now would influence the plan for
revenge which you have already made. But I am curious to know why you
left Palilo so suddenly. Did you believe that Rodriguez would betray
you?”
The outlaw glared at the midshipman, his hands twitching longingly to
take forcible hold on his tormentor.
“Because of that shot,” Espinosa answered finally, “I feared there
might have been an enemy at the meeting and I feared Captain Blynn’s
hand,--I would give a box of old Rodriguez’s gold to have him here a
prisoner,” he added, a flash of terror in his eyes.
“He may be here any moment now,” Phil said quietly. Then he would have
bitten off his tongue as he saw the sudden gleam of suspicion in his
enemy’s eyes.
Espinosa gave the lad a searching look. “What do you mean?” he asked
casting a glance of fear about him.
“Oh, nothing,” the lad answered carelessly, “only he knows you killed
Rodriguez, stole his money and tried to carry off his daughter; also
by this time he will know that I’m a prisoner in your hands. And if
for no other reason, you hold Lieutenant Tillotson, and his father is
overturning the war department to rescue him. You made a bad fist of it
there.”
Phil had been watching the native leader’s anxious face, as he glanced
about him as if half fearing the big American to appear suddenly from
the ground. He now saw it light up with keen enjoyment as his eyes
encountered something which amused him. Looking up quickly the lad
uttered an exclamation of horror as he realized with overwhelming
force the true position in which he had placed himself and his trusted
boatswain’s mate.
O’Neil, bound hand and foot, had been triced up, his toes just resting
on the ground, and his strong bronzed face swollen and blue from a
strangling rope knotted about his neck, the end thrown over a framework
apparently built for this diabolical torture.
Phil turned his face away. He saw as through a red mist the throngs
of curious natives who had quickly gathered to see their enemy slowly
murdered before their eyes.
Espinosa gave a guttural order and immediately Phil was seized and
forced to gaze at the revolting torture of his companion.
“We shall not kill him yet,” Espinosa said, while he smiled in keen
delight at the discomfited midshipman. “I have promised my men a field
day. We have many amusing ways of treating our guests,--but,” he added,
“before your turn comes I wish some information which I know you can
give.
“Where is General Wilson?” he asked anxiously, “and is it true that
your gunboat is in the river?”
“Where are your scouts?” Phil exclaimed haughtily. “Ask them, not your
prisoner.”
“I choose to ask my prisoner,” the native retorted with a meaning
glance at those who held Phil’s head turned so that he must see out of
the tail of his eyes the cruel suffering of O’Neil.
“Your prisoner does not choose to answer,” the lad declared stoutly.
The next second Phil was jerked suddenly upon his back, and his hands
and feet hauled out, spread eagle fashion to stakes driven in the solid
ground. He was quite helpless, and the pain in his arms and legs was
excruciating. He opened his mouth to cry out when quickly a wedge of
hard wood was inserted, holding his jaws wide apart.
He closed his eyes and stiffened his muscle in a supreme endeavor to
withstand the pain and prevent himself showing his suffering to the
delighted natives.
“Now maybe you will consider your answer--Colonel Salas, a little water
may loosen his tongue,” he heard the cruel voice of Espinosa say.
A horrible fear overcame the lad. The water cure was to be given
him. He was to be half drowned. To be made to feel all the torturing
sensations of a drowning man; not once but many times, until his
spirit was broken and he would answer questions which would make him
traitorously injure his own cause. His eyes opened, and he saw dimly
Espinosa’s mocking face above him. The sun had flamed forth from under
a cloud and burned down unmercifully on his staring eyes. He noted
vaguely that it had passed the meridian. Then a terrible fear came into
his mind. Where were the gunboat and the soldiers? Surely by this time
they would have made their presence known. Had the gunboat run aground
and the expedition been delayed? Would a delay mean death to him and
O’Neil or only one more awful day of diabolical torture?
“If you will cease torturing my man,” Phil said with difficulty through
his wedged jaws, “I will answer your questions.”
Espinosa laughed cruelly.
“So you would dictate your own terms,” he cackled. “Colonel Salas, just
a few cupfuls. Captain Perry seems thirsty.”
Phil swallowed the water as it was poured down his throat, holding his
breath long intervals at a time. It seemed to him that the water was
never ending; he had swallowed quarts and yet he drank. Finally he
could swallow no longer and yet the cruel hand above him poured the
liquid without ceasing into his wide open mouth. The water splashed
and ran out. He managed yet to breathe by contracting the muscles of
his throat and then taking a slow breath but even then he felt the
irritation of a few drops of water in his lungs and he knew if he
coughed, as he must in a second, that all the water in his throat and
mouth would enter his windpipe and fairly choke him. A feeling of
suffocation oppressed him, as if a heavy weight lay pressing on his
chest. He knew as yet he had not suffered, that this was but a taste of
what was to come. Once more, this time as if from a great distance, he
heard the cold, sinister voice of the half-breed.
“Before it is too late,” he said, “will you answer my questions?”
Phil opened his eyes and gazed at his tormentors. Then he closed them
and steeled himself to what was to come.
He felt his nose held securely by muscular fingers and his head thrown
back, making a reservoir of his mouth, which was kept full of water.
Just before he closed his eyes Phil had taken a full breath and now
with his lungs full of air he knew that the agony was less than two
minutes away. Strong swimmer as he was, he knew that was the limit of
his endurance, and then afterward would come the sickening sensation
of water agonizingly breathed into his lungs. Congestion would follow
and if there was any trouble with his heart it would stop. If not,
the cruel Colonel Salas who, with a delighted smile, was pouring the
water, would stop and free the lad’s mouth of water, permitting him to
regain his breath, working over him as if he were a half-drowned man,
and after he had been brought to by artificial respiration, the cruel
torture would be begun again and carried out until he agreed to do his
enemy’s bidding.
Those two minutes were the longest in the lad’s life. His entire past
flashed before his eyes and he shed tears of disappointment at the
thought that this might be his death. He wondered how much time had
passed. Then he began to count the seconds, but soon stopped in horror;
it was too much like self-destruction. He held his breath now tightly,
allowing just a little air at a time to escape through his throat. He
opened his eyes once or twice, but he could see nothing but a fiery
sun overhead. He had the sensation that his entire body was swelling.
Every vein seemed to have hardened. The sweat poured from his forehead,
stinging his eyes.
He could hold his breath no longer. His blood throbbed painfully in his
temples. An awful nausea overcame him, and he gasped for air.
Then a sharp sound as of the discharge of a cannon sounded in his ears
and he fought and struggled with the strength of a score of men for the
precious air.