THE STRUGGLE FOR THE STRONGHOLD
While Phil and O’Neil were being tortured by Espinosa, Lopez had kept
watch from his station, guarding the trail leading up the precipitous
mountain from the valley below. His eyes fascinatedly held upon the
scene in front of him had nevertheless guardedly turned backward,
scanning anxiously the wooded foothills below him and the vista of
the river as it entered the cañon. As yet no signs of the rescuers
were visible. He trembled when he saw that Espinosa had determined to
give the midshipman the water torture. But few white men had survived
its harshness. Lopez’s face wore an increasingly anxious look as the
minutes dragged into hours. The sun had passed the meridian and was
dipping slowly in the western sky. His own men had not left their
posts; each understood his duty; Rodriguez’s faithful followers alone
had been selected to guard this southern bastion of the stronghold.
The faithful native could see a handful of Espinosa’s men at the
howitzer mounted to command the approach by water and farther along
the edge of the precipice small knots of men squatting under shelters
of bamboo. These latter he knew were to dislodge great boulders,
which had been delicately balanced ready to be thrown downward, five
hundred or more feet, into the racing river. Those who dared to enter
the treacherous waters of the cañon must run the gauntlet of these
huge rocks, but Lopez knew that the Americans would take any risk to
reach the trail leading away from the stronghold and further into the
mountain fastness, over which the trapped insurgents would endeavor to
escape.
Several hundred natives, their weapons in hand, had gathered about
their cruel leader. Every eye was turned in rapt enjoyment toward the
delighting spectacle of the torture of a despised American. None save
Lopez and his faithful guards had observed the glint of steel far down
in the valley below. None save he discerned two small white poles
creeping along above the high trees on the river bank. He glanced
uneasily toward the torture. Phil was on his back securely bound, while
Colonel Salas held above his head a long bamboo cane filled with water.
Lopez whispered an order to a native sergeant and the latter
noiselessly edged his way in the direction of the sailor, now
apparently senseless, deserted by those who had been torturing him, now
that they were being indulged in a more interesting spectacle.
Lopez, his heart beating and his bronze face set determinedly, watched
the two topmasts of the gunboat as they traveled toward the bend in
the river. The next second the “Mindinao’s” white bow came slowly,
majestically from behind the land and turned gracefully up the river
toward the cañon. At the foot of the trail khaki-clad figures suddenly
appeared and mounted slowly up the narrow path. He could see the guides
in front clearing and uncovering the treacherous man traps. His men
had now seen the approaching deliverers and their black eyes snapped
excitedly. Any one with half an eye would have known that something
out of the ordinary was going forward. The eager brown soldiers of
Rodriguez moved about restlessly, glancing excitedly down into the
valley below them. Fortunately the leader and his followers were too
absorbed in watching the suffering of poor Phil to take heed of the
strange behavior of the deserters from Rodriguez.
Lopez saw the little gunboat stop suddenly in the river and he observed
plainly groups of men at the bow guns. Then came a flash of flame from
her white hull and a reverberation which shook the mountain stronghold
to its foundation.
The tortured and half-dead Americans were forgotten; their captors had
rushed away to see the meaning of this interruption. It was but the
work of an instant for the watchful Lopez to sever with a few swift
strokes of his bolo the cords that bound his white chief. O’Neil was
likewise cut down, and the two nearly lifeless men were dragged to the
safety of that part of the stronghold guarded by Lopez and his small
band.
Shell after shell came speeding up from the gunboat, and meanwhile the
khaki-clad soldiers, unobserved, toiled onward up the slope.
“To your posts,” Espinosa cried out in alarm. “Open fire with that
gun.” The surprised and terrified leader raved like a madman, taking
all to task for their stupidity. Phil had been released so promptly,
while all was uproar and confusion, that as yet the insurgents had
not realized that Lopez and his men were against them. Espinosa, in
a fever of excitement, himself ran to the howitzer and with his own
hands pointed and fired the first shot. But that was the last shot the
gun would ever fire, for Lopez with a number of his men pushed quietly
forward, cutting its binding ropes and shoved it over the edge of the
cliff from which it crashed downward to the river below.
Espinosa turned aghast and met the cold, defiant eye of Lopez. In them
he read his doom. Lopez’s sharp bolo was already circling about his
head. But the next second it had flashed harmlessly by and rattled on
the rocky ground. Fearful of his life Espinosa had dodged the blow
aimed at him and had taken flight, screaming as he ran for his men to
open fire on the traitors. The shells of the gunboat seemed to fall in
every part of the stronghold and the havoc of their explosions was
terrible to witness; but the small band under Lopez remained unharmed.
Mad with fear, the natives who had been witnessing Phil’s torture, upon
hearing the terrifying words of their leader and seeing the awful havoc
behind them caused by the bursting shell, charged boldly on the natives
in their front, believing that in that direction lay their one avenue
of escape, but a well directed volley from Lopez’s men made them recoil
in disorder.
Like one who is chained, powerless in the grip of an unnerving
nightmare, Phil felt rather than saw the wild scenes about him. He
heard the sharp rattle of musket fire and the sonorous discharge of
cannon, the wild, vibrant cries of the natives as they dashed now
forward and again retreating from the clash of contact and the avenging
strokes of bayonet and bolo. By a mighty effort he struggled to his
feet and leaned heavily for support upon the bamboo frame of his
prison. His lungs seemed on fire and a red mist was still in his eyes.
The riot of forms about him confused his brain and made him dizzy.
Then his eyes fell upon the body of O’Neil lying on the ground where
the natives had dragged him; the cruel marks of the rope stood out in
blue welts on his muscular neck. His eyes were closed, but the lad saw
with joy that he was alive. He knelt by the sailor’s side ministering
to him as tenderly as if he were a child. Then in great anxiety he saw
that Lopez’s men were slowly giving ground. Stubbornly they fought, but
the overwhelming ranks of the enemy, now alive to the actual conditions
and spurred forward by their leaders, came frantically forward across
the open ground.
Phil dragged the senseless body of the sailor back until they were on
the very edge of the hill and then a sight which made him mad with joy
caused him to stand upright and swing his hat jubilantly, unheeding the
leaden missiles on all sides. There scarcely a hundred yards below him
struggling forward and upward was Captain Blynn and his five hundred
soldiers. Dropping the sailor’s head he rushed madly into the company
of loyal natives.
“Charge them,” he cried, beside himself with eagerness, for he saw
that if the enemy, one thousand strong, should obtain possession of the
top of the trail the struggling men below would never reach the top
alive, and their retreat could mean but one thing--a rout and massacre.
The natives did not understand the lad’s words, but his meaning was
only too plain as he snatched a rifle from the ground and led the
remnant of that plucky band.
The next moment he was in the midst of the shrieking horde. In
his nostrils was the reek of the Malay, almost sickening in its
overpowering pungency. Blow after blow at his body he warded off with
the barrel of his rifle.
Now the savage horde had given way and his men had quickly closed in,
warily protecting their flanks, knowing full well the cunning of their
enemy. To his left the lad saw hundreds of natives hurling rocks into
the river below them, and he cut a lane toward them, yelling to the
loyal natives to prevent what he feared would be the destruction of his
ship. From below the ominous rattle of a Colt gun gladdened his heart
and he saw with delight the men on the cliffs flee in terror, leaving
great boulders balanced menacingly on the very edge of the abyss. An
American cheer rang out from behind him and he became dizzy with joy
at the good news it brought. He read in the natives’ eyes a look of
terror at the sudden appearance of an unlooked for enemy, and at the
same instant he realized that if he and his loyal natives were to be
saved he must extricate them from this dangerous position between the
fire of the two opposing forces. He looked wildly about him for Lopez,
but he was nowhere in sight, and already the soldiers had begun to
open a withering fire in their direction. Mad with their exertions,
brought suddenly face to face with the enemy, the soldiers would have
no discretion; friend and foe alike were mixed in one writhing mass of
brown.
Then a sinister face showed itself on his right hand and all thoughts
of safety were thrown to the winds. Espinosa, the tyrant and murderer,
was within his reach. With a score of men as a body-guard he was
hurrying away, deserting the field of battle. The midshipman pressed
against the enemy to his right, fighting his way even through the
remnant of the loyal natives, crying out to them to follow, while
behind him he could hear the heavy footfalls of the soldiers.
[Illustration: _HE GAZED DOWN INTO THE STILL FACE_]
A body brushed him nearly off his feet and he turned toward it, his
rifle raised as if to ward off an expected blow and then as his eyes
fell upon the disheveled figure, he gave a cry of delight.
“O’Neil,” he shouted above the noise of the fighting, as he put his arm
about the great figure to steady himself from the force of the impact
from the khaki-clad soldiers pressing eagerly upon them.
“There’s that devil,” the sailor cried in smothered rage, and Phil saw
with astonishment that O’Neil had naught but his bare hands though
the lust of battle was in his eyes. The horror of his recent torture
pressed heavily on his mind and he was bending every exertion to reach
the retreating insurgent leader.
So closely did the Americans press their foes that the lifeless body of
Lieutenant Tillotson was abandoned, and Phil stopped, kneeling at his
side and gazed down into the still face. There was a deep wound in the
neck. Phil saw that the troubled spirit had been released. Ahead the
pursuers had stopped and were firing fiercely in the direction of the
retreating enemy.
“We can’t allow Espinosa to escape,” the lad cried, aghast as he
regained his men and saw with horror that many lay moaning on the
ground.
“They’re intrenched there, sir,” a sergeant exclaimed. “It would be
suicide to charge them;” but Phil had gone too far and had suffered too
much to be stopped by any thoughts of discretion or danger.
“Charge, I say,” he cried; “that murderer Espinosa must not escape.”
The sergeant from his security on the ground gazed up at the lad,
believing quite properly that he had lost his mind, but before he could
be stopped, Phil was beyond reach, charging blindly forward, while from
the intrenchments came a volume of fire which it seemed folly to face.
The seasoned old sergeant shook his head knowingly, but when an officer
orders a charge there is but one thing to do.
As one man the line arose from its shelter and raced madly after the
midshipman.
Hand to hand they battled--the natives with a courage born of
desperation, for their backs were almost at the sheer edge of a
precipice. Slowly they gave way before the onslaught of the Americans.
Phil and O’Neil fought shoulder to shoulder and the lad in his weakened
condition, bleeding profusely from a score of wounds, never more sorely
needed the help that the brave sailorman could give.
“He’s getting away,” O’Neil cried out in an agonized voice as the
stubborn defenders fell one by one before the avenging bayonets.
The natives died bravely, in fanatical fervor, fighting to the last
man, not wishing nor asking for quarter. O’Neil and Phil at last stood
upon the brink of a yawning chasm while they saw, far below them, and
just disappearing within the shadow of the woods, a small band of
natives, while there dangled from the rocks at their feet the severed
end of a rope--the leader’s road to safety.