THE GUNBOAT ON GUARD
“There’s a fire ashore there, sir,” a lookout called in an eager voice
as Phil accompanied by O’Neil stepped on deck, and the midshipman’s joy
was unbounded as he saw three points of light gradually grow into three
unmistakable fires.
“The signal,” he exclaimed. “We’ve got him. He can’t escape us now.”
Eagerly he listened to the sweet music of those hollow sounds caused
as he knew by the play of the oars in their rowlocks. Scarcely a half
mile away was Espinosa, blissfully unconscious of the presence of his
sentinel gunboat. Then a great fear came into his mind as he thought of
the cargo the approaching boat might be carrying. Were Maria and her
brother captives of this cruel villain?
The anxious midshipman rang the engine bell for full speed ahead and
the little gunboat quickly leaped to life. Espinosa was as good as
captured. Inside of an hour day would break.
“Keep a sharp lookout,” he shouted. The gunboat’s bow had turned
directly for the sound of the passing boat and he did not know at what
moment it would appear suddenly from out of the darkness ahead.
Sydney and O’Neil stood beside Phil as the gunboat rushed forward.
“That’s Espinosa, all right,” O’Neil exclaimed joyfully as he went
below, after taking a look about him, to get the forward three-pounder
ready.
The two midshipmen strained their ears in vain into the night, but no
sound of their quarry was evident.
The gunboat was again stopped and the word passed for silence. A
stillness crept over the gunboat. The sailors stood alert, silent in
strained attitudes of listening, but no sound could be heard to cheer
the now depressed Americans.
“They’ve stopped rowing,” Sydney exclaimed, “and with this breeze they
must be going away from us fast.” The midshipmen gazed at each other in
consternation. What should be done? Should they steam ahead blindly,
awaiting the day? Might not the proa have discovered the presence of
the gunboat and changed its course? Both knew that ten miles to the
eastward treacherous coral reefs covered the sea, through which the
gunboat must navigate cautiously, even if it were possible to go at
all. Was the outlaw again to escape? Then their attention was attracted
by a new sound as the chug of oars came to their ears, but this time
from a direction opposite to that taken by the first boat.
“It’s a second boat,” Phil exclaimed in a troubled voice. “What can it
mean?” The noise of the approaching boat came closer and closer and
then suddenly out of the night a great sail appeared, while a Spanish
hail drifted across the waters:
“Espinosa is in a proa ahead of us. This is Colonel Martinez.”
Both lads recognized their friend’s voice, even before he declared his
identity, and now with his mind made up that he must act quickly, Phil
called back:
“I shall steam directly ahead for the reefs; stand by to take a line.”
The active natives caught the tow-line heaved to them from the stern
of the gunboat, and the “Mindinao” at full speed raced toward the gray
in the eastern sky, while the proa astern lowered her sail and leaped
joyfully in tow of the steamer.
O’Neil stood like a statue at the bow’s gun, his eyes endeavoring to
pierce the gloom ahead. His eager eyes were conscious of the growing
light. Farther and farther his range of vision grew; now a mile of
sea on either bow was in sight, but barren of sail. Then from out the
dissolving mist, the sailor saw a dim shadow and knew that the quarry
at last was found and in easy range.
“I see her, sir,” he hailed joyfully. “Can I give her a polite
invitation to heave to?”
“Don’t hit her, O’Neil,” Phil answered excitedly; “put a shell as close
as you can. She’s nearly up to the reefs.”
A roar and a blinding flash was O’Neil’s answer to his captain’s words.
Shell after shell was hurled after the fleeing boat but the Americans
could see no inclination to obey the order of the challenge. Now
silhouetted against the eastern sky, with a great spread of sail,
Espinosa was straining everything to escape. From out the sea ahead a
fiery sun arose, throwing its brilliant light into the eyes of those on
the gunboat.
“Be careful, O’Neil,” Phil urged earnestly. “Señorita Rodriguez may be
in that boat.”
“She’s safe with our soldiers,” Sydney called from the deck below, at
hearing his friend’s caution. “I’ve just talked with Martinez astern.”
“Put a shot in that boat,” Phil cried, and the roar of the
three-pounder echoed his words.
Then suddenly a gentle tremble of the “Mindinao” made her young captain
turn pale, as he rang for full speed astern.
“We’re on the reef,” he cried in anguish. “What shall we do? Hit her,
O’Neil,” he called beside himself; “he must not escape.”
Sydney had rushed aft with several sailors close at his heels and
taking the tow-line of the native boat astern, they hauled it up clear
of the backing screws until the outrigger was alongside the gangway.
“Make room for ten of our sailors,” he shouted to Martinez. “We want
men who know how to shoot.”
While the water boiled above the swiftly revolving propellers slowly
hauling the gunboat backward from its perilous position on a coral
reef, all but two of the natives in the fishing boat climbed nimbly
aboard and ten eager sailors, their rifles in hand, scrambled in.
The sharp detonations of the three-pounder added to the confusion of
the scene.
As he saw the “Mindinao” was again afloat, Phil turned his eyes to the
fleeing enemy. The boat, still untouched, was sailing swiftly away with
an ever-increasing breeze behind it. Then his eyes opened in surprise
and joy as he saw what Sydney had been doing.
“Come on, O’Neil, she’s nearly out of range,” he called excitedly. The
sailor turned, took in the situation at a glance and seizing a rifle
from a sailor near him followed his captain.
“She’s dropped her sail,” he cried, as a swift look over his shoulder
to mark the effect of the last shot revealed but a small black speck on
the water.
“I am sorry, Syd, but I must leave you to look out for the ship,” Phil
said as he leaped for the side of the native boat and grasped Colonel
Martinez’s hands. “Keep us in sight and see if you can work her through
the reefs.”
Sydney drew a long face, but he appreciated that Phil’s greatest desire
was to be in at the death, when Espinosa was captured.
The boat shoved off and the bamboo sail, far bigger in proportion than
the sails carried by American boats, was quickly hoisted. The boat
appeared to skim over the surface of the water. The gunboat slowly
dropped astern, but now the proa had again hoisted its sail and the
distance between the two boats seemed to be ever the same.
“We’ll catch him if we have to chase him the whole fifty miles of water
and then some,” O’Neil cried angrily. “I don’t see how I could have
missed him.”
Phil smiled feebly. “You were beginning to get pretty close,” he said.
“They lowered their sail so as to offer a smaller target for you to aim
at.”
“I thought I’d done it with a shell,” the boatswain’s mate replied
disappointedly. “Well, if we get within the range of this little piece
of iron,” patting his rifle, “I’ll take great pleasure in writing my
initials on that Espinosa’s yellow carcass.”
The midshipman did not take this soft-hearted sailorman seriously. In
a fight, he knew he was as brave as twenty men, but with a vanquished
enemy he was as gentle as a woman.
“If we can catch him alive, I don’t wish to kill him,” Phil answered
now, in Spanish, to include Rodriguez, who had not understood the
declarations of the disappointed sailor.
“I claim the privilege of doing that, Señor Perry,” the colonel replied.
Phil regarded him sternly. The native looked into the midshipman’s eyes
unwaveringly.
“Why should you?” the lad asked.
“Ah, señor, I had forgotten,” the native said earnestly, taking
his revolver from its holster and holding it butt forward to the
midshipman. “Colonel Remundo in Luzon, Colonel Martinez in Kapay, and
now Gregorio Rodriguez, surrenders to you as a prisoner of war.”
Phil looked aghast, while O’Neil mumbled inarticulate nautical phrases
of surprise.
“Are you then Maria’s brother?” the lad asked.
Gregorio nodded his head slowly, still holding his revolver for Phil to
take.
“Put your revolver back,” the midshipman ordered peremptorily. “You
and I never have been enemies--except for a very short time,” he added
as the remembrance of those two anxious days after his capture on the
“Negros” came into his mind. “Anyway, we have now the same objective,
that murderer yonder, but,” and he lowered his voice to a cold, hard
tone, “you shall not kill him if we can capture him alive. I forbid it.”
Gregorio’s black eyes blazed, and despite the avowed friendship of the
native, O’Neil reached hastily for his revolver. Then as suddenly the
native mastered himself and with a shrug turned away his telltale eyes.
“I know how you feel, colonel,” Phil declared conscious of the passion
in the native’s soul, “but I’d rather have it done regularly. We’ll try
him by a military commission for treason and hang him in the Plaza in
Palilo as a warning to all traitors.”
Slowly the fishing boat overhauled the bigger craft. Now the distance
was but five hundred yards. The sun had risen and shone down on the
green opalescent water. A report of a rifle-shot startled the Americans
who had settled themselves for a long and monotonous chase.
“So they are going to offer resistance,” Phil exclaimed.
“Yes; let him have it, O’Neil,” he added as the sailor threw the muzzle
of his piece forward and looked questioningly at the midshipman.
O’Neil’s rifle cracked and a figure standing on the rail near the mast
doubled up and fell forward in the boat.
A fusillade of shots followed from the fleeing boat, the bullets
hissing in the water dangerously near the dozen huddled Americans.
“We can’t allow this,” Phil exclaimed uneasily; “they can’t miss us if
we get any closer.
“Open fire!” he ordered suddenly.
Ten rifles were discharged almost as one, and as quickly fired again
and again. The sharp rattle of the breech-blocks was continuous.
By this time the Americans had approached abreast the enemy, but
above its rail no human being was visible. Had all been killed by the
unerring shooting of Phil’s men?
Scarcely twenty yards separated the two boats. The larger craft, with
sheets slacked, sailed silently onward. The helm swung idle; the hand
that had steered it probably now lay limp in the bottom of the proa.
Phil rose cautiously, his hand grasping the sail; he placed his foot
on the high gunwale in an endeavor to discover the state of the enemy
concealed in the bottom of the boat. As he drew himself up above his
companions, the two boats slid noiselessly nearer and to the lad’s
horror he suddenly found himself looking squarely into the black muzzle
of a pistol. Behind it burned the cruel eyes of Espinosa, while on the
latter’s face was a leer of triumph.