About fifteen minutes after the gray steam launch containing Virginia,
Reyes, and Gale had left the battleship, another of the _Kearsarge’s_
hooded fifty-footers darted away from the starboard gangway apparently,
from the course she took, bound for the landing at Puerto Cabero. But
after this little craft had gone far enough away to be out of sight
of the battleship, it suddenly changed its course, and, making a wide
detour, sped toward the fortress of El Torro.
Presently the lone sentry, pacing the narrow strip of land in front
of that ugly gray building, brought his rifle smartly down from his
shoulder as the boat reached the beach and a tall figure stepped ashore.
“Halt! Who goes there?” the picket demanded. But without waiting for an
answer he abandoned his menacing attitude and respectfully presented
arms. For, although it was dark, he was able to discern that the man
who had stepped ashore from the battleship’s launch wore the uniform of
a captain of the army of Baracoa, and that his eyes were screened by a
pair of familiar blue spectacles. The newcomer stiffly acknowledged the
salute, then turned to shake hands with the natty young American naval
officer in charge of the launch’s crew. “Well, good-by, Captain Reyes,”
the sentry heard the naval officer say, addressing the bespectacled man
in Spanish. “Sorry that you are obliged to leave us before the fun is
all over. I trust we shall meet again soon.”
The launch started back toward the battleship, whose gayly illuminated
outline the sentry had been gazing at wistfully all night, wishing that
he wore epaulets so that he, too, might be wining and dining instead
of doing wearisome picket duty; but after the little boat had gone a
short way it stopped, as though something might be the matter with its
machinery.
The sentry might have paid more attention to this maneuver if the
bespectacled man in the captain’s uniform had not at that moment
addressed him.
“You can go,” the latter announced. “You are relieved. I will take your
place.”
The words, which were in Spanish, were spoken with a thickness which,
in the picket’s opinion, seemed to account for the unusualness of the
incident. He observed, too, that the other swayed as he spoke. By which
token he deduced that the supply of champagne aboard the battleship had
been plentiful.
As the sentry hesitated, the man with the epaulets turned upon him
fiercely. “What are you waiting for?” he demanded. “Do you not
understand? You are relieved.” His utterance had grown even thicker
than before, and his voice did not sound much like that of Captain
Reyes, but, considering his condition, the soldier saw nothing strange
about that. Promptly the latter once more presented arms. Tipsy or
sober, the man in the blue spectacles was his superior officer, and it
was not for a common soldier to question his orders.
Watching this scene from the launch, Lieutenant Ridder exhaled a deep
breath of relief as he saw the sentry walk away and disappear within
the fortress. “He got away with it, all right,” he muttered joyously.
“But,” he added grimly, “the worst is yet to come.”
The next five minutes were the most anxious ones that Ridder had ever
passed through in all his life. As he sat, with his hands gripping the
wheel of the launch, straining his eyes in an effort to see what was
going on ashore, his teeth were clenched and his heart was pounding
against his ribs.
The man in the blue spectacles had disappeared behind a row of tall
bushes in front of the fortress. Presently--it seemed like ages to the
anxious naval officer--there came from behind this foliage a flash of
light and a dull boom like an explosion of wet powder.
Ridder gave vent to an ejaculation of joy. “By Jove, he’s done it!”
he muttered. “Good old Hawley!” As he saw a slim figure dart out from
behind the bushes and approach the water’s edge, he gave the wheel in
his hand a swift turn and sent the launch dashing toward the beach.
But short as was the distance the boat had to cover to reach his
comrade, he was too late. Led by a stout man in civilian garb, a swarm
of soldiers had rushed out of the fortress and seized the Camera Chap
just as the latter, perceiving that the launch would not get to him in
time, was about to throw himself into the water.
“What have we here?” exclaimed the corpulent person in civilian garb,
savagely tearing the blue spectacles from the prisoner’s face. Then, as
he recognized Hawley, he uttered an exclamation of mingled astonishment
and joy.
“Ah, I perceive it is our brave and ingenious Yankee snapshotter!”
he sneered. “So you have come back to Baracoa, señor! Permit me to
compliment you upon the brilliancy of your latest exploit, and to
condole with you that such a brave and clever attempt should have met
with such poor success. We----”
He did not finish the sentence, for at that moment Lieutenant Ridder
with the three sailors of the launch at his heels, rushed up to the
group.
“Let this man go!” the naval officer bellowed, brandishing a revolver.
“He’s an American citizen, and you daren’t touch him.”
The fat man laughed ironically. “You appear to have an extremely
vague idea of international law, my impetuous friend,” he remarked;
“surprisingly vague, in view of the uniform you wear. I should advise
you, señor, to go back to your ship, and to congratulate yourself that
you, too, are not placed under arrest. Unless you depart immediately,
the consequences are liable to be serious for both yourself and your
country.”
“For my country!” Ridder began derisively. “Why, you chump----”
“Hold on, there, old man!” Hawley broke in, smiling at his friend’s
recklessness. “You’d better do as he says, and go back to the ship. You
can’t do any good, and, if you attempt to interfere, you may indeed
cause international complications. Especially,” he added, with a
chuckle, “if you are guilty of such a grave breach of decorum as to
call his excellency, the President of Baracoa, a chump.”
Ridder gave a start of surprise. Until that moment, the identity of
the stout man in civilian attire had not been known to him. With the
instinctive respect which his training as a naval officer caused him to
feel for the head of a sister republic, no matter what he might think
of the man personally, for a moment he was abashed at what he had done.
But a second later he was guilty of a still greater breach of decorum.
Stepping up to Portiforo, before anybody could realize what he was
about to do, he pressed the muzzle of his revolver against that
startled dignitary’s “corporation.” “So this is the president!” he
cried, with a triumphant laugh. “Well, so much the better! We may be
outnumbered, but I guess we hold the trump card. Get into the boat,
Frank, old man, and beat it back to the ship. These fellows can’t stop
you.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” the president gasped, his bloated face turning
pale. “Do you realize, señor, that this is the greatest outrage in all
history?”
Lieutenant Ridder, of the United States navy, did realize that.
He was aware that his mad act was likely to “raise the deuce at
Washington,” cause a howl of protest to go up from every nation on the
globe, and possibly bring on an international trouble. He had every
reason to believe, too, that even if he managed to escape Portiforo’s
vengeance--which contingency was extremely doubtful--he was going to
be put out of the service for acting in a manner unbecoming an officer
and a gentleman. But, just the same, he kept the muzzle of his revolver
pressed against the stomach of the chief gentleman of Baracoa. For he
was not Lieutenant Ridder, of the United States navy at that moment.
He was plain John Ridder, of New York City, who had once had the life
almost kicked out of him by a gang of toughs in New York’s Chinatown,
and who, ever since then, had been yearning for an opportunity to pay
his debt to the plucky young man who had saved him from that fate.
Possibly his actions were influenced also by the consideration that
while the person whom he was threatening was the ruler of a friendly
nation, he was also a tyrant and a usurper, and that his rascality
might be revealed to the world if only Hawley could get away with the
photographic proof of the dastardly conspiracy.
“I assure you, Mr. Portiforo, that I do mean exactly what I say,” he
said quietly. “You had better instruct your soldiers to let go of my
friend and permit him to enter the launch, for as sure as there are
bullets in this gun--and I hope, for your sake, you have no doubts
on that score--if they attempt to stop him there’s going to be an
immediate change of administration in Baracoa.”
Desperate as was his act, it might have succeeded, for the soldiers
who held the Camera Chap captive, appreciating the peril of their
president, looked to the latter irresolutely for instructions, and
Portiforo, realizing that, temporarily, at least, this rash young man
with the bulldog jaw held, as he had boasted, the trump card, was about
to give orders to his soldiers to do as Ridder demanded. But just at
that moment, the naval officer’s arms were pinned to his sides, and his
right wrist was grasped so tightly that the revolver fell to the ground.
A second launch from the battleship had landed quietly at the fortress,
and two men, disembarking therefrom, had run along the beach toward the
group. It was one of these men who, taking in the situation, had crept
up stealthily behind Ridder and taken him by surprise.
As the lieutenant struggled in the grasp of his assailant and a half
dozen of the soldiers who went to the latter’s assistance, Portiforo’s
face resumed its normal hue, and he expressed his relief by a hearty
chuckle.
“Well done, Captain Reyes!” he cried approvingly. “Splendid work, my
brave Ernesto!”