'There's a big clearing close there--just twenty-four miles from
here--and his army camped in it last night. My little chaps gave them a
rotten time.'
I could not help thinking of those little brown-skinned, half-naked
natives, with their bags of cartridges and their rusty rifles, gliding
from tree to tree, through the thick undergrowth, and never giving the
regulars a moment's rest, day or night. At night-time too! I shuddered
to think of it, and began to have a most wholesome respect for those
tattered ragamuffins of his.
'How many have you?' I asked him.
'I don't know,' he said. 'We have something like five thousand rifles,
but whenever there is a spare rifle there are hundreds to claim it.
Here come some who would be soldiers--that is, riflemen; they are taking
food to the front.'
A long train of heavily laden mules came past us, ambling wearily down
towards the stream, each mule led by a little native. As each passed he
doffed his hat to Wilson, who stopped one of them and made him show me
the _machete_ he carried in his waistband--a long curved knife something
like a bill-hook, only heavier, and not so curved and the blade broad at
the end. I felt the edge; it was very keen.
'They can cut an arm clean through at a stroke,' he said; 'these
_machetes_ are better than rifles--at night,' and I shuddered again as
the little man, with a grin of pride on his face, ran after his mule.
It wasn't the kind of warfare I'd been brought up to. We watched them
all splashing across the ford, forcing their mules through it as they
tried to stop and drink. Before the last mule had entered the forest,
the head of another train began to emerge from it.
'Those aren't mules,' I sang out, as they came towards us.
'They're horses,' he said, and walked down towards them.
There were thirty or more thin, hungry-looking beasts, with military
saddles and equipment, each led by a little native, whose eyes sparkled
with pleasure as he saluted Wilson.
'That's good news,' he said, after speaking to one of them; 'we cut off
a whole squadron of Zorilla's cavalry early this morning. These are
some of the horses. Look at the boots the men are wearing!'
I hadn't noticed them before, but now I couldn't help smiling, for the
little half-naked men were shambling along with big cavalry boots on
their feet, the soft leather 'uppers' half-way up to their knees.
'Quaint little chaps, aren't they? Their whole ambition is to be proper
soldiers. The first thing they want is a rifle, and the next boots.
They'll wear these now till their feet are so blistered that they can't
walk with or without them.'
'Surely Zorilla will have to fall back,' I said, as we drove back to the
town.
He shrugged his shoulders. 'My only fear is that he will break away
towards El Castellar. About sixteen miles along that road there is a
forest track leading there, and he may have to fall back on it; but
he'll have to leave his wagons and his guns if he does, and his
reputation will be lost. He's been ordered to attack San Fernando, and
the fierce old man will do so, even if he and his two "A.D.C.'s" are the
only ones left.'
We rattled past the string of captured horses, and drove down to the
shore where I had landed, calling at the Club, on the way, to wake the
Fleet Surgeon and bring him along.
Two big lighters were aground at the bottom of the beach, and hundreds
of natives were swarming round them, wading into the water, bringing
ashore the packing-cases of hydraulic machinery, and making a noise like
a lot of bumble-bees as they dragged them up the sloping foreshore.
Thank goodness we'd got rid of them at last, for the Commander had been
like a bear with a sore head ever since those cases had lumbered up his
battery.
'Why the dickens don't they get rid of their rifles when they're
working?' I asked, because most of them had rifles slung over their
backs.
Wilson smiled, 'That's a regulation I've made. If a man drops his rifle
for any purpose whatsoever, any man without one may pick it up and
becomes a soldier and a _caballero_--a gentleman--and has a _machete_
man to carry his food for him on the march. That's why they won't part
with them!'
That was a quaint idea if you like.
My galley was waiting alongside the little tumble-down jetty, and the
Comfort pushed his way through a crowd of awestruck natives to give me a
signal-paper. 'The Commander thought you'd like to see it, sir--a
"wireless" from the _Hercules_.'
I read, '_La Buena Presidente_, under command of Captain Pelayo, left
the Tyne yesterday.'