'That little fiend of yours tried his tricks on again last night, tried
to knife me,' he said presently.
'And you killed him?'
'I took away his knife and boxed his ears,' he told me, lighting his
pipe with one of my last matches. 'It's a treat to get a decent match,
Billums, I hate those "stinkerados"[#] we get in this confounded
country.'
[#] 'Stinkerados' is a term applied to the ordinary foul-smelling
Spanish sulphur matches.
'Confounded country!' I answered angrily. 'You seem to be risking a
good deal for it. I wished to goodness you'd killed the beast."
'My dear Billums, I'd fight on either side so long as I could get a bit
of excitement--so long as I could boss the show.'
'I wish to goodness I could chip in with you,' I told him. 'I don't
even boss the gun-room--not properly, the Commander thinks.' Oh, bother
the _Hector_! I remembered that my leave was up at noon. 'Bother it
all, Gerald, I've got to keep the "afternoon" watch, and see that a boat
doesn't shove off with the fenders over its side, and listen
respectfully whilst the Commander bellows at me that a man hasn't got
his chin-stay down, and that I'm an incompetent, useless fool. It's
nearly ten o'clock now and I must be off.'
He got me a horse, and I left him, his worn-out little brown chaps, and
his wounded, and shoved off back to San Fernando, galloping along the
beach, and learnt then what an unsuccessful cavalry charge meant; for
the shore was strewn with dead and dying horses, dead men, rifles,
swords, lances, and, more conspicuous than anything else, the red
blankets they'd thrown away in their retreat. The tide, too, had risen
and was half covering some of the bodies with sand, as if it wanted to
hide the horrid sight and wipe out all traces of that awful morning's
work.
I was looking about me for something to take back for the mater, and had
passed any number of ordinary swords, which were not worth the trouble
of dismounting, but at last saw one with a very elaborate hilt and
sword-knot, lying close to a body stretched face downwards in the sand,
so jumped off and picked it up. The uniform on the body was that of an
officer, and out of curiosity I turned the head round with my foot.
Ugh! It was Zorilla's black A.D.C., the chap who had been so impressed
with our after 9.2 gun that day we anchored off Los Angelos. I
scrambled back into the saddle with his sword and rode on, shuddering
and thinking a lot of things which I couldn't write down, without you
laughing at me.
Presently, as I got a bit more chirpy, and began looking round again, I
saw a little chap trudging along ahead of me, splashing through the edge
of the sea where the sand was firmer. Something about him seemed
familiar, and as I overtook him he looked round, gave a yelp of fright,
and bolted, drawing a _machete_ out of his belt. It was the little
brute, and I dug my heels into the horse and was after him like a shot.
I simply rode him down--he couldn't run fast in the loose sand--and at
last turned, holding up the _machete_ to protect himself. I was jolly
glad that he'd lost his revolver, for I had lost mine somewhere. I
meant to kill him, and I saw that he knew it, and that he couldn't be
springy on his feet in the sand, and struck at him for all I was worth
with the A.D.C.'s sword, meaning to beat down his guard and get at his
head, but the horse swerved when he saw the sword flash, and the blade
only came down on the back of the hand which held the _machete_ and
lopped the fingers clean off, the _machete_ falling down. I wrenched
the horse round and went at him again, and was just going to finish him
when, I'm sorry to say, something inside me wouldn't let me kill him now
that he couldn't defend himself, and, like the ass I am,--how I cursed
myself for it afterwards--I jumped off and tried to stop the bleeding.
He thought me a fool, I know, and so I was.
Then I made him step out alongside me, and was so angry with myself for
being so soft-hearted that I prodded him in the back when he wouldn't go
fast enough.
But the miserable brute, with his bleeding stumps, was nearly dead with
fright and could hardly put one foot in front of another, so at last I
swung him up in front of me, and took him into San Fernando like that,
riding up to the _Cuartel de Infanteria_, where a 'red-cross' flag was
flying, and handing him over to the people there, trying to explain that
he was a prisoner.
My Christopher! the look he gave me when I went away!
I left my horse at the barracks, walked down to the shore, stood on that
jetty, and waved my arms about till one of the _Hector's_ signalmen
spotted me, and the skiff was sent in to take me off.
I had just time to change into uniform, and get a bit of grub in the
gun-room, before the 'Forlorn Hope,' who'd kept the 'Forenoon' watch and
wanted his lunch, sent down an indignant message to know when I was
going to relieve him, so up I went, buckling on my sword-belt, and
tramped up and down the quarterdeck for four hours. I'm certain that I
could never have stopped awake had not Cousin Bob, the 'Angel,' and
young Marchant walked alongside me and made me tell them all that had
happened ashore.
When I went down below again, I showed the black A.D.C.'s sword to
Navarro, and told him, as well as I could, all that had happened. He
was very depressed, chiefly because he was so fond of old Zorilla, but
didn't seem to worry in the least about the black A.D.C., and made me
keep the sword.
He shrugged his shoulders when I told him about not killing that little
ex-policeman, and said, 'Till he die he always make revenge,' which made
me think myself more of an ass than ever for not having killed him when
I had the chance.
*CHAPTER XI*
*San Fernando attacked from the Sea*
_Written by Captain Grattan, R.N._
Much to my relief, young Wilson came off in time to keep his afternoon
watch, none the worse for his extremely exciting forty-eight hours'
leave, and directly he had told me that all fighting had ceased, I sent
Watson, my Fleet Surgeon, and my young Surgeon, Clegg, ashore to help
patch up the wounded, giving them as many chaps as they wanted to take
to help them, and writing a polite note to the New President's Secretary
informing him of the fact. I knew that every doctor would be wanted,
because the fighting had been very severe and all that morning we had
seen streams of wounded men dragging themselves back from Marina along
the road by the sea. Already one Englishman, a man named Seymour, had
been brought off to the ship, badly wounded, but he died as he was being
hoisted on board, so his friends took the body ashore again.
I went ashore, myself, soon afterwards, and found everybody at the Club.
A cheery lot of chaps they were, in spite of their pal's death, and when
the little Secretary, who had heard that I had come ashore and followed
me there, bowed himself in half and said, 'The President is much
gratitude for the guns,' they yelled with delight.
'The hydraulic machinery you brought from Princes' Town,' they roared.
'We couldn't have managed without it--just came in the nick of time,'
and then bundled my little friend into the next room. They told me that
the whole of General Zorilla's artillery had been captured, and, before
I went back to the ship, drove me down to have a look at it--four
field-guns of French manufacture, four English field-guns, and two 4.7's
on field carriages.
'Those English guns don't seem to have done much work,' I suggested,
screwing my eyeglass in very hard, 'do they?' and they explained that
they'd been busy polishing them up ever since they'd been brought
in--that was why they looked so new.
It struck me that, now the insurgents--or I suppose I should say Gerald
Wilson--possessed all these guns and had knocked Zorilla so hopelessly,
they had only to capture El Castellar to make themselves safe from the
Santa Cruz Navy. Once they had captured it, the guns there would
prevent any cruisers passing through the narrow entrance, and they could
sit still and wait till that big cruiser, _La Buena Presidente_, came
along and made them masters of the sea.
I told my friends, the Englishmen, about that little 'accident' down at
El Castellar with our 9.2, and they were highly amused--everything
seemed to amuse them that day. A most cheery lot they were, and when I
wished them good-bye, before getting into my boat, and asked them what
they actually had done with the hydraulic machinery I had brought them,
they were more amused than ever, and I left them enjoying some little
joke they had.
Old 'Spats' sent me a wireless signal from the _Hercules_ next day to
tell me that _La Buena Presidente_, flying the black and green flag, had
put into Madeira to coal, but had been refused permission. If that was
the case, she'd have a good deal of trouble to arrange for colliers to
meet her at sea, and it might be many weeks before she arrived here.
Things went along remarkably peaceably for the next few days, my two
doctors were up to their necks in work ashore, and hardly had time to
come aboard and ask after my gout, and we heard that Gerald Wilson had
driven Zorilla and his army into El Castellar and was investing it.
Then, one fine morning, along came the whole of the Santa Cruz fleet,
cruisers, gunboats, and torpedo-boats, escorting half-a-dozen
tramp-steamers filled with troops.
They anchored close to El Castellar--we could see their smoke plainly
enough--and began firing--shelling Wilson's trenches, we presumed. Of
course we all thought they'd do the natural thing--land their troops
there, drive off the insurgents, join hands with all that was left of
Zorilla's army--about two thousand infantry--and come marching along the
seashore under cover of the ships' guns. This was evidently what
Wilson's brother thought, for we could see his people streaming out from
San Fernando, along the road to Marina, towards El Castellan.
Well, I suppose I'm a bit of a fool, but when I was a youngster I should
have been mad to have missed anything like that, so I sent for the
Commander, and told him he could give leave to the mids. and as many of
the officers as he could spare. Most of them were already crowding on
the fore bridge and up in the fore fire-control position, trying to see
the Santa Cruz ships through their telescopes, but they clambered down
in a twinkling, and cleared ashore in less than half an hour.
'Don't get into mischief or there'll be the dickens to pay,' I sang out
to them, and, of course, immediately afterwards regretted letting them
go.
They had been gone about two hours, and we'd seen them driving or
walking out towards El Castellar, when the firing ceased, and it was
reported to me that the fleet and transports were standing towards us.
I went along to my spare cabin, which I had given up to fat little
Navarro (Zorilla's A.D.C.) whilst he was aboard, with his broken thigh,
and told him what was happening. He was very excited, and craned his
neck out of his scuttle to see the advancing ships.
In an hour they were abreast the _Hector_, and steamed slowly past.
First their flagship, the _Presidente Canilla_, then the still smaller
cruiser, _San Josef_, the old-fashioned torpedo gunboat, _Salvador_, the
rakish _Estremadura_, an armed steam yacht, and the _Primero de Maie_,
looking like a Gosport ferry steamer. They were steaming at about seven
knots, but even at that speed the _Primero de Maie_ and the _Salvador_
could not keep station. Although I had a marine guard on the
quarterdeck, my fat Subaltern of Blue Marines--the Forlorn
Hope--flourishing his sword, and the bugler sounding an Admiral's
salute, as the flagship crawled past, she took not the slightest notice
of us, and we were all intensely amused to see the officers on her fore
bridge gazing everywhere except in our direction, absolutely pretending
to ignore the fact that we were there at all.
When you remember that barely seven weeks ago my ship had towed the
whole five of them out from behind the breakwater of Los Angelos, it was
all the more funny.
They fired a few shells into the town as they went past it, not more
than three hundred yards from the shore, and I wondered whether my
humorous friends at the Club were laughing quite so heartily. Half a
mile astern of them came the two old-fashioned French torpedo-boats and
the first of the transports, crowded with blackamoors, with yellow and
green stripes in their hats, hooting and hissing as they passed close to
us, though their officers, standing up amidships, took off their hats
and bowed to make up for their men's rudeness. I took off mine and
swept it to the deck in the most approved Spanish fashion.
Three more little transports lumbered by chock-a-block with troops, and
the whole armada anchored at the head of the bay, about two miles beyond
the town, and immediately began lowering their boats. My Sub was
terribly put out. 'I'm afraid they've caught my brother napping this
time, sir,' he said to me. 'He must have rushed all his troops out
there early this morning, and look, sir, you can see them hurrying back
again. They'll be too late.' I proceeded to give him a little lecture
on the advantages of possessing the 'Command of the Sea.' 'A very neat
illustration, my boy, right in front of your eyes. Canilla moves his
troops about by sea--dumps them here and there, wherever he likes,
whilst your brother, uncertain where he's going to land 'em, runs his
chaps off their legs, backwards and forwards.'
'It's jolly hard luck, sir,' he answered, not relishing my short course
of instruction on strategy.
In half an hour we saw three or four boats crowded with troops make for
the shore, saw the black ragamuffins jumping into the shallow water,
scrambling up the beach and lining the top of it, whilst more boats came
along from the transports. They went to and fro so rapidly that, before
the insurgents could get back to San Fernando, they must have had nearly
a thousand men ashore. At last some insurgents began to pour out of the
town along the beach, but directly they came in view, the cruisers began
to fire at them, their shells bursting right among them on the beach,
and the road, and among the trees behind it. The insurgents scattered
like smoke.
Presently we heard a good deal of rifle firing from the same spot, and
Wilson sang out, very excitedly, 'They're still there, sir; I can see
them crawling along the beach, and there are others in the woods. The
regulars are firing rifles at them now, sir.'
However, regular troops were being landed in such numbers, and we could
see that they had already begun to push their way towards the town so
determinedly, that I thought there was every likelihood of San Fernando
being captured within an hour or two, and wished to goodness I had not
allowed all those officers of mine to go ashore.
I had just sent for the Commander, to see what could be done about
recalling them, when suddenly two loud reports of guns fired from
somewhere behind the town made me jump--they sounded so close, and were
so unexpected--and two spouts of water leapt up among the anchored ships
close under the bows of the _Presidente Canilla_. I guessed at once
that they came from those two 4.7 guns I had seen ashore, and smiled to
see my Sub's face brighten. We all looked through our telescopes again
to see what would happen. 'Bang! Bang!' the reports knocked against
our ears, the two guns had fired again, and two more water-spouts sprang
up just beyond the flagship. The noise came from the back of the town,
but I'm hanged if I could see the guns, though I searched the whole of
that tree-covered ridge most carefully.
I turned my glass on the ships and saw that they were all in confusion,
their crews running about like ants, and then a spurt of flame shot out
from the fo'c'stle of the flagship, and a large shell screamed and
shrieked over the town. The other cruisers began firing too, their
shells dropping all over the place, but very seldom bursting. One
struck a patch of swamp, and sent the mud flying up in fine style.
The two shore guns fired again, and this time I did see the thin
brownish smoke for a second, but a moment later couldn't see the guns
themselves.
'The flagship's got one aboard, sir!' several people shouted. She was
covered with smoke for twenty or thirty seconds, but when it cleared
away we could not see what damage had been done, and she still fired the
big gun on her fo'c'stle and the little ones on one side of her battery.
She was searching that ridge, trying to find those guns, but was making
execrable shooting.
'They're going back to their boats, sir!' Wilson shouted, and turning my
glass on the shore, I saw the ragamuffins hurrying down as fast as
they'd scampered up half an hour ago, clustering at the edge of the
water, and wading out towards the boats. I watched one boat-load pulling
like blazes back to its transport, and, just as it got alongside, these
two guns fired again and, simultaneously, I saw two black gaps appear in
the transport's side. One spout of water sprang up on the lee side, so
I knew that one shell must have gone clean through her, but the other
evidently burst aboard, for smoke poured up from amidships.
These transports didn't do much waiting for boats then, they simply
slipped their cables and got under way, steaming farther out from the
shore--the boats pulling frantically after them.
The cruisers, too, weighed their anchors and hauled off in a hurry. In
fact, they were in so much confusion, and in such a hurry, that the
_Estremadura_, whilst trying to avoid being rammed by the flagship, ran
'slap' into the little _Primero de Maie_, and when they separated, we
saw that her stem was twisted, and that the little gunboat had a big gap
in her side. She suddenly fell over to starboard, and was so evidently
sinking that I sent the Commander away in the picket-boat to help save
life. By the time he'd reached her, only her one mast and the top of
her funnel could be seen, and the water was thick with little black
heads.
The other ships left most of the 'save life' business to the
picket-boat, and steamed off, firing wildly all the time, though as we
who were near could not see those two shore guns, _they_ certainly
couldn't, and hadn't a chance of hitting them.
The whole flotilla steamed very slowly along the opposite shore, waiting
there a little while for their boats, but those two guns soon picked up
the range again, and quickened their retreat, actually having the cheek
to fire once or twice at them when the _Hector_ was in the direct line
of fire, the shells going right over my ship.
The cruisers and transports got out of range presently, and again waited
for those of their boats which were still pulling desperately after
them.
One wretched boat, crowded with soldiers, had taken a short cut past the
town, and as it came towards us, we saw that it was under a heavy
rifle-fire from the shore, bullet splashes jumping up all round it.
The men were pulling frantically, ran the boat under our side--the side
away from the town--where they were safe--and stopped to take breath. I
recognised the officer standing in the stern-sheets--the smart chap who
had put old 'Spats' and myself into our seats in Santa Cruz Cathedral.
He recognised me too, and, taking off his hat, sung out, '_Permis--sion,
Yuesencia_, to stay.'
'Tut! tut! boy! Stay as long as you like,' I called down, and pointed
to the gangway. 'Come on board and have a drink.'
He got his boat alongside, and was up the ladder in a twinkling. I took
him down below. He was very excited, and kept shrugging his shoulders
and spreading out his hands.
'_Nous sommes trahis--trahis_! Before that we depart from Los Angelos,
ze guns of ze forts make _plusieurs coups_--bang!--bang!--bang! We all
up jump--we ask _pourquoi_ they do so? They tell us General Zorilla has
won _une grande bataille--los insurrectos sont vaincus
completement--allez!--allez!--San Fernando est le votre. Nous sommes
trahis--trahis! Nous arrivons a El Castellar_--what we find? _El
General? Oui! Mais l'armee?_--where is it? _L'artillerie_--all
gone--_peuf_! We are brave--we advance--_et quoi_!' he shrugged his
shoulders till I thought he'd dislocate them. 'You see what arrive--and
they leave me en arriere--behind. _Peuf! Nous sommes trahis!_'
I tried to soothe him, praised his great courage, and sent the
picket-boat, which had already brought back the few people from the
sunken gunboat who had not got aboard their own ships, to tow him and
his boats down to the transports. I knew that the insurgents would not
fire on her when she was protected by the steamboat's White Ensign, and
as we had helped them several times, we might as well do the Government
troops a good turn--once in a way. Then I went ashore myself--the smoke
of the gallant armada smudging the opposite side of the bay as it
steamed back to El Castellar. I went ashore in uniform, too--Perkins,
my First Lieutenant, coming with me, and the Comfort, my coxswain,
following at a respectful distance behind.
I was doing my best to work myself into a temper, for I wanted to know
what the dickens the Provisional Government and Mr. Gerald Wilson meant
by firing over my ship, but I'd hardly got ashore, before Mr. Gerald
Wilson came galloping past--on his way back along the coast--and I
forgot about the shells over my ship, and sung out, 'Beaten 'em again!
Good lad! Good lad!'
'I hope he didn't hear the "good lad" part,' I said to Perkins, as
Wilson galloped on. 'Afraid I wasn't very angry with him.'
'I don't think you were,' he said, smiling. I really don't think I was.
We met hundreds of the insurgents pouring back through the town,
sweating like pigs, but wild with enthusiasm at the defeat of the
Government troops, shouting '_Viva los Inglesas_' as they passed us on
their long march back to El Castellar.
'I don't see how we helped 'em to-day,' I said to Perkins, who was
hobbling along on his game leg beside me.
'Nor do I, sir, but they seem jolly pleased.'
I found de Costa and his blooming Provisional Government--they were all
bows and scrapes and hand-spreading.
'I want to know how you had the confounded impertinence to fire over my
ship?' was what I said to the little Secretary.
I don't know what he repeated, and for a minute there was terrible
consternation among them. They all--theoretically--grovelled in the
dust before me. But then they began to smile.
'His Excellency the Presidente will take you to see ze two gons,' the
Secretary told me, and I think there was a twinkle in his eye.
He did take us, I, de Costa, and his Secretary driving solemnly in one
carriage, Perkins and the rest of the Provisional Government crowding
into another. We rattled through the lanes, along which Gerald Wilson
had driven me, and stopped on top of the ridge. Here we got out, and
had to tramp along it.
'You will see a sur-prise,' the Secretary bowed--I'm certain that now
there was a twinkle in his eye.
We tramped along for a hundred yards or so, turned round a bit of a
cocoa plantation, and there, behind a slope, was the first gun, and
sitting on the top of one wheel was Bob Temple, and on the other, young
Sparks--the 'Angel' they called him--both as black as my hat, swilling
kola bitters,[#] whilst my young clerk, Marchant, with his hand bound up
in a blood-stained handkerchief, and half-a-dozen other mids. were lying
on the slope, most of them doing the same. Twenty or more ragamuffins
were standing by with baskets full of more bottles of kola, and trays of
pastry, and the ground was littered with empty brass cylinder cases.
[#] Kola bitters is a sweetish pink aerated water.
So it was they who'd fired over the _Hector_, was it! and I wished to
goodness that I could look impressive and angry when I wanted to.
They'd sprung to attention when they saw me, and the only thing I could
say was, 'Tut! tut! disgraceful!--go on board at once--your leave's
stopped for ever--tut! tut!' and as they picked up their coats and
obeyed me, I stalked away to the other gun, fifty yards farther along.
Well, the rest of my beauties were there, but I'd had time to fix my
eyeglass, and had worked up a fierce glare--I can glare much more
successfully behind an eyeglass.
Mr. Bostock, my Gunner, was with them, too, in plain clothes, looking
very sheepish, and trying to put one foot on the ground between two
brass cylinders which would roll together.
'You ought to have known better, Mr. Bostock,' I said.
'Beg you pardon, sir,' he muttered humbly, 'but it was like this. I
'appened to stroll up 'ere, arter the firing began--just to 'ave a look,
sir--and I sees the young gen'l'men 'aving a bit of a spree.'
'And you helped them--you ought to be ashamed of yourself.'
'Well, sir, it was like this, sir, I didn't want the young gen'l'men to
disgrace 'emselves in front of all this kittle cattle, so I just stays
'ere, sir, to see they do the drill proper, sir.'
'Well, go aboard and report yourself to the Commander. I'll see you
to-morrow.'
'_Viva los Inglesas! Viva la Marina Inglesa!_'[#] yelled the
ragamuffins, as I solemnly marched back to the carriage, and drove back,
trying to avoid the eyes of de Costa and his Secretary, who were
tittering and grinning delightedly.
[#] Hurrah for the English Navy.
'Hi, lad! Get in here,' I called to Marchant, as we overtook the boys
from the first gun. 'What's the matter with your right hand?'
'Jammed it in the breech-block, sir. They let me do cartridge number,'
he answered proudly.
'Bad?' I asked.
'One finger's nearly off, I'm afraid, sir.'
'Tut! tut!' I said. 'You won't be much use for writing, boy, not for
some weeks.'
'I'm afraid not, sir--I'm very sorry, sir.'
Dear, dear! If all this got known, I knew I should get into a terrible
row at the Admiralty--it was very tiresome.
When I got aboard I sent for my steward.
'How many can I ask to dinner to-night, please, Mobbs?'
'We might do eight, sir,' he allowed, after a time.
'Give my compliments to Mr. Bostock when he comes aboard, and ask him to
give me the pleasure of his company at dinner to-night, the same to Mr.
Marchant and the five senior midshipmen when they come aboard.'
'Very good, sir,' he said, much annoyed, 'but it won't be what we call a
'igh-class dinner, sir.'
'Tut! tut! That doesn't matter, Mobbs. We'll not grumble,' I told him,
as he went away to consult the cook, scratching his head in despair.
We didn't grumble, and I made the Comfort stand behind young Marchant
and cut up his meat for him--it was about the only job he was fit
for--and we finished the evening in poor little Navarro's cabin trying
to cheer him.
He was very down on his luck--poor little chap.
*CHAPTER XII*
*How We fought the Four Point Sevens*
_Written by Midshipman Bob Temple_
You _must_ hear about that lark we had at San Fernando--the day the
Santa Cruz fleet steamed up from El Castellar with the transports.
The Angel and I were perched on top of the for'ard fire-control
position, watching the ships shelling Cousin Gerald's troops at the
entrance, near the fort, but though we could hear the guns plainly
enough, and sometimes see their flashes, the ships themselves only
looked like black specks under a cloud of smoke.
Mr. Montague, the Gunnery Lieutenant, who was in the control position
beneath us, kept on craning his neck round the edge of the sloping iron
plate we were squatting on and singing out, 'Don't you two midshipmen
fall off! You'd probably kill the Captain and make a nasty mess on the
deck, so be careful.'
'Right, sir,' we sang out, and jammed our feet against one of the
foremast backstays, and made ourselves as snug as sparrows on a
water-spout.
'I think we should land on the shelter deck and bounce off on top of the
for'ard turret, don't you?' I said, as my chum and I looked down.
'Wouldn't old "Bellows" (the Commander) be in a rage if we splodged his
best enamel paint!' he said, and we jolly well knew that he'd roar out
for Billums, curse him, and tell him he didn't know how to boss the
'Pigstye' (our name for the gun-room) and keep discipline.
'Try one of their caps,' the 'Angel' whispered, 'and see where it
falls,' so I crouched over the edge just under which several of the
mids. in the control position were crowded together, watching the ships,
and whanged off two of their caps, sending them whizzing down on deck.
One fell right at old Bellows's feet.
I hadn't time to scramble back before he spotted who'd done it, and
roared for me to come down at once. He was going to make me take them
up again when the Captain sang out that we could all go ashore, and you
should have seen all those chaps swarming down the mast to get into
plain clothes.
Young Marchant wanted awfully badly to stick to the 'Angel' and me when
we did get on shore, and we told him he could if he didn't talk. It was
jolly kind of us, and he was awfully grateful.
There weren't any of Cousin Gerald's troops left in the town by this
time, we only saw a few frightened-looking old men and women about, and
not a horse or a cart was to be had--not even a mule--for love or money,
so we had to start footing it, on our flat feet, out along the sea road,
towards the fighting. On our way we passed the stable where General
Zorilla's black horse--the one Billums had captured--was kept, and
popped our heads in to see how he was going on. He hadn't been sent
back to Zorilla, because that foot was still too lame to do any work.
But long before we got to Marina and the Casino, where Billums had
fought that battle from the top of the roof, we saw the fleet coming
along the coast towards us, and some of the insurgents coming back, too,
as fast as they could.
We guessed at once what would happen, and that the regulars would be
able to land long before enough insurgents gathered to prevent them
doing so. We were jolly frightened.
'I wonder what's become of those two 4.7's we helped put together?' the
'Angel' said, and we both wondered, because they were the only guns
Cousin Gerald had which might be of any use in driving off the fleet.
We were hurrying back to the town with Marchant and a lot more mids.,
when an Englishman overtook us, so we called out and asked him. He
pointed to the ridge behind San Fernando and galloped on.
It was awfully hot, and by the time we did get into the streets and
across the square we were sweating like pigs, the leading ship was
hardly a mile behind us, and though we tried to hurry along those lanes
leading to the ridge, they were so crowded with women and children
carrying things and looking back over their shoulders at the cruisers,
that we only pushed our way along very slowly. Then a mule-cart came
rattling along, the driver yelling out and driving straight through the
crowd as if he were on a fire-engine.
'Come on! Let's run!' we shouted, and doubled along behind the cart.
At the top of the ridge it stopped, half-a-dozen chaps, who were waiting
there, pounced on it, opened the back, and lugged out some 4.7 shells.
Then we knew the guns couldn't be far off.
'Come on!' we shouted. 'Here's a go!' and each got hold of a shell and
tramped along after the grinning natives. We found the guns just behind
the top of the ridge, dumped down our shells, and doubled back for more,
meeting young Marchant staggering along with one under each arm.
We burst out laughing, because he'd shipped such a funny, excited 'death
or glory' look on his face. 'Go it, young Inkslinger!' we yelled, and
rushed along to the cart. Two fresh wagons had come along with some
more shells and cartridge-boxes, more men too, and it was as good as a
gun-room 'scrap.' Officers were shouting and yelling, the soldiers were
panting and running backwards and forwards, and the _Hector's_ gun-room
jolly well took a leading part, unlocking the cartridge-boxes, slinging
out the brass cylinders of cordite--the beauties--and keeping things
humming. Even some of the women chipped in, dropping their bundles and
children, and carrying shells to the guns.
The ships were passing the town now--we could just see them by popping
our heads over the top of the ridge--and they fired off a few rounds.
We heard the shells bursting in the town, not anywhere near us, but the
noise was enough for most of the native soldiers, who dropped whatever
they were carrying and grovelled on the ground.
The rest of them were more plucky, and carried on unloading the wagons,
but by the time they were empty, and all the ammunition had been carried
across to the guns, the fleet had anchored two miles below us and past
the town. Almost immediately the troops began coming ashore from the
transports, and the insurgent officers worked themselves into a
tremendous state of excitement, gesticulating and pointing down to the
cruisers, and getting their two guns' crews round the guns. We thought
that they would open fire in a minute, so climbed up the slope between
them, and lay there to watch what would happen. What did happen was
that a shell came along and burst in some trees close by, making a most
beastly noise, and when we looked round, both the guns' crews were
squirming on their bellies. 'Why the dickens don't you open fire?' we
yelled, and Barton and Sarah Jane jumped down and began kicking them.
They pulled an officer out from under one of the guns and shook him,
singing out, 'Fire! Fire! Bang! Bang!'
'_Mucho malo! mucho malo!_' was all he could jolly well say, he was
shaking all over, and when another shell came lolloping along over our
heads, he bolted under the gun again like a rabbit.
'On the word "action," officers hide under their guns,' the 'Angel'
laughed.
The troops were simply pouring ashore all this time, and though we
couldn't actually see them land, on account of the trees near the sea,
we were in an awful funk, because hardly any of Cousin Gerald's men had
got back to the town yet.
We tried to make those cowardly brutes fire, but they wouldn't; they
were afraid of the ships spotting them, I suppose, or perhaps they were
afraid of the guns bursting or doing something like that.
'Come on, you chaps,' the 'Angel' sang out, 'let's show 'em the way.
We'll do it ourselves.'
We tumbled down from the slope, threw off our coats, Barton rushed away
to the second gun, with Blotchy Smith, Sarah Jane, Young Lawson, and
four more, singing out that he bet us a sardine supper in the gun-room
that his gun made first hit, and the 'Angel' and I, the Inkslinger and
the rest, rolled up our sleeves, pushed the natives out of the way, and
fell in behind the gun.
Oh! it was a lark if you like.
The 'Angel' stood on the trail and squinted through the telescopic
sight, I lugged open the breech, somebody jammed in a shell, the
Inkslinger pushed in a brass cylinder after it, I whanged the
breech-block back with a bang, hung on to the firing lanyard, and
shouted out 'ready!' whilst the rest of them tried to train the gun, the
'Angel' singing out all the time, 'right,' 'right a little,' 'stop, you
idiots,' 'left.'
'Do let me fire the first shot,' the Clerk squeaked.
'Get out of it, Inkslinger!' I yelled. 'Get another cylinder.' The
'Angel' sang out, 'stand by!' and then 'Fire!' I gave the lanyard a
tug, and off she went, and off went Barton's gun as well. We cheered;
the grass and stuff flew up in front of the muzzle; the gun jumped back
and slid forward again, and we dashed up the slope to see where the
shots had gone. We were just in time to see the water shoot up in two
great splashes, just short of their biggest ship, and then we dashed at
the gun again, slung the breech open, hauled out the smoking cylinder,
one of the mids. shoved in another shell, and the Ink-slinger, white
with excitement, shoved in the cylinder. I shut the breech too quickly,
and caught his hand.
'Pull it out,' we yelled, and he did, just giving a yelp, and wrapping
his handkerchief round it. Then I locked the breech and we fired again,
'Missed 'em--both of you,' a gruff voice sounded behind us, and there
was Mr. Bostock, the Gunner, standing with his hands in his pockets, and
looking vexed.
We jolly well thought that we'd have shells coming all round us, but
they didn't, though the ships started easing off quickly enough, and
their shells banged about all over the town. The native gun-crews had
cleared out altogether--they were so terrified.
'You ain't doin' no credit to the Royal Navy,' Mr. Bostock snorted,
lighting his old pipe, when we'd fired twice more and not hit anything;
'maybe you never learned the drill.' This of course was meant nastily.
'Come and help,' we sang out, and he did, showing us where we were
muddling things. It was the training gear which bothered us, and he
showed us that we hadn't slacked it away enough.
'You can't do nothing afore you number off,' he snorted again, and then
took his pipe out of his mouth, and roared, 'Gun's crew, fall out!' We
jumped back. 'Gun's crew, at'shun!' Then he gave us our proper
numbers. 'Gun's crew, number off! 'Ere, fall out, Mr. Marchant. Yer
'and's bleeding; what 'ave yer bin and done with yer 'and?'
'It don't hurt, I can manage all right,' the ass sang out.
'Who closed the breech?' he yelled.
[Illustration: MR. BOSTOCK TAKES COMMAND]
'I did,' I said; 'I closed it too quickly.'
'Silly ass, don't meddle; you takes too much on yerself. Just give Mr.
Marchant the firing lanyard, and take on 'is job--and be nippy with 'em
cylinders.'
So I had to do the hard work, and wasn't the Ink-slinger proud to do the
actual firing!
'Gun's crew, fall in!' Mr. Bostock roared again.
We jumped to the gun and took up our proper stations, and fired twice
whilst he watched the result.
'You ain't 'it nothin' yet,' he growled. 'Cease firin'; you're a
disgrace. Fall out.'
He went for the 'Angel' like anything about his telescopic sight, put it
right for him, and then stalked off to Barton's gun, but he'd done
everything properly, so back he came. ''Ere! get down off there--I'll
take a shot,' and the 'Angel' didn't like it a little bit when he slung
him off the trail. We rather wished he hadn't come and spoilt our fun.
Well, that shot got the biggest cruiser amidships somewhere, and we were
so jolly pleased that we didn't mind anything. The ships had found out
now that we were perched on top of the ridge, but I'm certain they never
spotted us, because nothing came really close, and most of the shots
went overhead, and we heard them bursting amongst the trees in the
forest beyond the stream.
You bet your life we were full of buck when the cruisers began to get
under way, and then Mr. Bostock told us to aim at the nearest transport,
and, after a few misses, we both hit her together and that did the
trick--it jolly well saved Cousin Gerald, and San Fernando too--because
the troops began embarking again, though the ships went off so quickly
that a lot of the boats had to pull after them.
We saw the _Hector's_ picket-boat dashing to where the little gunboat
sank, and then you know exactly what happened, the whole fleet cleared
off, and we followed them as best we could, till they got out of range,
or, rather, till we had no more ammunition left. But long before that
the proper guns' crews and their officers came doubling back, and wanted
to carry on with the job, though we wouldn't let them, and they stood
behind us grinning and capering, shouting '_Viva los Inglesas!_'
whenever we nearly hit a ship. Mr. Bostock didn't worry his head any
more after the transports had begun to move off, coiled up close to
Barton's gun and had a snooze.
'It's done me a power of good,' he said--'just like Ladysmith, only them
Boers was always firin' back.'
You can guess how dirty we were by this time, and we were sweating like
anything--our tongues feeling as if they didn't belong to us, and we
would have given anything for a drink.
One of the natives was sucking at a bottle of kola, and it looked so
jolly appetising that the 'Angel' bagged it, drank it, and then had a
grand idea.
He tapped the bottle--opened his mouth--pointed to all of us (we all
opened our mouths)--sang out '_mucho bueno_'--and then pointed down to
the town.
The officer whom we had hauled from under the gun--he was brave enough
now, and stood with his feet wide apart, twirling his moustaches and
scowling fiercely--understood what my chum meant, and sent all his men
down to the town, whilst we went on with their job, and in twenty
minutes or so, just after we'd fired the last shot, they came back with
dozens of bottles of kola and trays of buns and cakes of all sorts.
''Aving a stand easy?' Mr. Bostock sang out, waking because the guns
weren't firing, and he chipped in, and we all had a grand feed.
Wasn't that kola bitters good, that's all! and in the middle of it along
came the Captain, the First Lieutenant, the New President and his boss
men and fairly nabbed us. What made the Captain so angry was that we'd
fired once or twice right across the _Hector_. It was the 'Angel's'
fault--he was so excited.
We were jolly frightened, because he glared at us from the eyeglass eye,
although he couldn't keep the other from twinkling, and he ordered us
back to the ship at once and stopped our leave for ever.
The New President was smiling all over; I don't think he'd smiled very
often lately--he didn't look as if he had--and then we tramped back down
the lane, giving young 'Inkslinger' a bit of help, because his hand was
awfully painful and he was as pale as a ghost. They caught us up in
their carriages, and the Captain gave him a lift and took him aboard in
his own galley, a very great honour.
'He introduced me to the President--he called me his Secretary,' he told
us, full of buck, when we got on board.
The 'Angel' and I rushed off to find Billums and tell him what we'd
done.
'That makes up for that silly ass newspaper "business" at Princes'
Town,' he said, and was jolly pleased. It made a lot of difference to
the gun-room when he was in a good temper, and he'd been beastly ever
since that forty-eight hours' leave.
The 'Angel' and I didn't dine with the Captain that night, because we
were so junior, and only the five senior mids. and the Inkslinger were
asked. We were rather glad because we always felt terrified in his
cabin.
Next day we heard that the transports had gone off in such a hurry that
more than three hundred troops were left behind, and had, of course,
surrendered to Cousin Gerald. The rest were landed down at El
Castellar, brought General Zorilla's army up to nearly four thousand
men, and in a couple of days he began marching along the coast towards
us again, the fleet steaming along with him.
Cousin Gerald had to fall back, because he had very little ammunition
left and his men couldn't stand the shells from the ships.
It was fearfully worrying, because every day we saw the cruisers and
those two rotten torpedo-boats getting nearer and nearer to Marina and
that Casino place which Billums had defended. With our telescopes we
could still see the black and green flag on it very clearly if there was
any breeze to blow it out.
Then one horrid evening we saw that the ships were shelling the Casino
itself, and we were all frightfully worried and afraid that, even now,
after all we'd done, General Zorilla would win.
The Captain wouldn't let anybody go on shore, so we got very little
news; but that day two of the Englishmen came off from the Club, and
made us more miserable than ever. They told us that Cousin Gerald had
hardly any ammunition left at all, and that the New President and the
Provisional Government were packing up and standing by, to fly into the
forest again. They thought that the town would be captured in a day or
two, and wanted to be taken on board of us, if that happened. They'd
helped the insurgents too much to stay there in safety when once the
Government troops came along. Everything was just as bad as it could
be, and we were awfully miserable.
I do believe that the fat little A.D.C. in the Captain's spare cabin was
sorry for Cousin Gerald. We often went in to talk to him and cheer him
up, and he always had Billums's cigarette case near him, and was awfully
grateful for anything we did for him.
'When the revolution finish, you two come and stay with me--at Santa
Cruz--I will show you the bull-fight,' he often said, and, you bet, we
promised to go.
One morning the cruisers were only four miles away, and a great yellow
and green flag hung over the Casino, so we knew that things were pretty
black for Cousin Gerald, who, for all that, must have been hanging on
like grim death, because all that day and throughout the night rifle
firing went on, and in the dark we could see the shells bursting among
the trees.
We hardly slept at all, fearing that Cousin Gerald would have to fall
back on the town, and feeling horrid because we'd used up all his 4.7
ammunition, and he wouldn't be able to prevent the fleet shelling him
out of it.
The 'Angel' and I went up to the bridge before daylight and found
Billums there--he hadn't turned in at all.
'There's been a great deal of firing for the last hour,' he said, his
face all drawn and tired-looking, 'but it died away all of a sudden. I
don't know what to make of it--it didn't seem to get any nearer--I'm
very much afraid Gerald has surrendered or taken his chaps inland.'
He groaned, and we waited and waited--not a sound coming from
shore--till it became light enough to see the land.
Our eyes ached with trying to look farther than we could. Still there
was no firing. This was strange, because generally at daybreak there'd
been any amount of firing, as, in the dark, the people often got very
close to each other, or lost themselves, without knowing it, and then
fired point-blank at each other when the light showed them up.
'What _has_ happened?' Billums groaned again.
Then it was light enough for us to see where Cousin Gerald's men had
been last night--but there weren't any ships near there--then presently,
as we saw farther and farther along, the Casino showed up under the
trees--still no ships near the shore.
'Look, sir! Look!' a Yeoman of Signals, who was using the big
telescope, sung out, and pulled Billums across to it.
'Hurrah!' he shouted; 'there's a black and green flag flying over it.'
In a minute we could see it with our own telescopes, and knew that
Cousin Gerald must have recaptured it during the night. Every one
'started cheering and shouting, and woke up the Commander, who was
furious, but then joined in because the Captain came up with his
greatcoat over his pyjamas, and chuckled and cheered too.
Well, we all stood there watching, seeing farther and farther along the
shore every minute--not a sign of the ships--till we could actually see
the high land at the entrance, near El Castellar, with a great cloud of
smoke beyond it, out to sea.
'They've chucked it,' the Captain chuckled, and we all burst out
cheering. You should have seen us all there--fat Dr. Watson in his
pyjamas, the Forlorn Hope and the Shadow in theirs--the Shadow shivering
and his teeth chattering,--Mr. Perkins as red as a lobster, and even the
Padre had come up in a nightgown, and had been in such a hurry that he'd
forgotten his wig, and stood there as bald as a coot, all except a
little tuft of hair that stood up by itself, and made him look like that
advertisement of a hair-restorer. Nearly every one was up on the
bridge. Then the church bells in San Fernando began ringing like mad,
and we could hear the people, ashore, cheering.
Wasn't it grand? though nobody could imagine why the fleet had gone
away.
'I expect the Provisional Government are unpacking their bags,' the
Captain said to Dr. Watson, as they went below. 'They'll be asking for
Recognition again. They ought to get it this time.'
We rushed off and told Billums what we had heard, because we knew that
if the Government at home _did_ recognise the Insurgent Government,
Cousin Gerald wouldn't be punished for chipping in.
We did so hope they would.
*CHAPTER XIII*
*Bad News for Gerald Wilson*
_Written by Sub-Lieutenant William Wilson_
Later on in the morning, after all those things had happened about which
that young ass of a cousin of mine has just told you, and after the
Santa Cruz Navy and the transports had disappeared, a boat came pulling
off to the ship with a note from old Gerald.
'DEAR BILLUMS--The whole "caboodle" has shoved off home--haven't an idea
why, but they were in such a hurry that they left behind them a grand
lot of ammunition--the very thing we wanted. Old Zorilla has gone back
without his black horse--never mind. There's a report that a white flag
is flying over El Castellar. I'm just off to see. GERALD.'
I read it out to the gun-room. Wasn't it grand for old Gerald? He'd
just about swept the board.
I thought I'd show the letter to the Skipper, and did so--he was jolly
pleased.
'Tut, tut, boy! I'll tell "Old Spats,"' he chuckled, and sent for a
signalman, but had hardly spoken before one came tearing in with a
'wireless' message from the _Hercules_--she was still at Princes' Town.
'_La Buena Presidente_ put into San Josef two days ago, after carrying
out target practice, and, under shelter of Punta Rejos, coaled from a
collier. She is flying the insurgent flag.'
'Now we know, lad! That's the reason the Santa Cruz fleet cleared off,
lad! They've heard about her. She'll be off the coast any day, and
they're flying back under the guns of Los Angelos.'
He sent the signalman back with his message for Captain Roger Hill.
'Tut, tut, boy! I'll be able to ask your brother to dinner in a few
days, I hope--that is, if he isn't too big a swell--makes me feel a
worm--p'r'aps he won't come--hope he will.'
He pointed his telescope towards the shore. 'Look at those black and
green flags flying over the town. The Provisional Government are
unpacking their bags again, I expect, and if they demand Official
Recognition they'll probably get it.'
'I hope they will, sir,' I said, and went below. You can guess how jolly
cheerful I felt, and how I blessed _La Buena Presidente_ and the people
who'd coaled her.
I knew how awfully happy the news would make them at home, so I got
permission to send a telegram to tell them that Gerald was safe. It
went to the _Hercules_ by 'wireless,' and I jolly well hoped that some
one on board her would pay for it to be telegraphed to England. I did
so wish that old 'Ginger' and I hadn't parted 'brass rags,' and that I
could have asked him to send it.
That afternoon the Captain sent for me; he'd shipped a sea-boot face,
and I knew that something had gone wrong.
'I've just had that signal, lad,' he said, and handed it to me.
'From Captain, _Hercules_, to ditto, _Hector_.--The following signal has
been received from the Admiralty: "The cruiser known as _La Buena
Presidente_, flying the unrecognised flag of the insurgent Provisional
Government, left San Josef on the 22nd. She is to be arrested as soon
as possible, and handed over to the Government at Santa Cruz. Force is
to be employed if necessary. Steps are to be taken to inform the
Government Authorities that she will not be allowed to afford any
assistance to the insurgents."
'Identical orders have been received by the Governor of Prince Rupert's
Island from the Foreign Office.'
'That's a bit of a knock-out for your brother, I'm afraid,' he said
sadly.
I don't know what I answered, I'd never been so miserable in my life;
this simply turned everything upside down again, and whatever Gerald did
now, he could never hope to win--things were too hopelessly against him.
The possession of _La Buena Presidente_ was the insurgents' only chance
of success, and without her they could do nothing. I knew that Gerald
was too proud to escape from the country, and he'd probably end by being
killed in some rotten little action or shot against the wall, between
those saluting guns, in San Sebastian. The only bright thing at all, on
that miserable day, was a 'wireless' from dear old Ginger. 'Have sent
your telegram home.' I wished he was here, I'd have banged him on the
chest, made up that silly row on the spot, and we'd have talked over
things.
The Provisional Government did come aboard, later on, smiling all over,
the New President's unhealthy face looking happy for the first time, and
his little Secretary bobbing about as if he were on springs. They came
to formally demand Recognition from the Foreign Powers, and of course
the Captain passed on the demand, by 'wireless,' to the _Hercules_ for
her to transmit to London.
Neither the Captain nor any one else had the heart to tell them the bad
news, so they all went ashore as cheerful as crickets, fully expecting a
favourable reply.
'I'll let you know as soon as the reply comes,' the Captain sent his
coxswain to tell me, and I waited all the rest of that wretched day,
wandering about like a lost sheep. I couldn't even turn in at night,
and spent most of it on the bridge waiting for the reply to be
telephoned up from the wireless room.
The answer came at last, and it seemed to blotch out the last hope.
'The existence of the Provisional Government cannot be recognised.'
'Don't send it ashore till the morning,' the Skipper muttered; 'bad news
will keep. The Government are evidently anxious to make up for their
slackness in allowing the insurgents to get hold of that ship in English
waters, and I'm afraid no Provisional Government can expect to last long
now that we have to hand her over to the Santa Cruz people.'
Next morning we weighed and steamed slowly down the bay of La Laguna,
past the Casino where the great fight had been, and anchored under El
Castellar. The green and yellow flag was still flying over it, and they
had made no attempt to cover up the hole my for'ard 9.2 gun had made in
the walls. Every now and then we heard rifle shots, and saw parties of
the little insurgents running about among the trees beneath the fort, so
knew that Gerald was still investing it.
The Captain sent for me.
'I'm going ashore, boy! going to see the Commandant of that fort and you
can come with me. Have to inform him about our Government's decision and
about _La Buena Presidente_. I don't like the job, boy, that I don't.'
In half an hour we were alongside a small jetty, built below the fort,
and had landed in white uniform, helmets, and swords. An officer and a
couple of black soldiers came running down a zigzag path to meet us, the
officer saluting and bowing and the two black chaps presenting arms.
'_El Commandante?_' the Skipper said, shipping his 'tin eye,' and
pointing up to the fort.
'He will have much honour,' the officer bowed.
'Thank goodness some one knows a bit of English,' I heard the Skipper
mutter as we followed him. My aunt! but it was hot, and the Skipper was
sweating like a bull as he walked up that blazing path. The stones
under our feet seemed to burn through the soles of our boots, and the
withered palm and cactus leaves, stuck in between the rocks, looked as
if they'd never known what rain was or a breeze either--they were
covered with a thick white dust.
The officer didn't sweat, he looked as dry and shrivelled as the leaves
themselves, and as if he hadn't had a drink or a square meal for weeks;
his uniform was dirty and torn. Across the flap of his revolver holster
there was a long furrow, made, probably, by a bullet, and, to judge by
its appearance, within a few hours, but he gave you the impression that
he'd never known anything else except war and forest fighting, and that
one bullet, more or less, didn't matter.
'Pretty swanky!' the Skipper grunted, taking off his helmet and wiping
his forehead.
'I no savvy,' the officer said, and then 'tumbled' to it and smiled for
a second, his yellow leathery face looking as if it would crack.
As we reached the top we passed any number of ox bones and skulls, and
the smell was pretty unpleasant. It looked as if they'd been thrown
over the walls. Then we passed inside the fort, through a small iron
door in the thickness of the wall, not that part of the wall which our
9.2 had damaged, but round a corner, and it struck me that we had been
purposely taken this way, so as not to see the hole.
As we entered, we found ourselves in a great square red-tiled
parade-ground. There were open thatched sheds all round two sides of
it, and a dozen or more soldiers were hurriedly pouring out from under
them to form a guard of honour. A couple of antiquated 'smooth bores'
lay on the ground with their trunnions smashed, in the centre was a
broken-down well, and the whole place was littered with rubbish, old
clothes, bones, and empty ammunition boxes. We'd hardly had a look
round when who should come across, from some buildings on the far side,
but old Gerald, a grey-haired, sunburnt, and bent-backed officer talking
very fast to him. For a second I wondered whether he was a prisoner,
but then I saw my friend the 'Gnome' and several others of Gerald's
officers. The 'Gnome' recognised me at once, showed his white teeth,
smiled, pointed up to a flagstaff where that green and yellow flag hung,
and then to a roll of green and black bunting which he was carrying
under his arm, and I knew at once that Gerald was there to accept the
surrender of the place, and that my bandy-legged chum was going
presently to hoist the insurgent flag.
Poor old Gerald! He looked so splendidly English, in his white
riding-gear and polo-hat, and so proud, that I hated to meet him and
tell him the awful news.
He introduced the Skipper, and then me, to the weather-beaten
Commandant.
'I no speak the English,' he said, bowing.
'We're just arranging the terms of surrender,' Gerald told the Skipper.
'You've come in the nick of time, because the Commandant won't trust
himself in de Costa's hands. They are old enemies, and I cannot
persuade him.'
Oh! Fancy having arrived at this very moment to spoil all poor old
Gerald's hopes.
I saw the Skipper ship his 'sea-boot' face again, and felt certain that
he was wondering whether it was possible to let things go on as they
were, and not tell the news.
He 'tut-tutted,' screwed in his eyeglass, took off his helmet, and ran
his fingers through his long hair, as he always did when worried, and
then burst out with, 'Wilson, I've bad news for you--very sorry, lad,
very sorry; the fleet and the transports cleared out because that
cruiser of yours, _La Buena Presidente_, may be here at any minute, and,
very sorry, lad, but I've got to capture her and give her up to the
people at Santa Cruz. Our Government won't recognise the insurgent
Provisional Government, and I'm ordered to inform the Commandant.
That's why I'm here now.'