A Night on the Neutral Ground
"GAME for a jaunt into Spanish territory, old man?" enquired Osborne,
indicating the hilly ground across the blue waters of the bay.
"There's a boat leaving for Algeciras in half an hour."
The _Portchester Castle_ lay off the New Mole at Gibraltar. She had
coaled and had taken in stores. A few minor defects were being made
good, and she was awaiting orders to proceed. Leave had been given to
the starboard watch that afternoon, and, having nothing in the way of
duty to perform, Osborne had made a tempting suggestion to his chum
Tom Webb.
"Rather, I'm on," replied the Sub. "There's leave for officers till
eight bells, I believe."
"Yes, but we'll have to be back well before that time," observed
Osborne. "The gates of the fortress close at sunset, remember."
Tom Webb during the last few days had made good use of his time at
Gib., but, he argued, being ashore on that bold, rocky promontory was
not exactly being abroad. He was still on British territory. Hence
his eagerness to set foot upon foreign soil.
Soon the two chums, in undress uniforms, were picking their way
through the narrow streets of Gibraltar, dodging among the motley
crowd that comprises the populace of the place--Spaniards, Greeks,
Moors, Arabs, and "Rock Scorps", with a liberal leavening of British
seamen, marines, and soldiers.
"That fellow seems to take a lot of interest in us," remarked Webb as
the two officers found themselves on board the little steamer bound
for Algeciras.
"Let him," declared Osborne inconsequently. He had had too long an
acquaintance with foreign ports to trouble about the curious looks
and attentions of the inhabitants. "Which one do you refer to? That
Spaniard with the piebald side-whiskers?"
"No, the johnny leaning against the ventilator," replied the Sub.
"Looks as if he wants a permanent prop, and his hands seem sewn up in
his pockets."
Osborne glanced over his shoulder. Instantly the individual in
question feigned interest in the smoke issuing from the steamer's
funnel, until the effort of craning his neck was too much of a
physical strain, and he again looked curiously at the two naval
officers.
He was a man of about thirty, full-faced and of a sleek and oily
complexion. His dark chestnut hair was closely cropped. He sported a
tuft of side-whiskers on each cheek and a heavy moustache. His
costume consisted of a dirty white shirt, ill-cut trousers, and
straw-plaited shoes round his waist was a gaudily coloured scarf that
might or might not have hidden a knife. On the back of his head he
wore a broad-rimmed straw hat with a band of vivid yellow, into which
was stuck a bunch of peacock's feathers.
"A picturesque-looking villain!" commented Webb.
"A typical Spaniard, that's all," Osborne reassured him. "We'll have
a few dozen of 'em crowding round directly we land, you know. Every
man jack will offer his services as a guide, philosopher, and
friend."
Apparently the fellow thought it worth while to take time by the
forelock, since his interest in the British officers was
reciprocated. Removing his hands from his pockets he came forward,
and giving an elaborate sweep with his hat he tendered a dirty piece
of pasteboard.
"My card, señores!" he exclaimed. "At your service. Show you
everyzing in Algeciras. Blow me tight, I will."
The last sentence, of which he seemed particularly proud, had been
picked up from a British Tommy. The Spaniard considered it to be the
hall-mark of correct English.
Osborne took the proffered card. On it was printed: "Alfonzo y Guzman
Perez, Qualified Guide and Interpreter".
"We don't require a guide," said Osborne.
Señor Perez smiled benignly.
"P'raps ze senores get into ze mischief wizout a Spanish caballero
who through misfortune is obliged to accept ze monies for his
services. You officers are from ze war-ship _Paragon_?"
"No, from the----" began Webb. Then he brought himself up with a
round turn.
"From ze----?" repeated the Spaniard. But Tom was not to be caught
napping a second time.
"Sorry, Señor Perez," interrupted Osborne firmly. "We don't want
you. Nothing doing this trip."
The steamer was now making fast to the little pier. Without paying
further attention to the over-attentive Spaniard the young officers
landed, and, as Osborne had foretold, were surrounded by a mob of
frantically gesticulating natives.
"Not much of a place," declared Webb. "Horribly dirty, in fact. Can't
we get out into the country?"
"We could," replied his chum. "In fact we could give the steamer a
miss on the return journey."
"How?"
"By walking round the Bay and getting back to Gib. by means of the
Neutral Ground. It's a tidy step, but we've heaps of time."
"Good idea!" declared Webb enthusiastically. "Let's get along out of
this."
By degrees the mob of undesirables diminished. The pace set by two
mad Englishmen was far too hot. A few, however, still hung on, their
appeals for alms giving place to abuse at the callousness of the
British officers.
"Wish we had Laddie with us," remarked Webb. "He'd soon make the
crowd take to their heels."
"Couldn't be done," said Osborne. "I thought of it, but there are the
local quarantine restrictions to be taken into consideration. Also,
there'd be a risk of the dog being shot by the Spanish Customs guards
on the Neutral Ground. They're dead nuts on dogs."
"Why?" asked Tom.
"Because dogs are largely used by smugglers to run contraband into
Gib. Of course, I'm sorry, but it can't be helped."
At last the Spaniards dropped behind and the chums were free of any
embarrassing society. They, too, were glad to ease down, for the day
was extremely sultry. There were bunches of delicious grapes to be
had without let or hindrance, and altogether the two chums were
beginning to enjoy themselves.
"How much farther?" enquired Tom at length.
Osborne consulted his watch.
"By Jove, we must look sharp!" he said. "We've a tidy step yet. In
fact, we haven't got as far as Mayorga."
The road, hitherto by no means good, had deteriorated into a rough
track. Progress, too, was impeded by several inlets, which meant
considerable detours inland. Consequently it was late in the
afternoon when, hot and tired, the young officers limped into the
village of Mayorga, some five miles from the "Lines" of Gibraltar.
"I vote we get a carriage of sorts," suggested Osborne. "We'll be
properly dished if we don't. My heel's galled, and it's still some
way to go."
Making the best of his limited knowledge of Spanish, Osborne
contrived to hire, for the sum of five pesetas, a ramshackle
conveyance with solid wooden wheels and drawn by a couple of oxen. It
was the only vehicle available, but the villainous-looking driver
assured his hirers that it was a swift means of transport.
The cart set off in excellent style--"Under forced draught," Osborne
explained--but before it was clear of the village the swaying,
jolting conveyance had settled down to a funeral pace. When Osborne
expostulated, the driver stopped to offer a lengthy explanation of
the dangerous character of the road, promising to make up for the
lost time directly the comparatively level Neutral Ground was
reached.
Anxiously the Lieutenant consulted his watch, glanced at the setting
sun, and mentally measured the distance between him and the frowning
Rock, which appeared much nearer than it actually was.
Suddenly the cart gave an extra heavy lurch. The oxen stumbled;
while, to the accompaniment of a rending crash and the angry oaths of
the driver, the off-side wheel was wrenched from its axle. The next
instant Osborne and Webb found themselves lying in the long rank
grass by the side of the cart-track.
"Excelsior, old bird!" exclaimed the Lieutenant as the twain
recovered their feet. "Look alive, there's no time to be lost!"
Paying the Spaniard his five pesetas, although he had not completed
his part of the contract, the two officers hastened towards their
goal, regardless of the forcible demands of the driver that his late
fares would contribute towards the damage done to the crazy vehicle.
Nearer and nearer came the "Lines", until the Neutral Ground was less
than four hundred yards away. Then, to the chums' consternation, a
gun boomed forth in the still evening air. It was the signal that
until daybreak the gates of Gibraltar were closed so that none should
enter or depart.
"A fine old business!" declared Osborne. "It's no use going on. We'd
stand a chance of being fired upon by the Spanish guards, and a still
greater one of being winged by the British sentries. They were alert
enough in pre-war days, and you can bet your bottom dollar that
they'll be doubly sharp now."
"Suppose the best thing to do is to return to Mayorga and get a bed
at the inn," suggested Webb. "My word, there'll be a row for
overstaying our leave!"
"No Spanish inn for me," said the Lieutenant with conviction.
"Verminous holes, that's what they are. No, we'll camp out, and
imagine it's the good old Scout days."
"Might do worse," agreed Tom with his cheery smile. "So the sooner we
pitch upon a suitable spot the better. It will be dark in another ten
minutes."
The site selected was a sandy hollow fringed with long coarse grass,
and open to the east. In that direction lay the Mediterranean, its
shores being separated from the officers' bivouac by a distance of
about twenty yards. To the south the summit of the towering heights
of the Rock could just be discerned, above the ridge of sand that
enclosed the hollow on three sides.
Thoroughly tired with their exertions, the chums were soon fast
asleep. Then Webb awoke with a start and a stifled exclamation on his
lips. It seemed as if he had slept but a few minutes. In reality six
hours had elapsed.
He could hear voices conferring in undertones--voices unfamiliar, and
speaking in a foreign language.
For some moments Webb lay still. He remembered where he was, and that
it was not at all strange for men to be conversing in an unknown
tongue. What he remarked was the fact that they should choose an
isolated spot in the small hours of the morning to engage upon what
was evidently a secret confabulation.
Cautiously the Sub raised himself on his elbows and peered through
the long grass. In the bright starlight he made a strange discovery.
There were three men: two in the uniform that bore a strong
resemblance to that of the British Navy; the third was none other
than the chums' would-be philosopher and guide, Señor Alfonzo y
Guzman Perez.