Peter Goes Ashore
At dawn the British fleet began to ascend the river to carry
hostilities into Rioguayan territory. The van of the fleet consisted
of a number of West Indian motor fishing-boats, provided with
paravanes and other countermining devices. These boats, belonging to
patriotic owners in Jamaica, Trinidad, St. Vincent, Barbadoes, and
Barbuda, had been offered to the British admiral, who, realizing
their value, had gratefully accepted them.
They were manned entirely by volunteers from the fleet--men who knew
the danger but did not hesitate to risk their lives for their
comrades.
Following the sweepers came the battleships, cleared for action.
Hard on their heels were three flotillas of destroyers, ready should
occasion arise to dart past the lowering hulls of the battleships,
and deal effectively with any hostile craft that might pluck up
sufficient courage to attack. The light cruisers came next,
escorting a huge airplane carrier, although no attempt had been made
to use any of her brood for reconnaissance or bombing work, She was
like a "back-number" veteran amongst a crowd of athletes.
Astern of the light cruisers were the fleet store-ship and
oil-tankers, while in the rearguard were more destroyers and half a
dozen "coastal motor-boats" that had come south from Halifax on the
decks of two fleet auxiliaries.
The passage between the Island of Sambrombon and San Benito was
accomplished without any sign of resistance. It had been expected
that the enemy would train their anti-aircraft rays upon the
motor-craft, since their magnetoes would be affected in a similar
manner, but unaccountably the Rioguayans made no attempt to do so.
At length the fleet came in sight of San Antonio, and consequently
well within range of their 15-inch guns. From the yard-arm of the
_Royal Oak_ a hoist of bunting fluttered.
"Flag making our number, sir," reported the chief yeoman to the
officer of the watch of the _Rebound_. The "answering pennant" was
hardly up before the _Royal Oak_ semaphored:
"Flag to _Rebound_. Lieutenant Peter Corbold to report on board as
soon as convenient."
Peter was given the message. He guessed what was "in the wind" and
hastened to obey. "As soon as convenient" meant, he knew, in naval
parlance "as sharp as you jolly well can, and the quicker the
better". Rigged out in a white drill tropical uniform lent by a
brother officer who luckily had lost only a small amount of kit
during the action, Peter went over the side into the waiting
picket-boat and was soon on his way to the Flagship.
"I have selected you, Mr. Corbold," said the Admiral in his usual
style of coming straight to the point, "to be the bearer of this
letter to the President of Rioguay, since, I believe, you speak the
language and have been a resident in Rioguay, You will wait till
noon for a reply. The ultimatum is unsealed. Read it, and make
yourself acquainted with the terms."
Peter did so. The British ultimatum was brief and emphatic. It
demanded the unconditional surrender of San Antonio, with all
warships, forts, military, naval, and aircraft stores and equipment.
No hostages were demanded, and a promise was given that private and
civil property would be strictly respected. The question of
indemnities with respect to the wanton destruction of British
mercantile shipping would be impartially dealt with at a later date.
Failing an acceptance of the terms by noon, the port and fortified
positions of San Antonio would be bombarded at 3 p.m.
The ultimatum was then sealed and again handed to Peter for
delivery.
Five minutes later, the envoy was in the stern-sheets of the
picket-boat on his way to San Antonio. He was unarmed, as were the
crew. From the jack-staff in the bows was displayed a large white
flag.
It was a good half-hour's run to the naval port landing-steps. The
picket-boat was not fired upon, although Peter would not have been
surprised if the Rioguayan forts and ships had done so. As he passed
the shell-shattered warships lying at anchor off the town, their
crews regarded the British boat with unfeigned interest, but without
any demonstration of anger. The wharves, too, were crowded with
spectators, civilians, seamen, and soldiers mingling
indiscriminately.
It was a risky business. At any moment an exasperated Rioguayan
might "let rip" with rifle or revolver, since there were no signs of
anyone in authority to hold the throng in check. Yet unhesitatingly
the unarmed picket-boat held on her course until at length she ran
alongside the broad stone steps facing the Rioguayan Port Admiral's
residence.
"Hey, laddie!" exclaimed a voice that sounded strangely familiar.
"Hello, Mackenzie!" replied Peter. "Didn't expect to see you in this
galley."
"I hardly did myself," admitted Mackenzie. "I've only been released
from prison this morning. They nabbed me when you cleared out. Our
mutual friend Don Ramon wasn't particularly gentlemanly about it.
Snarled like a dog. He was a bit hipped because you took French
leave. But I hardly expected to see you here again and in that rig.
So you got away all right? I had no means of finding out. And how is
Mr. Strong?"
"Steady, Mac," protested Peter laughingly. "It's a long yarn and can
wait. I've got to interview the port officials. We're going to put
it about them this time."
"Never doubted but what we would," rejoined the Scot, "I gathered
that Rioguay is feeling a bit sorry for itself. For one thing, my
release. They wouldn't have been so courteous if things had been
going their way. I'll wait on board your wee boat if you have no
objection, and perhaps you will give me a passage?"
"Do so," agreed Peter. "I hope I shan't be very long."
All this while, a party of Rioguayan officers had been kept waiting.
The lieutenant was in no hurry. He meant to let them cool their
heels.
Then, with a great amount of saluting and heel clicking, the
Rioguayan officers introduced themselves and offered to escort the
envoy to the Admiralty buildings. There was no hauteur in their
demeanour. They seemed genuinely anxious as to what was going to
happen and were almost clamouring to pay attention to the
representative of the British admiral.
In one of the rooms of the Admiralty House, Peter was introduced to
the Port Admiral and Governor of San Antonio. With them were
numerous officials--military, naval, and civilian.
Declining the offer of a glass of wine, Peter delivered his
dispatch. Keenly observing the faces of the Rioguayan officials as
one of the number translated the terms of the ultimatum, Corbold
knew that there would be no bombardment. In fact, the mildness of
the terms was a complete surprise. They expected nothing less than a
demand for the surrender of the principal officers of the port and
the instant payment of a vast sum of money to save the town from
destruction.
Then they explained the situation to the British envoy. As far as
San Antonio was concerned, the terms were accepted, and probably the
rest of the Republic of Rioguay would surrender on the same
conditions. For, unknown to the British admiral, a revolution had
broken out. President Jaime Samuda had been shot during the fighting
in the streets of the capital, Don Ramon Diaz and Don José Cordova,
his principal lieutenants, were in the hands of the insurgents, and
the last of the troops fighting for President Samuda had laid down
their arms.
Eight bells, noon, was being sounded off when Peter went on board
the _Royal Oak_ bearing a written acceptance of the British
admiral's ultimatum.
At 2 p.m. the fleet stood towards San Antonio. An hour later, the
Rioguayan colours on board the various warships were replaced by the
White Ensign. The forts were taken over by British marines and the
town patrolled by armed bluejackets.
That evening, Corbold and Cavendish, accompanied by Mackenzie, went
ashore. The shops were open, electric tramcars were running, and the
town was brilliantly lighted as usual. Everywhere the British seamen
and marines were received not as conquerors, but as deliverers from
the drastic rule of the dictator, President Samuda. Perhaps most of
the demonstrations of friendship were simulated, but the inhabitants
of San Antonio were certainly favourably impressed by the demeanour
of the victors and by their generous terms.
"By Jove! I had no idea that this was such an up-to-date place,"
remarked Cavendish. "Everyone seems chock-a-block with prosperity.
Why weren't the silly asses content? What possessed them to twist
the tail of the British lion?"
"They were made to," explained Mackenzie. "It was the late
President's idea."
"But surely they could have declined to risk their lives and
property?" rejoined Cavendish.
"There were inducements," continued Mackenzie. "Samuda gave them to
understand that Great Britain was a pigeon to be plucked. But apart
from that, the President's will was law. The Czar of all the Russias
in his day was not more autocratic. But they've learned a lesson."
"Are you remaining here?" asked Peter.
Mackenzie nodded.
"Yes," he replied slowly. "I am. I'm away home for a bit, though,
but I'll be back before very long. There's money to be made in
Rioguay after this trouble's over. And that mystery man--your Uncle
Brian--I suppose he'll be out this way again? Or perhaps he's made
enough out of his invention to retire into private life?"
"I don't think he'll come out to Rioguay," replied Peter. "He's had
enough, I fancy. As for making money out of the rays, that won't
worry him very much. From what I know of him, he'll have a tip-top
laboratory, wear any old clothes, and give away all his superfluous
cash."
Cavendish was unusually quiet that evening. The unrestrained gaiety
of the streets fascinated him. He could not understand why a people,
only just beaten in war, should take so light-heartedly to
amusements and rejoicing. The Rioguayans had discovered that there
was far more liberty under the British flag than there had been
under the late republic.
Suddenly there came the sound of men shouting in execration.
"What's that?" exclaimed Cavendish, his hand gripping the flap of
his revolver holster. "Some of our men being knocked about?"
"No fear," replied Mackenzie reassuringly. "The Dagoes wouldn't risk
doing that--even if they wanted to. Come on, let's see what the
row's about."
A crowd taking up the whole width of the spacious Calle Almeira
swept along, brandishing sticks and waving _sombreros_ and yelling
threats.
Standing on the steps of a café, the three chums could see a strong
body of civil police forcing their way through the press. In the
centre of the guards were three or four men looking horribly scared.
They were bleeding from wounds in the head, caused by missiles
hurled by the mob, who threatened to rush the none too determined
police.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Peter. "There's Don Ramon Diaz."
It was. Ramon and the other principal officials of the late
Government had been brought in from the capital to be tried at San
Antonio. Even if they had a fair trial, which was doubtful, they
were practically certain to be condemned and shot. That was one of
the penalties of holding office in an unstable South American
republic--autocratic power one day, degradation and a firing party
the next. In the present case, it looked doubtful whether the
prisoners could be taken through the mob, some of whom had just
thrown noosed ropes over the electric lamp standards in the Plaza.
Gone was Ramon's sickly smile. It was the first time Peter had seen
him without that sneering, fatuous grin. He was trembling violently
and clinging desperately to the civil guard on his left.
"Poor blighter!" ejaculated Peter.
He was almost on the point of forcing his way through the mob to
attempt to save Ramon from lynch law. But moderate counsel
prevailed. He realized that in their present burst of frenzy, the
crowd might murder him. He was willing to risk that possibility, but
the result would destroy the amicable relations existing between the
inhabitants of San Antonio and the British seamen and marines. The
bloodshed that would ensue would be enormous, and perhaps the
Rioguayans would make a desperate and prolonged resistance.
Yet, somehow, Peter couldn't stand by and watch his enemy being done
to death.
Mackenzie was watching him covertly.
"Keep cool, laddie," he exclaimed. "There's an armed party coming
up."
A British naval patrol and a picquet of marines, wearing shrapnel
helmets, doubled up the street. A sharp word of command and the
armed men formed two deep right across the Calle Almeira, motionless
as statues.
"Order arms... fix bayonets!"
The click of steel and the clatter of rifle butts on the asphalt
acted like a cold douche upon the hot-headed citizens of San
Antonio. The forefront of the crowd retreated. Those in the rear,
unable to see what was going on, pressed forward. Yet a strange
silence fell upon the crowd.
The civil police, seizing their opportunity, hurried their prisoners
forward right up to the steel-tipped line of British bluejackets and
marines.
The officer in charge of the armed party was in a bit of a dilemma.
Unable to understand a word, he tried to silence the now vociferous
clamour of both prisoners and civil guards. He couldn't grasp the
situation, being under the impression that the affair was an
anti-British demonstration, while Don Ramon was in such a state of
collapse that his fluent command of English failed him utterly.
Peter and Cavendish, followed by Mackenzie, went up to the officer,
who happened to know the two former. Briefly Corbold explained the
situation.
"Well, what can I do?" asked the officer in charge of the party.
"These fellows aren't our prisoners. I can't take them away from the
civil authority."
Peter turned to the non-commissioned officer of the Rioguayan
police. The man stated that his orders were to take the prisoners to
the town gaol for the night. They would be tried and shot before
noon to-morrow, he added inconsequently.
"It's murder," declared Peter, conferring with the lieutenant of the
landing-party. "Look here, can you detail half a dozen men? I'll
take all responsibility and get the prisoners on board. After all's
said and done, they aren't criminals, merely political prisoners."
"Get on with it then," was the reply, "and jolly good luck. Only,
remember, I can't make these _opera bouffe_ policemen give up their
prisoners."
"I'll try, anyway," rejoined Peter.
Producing a buff-coloured paper with the Admiralty crest, Peter held
it in front of the Rioguayan _caporal_.
"Here is your new President's authority that all political suspects
under arrest are to be placed in British custody," he said brazenly.
The Rioguayan couldn't read. If he did and was able to understand
English, he would have seen that the document was a receipted mess
account. But it served its purpose.
"Sí, señor capitan," he replied, with a salute.
Ten minutes later, Don Ramon and his companions in misfortune were
seated in the stern-sheets of the _Rebound's_ picket-boat. He was
only too glad to enjoy the security afforded by the British navy
that he had oft-times derided.
Standing beside the midshipman at the wheel of the picket-boat was
Peter Corbold, ruminating with satisfaction upon the results of his
jaunt ashore.
As the cool air of the river fanned his face, he rubbed his cheek
vigorously.
"Wish the greasy blighter hadn't kissed me," he soliloquized, as he
gave a backward glance at the smug features of Don Ramon Diaz.