PRISONERS
O’Neil stuck manfully at his post, the bullets showering around him as
he stood exposed at the tiller.
Phil breathed more easily as the two launches, now secured together,
put sufficient distance between them and the unfriendly shore.
The coxswain’s voice, raised anxiously, caused our lad fresh alarm.
“I fear he’s hit badly, sir,” he deplored, as he raised a limp figure
from the bottom of the launch.
Both boys were beside the wounded man in an instant and quickly
stripped him of his blood-soaked clothing. In the light of a bull’s-eye
lantern, Phil examined the hole made by an insurgent bullet.
“Only a flesh wound,” he breathed, immensely relieved; “the bullet went
through the fleshy part of the breast. He is stunned, the blow was so
near his heart.”
“Some water, quick,” ordered Sydney, while Phil bandaged the wounded
man with strips of his own shirt.
Water thrown on his face brought the man back to consciousness.
Phil left Sydney to make the wounded sailor comfortable, and followed
by O’Neil, boarded the prize.
“This is not the minister’s boat; this one has a deck house, while his
boat is flush decked,” he gasped in the greatest alarm. “What have we
done?” Then he flashed his light over the cargo. “The boxes are the
same, I can swear to that, and, as I supposed, all marks have been
removed. These are unaddressed.”
The frightened crew, imagining, no doubt, they were in the hands of
pirates, were speechless from terror. Juarez was not on board.
“What launch is this?” demanded Phil, in Spanish.
“La Fitte and Company’s, señor,” replied, cringingly, the native padron.
“What have you here?” Phil asked flourishing his revolver menacingly,
“and where were you taking them?”
“They contain machinery, señor, for Señor La Fitte’s plantation at
Mariel,” replied the native coxswain, gaining confidence, seeing his
life was not in such imminent danger.
Had they made a terrible mistake? Did these boxes contain machinery
only and no arms? But why should they be sent addressed to the United
States Minister? Then the remembrance of the hot fire, through which
they had just passed, dissipated all doubt. They were surely contraband
arms, but being on board a launch which sailed under the flag of
the republic, the two lads were openly aiding the government of the
republic.
“What shall I do?” Phil asked himself. “I wish Captain Taylor were
here; this situation is too deep for me to solve.”
Then he thought with anxiety of the wounded man, an evidence of their
expedition which could not be concealed.
He was glad when Sydney, who had been attending the sailor, stood
beside him on the captured launch. He tersely explained to him his
discovery.
“We must not set them free,” Sydney exclaimed immediately. “We have
gone too far for that. You are confident that these same boxes ten
hours ago were marked for our minister, and when we captured them they
were nearly in the hands of the insurgents. There isn’t a doubt but
that the boxes contain arms.”
Picking up a hatchet lying on the deck of the launch, Phil with a few
swift strokes bared the contents of the nearest box.
Both lads peered in anxiously.
“Colt automatic guns,” cried Phil, triumphantly. “Why, this shipment is
worth more to the insurgents than ten thousand rifles. The side which
has these guns will win the fight. There must be several batteries of
them packed in these cases.”
No longer in doubt, Phil ordered O’Neil to tow the launch back to the
harbor of La Boca.
They had been on the return but a short time, when O’Neil’s voice
disturbed the lads deep in their own thoughts.
“There is a launch heading this way, sir,” he reported; “it looks like
one of our steamers.”
Phil was on his feet instantly peering through the darkness ahead.
“Ahoy, there,” from the approaching launch; “what launch is that?”
“The ‘Vidette,’ sir,” Phil answered, greatly relieved. He recognized
Captain Taylor’s voice and ordered O’Neil to stop and “lay to.”
“Are you all right?” the captain hailed anxiously.
Phil hesitated an instant, then he thought explanations could be made
when he came on board.
“Yes, sir,” he answered.
The steamer sheered up alongside the “Vidette” and the captain stepped
on board.
“What have you done?” he inquired in alarm as he saw for the first
time the launch in tow. “I felt uneasy after you had gone and followed
you in one of the ship’s steamers. I heard the firing a few minutes
ago and then sighted you coming back. What does it mean?” He stopped
breathlessly in amazement.
Phil was the first to speak. He quietly and laconically outlined the
incident from the beginning, leaving out all that in any way concerned
Lazar.
“And now, sir,” he said in conclusion, “I am no longer in command. I am
ready to receive your orders, sir.”
Both lads saluted, and O’Neil seeing that something was going forward
raised his hand also to his cap.
“Bless me!” cried the captain, glancing at his piratical crew in the
glimmer of the swinging lantern. They did look desperate; each of the
three was plentifully sprinkled with the blood of the wounded man and
Phil was bared to the waist, his shirt having gone to make a first-aid
bandage.
“What puzzled us,” began Phil, “is how we are going to dispose of these
arms. Of course, we must set the launch free to-night.”
“Exactly so,” exclaimed the captain; “that is the question--what to do
with the arms.”
“Wouldn’t on board the ship be the safest place?” questioned Sydney.
“Undoubtedly,” returned the captain, “but it wouldn’t do. I have it,”
turning to Phil; “you say you are positive these boxes came on the
steamer this morning addressed to our minister; then we shall deliver
them to him at the legation.”
“That is our best course, surely,” Phil agreed. “But might not the
minister refuse to receive them, fearing that they might be coveted by
both sides, and thus precipitate an attack on the legation?”
“There would be no danger of that happening,” answered the captain,
“for I shall send a guard ashore with the boxes, to remain at the
legation. I had intended waiting until affairs became more serious, but
the contents of these boxes furnishes me with sufficient reason to act
at once.”
O’Neil rang up full speed and the “Vidette,” with her prize in tow, was
again steaming for the entrance to the harbor.
Phil told the captain about the wounded man, but refrained from
mentioning his conduct during the chase, and that kindly officer
insisted on speaking to the disabled sailor.
“What is your name, my man?” he questioned sympathetically.
The engineer glanced up, showing a worried face in the light of the oil
lantern.
“Joseph Craig, sir,” he answered.
The excitement of the recent incident had passed away and Phil’s
thoughts now dwelt on the curious action of the engineer. Why had he
tried to detain the “Vidette”? What interest could he have in the
captured arms? He could arrive at but one conclusion: Joseph Craig was
a tool in the hands of Lazar.
The “Vidette” and her prize were soon alongside the battle-ship, and
the captain stepped on board, followed by the two boys.
Lazar’s disappointed face gave them a taste of real enjoyment, but the
captain’s words quickly turned the tables.
“Send word to Mr. Penfield,” he ordered, addressing Lazar, “that I
desire to send the guard for the legation ashore immediately. You will
go in charge, with Midshipmen Marshall and Morrison as your assistants.
The guard will consist of fifty men. They must take tenting and
rations. The boxes in that black launch contain machine guns and were
destined for the insurgent army; these are to be taken to the legation
and your sole duty is to guard them safely.”
Phil had half started to speak as he saw Lazar’s face light up with
triumph.
“After all,” he thought, “he dare not deliver up the guns. It would be
worth his commission at the very least. They are surely safe in his
hands.”
“Now, Mr. Perry,” said the captain in kindly tones, turning from the
officer of the deck to the waiting midshipmen, “you and Mr. Monroe go
below and turn in. You have worked hard enough for one day. Mr. Lazar
can attend to everything. Your service, gentlemen, has been highly
gratifying and a credit to the best traditions of American midshipmen.”
The lads went reluctantly below to their room, much chagrined at the
course affairs had taken. Their enemy and a paid emissary of the
vice-consul in charge of the arms they had worked so hard to capture.
It was deeply disappointing, but they felt powerless.
“I couldn’t have interfered,” Phil argued to himself as he lay in his
bunk, “unless I told the captain all, and what proof could I have
brought? Both Lazar and the vice-consul would deny it.”
Despite their excited experiences, our boys were soon wrapt in profound
slumber.
They were awake early the next morning and went about their routine
duties on board ship as if nothing had happened.
The wounded engineer was placed in the sick bay and the doctors
announced he would be ready for duty in a few days.
A rumor that something extraordinary had happened passed about the
ship, but the captain cautioned the strictest secrecy, and gave out
that he had landed the guard to be ready in case the expected assault
on the city should prove successful.
Phil, as he stood on the quarter-deck after breakfast, could see the
dozen or more khaki-colored tents on Legation Hill, where Lazar’s men
were encamped.
“Marshall and Morrison are there, I am thankful to say,” he murmured.
“Lazar will have to reckon with two wide-awake men.”
“Mr. Perry,” Captain Taylor said a few moments later in his cabin,
where Phil had gone in answer to his summons, “I have just received a
message in cipher from the Navy Department. It is of grave importance.
One which so closely concerns our government that we must needs spare
no effort to ascertain the truth. The State Department have reason
to believe that affairs here are not as represented by official
despatches from the minister. You have already unmasked one villain,
and undoubtedly it was he who has misled the minister in his estimates
of the strength of the insurgents. I do not think it advisable at
this time to report to Washington the perfidy of Juarez. Our minister
believes, as I do, that as we have the arms it is better to say
nothing at present. Juarez of course has deserted and may be in the
insurgent camp. Or, still more likely, he sailed in the American
steamer this morning for Panama. We must have, as soon as possible,
reliable information as to the strength of the rebellion. It is this
intelligence that I wish you to get from the insurgent camp.”
Phil listened attentively to the captain’s lengthy explanation and
instructions. His pulse beat fast. Here was an opportunity he had
longed for, dreamed of. It was now really true. He was going to the
camp of an army. He would see war.
“The details I shall leave to you,” the captain continued, smiling
at the distinct delight in the lad’s face. “Do not be too impetuous.
Remember it is hazardous work, and of such a peculiar character that
you may be deprived of your right as a neutral. Mr. Monroe, I am sure,
will wish to go with you, and I think you should have one other.”
“May O’Neil go along, sir?” asked Phil, attempting to conceal from the
quiet captain his boyish excitement.
“Yes, certainly,” assented the captain amusedly. “You seem to like
O’Neil.”
“Like him, sir,” cried he, in admiration, “why he is the finest type of
American sailorman I have ever met.”
“I am glad you have so much discernment,” the captain said smilingly;
“it is rare at your age. That is also my opinion of him.” He reached
down, and from his desk, took up a sheet of oiled paper, with an
engraving at the top and the seal of the United States across its face.
“I believe,” he said generously, “that he would rather have this at
your hands than mine. Give this to boatswain’s mate O’Neil.”
Phil ran from the cabin in joyful haste, after thanking the captain as
if he himself had received the promotion.
He found O’Neil in his quarters and pressed the paper upon him.
The new boatswain’s mate’s eyes opened wide with surprise, and his
face was flushed with delight.
“I congratulate you, O’Neil,” Phil cried. “You deserve it, and more
too.”
O’Neil’s voice was husky with manly emotion, as he thanked the young
officer.
“I shan’t forget your kindness,” he said gratefully.
A few hours later three travelers passed along the narrow streets of La
Boca in the direction of the suburbs. Each carried a small bundle in
one hand and a climbing stick in the other. Their clothes were old and
worn as if their owners were accustomed to much tramping over a rough
country. They passed without hindrance through the successive lines of
defense of the loyal army. Walking Englishmen were frequent and their
costumes bore out the part.
Leaving the city behind them, they traveled along the military road,
running parallel to the sea. Its sides were lined with high tropical
vegetation, with here and there a hut nestling in a clearing, but all
were deserted. They were between the lines of the two armies.
A quarter of a mile down the road a dark object came into view,
standing like an abandoned wagon in the middle of the sun-baked
road-bed.
“Artillery,” Phil cried; “now look out for a challenge.”
“I hope they don’t shoot first and challenge afterward, like Cuban
guerrillas,” said O’Neil calmly.
As the three came nearer the solitary cannon, pointing its frowning
muzzle menacingly toward them, several figures suddenly appeared from
the shade of a hut by the roadside, and peered at the approaching
Americans. One then left the group and advanced slowly toward them.
The travelers saw by his uniform that he was an officer.
“Good-afternoon,” Phil called politely in Spanish, taking off his hat.
The officer saluted and gazed questioningly at the three men.
“What is your business here?” he inquired brusquely in his native
tongue.
“Oh, we are just out for a tramp,” Phil replied lightly. “You fellows
are so persistent in your siege, that our legs were beginning to get
soft in the city, so we thought we’d come out and stretch them.”
The officer smiled, pleased at the compliment to the army in which he
was an officer.
“English?” he asked, relenting.
“Yes, travelers,” Phil replied suavely; “we are getting news for
European papers.” This, Phil thought, was rather clever and not untrue,
either, for what they found out would in time find its way to European
newspapers.
“Ah!” exclaimed the officer delightedly, who like all his race saw no
good in fighting unless his valor would be heralded to the world, “you
are just in time to see a grand battle. We are waiting now the order to
attack. General Ruiz expects a number of machine guns; when they arrive
we shall enter the city in triumph;” his voice rose with excitement.
“You will see the greatest battle of the century; there will be many
killed: you are lucky to be with us.”
Phil expressed his delight as best he could, but the officer’s words
had given him a distinct shock. It would go hard with them if Ruiz
found out they had captured the arms he was awaiting.
“But he must know they were captured,” Phil thought suddenly. He
glanced out toward the sea. “Why, it was here that we were fired upon.”
Then he said aloud:
“Is this Mariel?”
“Yes,” replied the officer, “Mariel is over there. Our general’s
headquarters are just behind the town. It is but a half hour’s walk
from here. I shall do myself the honor of accompanying you.”
Phil protested that they could go on alone, but the officer politely
insisted.
He gave some hurried orders to a ragged sergeant, then led the way past
the gun and up the road.
Phil glanced with interest at the field piece. It was an American made
gun and looked brand new.
“Some more of Juarez’s rascality,” he thought.
“My name is Pedro Valdez, Lieutenant of Artillery,” the officer
announced, extending his hand and bowing politely.
Phil took it and stammered out the names that came first in his mind:
“Mr. Sydney, Mr. John; and my name is Phillips,” he answered, including
his companions and himself with a comprehensive wave of the hand.
“Do your comrades speak Spanish?” the officer asked.
“No,” Phil replied, decidedly in haste, fearing Sydney might answer
in the affirmative. He felt it best that there should be but one
mouthpiece.
After ten minutes of brisk walking, they arrived at a pretty country
villa. It was surrounded by trees of all descriptions and throughout
the garden flowers of many colors were growing in great profusion,
filling the balmy air with delicious perfume. The house itself was
built of the adobe so common in Spanish speaking countries; one storied
with a central court in which more plants and flowers gave their
fragrance.
Another officer met them at the door and escorted them to the
courtyard, where a number of tables were laid for a meal. The odor of
savory cooking made our friends remember that their last meal had been
breakfast.
After a few moments’ wait, an older officer appeared; he was dressed
simply in fatigue uniform, but wore a large gold star over his left
breast. He shook hands cordially with the visitors.
There had been no introduction, but Phil knew at a glance that this
short, thin, wizened Spaniard, was the great General Ruiz, probably the
next dictator of Verazala.
“Sit down, gentlemen,” he said in his native language. “We are very
fond of the English; they are always welcome, but your brothers, the
Americans, are different. They do not like me, so I do not like them.”
As he spoke his face showed the vindictiveness of his race.
Phil felt he ought to say something, but it was hard to collect his
thoughts. The rôle of impostor was a new one.
“I thank you for myself and friends,” he managed finally to say. “We
desire a pass through your lines. We are writers, and wish to send home
an account of your coming battle.”
“Can I be sure you will not give your information to our enemy?” the
general answered in a hard voice. “A spy is a danger we must always
look for in war. We shoot them like that;” he snapped his fingers and
showed his even white teeth in a cruel smile.
Phil did not dare look at his two friends, reduced to enforced silence.
The disguised American officers were bountifully supplied with food and
pressed to stay over night under the general’s roof, but Phil felt it
safer to be away from under the piercing black eye of this fiery little
Spaniard.
“How did you feel, O’Neil, when the general spoke about spies?” asked
Phil soberly, after they had left the house behind and were on the road
again.
“I felt as if I were standing with my back against a wall, with a file
of them dago soldiers shooting at me, sir,” answered the boatswain’s
mate with a grin.
“I didn’t feel any too happy, either,” acknowledged Phil, “but I hope
we can soon find out what we need to know and get back to the city
before they suspect our mission.”
That night they slept in a little pueblo inside the insurgent lines
and were on the road early the next morning.
During the forenoon they passed regiment after regiment of ragged
soldiers. The lads inspected them carefully; their rifles were new and
of a late pattern, and they seemed plentifully supplied with ammunition.
“I have counted no less than twenty pieces of artillery,” Sydney cried;
and then pointing to a grove of cocoanut trees ahead of them, “and
there is a whole battery of some kind of ordnance.”
“Syd,” Phil answered, “I believe we have seen enough already, though
we can’t have seen the beginning, to report to our captain that this
revolution is of a serious character and is probably going to win.”
“I feel sorry for the minister,” Sydney said gravely; “he seemed such a
kind old gentleman; but I suppose he shouldn’t have been so credulous.”
“I feel very sorry for him, too,” answered Phil, “and I hope we can
straighten this out and save him from the disgrace of being relieved
of his office. He was new here and speaks no Spanish at all. It was
natural he should fall into the snare set for him by that scheming
rascal Juarez.”
Studying carefully everything they observed, the three Americans moved
slowly along the road, on the borders of which the army of General Ruiz
was encamped, ready for the expected word to assault the city.
An officer stepped from the grove of trees in front and came boldly
toward them.
Our boys regarded him indifferently until he approached to within a few
yards of them, then their hearts sank as they recognized the triumphant
face of the American vice-consul.
He raised his uniform cap in mock civility.
“Three English newspaper reporters,” he sneered. “I have received
instructions from General Ruiz to show you every courtesy.”
The lads were dumbfounded. The game was up. A vision of a dark prison
flashed before them.
Phil was the first to recover himself.
“We meet you in a new rôle also,” he replied in English, in a voice he
tried hard to control.
“I have no further use for my other rôle, since your meddling of
yesterday,” Juarez replied savagely.
“And I suppose,” answered Phil in as cheerful a voice as he could
muster, “we must be hereafter three American naval men.”
“That shall not save you,” the vice-consul growled. “General Ruiz will
be delighted to meet the men who have cheated him out of his machine
guns. With those guns he could take the city this minute.”
“We have done what any honorable men would do,” Phil began hotly, but
Juarez turned his back with an expressive shrug of his heavy shoulders.
“Here, sergeant,” he called, “arrest these spies.”
The worst had happened. They had met the one man Phil had hoped he
could avoid. Their reason for being there Juarez of course surmised,
and he could defeat them by having them locked up in an insurgent
dungeon until the city had fallen.
Five or six soldiers came menacingly toward them, bayonets fixed. Phil
saw the futility of resistance. He made the sign of surrender, but the
soldier nearest O’Neil was a little overzealous in the use of his
bayonet. The sailor’s Irish blood was aroused; with a swing of his
powerful fist he sent the man reeling backward, stretching his full
length on the white road.