THE ASSAULT
Battery after battery within the government lines opened fire. The
Americans could trace the points of defense by the red tongues of flame
and the smoke from the heavy guns. The rattle of musketry spread along
the line like a prairie fire, but its volume was greatest at Tortuga
Hill. In a fever of excitement they saw the rebel columns advance from
their protecting trenches; their heavy guns now took part in the battle
and sent their shells over the heads of the advancing men against the
waiting government soldiers.
“Divide your men,” Phil ordered the lieutenant; “four for each gun.”
They saw the machine guns placed in positions of vantage covering all
directions from which the attack must come.
“Keep your fingers pressed on the triggers and the guns pointed at the
enemy,” Phil instructed the anxious soldiers; “play the stream of
bullets as if it were a hose, but for your lives don’t shoot until I
give the order.”
The soldiers gazed in enchanted wonder at the guns. They had never
seen their like before. They imagined they were something almost
supernatural. Had not the Americans said one gun was equal to a company
of soldiers?
“Look, Syd,” cried Phil in admiration, pointing toward Tortuga Hill;
the entire hillside seemed alive with flashes of fire from countless
guns, but Phil’s finger pointed at a horseman riding full gallop up the
slope, shells bursting all about his mount. “There is the aide, but
before reënforcements can reach us the fight will be over. If the guns
don’t jam we can hold the hill.”
“My fear is that our men will not stand the preliminary shelling,”
returned Sydney; “all their guns are directed at Tortuga Hill now, but
when they have made their feint, look out up here. We’ll have every gun
against us.”
“Our intrenchments are safe enough if the men keep down in them,” Phil
encouraged, as they finished mounting the last gun and instructed its
squad how to manipulate it, “but if a panic takes them, they will not
listen to us. I wish we had O’Neil; his influence with these natives is
next to marvelous.”
Everything was now ready; the soldiers had all been instructed how
to fire and reload a second tape of six hundred fresh cartridges.
All would go well if the soldiers’ courage could be depended upon to
withstand the searching fire of artillery which the lads knew must soon
commence.
The midshipmen viewed the appalling spectacle with nervous eyes.
Regiment after regiment advanced from the cover of the trenches in
extended order and pressed forward silently, the artillery behind them
and on their flanks sending its heavily charged shells screeching over
their heads to fall within the government lines.
“They are surely concentrating on Tortuga Hill,” Sydney exclaimed,
hardly able to believe his eyes, as he saw masses of khaki clad men
emerge from the dense foliage of the level country and sweep upward
toward that almost impregnable position.
“They surely do not intend to assault that hill,” Phil exclaimed;
“their loss would be tremendous.” Then he rubbed his eyes, believing
that he must have been dreaming. The first line of assault had vanished
into the earth. “Why, where did the first line go?” he shouted
excitedly, peering down at the remaining columns as they swept silently
forward. In but a minute the last enemy had disappeared from sight on
the level plain. It seemed like magic. The soldiers whispered nervously
to each other.
“What can it mean?” Sydney gasped as they gazed in wonder at this
remarkable illusion. “Look out,” he cried, as a shrapnel shell exploded
over their heads, sending showers of bullets all about them.
The artillery fire of the enemy redoubled, and now every gun in the
rebel army was concentrating on La Mesa; bursting shell and shrapnel
were falling on every hand, and the few defenders of the hill were in
momentary danger from their well aimed shooting.
“Keep down in the trenches,” the lads warned the excited soldiers. A
number had already ventured out to satisfy their curiosity and were
stretched in their death agony behind the trench. The midshipmen
paced up and down between their guns, apparently unconscious of the
death-dealing missiles about them. Their one fear was that the men
would break and run before this terrible bombardment was over.
Phil braved the storm of iron above his head and took a comprehensive
look at the panorama before him. Something unusual was happening on
Tortuga Hill; its fire lessened, and down the slope away from the enemy
men streamed in countless numbers. Officers could be seen brandishing
their swords and gesticulating wildly. Was it a retreat? Phil’s heart
rose in his throat. A battery of field guns galloped wildly away down
the hill; it reached the level country; the enemy saw its intention and
opened upon it a scathing fire. Yet on it came heading directly for La
Mesa.
The midshipmen cried out for joy and pointed out the nearing aid to
their terrorized men.
“Steady your men,” Phil urged the lieutenant; “reënforcements are
coming.”
A cry from Sydney at his side made his hopes sink.
“There they come,” he gasped. “We can never stop them.”
As Phil took in the situation his blood seemed to freeze in his veins.
From the woods in front of La Mesa a swarm of men broke cover and
pressed forward on a run. While as if from the ground, midway between
them and La Mesa, a seething fire of musketry swept over the handful of
defenders.
“We have the whole rebel army against us now,” he whispered to Sydney,
fearing his men might hear this terrifying intelligence. “It was a
trench. They moved in it by the flank and are now in front of us.
They must have known this on Tortuga Hill when we saw them hurry our
reënforcements to us. If we can hold our men fifteen minutes longer
we’ll win.”
The lad was right. The insurgents had, unobserved by the defending
army, dug a deep trench during the night, half-way between the two
lines. The greater part of the assaulting army had advanced on Tortuga
Hill until they had reached the shelter of this ditch, and then had,
protected from their enemy’s fire, moved by the flank until they were
directly in front of and but five hundred yards from the top of La
Mesa. A withering fire came from the concealed men; bullets like hail
sang about the Americans and their well-nigh demoralized men. The
government batteries were directing a hot fire on the approaching
masses; yet on they came determinedly. Phil knew that when the second
column reached the trench thousands of soldiers would storm up the few
hundred yards between them and their coveted prize, La Mesa. Would the
machine guns have power to stem this irresistible host?
“How near will you let them come?” questioned Sydney eagerly.
Phil estimated the distance.
“If we fire as they leave the trench, they might return to it and
continue their artillery to shell us out,” he answered quickly. “It
would be wiser to let them gain half the distance before we let them
know they have the guns against them. They must see the reënforcements
coming to us from Tortuga Hill, but they now believe the hill will be
theirs without a struggle before they can get here.”
The two midshipmen were at the highest pitch of excitement. They
realized that the fortunes of the government of Verazala depended upon
this assault. The insurgents’ brilliant strategy won their admiration.
With these Colt guns in their hands the city would be theirs inside of
twenty-four hours. They knew that in these countries a victory often
means a complete rout for the vanquished. Whole regiments have been
known to turn about, if the battle is seen to be going against their
side, and fight with the enemy against their former comrades.
The batteries within range of the assaulting columns opened a furious
cannonade as they saw the great surge of humanity leave the newly
made trench and charge boldly up the slopes of La Mesa. Tortuga Hill
batteries opened a rapid fire, but the distance was too great, their
shells were opening deep holes in the earth, but many yards short of
the attacking enemy.
The lads saw with anxiety that their men were fighting desperately
against the terror which told them to flee; the awful, terrifying horde
of armed enemy were rushing upon them with unnerving speed; they
knew the custom of their countrymen: they gave “no quarter”; death
approached them on three sides.
The midshipmen pleaded with the men to be calm; they even threatened
them; but their courage was fast slipping away. The terrible sight of
the thousands of their yelling merciless enemies was too much for their
shaken nerves.
Then another sight brought a new fear to the hearts of the despairing
boys; the men on the hill above them had abandoned their guns and were
retreating. Down the spur of the hill they came. Their path led over
part of the trench in which the midshipmen stood. The lads knew that
this flood of fear would sweep their own men along with it as so much
flotsam.
The time had arrived. Once the sound of the magic guns had been heard
the engulfing tide might be turned.
“Open fire,” Phil shouted, his voice hoarse with emotion.
The furious barking of the guns, sending their leaden streams into
the advancing ranks brought back the waning courage of the defending
company.
The assaulting columns hesitated in their mad rush for the hill. They
saw their comrades mowed down by the score. Where was the easy victory
their officers had told them would be theirs? A horrible fear of
treachery came into their simple minds; they stopped. No power could
urge them a step further; in another second they had broken and fled in
an ungovernable panic back to their trenches for safety.
The men on La Mesa were wild with delight. The lust of blood had
entered their souls. They became foolishly brave and leaped upon the
top of their protecting trench, screaming malediction and defiance at
their routed enemy.
“Get down,” the lads cried, grasping those near them and dragging
them forcibly to shelter; but some had already paid the penalty of
their childlike, reckless bravado. The enemy, once again secure in its
trenches, had opened a heavy fire on La Mesa.
Phil knew that the insurgents would attack again. Ruiz would not be
satisfied, even if he sacrificed every man, until the hill was taken.
“Keep cool,” the lads urged the excited soldiers, moving among them and
seeing that the guns were reloaded with a full supply of ammunition.
“If you can hold them once more our reënforcements will be here.”
The rebels knew their time was short if they would take the hill;
they saw the government reserves rapidly approaching to succor their
comrades on La Mesa.
Phil felt a touch on his shoulder, and turning hastily, he looked into
the revengeful face of Lazar.
“What do you mean by fighting here, wearing the uniform of the United
States navy?” Lazar began peremptorily. “Come with me to the legation
immediately, I command you!
“Do you hear?” he continued in a voice choking with wrath, as the lad
showed no signs of obedience. “I order you to leave here and follow me.
Both of you,” he added, pointing toward the oblivious Sydney, who was
out of ear-shot at the far corner of the intrenchment, gazing in awe
at the battlefield in front of them.
Phil sought the reason why Lazar was there. It came to him suddenly;
he saw it all; it was not an accidental meeting; his stained uniform
showed he had ridden hard to reach La Mesa. Juarez must have sent the
chauffeur to the legation with the news that he and Sydney were on La
Mesa, and Lazar had arrived in the nick of time. If he obeyed Lazar’s
order and deserted the soldiers while the enemy were about to make a
desperate assault, he knew that they would break before the rebels got
half-way to the top, and the Colt guns would be lost. They would see a
new and terrible peril in being deserted by the Americans. He could not
explain to them why he must leave them. He saw in their eyes already
an awakening dread. The next assault would be desperate. It had been
the surprise at the defense of La Mesa that had sent the enemy back to
their trenches in a panic. Now they knew with what they had to deal,
and the knowledge that but a handful of men held the hill would spur
them on to redoubled energy.
[Illustration: _“DO YOU REFUSE?” HE CRIED, HOARSELY_]
“Mr. Perry, do you realize that you are deliberately disobeying my
orders?” cried Lazar in exasperation. “I am your superior officer, in
command of our forces on shore, and I again order you both to come with
me.”
“Mr. Lazar, can’t you see the consequences of deserting these men?”
Phil questioned, struggling to keep calm.
“I have no concern for them,” answered Lazar hotly. “You are wearing
the United States uniform and you are acting unadvisedly. I order you
to leave this hill at once!” He was white with anger as he read in
Phil’s face determination to disobey.
“Do you refuse?” he cried hoarsely, his hand moving almost
unconsciously to his revolver holster.
Excited cries from the soldiers made Phil turn an anxious glance toward
the enemy. They were sweeping out of their trenches and charging again
up the hill. To leave now could mean but failure to the government arms.
“I am sorry, sir, I must disobey your order,” he said determinedly.
Lazar’s revolver was now out of its holster. His eyes blazed with anger
and mortification.
“You defy me,” he roared, advancing menacingly, holding his revolver in
his clenched hand.
Phil was so amazed that he could not find voice to answer. Then his
indignation at the threatening attitude of his senior swept caution
aside.
“I refuse to obey you,” he cried angrily. “I shall not leave until the
rebels are repulsed.”
His body trembling with passion, Phil turned from the ensign toward the
soldiers standing uncertainly watching the enemy’s approach.
“Hold on, sir, begging your pardon, sir, but that won’t do,” a familiar
voice cried out behind him. Phil glanced about quickly. There was
O’Neil, big and strong; he had seized Lazar’s arm as he spoke and was
forcing his revolver back into its holster.
Lazar’s face was deadly white; he controlled himself with difficulty.
The soldiers regarded the Americans anxiously, doubtlessly realizing
that their own safety depended upon the outcome of this clash of
authority.
Lazar gave Phil a look full of hatred, then turned away and disappeared
by the way he had come.
The lieutenant had heard enough to fear that the Americans might leave
them. He turned to Phil and begged him to remain. The lad assured him
that they would stand by the guns.
The soldiers were experiencing the same sensations that they had felt
when their enemy had commenced the first attack. Soldiers of this stamp
never become veterans.
O’Neil steadied them in his cheery voice.
“What are you scared about?” he cried loudly. “All you got to do is to
put your black fingers on the triggers; the guns will do the rest. If
you fire when you get the order the rebels will not stop running until
they strike the next republic.”
“Commence firing,” Phil ordered. The Colt guns spit flame, sending
countless messengers of death into the rebel ranks.
On came the rebel hosts. Their ranks broke sorely, but with
determination born of despair they closed in the gaps and charged
onward.
The enemy’s artillery fire opened with redoubled energy. Shell and
shrapnel burst with telling effect about the handful of men. The
trenches could not protect them. One after another, the gun’s crews
were depleted by bursting shrapnel. Yet the little guns spitefully
ground out bullets from their heated muzzles into the unprotected mass
of humanity now but a short distance from their goal.
The ominous sounds of jammed and overheated guns sent a thrill of dread
through the hearts of the Americans. What they feared would happen
was now taking place: the guns were thickly coated with a grease to
preserve them in transit; there had been time to remove but a small
part of it before the guns were fired; now this grease had become mixed
with the residue of burnt powder and had formed a thick paste which
clung to the delicately fitting parts of the mechanism, thus causing
the guns to jam. Absolutely powerless to remedy this fatal defect, the
lads stood, fear clutching at their hearts, hearing one gun after
another cease its fire. But a handful of guns remained in action. The
horrified soldiers were deserting, running away from the avalanche
sweeping upon them.
A few of the guns were still pumping a leaden stream into the ranks of
the rebels, now but a hundred feet away, firing their rifles as they
came to keep up their fleeting courage.
The Colt guns were stilled, the last soldier had deserted; the
Americans were alone in the trench except for the dead and those too
badly wounded to escape from the terrifying sound of the advancing army.
The silence of their enemy behind the intrenchments on La Mesa sent a
thrill of terror through the advancing hundreds. Their dead and dying
behind them told them only too plainly the power of these concealed
guns. They imagined the silence was but a trick to draw them nearer,
then hurl on them a stream of bullets that would mow them down like
chaff before the reaper. Fifty yards from the top of the hill they
stood still, their contorted faces white with a terrible fear. Phil
saw Juarez rush ahead of his demoralized men, urging them to advance.
The glad rattle of a Colt gun rang in the lad’s ears. He saw O’Neil
beside it; he had wiped out the hard obstructing substance. The gun
again played its death-dealing stream on the doubting enemy. The
rebels, impelled from behind, advanced slowly. Phil saw Juarez sink
to the ground; the tide of soldiers streamed over his lifeless body;
again they wavered, then came on more determinedly than ever. O’Neil’s
gun jammed again with an ominous click. The enemy were now only a
stone’s throw away from the trench; a few seconds more and they would
be pouring over its top and butchering those who dared remain. Phil
grasped his revolver, and leaned against the wall of earth behind him.