However, to the disappointment of both Dreadnought Boys, the _Beale_
weighed anchor that evening and stood off down the coast to another
port--Hermillo. There were several American mining interests in
this neighborhood, but, so far they had not been jeopardized by the
revolutionists, who were busy to the northward, concentrating that
branch of their army for an attack on Boca del Sierras itself. If
they could gain this important base, they would have control of the
principal seaport of Costaveza, and be in a position to dictate terms.
However, from the information he had gained from the consul, Lieutenant
Timmons had decided that there was no immediate danger of an attack on
the city. So, in pursuance with his orders, he decided to steam down
the coast and ascertain the condition of affairs farther south.
For three or four days the destroyer dawdled about in the port of
Hermillo, the lieutenant being in constant communication by wire
with Boca del Sierras. He and his officers were constantly ashore,
and the boys, who were eager for the promised action, which they
felt sure would come when they were detailed to shore duty, almost
wore themselves out with impatience. At last, however, one bright
evening the command to weigh anchor came, and the _Beale_ once more
moved northward. As she left Hermillo a low vessel of war, not unlike
herself, came steaming in just as the _Beale_ drew out of the roadstead.
“Hello, another destroyer!” exclaimed Ned, as his eyes fell on the
newcomer.
“Yes, I guess it’s the _General Barrill_,” said Stanley, who, as usual,
was beside the boys. “She’s a destroyer the Costavezan government
bought from the Argentine just before the revolution broke out.”
“If she had four stacks instead of three, she could easily be mistaken
for us!” exclaimed Ned.
“That’s a fact,” agreed Stanley. “She’s exactly the same type.”
“What’s that flag she’s flying?” asked Ned, as the vessel’s ensign
dipped in response to the _Beale’s_ courtesy.
“Red, white and blue, with a gold star in the middle. That’s the flag
of the Costavezan republic,” remarked Stanley, gazing at the destroyer
as she came to an anchorage.
“She ought to be capable of putting the rebels out of business,”
observed Herc.
“Don’t be so sure of that,” put in a sailor who had joined the group.
“The revolutionists have got a few boats of their own. When I was
ashore I heard that the northern section of their forces had seized the
rest of the government’s navy, and that they had ’em waiting some place
up the coast ready for action.”
“Wonder what the _General Barrill_ is doing in here?” inquired Ned.
“Put in to coal, most likely. They’ll need her up north if those
revolutionists attack Boca del Sierras. A few shells from those guns
of hers would do a lot of damage.”
“But how about the revolutionists’ fleet?”
“Mostly old tubs, converted yachts and the like, with rapid-fire guns
and maybe a few six-inchers mounted on ’em,” said the sailor, who
had sauntered up. “A modern destroyer like the _Barrill_, if she was
handled properly, could do a lot of damage to ’em--send ’em to the junk
pile, in fact.”
The next morning the _Beale_ steamed up to her old anchorage in the
harbor of Boca del Sierras. But, while they had been gone, another
occupant had been added to the shipping of the harbor--the American
mail steamer. How good it looked to see Old Glory flying bravely at her
stern. But they were not to have the company of the mail steamer for
long.
About an hour after they anchored, she blew a long blast of her whistle
and, dipping her flag in sea courtesy to the hornet-like destroyer,
she steamed majestically out between the two capes on her way south.
Shortly afterward the lieutenant’s boat was called away, and he
was rowed ashore to communicate with the consul and also receive
dispatches, which he expected would have been forwarded by the mail
boat, which left New York one day later than the _Beale_. As before,
the men were informed that they could stretch their legs ashore while
waiting the return of their officers, and Ned and Herc were once more
among the lucky ones.
As the officers’ visit was likely to be but a short one, however,
there was no opportunity this time for a run into the country,
so, accompanied by Stanley, they strolled about the docks. On one
wharf there was a scene of great activity going forward. From the
mail steamer there had been landed a number of boxes, on which were
stenciled in big letters, “Agricultural Machinery.” That they were of
great weight was evidenced by the fact that the men who were working to
get them into a small launch by means of an old hand crane seemed to
find the task about equal to their strength.
“That rope’s going to part before long,” grunted Stanley, gazing at
the aged cable of the hand crane, which was raveled and did not look
capable of handling weights of the ponderous character of the boxes.
A box was poised in mid-air ready for swinging over above the launch as
he spoke.
Suddenly there was a sharp crack and a cry of alarm from the workmen.
“Ah, ah! I thought so!” exclaimed Stanley. “There she goes!”
The accident he had anticipated had occurred. The rope had snapped
under the strain, and the box which was being hoisted had crashed down
on the stringpiece of the dock. For an instant it balanced as if it
meant to topple over into the launch below, but finally it settled back
and fell with a heavy thud on the floor of the wharf.
As it did so one of the end boards flew off under the strain, and the
receptacle gaped open.
By this time the group from the _Beale_ were quite close by, and Ned’s
sharp eyes fell on some shiny metal apparatus inside the case. Stanley
saw it at the same instant, and so did Herc.
“Those fellows will be giving their agricultural machinery to the
mermaids to cultivate seaweed with the first thing they know,” grinned
Herc.
“Agricultural machinery nothing!” snapped Stanley sharply. “Do you know
what’s in that box, boys?”
“What it says, I suppose,” rejoined Ned.
“Not much. That box there and those others as well, I’ll bet, are full
of machine guns!” was the startling reply.
“How do you know?”
“I’ve seen too many for my eyesight to fool me. I’d know any part of
one a mile off, even if I only spied it through a busted box.”
As the boys’ elder spoke, a man who had been down in the launch
superintending the stowage of the boxes, clambered up over the
stringpiece. Angry words were on his lips, but as his eyes fell on the
boys they quickly died away, and, without uttering a sound, he sank
back again.
Had the boys, in their interested scrutiny of the boxes, been able to
spare a moment to observe the man who had, in such jack-in-the-box
fashion appeared and disappeared, they would have been strongly
interested, for the fellow was Jules Charbonde, late of New York,
but who had arrived that morning on the mail boat together with the
“agricultural machinery for his rancho in the hills.”
“Lie low!” he exclaimed to a companion who shared the close quarters of
the launch with him, “they’re up there.”
“They--who?” inquired a harsh voice, whose owner was about to raise
himself up and peer over the edge of the wharf, when he was violently
pulled back by Charbonde.
“You idiot!” exclaimed the South American, “now that everything is
settled, the custom-house inspectors bribed, and the stevedores muzzled
by gold, would you go and spoil it all?”
“No harm in taking a peek is there?” growled Hank Harkins, for he was
Charbonde’s companion. He had traveled down as the other’s valet, a
role which he by no means liked filling, but the pay Charbonde gave
appealed to him, and, of course, so far as actual valet work was
concerned, Hank was only required to assume the role without the
duties. Charbonde’s acute mind had realized that having a former
American sailor in his pay might come in handy. Senor Charbonde was not
a man to overlook any detail, and he had, therefore, retained Hank.
“Yes, there is every harm in taking a peek, as you call it,” raged
Charbonde. “It might spoil everything if they were to see you.”
Hank grumbled, but said nothing. Presently Charbonde addressed him once
more while the stevedores above got ready a new rope.
“You have arranged everything for communication with the _Beale_?”
“Yes, a fishing boat will put off this evening, and the man who sails
her will bring back a note.”
“Good! You did not waste your time in Brooklyn.”
“I should say not! I’ve got a first-class man for us, too. He’ll stick
at nothing to get money. You see, he needs it badly.”
“Better and better,” said Charbonde, rubbing his hands. “I see you have
ability.”
“You bet I have,” rejoined Hank modestly. “All I need is a chance to
bring it out.”
“Well, that you shall soon have, depend upon it. When we are in power
in Costaveza and my cousin, Truxillo de Guzman is dictator, we shall
receive our reward.”
While this interesting conversation had been going forward in the
launch--the talkers taking good care to keep themselves out of
sight under the small roof at the stern of the craft--the boys and
Stanley, greatly excited at their discovery, had returned to the boat,
impatiently to await the return of Lieutenant Timmons. It had been
agreed that it was high time to acquaint him with what they had found
out.
There was not a question in their minds but that the arms were intended
for the revolutionists, and that some dishonest custom-house official
had been bribed to let them into the country.
The officers returned before long, and Ned noticed that Lieutenant
Timmons’ brow was clouded, and he looked troubled. He had good reason
to. The consul had informed him that the revolutionists had attacked
and burned property in the hills back of the town, and in an engagement
to the north had routed the government troops. Their next move, he was
sure, would be to concentrate and march on the city itself. Already
their advance guard was in the hills, only repelled from making an
immediate attack by the present strength of the government troops
quartered in the city and its environs.
The news from the north had, for the time being, been kept a secret for
fear of its moral effect on the citizens and the so far loyal army. It
had had a distinctly disheartening effect on the government and on the
American interests, however. Lieutenant Timmons had been ordered by the
department in Washington to use “extreme discretion.”
“Hum, discretion! I’d like to use a few six-inch shells,” thought the
young officer.
As the side of the _Beale_ was reached, and the officers disembarked,
Ned touched Lieutenant Timmons’ elbow.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, in a low voice, “but could you send
for me in a short time?”
“Why, certainly, Strong,” said the lieutenant, looking astonished at
this extraordinary request, “but----”
“I think I can tell you where the rebels are getting their arms, sir,”
remarked Ned quietly, touching his cap and sinking back to his oars.
Lieutenant Timmons was, like all navy men, trained to repress all show
of emotion under any circumstance. Now, however, his eyebrows raised
involuntarily, and he gave a surprised whistle. Aloud he said, in a
dry, ordinary tone:
“Very well, Strong, I will have it attended to.”