Ned stuck grittily to his post, although at any moment one of the
bullets from the firing party ashore might have terminated his career.
But presently, to his delight, the fire began to slacken and grow
scattering.
“Guess they’re tired of wasting lead on the night,” grinned Ned, as,
having rounded the promontory, he headed the two launches out to sea a
way before turning to make back toward Boca del Sierras.
In the meantime Stanley and Herc had been bending over the wounded man.
His eyes were closed and his face deadly pale. Herc for an instant
feared, with an unpleasant thrill, that he was in the presence of
death. No such timidity, however, assailed Stanley. With a quick move
he ripped off the man’s shirt, which was ominously crimsoned.
“The lantern, please, sir,” he said.
Stark handed him the lamp, which had been placed in the bottom of the
launch. Stanley held it above the man’s shoulder for an instant. It
revealed a wound which was bleeding freely and looked ugly. But Stanley
made light of it.
“Only a flesh wound,” he pronounced, “and if what I guess is right it’s
no more than the rascal deserved.”
He ripped up the shirt into shreds, and began binding the wound.
While Stanley was engaged in this office for the man whom he believed,
as did the two boys, to be a traitor of the blackest sort, Ned handed
the wheel to Herc, and with Midshipman Stark boarded the prize. The
first prize he had ever assisted in capturing! How proudly the boy’s
heart beat as he thought of his part in the achievements of the night!
Of the trouble into which their rash acts might plunge their government
none of them thought just at that moment.
The frightened natives lay in the stern of the launch, where they had
thrown themselves, groveling, when the firing commenced. It did not
need a menacing flourish of Stark’s revolver to convince them that
their best course was to be perfectly docile. They were that already. A
more frightened set of individuals it would have been difficult to find.
“Here, you, who speaks English?” began Stark.
“I do, senor,” piped up a voice.
“Well, what have you got in those boxes?”
“Machinery, sir--ploughs and the like for Senor Charbonde’s plantation.”
“Charbonde!” exclaimed Ned, forgetful in his astonishment that he was
committing a breach of discipline by speaking in the presence of an
officer without leave.
“I--I beg your pardon, sir,” he began.
“That’s all right, Strong,” assented the midshipman hastily, “if you
know anything about this business, go ahead. If we’ve got the wrong
launch, we’ll be in a nice mess. It may, as he says, belong to this
Senor Charbonde.”
“Who protects his plantation with riflemen, sir?” asked Ned quietly.
“By Jove! that didn’t occur to me. But go on--question this fellow.”
“Was Senor Charbonde on board to-night?”
“Yes, sir, he arrived to-day on the mail steamer with another senor--an
American.”
“An American engaged in this dastardly business!” exclaimed the
midshipman.
“Yes, sir. Senor Hark--I forget the name.”
“Not Harkins?” fairly shouted Ned.
“That’s the name, senor. He swam ashore with the other senor when we
saw your launch coming. As for us, we could not swim, so we waited the
fate the saints held in store for us.”
“You know this Charbonde, Strong?” asked the midshipman in astonishment.
“Yes, sir, and a greater blackguard never drew breath. But I’ll tell
you all about him and his companion Harkins at some other time. There
is something in this I don’t understand, sir.”
“Well, the first step in the way of an understanding will be to get
these boxes open!” exclaimed the midshipman.
“Hey, hombre!” he went on, “have you got a hatchet there?”
“Si, senor.”
“Hand it over then, quick--ah, that’s it! Now we shan’t be long.”
With a quick stroke the middy ripped the covering boards off one of the
cases and pulled out a handful of excelsior, and tore off some sacking.
Snugly packed within were the parts of numerous rapid-fire guns.
“Hooray! we were right after all!” he exclaimed. “This is a find, and
no mistake. Why, these guns would be almost worth their weight in gold
to those fellows in their attack on Boca del Sierras.”
Suddenly out of the darkness came a sharp hail.
“Boat ahoy!”
“Ay, ay, sir!” hailed the midshipman. “It’s Lieutenant Timmons’ voice!”
he exclaimed, in an undertone.
“Lay to there, Stanley.”
The man-of-war’s man obeyed. He had by this time finished patching up
the man we know as Prentice, who had regained consciousness. Motionless
the two boats lay on the water while the other approached. It was soon
seen to be the _Beale’s_ gasoline launch.
“What’s been happening, Stark?” demanded Lieutenant Timmons, as his
craft ranged alongside. “What was all that firing?”
“Why, sir, we ran into a hotbed of revolutionists.”
“What, and they fired at you?”
“A little, sir,” came with grim humor from the middy.
“Good gracious! it sounded like a brisk engagement. Any one hurt?”
“Stanley has a slight wound on his wrist, sir. The engine-room man is
also wounded--a flesh cut on his shoulder.”
“Thank Heaven it was nothing more serious! I did not know what to think
when I heard the firing.”
“But what is that launch they have there, sir?” prompted Ensign
Conkling, who had accompanied his superior officer.
“Exactly. Ahoy there, Stark, what’s that launch you have alongside?”
“That’s our prize, sir.”
“Your prize?”
“Yes, sir. She’s loaded with machine guns of the latest type. I rather
think, sir, we’ve put a crimp in the revolutionists’ plans.”
Lieutenant Timmons burst into a laugh.
“I should rather think so!” he exclaimed, “but, you young rascal, are
you aware that serious complications may follow this action?”
“Why, sir, I----” began Stark, all his conceit gone, and a rather
embarrassed feeling coming in its stead. “I, sir, that is----”
“Oh, well, never mind explanations now. You have done splendidly, and
upheld the best traditions of the navy. I wish we could all have a
chance at those chaps. But the thing to decide now is what to do with
those captured guns.”
“If you will not think it presumptuous, sir, I have a suggestion,”
volunteered Stark.
“And that is?”
“That we turn the guns over to those who need them most, like they do
presentation bouquets to a hospital.”
“Your analogy is very apt, Stark. Who would you suggest making the
recipients of these ‘flowers.’”
“Why, sir, the men who can use them to the best advantage--our friends,
the Costavezan government troops.”
“An excellent idea, my boy, except for one thing--United States naval
officers cannot figure as combatants in this affair, and I’m afraid
that if to-night’s adventures are ever traced to their source that
would be the inference that would be drawn.”
“Why not turn them over to the consul, sir?” suggested the ensign,
“perhaps he could devise a way of their reaching a desirable
destination without Mr. Stark and the men figuring in the thing.”
“That’s the best plan yet, Conkling. We’ll do it!” exclaimed Lieutenant
Timmons. “Colonel Thompson is still on board. I’ll consult with him on
my return.”
“And these fellows, sir?” asked Stark, indicating the crouching natives.
“I expect the best thing to do with them will be to place them in the
hands of the government till this affair is straightened out one way or
another. If we turn them loose they might do too much talking.”
And so it was arranged.
Shortly afterward the three launches arrived alongside the _Beale_ and
a surgeon was summoned to attend to Prentice’s wound. It was an ugly
enough one to keep him in his hammock for some days. The consul readily
undertook to see that the arms, recaptured so happily, reached the
place where they would do the most good. Midshipman Stark came in for
hearty congratulations, and Strong, Taylor and Stanley were not omitted
in the praise showered by those who heard of the adventure.
“Those three fellows are as fine specimens of American sailors as
I have encountered in many a year in the service,” said Lieutenant
Timmons, as the trio went forward blushing with pleasure. “Some day it
wouldn’t surprise me to see Strong and Taylor with commissions.”
“You amaze me!” exclaimed the consul. “They must be very remarkable
youths.”
“They are, colonel. Did I ever tell you how they saved me and several
others from a terrible death when we had that flare-back on the
_Manhattan_? No? Well, here goes.”
Lighting a fresh cigar Lieutenant Timmons plunged into the story he
never tired of telling, and with which readers of the “Dreadnought Boys
on Battle Practice” are familiar.
The next morning what Herc still called the “chores” were hardly
completed, and the men who smoked had scarcely ignited an
after-breakfast pipe, before a summons came forward for Ned and Herc.
Responding, they found Lieutenant Timmons on the quarterdeck holding
a pink slip of paper in his hand. By his side stood Midshipman Stark
looking very important and pleased.
“Ah, Strong and Taylor!” exclaimed the lieutenant as they appeared,
“I have some more special duty to assign you to. I want to inform you
beforehand, though, that it is of such a perilous character that if----”
He stopped with a smile. The expression that had come over both boys’
faces as they guessed that he was going to inform them that they might
refuse if they wanted to had checked him.
“Well,” he broke off amusedly, “I see it is useless to attempt to warn
you. I merely felt it my duty to say so. I don’t mind telling you,
moreover, that I should have felt disappointed if you had refused,
although I should not have blamed you. You will go ashore shortly with
Mr. Stark. Further instructions you will receive from him. I may inform
you, however--but mind, this must not be repeated--that I have received
a cipher message this morning. The government is intensely interested
in developments. Washington must be informed as soon as possible of
the exact strength of the insurgents. It will be your duty, under Mr.
Stark’s orders, of course, to find out. That is all.”
“One moment, sir,” broke in the midshipman, “the man Stanley--he would
be a valuable aid, sir.”
“Very well, Stark, choose whom you wish--only bring this matter to a
successful conclusion.”
The boys’ faces shone. The only drop of bitterness in the pleasure that
was theirs in the thought of their important assignment, was removed
now that Stanley was to be one of the party. They hastened to give him
the information, which he received with a grim delight, and as much
emotion as he ever allowed himself.
“Good thing that bullet didn’t put my flipper out of commission then,”
he grinned, as he patted his wound of the night before, which luckily
had proved to be a mere scratch, but painful at the time.
As our readers may have imagined, it was not part of Mr. Stark’s plan
to go boldly marching into the insurgent main camp; nor was it his
idea to perform scout duty, which might have taken a long time, and
after all not have produced results. Lieutenant Timmons’ dispatch
called for immediate action. At a consultation of the officers a plan,
as ingenious as it was bold, had been hatched. What this was we shall
shortly see.
It was not long before noon that a launch from the _Beale_ put ashore
a group of four plainly dressed young men, with nothing about them to
distinguish them from the ordinary tourist type. Indeed, to heighten
the illusion Midshipman Stark carried a red-bound guidebook, and a
long puggaree gracefully floated from his sun helmet. In some naval
theatricals some time before he had made a great hit as an Englishman.
His mimicry and costume (the same he now wore) were declared perfect.
Ned, Herc and Stanley also wore tourist garb, and the quartette would
have passed anywhere as a group of sightseers. Perhaps they were rather
more robust, clear-eyed and bronzed than the ordinary run of such folk.
It might have been noticed, too, that a handclasp of unusual warmth
was exchanged between Lieutenant Timmons and his midshipman as the
latter strode off with his companions.
“Good-by and good luck,” he breathed.
“And an answer for the government,” murmured Stark, as they strode off
up the dusty street.