In their tourist costumes the four “scouts,” for such they now were,
walked rapidly through the town, attracting no more attention than that
bestowed on them by hordes of beggars and insistent vendors of various
worthless native articles. But instead of annoying them, these rather
dubious intentions delighted our party, as it was a good earnest of the
effectiveness of their disguises.
After half an hour or so of walking under a broiling sun, the party
began to traverse the outskirts of the city, where pigs roamed at large
and naked children rolled delightedly in the gutters. Nobody made the
slightest effort to molest them, and presently they reached the rear
lines of the government troops entrenched about the city.
The soldiers seemed a happy-go-lucky lot. Some of them were smoking
yellow paper cigarettes. Here was a group throwing dice on a drum head.
There was an eager, interested circle about a cock fight. In one or two
places sat a forlorn figure strumming some love song on a guitar. Their
tents were ragged and patched, and their arms of the kind bought at
government condemnation sales.
“But they can fight like wildcats,” Stanley assured his companions.
Their road led northward from the city below, along the edge of a steep
cliff covered to its summit with tropical growth of vivid, staring
green. Here and there little villas set back like colored jewels in
a green setting. Below, a turquoise sea dashed itself against the
rocks. It was a scene that at any other time would have delighted the
Dreadnought Boys, but just then their thoughts were set on other things
than scenery. About two miles out they passed through the last outpost
of the Costavezan troops, and presently were traversing ground which
lay between the lines of the opposing forces. It was blisteringly hot.
None of the party noticed this, however, so intently were their minds
occupied.
The main army of the insurgents lay, as they knew, across the range to
the southwest of the town. The forces they were now headed for formed
the victorious army of the north. It was by effecting a junction of
these two forces at the very walls, so to speak, of Boca del Sierras
that General de Guzman hoped to effect the capitulation of that city.
What had become of the government forces, which the army before them
had scattered, no one knew. It was supposed, however, that their
officers were trying to reassemble their demoralized troops somewhere
back in the jungles to the north.
“It wouldn’t take a large force to defend this road against an army,”
observed Ned, as they pursued their way along the thoroughfare, which
was in places literally hewn out of the cliff face.
“No,” agreed the midshipman, “but as I understand it the government
fears that the insurgents’ navy--or rather the ships they captured from
the government--may bombard the city from seaward at the same time the
land forces make their attack. This would inevitably accomplish its
downfall.”
“Not much doubt of that,” agreed Stanley. “If only the government had
some boats, they could bottle up the insurgent fleet somewhere, and
then go ahead and drive out the troops all around.”
“That’s it,” assented Stark, “but at present the government doesn’t
know, and can’t find out, where the dickens the insurgents have hidden
their fleet. They’d give a whole lot to know, I guess.”
“I reckon so, sir,” agreed Stanley, with a short laugh.
For some ten minutes more they walked on in silence. Then suddenly
around a sharp curve in the road a black object came into view.
“A gun!” exclaimed Herc.
“Guns,” corrected Ned, as his eyes fell on several more of the field
pieces commanding the road from points of vantage dug out high upon the
cliff side.
“No danger of the government making a sortie up this road,” remarked
the midshipman. “With all that artillery those fellows could hold
anything.”
As they neared the first gun a young officer stepped forward briskly.
Already concealed sentries had given warning of their approach.
“What do the senors wish?” he inquired politely enough, raising his
hand to the peak of his red-embroidered cap.
It was evident that he took them for harmless, foolish tourists. The
young officer hastened to assume the part he had decided to play. Ned
could hardly suppress a grin as he listened to Midshipman Stark’s
imitation of a British accent in reply.
“Just strolling around, old chap, you know,” he assured the young
insurgent officer. “No harm--eh, what?”
“I suppose you know that you are within the lines of General de
Guzman?” came the polite inquiry in rather astonished tones.
“No, really? By Jove, here’s luck. Always wanted to see an insurgent
camp, you know--eh, Archie?”
Here Stark turned to Ned, who, taken by surprise, turned red and
blurted out:
“Yes, by Jove,” in accents which no self-respecting Britisher would
have owned to.
“I hardly know what to do,” said the young officer hesitating. “If you
gentlemen will give me your word of honor that you are non-combatants?”
“We can,” rejoined Stark, without an instant’s hesitation. He was glad
that he could make the assertion without the slightest warping of the
truth.
“Very well, then. If you will follow me I will conduct you to General
de Guzman.”
The four Americans exchanged glances of real dismay. They had figured
on the general of the insurgents being miles away with the other army.
As they learned afterward, however, their bad luck had brought him to
the army of the north that very morning to tender his congratulations
for its brilliant victory of the day before.
Undesirous as they were of meeting General de Guzman, who might prove
to be more astute than the young officer, there was no help for
it. They were fairly in for it. With somewhat downcast faces they
followed their guide past the formidable rows of artillery and within
the insurgent lines. So far as they could judge it was quite as well
organized and better supplied with arms than that of the government.
The men, cheered by their victories, appeared, too, to be in better
mood than the Costavezans. Laughter was everywhere, and a degree of
order and cleanliness not often found in South American insurgent
forces.
“Evidently General de Guzman is a good commander,” thought Ned.
From time to time as they passed among the troops the young officer
pointed out things of interest. If he had not already been so anxious
over the result of their interview with the general, Midshipman Stark’s
heart would have smote him for the deception he was practicing on this
kind-hearted young host.
“You have seen service elsewhere?” he asked, as they walked along.
“Oh, yes, senor. I was with the Spanish troops in Morocco. We had what
the Yankees call a ‘hot time’ there.”
“You do not like Yankees, as you call them.”
“No, I do not.” The young officer’s brow grew dark. “They are arrogant
and overbearing. They interfere too much. They are opposed to this
revolution, as they call it--perhaps you know?”
He turned an inquiring glance on Stark.
“Not the first thing about it, my dear fellow,” the masquerading middy
hastened to assure him, with his accent laid on thicker than ever.
“They even have sent a small vessel of war--a destroyer, they call
her--to harass us. The pigs! I would like to line them all up against a
wall and shoot them down--one by one.”
“Well, this is a nice, friendly bunch we’ve run into,” whispered Herc,
as he heard these words. “It’s enough to scare the British accent out
of a fellow to hear that chap talk.”
“Hush!” warned Stanley, “he might hear you, and we’ve poked our noses
into a bad enough hornets’ nest as it is, I’m thinking.”
So thought the others, too. Stark’s part was particularly hard to play,
as upon him fell the burden of keeping up the conversation with the
young officer.
Before long they came in sight of a pretty villa, with broad verandas
well sheltered by various shade trees. Before it were tethered several
saddle horses. One or two of them looked as if they had been ridden
hard.
“The general’s present headquarters,” said the young officer,
indicating the villa with a sweep of his hand. “Before, it was occupied
by our leader, Colonel Vegas. Since the arrival of the general this
morning, however, he has given it up to his superior.”
“Surely that is a side saddle I see on that horse yonder, old chap,”
said Stark suddenly. “Are there ladies in your army?”
The young officer laughed heartily.
“You have curious ideas of our troops, sir. No, indeed, that horse
belongs to the general’s niece.”
“Is that so?” inquired Stark, simulating an interest he was far from
feeling.
“Yes, Senorita Isabelle de Guzman and----”
He stopped short as a sharp exclamation burst from Ned’s lips. It was
entirely involuntary, but our readers will understand his astonishment
at the name of Senorita Isabelle de Guzman when they recall that she
was the young woman named in the will found on board the derelict.
“My companion suffers from a cold,” said Stark, with a sharp look at
Ned, who, taking the hint, began to cough violently. He was glad of
this excuse to cover his embarrassment, but his paroxysms did not
prevent his keeping his ears open for the officer’s next words.
“She is one of the most beautiful young women in this part of South
America,” he went on.
“Indeed,” commented Stark, “a prize for one of the general’s brave
officers, perhaps?”
“Oh, no,” rejoined the Spanish-American, as if shocked at the bare
idea. “She has no property. There would be no estate, no marriage
portion with her hand.”
“Indeed! That is a requisite here, then?”
“Unquestionably, senor. You see, Donna Isabelle’s father, Senor de
Guzman, was formerly a prisoner of the government, but he fled on a
ship, which was never heard of again. It is whispered that he had
expressed a wish to his brother, the general, that the estate might
pass into the hands of his daughter. But, however that was, the
general, as the next of kin, now enjoys it.”
“If only I had that will here,” thought Ned, and then the next instant
reconsidered the matter. With things going the way they were, the
document was unquestionably better off where it was.
The sound of loud voices came to them as they neared the villa, and
through the open windows the boys could see bright uniforms grouped
about a table, which was littered with maps and plans.
“Ah, the general is busy, and I dare not disturb him now,” said the
young officer, as they entered the villa and emerged into a courtyard,
the “patio” common to all Spanish-American houses. It was delightfully
cool there after the hot, dusty glare of the camp.
“Well, we will stroll outside a bit and come back later on, old chap,”
suggested Stark, glad to see a loophole of escape from the lion’s den
into which he was beginning to imagine they had thrust themselves.
“Oh, no, senor,” said the young officer in quite a horrified tone.
“The general would wish to see you. He may besides, perhaps, wish to
question you concerning affairs in the town and relating to the small
American vessel of war.”
“The deuce he will,” thought Stark. “Confounded little in the way of
information he’ll get.”
Aloud he said:
“We shall be delighted, old fellow. Anything at all, you know.
Delighted, I’m sure.”
“Phew!” whistled Ned in a low tone, “we’ve walked into a mouse-trap
with a vengeance, and,” he added to himself as a heavy tread sounded,
mingled with the jingling of a sword, “here comes the cat.”
The steps drew nearer, and the next minute from behind a group of
magnificent fan palms appeared a squat, stout figure in a crimson
uniform. From the precise military salute and respectful bearing of the
lieutenant there was no question in the minds of the adventurers that
they stood in the presence of the renowned General de Guzman. He was
hailed in many quarters as the next dictator of Costaveza and the most
inveterate enemy of Americans south of the Caribbean.
Ned regarded him curiously, while the young officer, stepping up, drew
the general aside and began whispering to him. General de Guzman at
that time was a man of about fifty, with a florid complexion, thick
neck and heavy, black mustache. His inky hair waved crisply about
his rotund face, which, as has been said, was florid--noticeably so.
Evidently the general was a good liver. His short, stubby legs were
incased in dusty riding boots, on which jingled a pair of immense
spurs with blunt rowels. A sword with a jeweled hilt was at his hip.
A holster, with a businesslike-looking Colt reposing in it, also hung
there. For headgear the renowned revolutionary wore a Panama hat, with
a broad, red band encircling it. Between his lips was a huge cigar as
black almost as his hair and mustache. He chewed it nervously while
he listened to the young officer’s explanations, which Ned realized
related to themselves. He watched the pair anxiously, for on the events
of the next few minutes depended their success and possibly their
lives. Not a whit less were his comrades absorbed in regarding what
might prove a momentous interview.
At last the general turned from the young officer and spoke. His
voice was harsh and grating, and his words, for he used English, not
calculated to relieve their apprehensions.
“Englishmen, eh?” he rasped out, gazing at them with a suspicious
stare. “They look to me more like four cursed, inquisitive Yankees.”