As the boat sank under them, Ned struck out for the _General Barrill_.
He was a strong, swift swimmer, and almost as much at home in the water
as on land or the deck of a battleship. To his intense relief, as he
gazed about him, he saw the heads of his three companions bobbing up on
the water near at hand. All were safe then.
“Swim on your backs,” Ned cried.
It was well they heeded his warning, for at that instant there came a
shout from Stanley.
“Duck!”
That was all, but they instinctively obeyed. Even under the water
they could feel the jar of the exploding shell which the sharp-eyed
man-of-war’s man had spied coming toward them from the fort.
“I’ll bet General de Guzman and Charbonde are praying for our deaths
harder than they ever did for anything in their lives before,” thought
Ned, as he came to the surface.
The Americans swam on. Only a few feet now. Already hands were held out
to them from the decks of the Costavezan destroyer.
“Swim, for Heaven’s sake, swim!”
The sudden cry came from the midshipman.
In their anxiety to gain the destroyer and avoid the shells from the
land batteries, they had entirely forgotten another danger--sharks!
As the middy’s cry of warning sounded, a sharp, triangular fin, showing
blackly above the blue, came rushing investigatingly toward them. It
was followed by another and another. Truly there was desperate need of
every ounce of energy that remained in their tired bodies.
How they did it Ned never knew. Subsequent comparison of notes revealed
the fact that the others were quite as ignorant as he, but somehow they
struggled on, till their outstretched fingers touched the sides of the
_General Barrill_. Willing hands were extended from her decks, and they
were drawn on board. None too soon, however, for as Ned’s toes left
the water a greenish body gleamed near the surface and made a dart,
like the spring of a tiger, for the rescued boy. Ned could not repress
a shudder as he realized how very narrow his escape had been.
Had they not had the word “American” plainly inscribed in their
faces, voices and actions, it is doubtful what would have been their
reception on board the Costavezan sea-scout. As matters were, however,
in spite of their positively tramp-like appearance, they were speedily
recognized, before they even spoke, as belonging to the powerful nation
which had befriended the South American power.
The decks of the _General Barrill_ presented a vastly different
appearance to the trim aspect of the _Beale_. They were littered
with debris of the bombardment, and here and there Ned noted, with a
shudder, some crimson splashes. Evidently the destroyer had not come
off scot free in her daring attack. Even while he was subconsciously
noting all this, a shell burst so close to the craft that a smother of
spray showered her.
A young officer, wearing the somewhat gaudy naval uniform of Costaveza,
and bedizened with a pair of huge gold epaulets, approached them.
“He looks like a bandmaster,” whispered Herc, in spite of Ned’s warning
to keep quiet.
The officer bowed civilly and asked in that tongue if any of them
spoke Spanish. Receiving an affirmative reply from Midshipman Stark,
their new-found friend requested them to step aft. He led them to the
small bridge on the conning tower, on which stood a tall, thin South
American, with a pair of field glasses in his hand. His bronzed face
was thrown into vivid relief by a pair of bristling white moustachios.
In his faded uniform, very different from the brilliant trappings of
his young officers, Captain Gomez looked every inch the sea fighter as
he stood on his little bridge. He seemed as calm and self-possessed as
if he were gazing at the affair as a safely situated spectator. By his
side stood an officer peering into the range-finder and handling the
gun controls.
Captain Gomez turned to a sailor, who stood at his elbow, as he
noticed the Americans being piloted aft, and gave an order. The man’s
hand shoved over the lever of the engine-room telegraph to “speed
ahead.” At once the _General Barrill_ began to forge through the water,
pointing her nose to the north.
The fort fired viciously after her, but the range was lost, and their
shells simply blew holes in the water.
The commander, his work for the moment over, greeted the newcomers
cordially.
“We were on our way up the coast,” he explained after he had heard
their story, “and, seeing signs of an insurgent battery ashore there,
we decided to give the crew a little gun practice.”
“Of which they don’t seem to stand much in need,” smiled the midshipman.
The captain looked grave, but said nothing more for the moment. He
ushered the castaways into his cabin and ordered refreshments for
them. In the meantime he had flung open a cabin door and indicated a
bathroom and some spare uniforms, which looked very inviting to the
adventurers. When they emerged in their regalia, a decided improvement
had taken place for the better in their appearance, though, to tell the
truth, not all of the uniforms were a very correct fit.
A white-coated man, evidently a surgeon, entered the main cabin as
they emerged from the bathroom. He spoke a few words to the captain,
who crossed himself and muttered some words. His face had grown grave.
Evidently what he had just heard was of a disquieting nature. He looked
up as his guests filed in.
“Ah, gentlemen,” he said, “you must excuse me if I seem to be somewhat
preoccupied. I have just heard that Lieutenant Santos, my gunnery
officer, is dead. He was wounded in the engagement, but we all thought,
till a few moments ago, that he would rally. I am seriously hampered
now in handling my ship.”
“Were your losses great?” inquired the midshipman.
“No. With the exception of the officer, of whose death I have just
learned, we escaped with two wounded and one killed. But Lieutenant
Santos was a power among the men.”
The captain’s Latin blood seemed aroused. He smote the table with his
lean fist. Suddenly he spoke.
“You gentlemen are naval men. You will understand my predicament. My
crew is, at best, what you Americans call a ‘scratch one.’ You see,
when the insurgents seemed likely to prove successful, the crews of the
other government vessels, and, I am ashamed to say, the officers, too,
deserted to the revolutionists’ cause. I had to take my crew as I could
get them. Some are off merchant vessels. Others are landsmen. There
are not more than a dozen trained men among them. Lieutenant Santos,
however, was a man of marked ability. He was whipping them into shape
splendidly.”
“I should think so if he handled the guns to-day,” interposed
Midshipman Stark.
“I agree with you,” went on the captain. “Now, gentlemen, I was
educated in your country, and I can see the faults of my countrymen.
They are brave in success, but they lose heart when engaged for a lost
cause. That is the case with the rest of my officers. Already they are
wavering. I can see signs of it. It would take little to precipitate a
mutiny.”
“A mutiny!” exclaimed Midshipman Stark, horrified.
“Yes,” calmly went on the old sea fighter, “in which case I would
probably be shot or imprisoned on board my own craft.”
The Americans gazed at him in astonishment. Apparently the commander
of the _General Barrill_ occupied much the same position as a man
in a powder magazine with a pipe in his mouth. By his account they
understood that the one efficient officer on board, the only man on
whom he could rely, had just passed away. “But, after all,” thought the
middy, “our concern now is to get back to the _Beale_ with our report.
I’m afraid it won’t be an encouraging one.” Aloud, however, he said:
“You are going to put about for Boca del Sierras, sir?”
“No, we are bound north,” rejoined the captain. “We must be at Santa
Anna to-night. In that harbor are the three vessels which went over to
the insurgent side. It is my duty to prevent them leaving there and
forming a blockade at Boca del Sierras.”
Ned saw at once the object of this. It was evident that the government
authorities expected that an attack by the united insurgent armies
was imminent. Against the armies alone the government forces stood a
chance. In order to make matters certain, however, it would appear that
the insurgent navy was to conduct a bombardment from the sea. If the
ships were allowed to leave Santa Anna, the fall of Boca del Sierras
seemed certain. The Dreadnought Boy felt a thrill of admiration go
through him for the brave old sailor, who, with a mutinous, incompetent
crew, and disaffected, inefficient officers, was going to what seemed
certain death.
The captain was called forward at this point. Certain matters relating
to the disposal of the possessions of the dead officer had come up.
With a word of apology, he hastened from the cabin. Ned glanced from
the port. The _General Barrill_ was steaming close inshore along the
palm-fringed coast. The sea was calm and blue and sparkling. The land
breeze brought a balmy odor floating through the open port. It seemed
hard to believe that in the midst of these placid surroundings they
were on such intimate terms with semi-mutiny and the shadow of death.
They were all silent for a space. Perhaps the same thoughts occupied
the minds of all. It was Midshipman Stark who broke the silence.
“It may be a long time before we see the _Beale_ again,” he said.
“Looks so, sir,” agreed Stanley, “and if what that dago skipper says is
right we stand a good chance of going to Davy Jones with the rest of
his mucker crew.”
“I’m not so sure of that!” exclaimed the middy, his eyes sparkling.
“You, Stanley, are a good gunner. There are no better hands at the guns
in the navy than Strong and Taylor. Why can’t we take these fellows in
hand and fight their ship for them?”
The sheer audacity of the idea took the others’ breath away.
“Well, sir,” broke out Stanley finally, “so far as we’re concerned----”
“You see,” went on the middy, interrupting, “we’ve got to stick aboard
here till this captain gets ready to put about for Boca del Sierras.
He’s obstinate, and a fighter from ’way back--you can see that in his
eye. Now, here’s the proposition. If we get licked at Santa Anna we’ll
all go to the bottom together. That chap would sink his ship before
he’d be captured. On the other hand, if we win out we’ll help to smash
the insurgents, do our country a good turn, and, at the same time,
insure our getting back to the ship.”
Looked at in this light, the thing which they all secretly wished to
do became of necessity the logical, right thing to go forward with.
So they all agreed, after some more discussion. It now only remained
for the captain to give his consent to having his gunners drilled and
officered by the Americans. The task of asking him this was taken out
of their hands. On his return from forward, the tall, Quixotic-looking
officer, after some humming and hawing, turned to the middy.
“I have a great favor to ask of you, sir,” he began. “My men--that
is----”
“You want us to show them how to handle the guns!” burst out Midshipman
Stark.
“Yes. But how did you guess it? I----”
“That is all right, sir, we’ll begin at once.”
“What, at once! Ah! I forgot you are American, and do not wait for
to-morrow. Well, gentlemen, I thank you from the bottom of my heart,
and I----”
“Oh, never mind that, sir. If we don’t teach your men how to stick by
the guns, we’ll never see the United States again, anyhow. Now, then,
Stanley, I’ll appoint you in command of the gun deck, with full charge.
Strong and Taylor, you are on an equal footing with Stanley, but obey
his orders.”
The Dreadnought Boys grinned at this equivocal sort of a commission.
“I suppose we can have anything we want, sir. We’ve got to have carte
blanche, you know,” spoke up the middy.
“Yes, anything, gentlemen, anything!” exclaimed the captain gratefully.
“All right, sir. Stanley, anything you want for your work?”
The boatswain’s mate had been gazing attentively at a group of the
dusky-skinned crew. Without attempting to set the guns in shape or
clean them after the brisk engagement off Miraflores, they were sitting
about talking.
“Yes, sir,” rejoined the boatswain’s mate, turning from his disgusted
scrutiny, “a service revolver and ammunition to match, please, sir.”
Some time after this the captain, seated in his cabin with Stark, who
was listening with deep attention to the elder man while he outlined
his plans, started up at a sudden noise borne in from the deck. It was
an agonized wail of protest from one of the crew. Both occupants of
the cabin sprang up, and, rushing up the companionway, gazed forward.
They saw Stanley with raised gun prodding a reluctant gun-swabber to
his work. All about was a scene of activity. Ned and Herc were already
drilling a crew in the task of loading in American fashion, which was
just five times as fast as the native way. A scene of activity of the
most feverish character had succeeded to the leisurely appearance of
things when the Americans came on board. The native officers stood
about gazing on, astonished at the rapid change which was coming over
their slovenly ship.
“Ah, you Americans! You’ll turn the world upside down some day!”
breathed the captain admiringly.