“Shall we obey the signal?”
It was Ned who asked the question, his hand on the engine-room
telegraph; for at the minute the _Calvo_ had issued her request--or
rather order, backed up as it was by the report of the gun--the
Dreadnought Boy had been standing at the instrument.
“Yes,” ordered the captain; then, in reply to a questioning look from
the others, he added:
“They will send a boat, and then we can put into execution a little
plan which has just occurred to me.”
The necessary replying flags were run up on the _General Barrill’s_
stumpy signal mast. In reply the _Calvo_ steamed closer, and then
lowered a boat.
As the two vessels lay bobbing on the swell, at a distance of a
thousand yards or so from each other, the small craft struck the water,
and the next instant was gliding swiftly over it toward the _Barrill_.
The early sun glinted brightly on the gold lace of the personages
seated in her stern as she approached.
“Officers!” exclaimed Stark.
“Of course,” rejoined the captain. “They are of the impression that
they are on their way to pay a visit to an American vessel.”
“Well, if they actually were, they’d get a warm reception,” rejoined
the middy. “Firing that gun was the nerviest thing I ever heard of.”
“You must recollect, senor,” put in the captain gently, “that the
insurgent navy is not versed in naval etiquette.”
“It’s time they got a sharp lesson,” sniffed the middy.
There was little time for more conversation of any sort. The boat from
the _Calvo_, a double-ended whale craft, ranged alongside, and the
officers on board her stepped nimbly to the _Barrill’s_ low decks,
being aided on board by several sailors. Drawn up in hospitable array
to receive them were Midshipman Stark and his companions. None of these
could repress slight smiles as they noted the glances of astonishment
the visitors bestowed on the dark-visaged crew. Evidently they were
puzzling their minds over what such palpable South Americans were doing
on board an American ship. The new arrivals, however, bowed politely,
although they evidently had a dozen questions quivering on the tips of
their tongues.
Without giving them time to speak, however, the Americans ushered them
aft and below into the leather-upholstered cabin. Up to this time not a
sign of Captain Gomez had been seen. Shortly, however, he was to make a
dramatic entrance.
“You gentlemen will pardon my saying so,” began the officer, who
evidently outranked the rest of the visitors, “but I could almost have
sworn that this craft was the _General Barrill_ of our--or rather
formerly--of our navy.”
“Of our former navy, would have been a better way to put it,” thought
Ned, carefully flicking an imaginary spot off his uniform to hide a
smile. The reader has, of course, not forgotten that the Americans,
when they made their dramatic entry on board the destroyer, were
equipped with the uniforms of the officers of the craft, which they
still wore. The golden stars--the number of which denoted rank--had,
however, been ripped off. In all essentials the garments bore a close
resemblance to our own naval uniform.
But it was easy to see, despite the fact that Midshipman Stark and the
rest were palpably Americans, that the visitors were suspicious and
uneasy.
“I say, gentlemen,” went on the other, “that the resemblance is
extraordinary. Of course, your boat has four funnels, while ours had
but three.”
“Good thing he didn’t take a notion to poke a finger into that fourth
funnel,” thought Ned. “The paint is still wet, and that canvas is not
really stretched tight enough.”
Suddenly one of the young officers from the _Calvo_, who had been
looking about him, gave a sharp exclamation.
“Why, here is a cushion embroidered with the name of the _General
Barrill_!” he cried in a puzzled voice, “and----”
The sharp voice of his superior cut in.
“There is some trick here. I call upon you to explain it at once,
or----”
He halted in amazement. Four revolvers were covering himself and his
officers, and from a door opening into a side stateroom suddenly
stepped Captain Gomez himself. There was a look of mild triumph on his
features as he emerged from the place of concealment, in which he had
been posted to watch the progress of events.
“Captain Gomez!” gasped out the commander of the _Calvo_, for such was
the rank of the other. “What does this mean, sir?”
“Are you a prisoner of these Americans?” gasped out another officer.
“No, gentlemen, but you are my prisoners,” replied the Costavezan
captain calmly. “I advise you to submit to the fortunes of war with a
good grace.”
“Trapped!” burst out the other officer. He gazed in front of him
despairingly.
He was a brave man in his way. So were his officers. But the bravest
men are not the most reckless, and he saw, by the grim look in his
captor’s eyes, that a dash for the stairway between themselves and the
deck would have been, under the circumstances, suicidal.
Suddenly a loud cheer disturbed the tense silence. It came from above.
“Hurray!”
“What was that?” gasped the insurgent captain.
“I rather think it was your boat going to the bottom. We thought it
best to scuttle her,” rejoined Captain Gomez, with the same deadly
calm. “You gentlemen will, therefore, have to be our guests for a time.
I trust you will make yourselves at home. One thing, before we leave
you to your own devices, however, I must request your weapons.”
There was no help for it, and with a very bad grace the captives
unbuckled their swords and gave up their service revolvers.
“Chess, gentlemen, is an excellent game. It teaches the resources and
stratagems of warfare. You will find the men and a board in a locker
on the port side there. I should advise you to employ your leisure in
studying the various methods of checkmating your opponent.”
As he spoke the captain gave a low bow and, followed by his
officers--for such the Americans now were--made for the deck. The
cabin door, which, of course, was of steel, with hermetically closing
devices, was shut. Below were several impotently raging captives, who,
as a matter of fact, had only their own gullibility to blame for the
predicament.
“Now for the next move!” exclaimed Captain Gomez, as they once more
gained the bridge. “We must get out of the range of the forts as soon
as possible. We are not out of danger here.”
Way was put on the _Barrill_, and she was headed southward. The
_Calvo_, deprived of her chief officers, lay motionless as she had hove
to. No doubt, those on board were wondering what was the meaning of
this new move.
“She will follow in a few minutes,” said the captain. “That will be
time enough to fire on her.”
“Why not hurry her up a bit, sir?” inquired Ned.
“How, my lad?”
“By hoisting a signal to proceed after us.”
“Capital!” exclaimed Stark. “Stanley, will you set the signal?”
“Ay, ay, sir, and then I’m thinking I’d better be circulating among my
gun crews. They look to be getting nervous.”
He spoke no more than the truth. Gazing down from the stumpy bridge,
it was easy to see that the men of the _Barrill’s_ crew were ill at
ease. Their native officers, one of whom had drilled a hole through the
bottom of the _Calvo’s_ whale boat, were doing their best to keep them
quiet, but the nearness of a naval engagement was evidently worrying
them.
A few moments after Stanley reached the deck, however, a wonderful
difference set in. The men dispersed to their posts, chatting and
laughing as if they were about to take part in some pleasurable
athletic contest.
By this time the signal to follow had been seen and lowered, and the
_Calvo_ obediently began to follow the _Barrill_ seaward.
“Hooray. We’ll get her without firing a shot!” exclaimed Ned exultingly.
Indeed, it appeared as if such might be the case. The other ship was
practically without officers, and, no doubt, those on board could be
easily demoralized. Thus the two vessels proceeded for some miles. The
_Barrill_ had, in the meantime, taken in her deceptive ensign, and was
now proceeding without colors. Possibly it was this fact that aroused
the suspicions of the _Calvo_. Perhaps they noted the vanishment of the
whale boat. At any rate, they set a fresh signal.
“Show your colors!”
“All right, we’ll do that,” snapped the middy. “I would advise, sir,
that we set the flag of the republic.”
“Just what I was about to order, my boy. We’ll fight under our own
colors or not at all.”
In a few seconds the Costavezan standard was floating astern of the
destroyer. The wind whipped out its bright folds and displayed it
plainly for all to see.
“I’d give a month’s pay to be on board the _Calvo_ now and see what
they are doing!” thought Ned.
Below Stanley was looking up expectantly.
“All ready when you are, sir,” he said, surveying his well-drilled gun
crews, all at their posts.
“What’s the range?” inquired the captain, turning to Ned.
The boy bent over the instrument.
“Four thousand yards,” he announced.
“Let them close up a bit. We want to make this short and effective.”
The captain rang for reduced speed. The _Calvo_, on the contrary,
came rushing on. It was a bad blunder on her part. As the range-finder
showed her within 1,000 yards Ned glanced expectantly at the captain.
“Open fire with the bow-chasers!” came the order.
The next instant, from the bow of the _Barrill_, came two bright
flashes. They were followed by two sharp reports. At the same instant,
from the _Calvo’s_ side, came similar spurts of bright flame. A
mountain of spray arose close aboard the destroyer as the shells
struck, but no damage was done. Through his glasses Ned could see that
their first shots had also been ineffective. Both had fallen short of
the insurgent vessel.
“Did we get ’em?” yelled up Herc from the lower deck, where, with
Stanley, he was circulating everywhere among the nervous, high-strung
crew.
Ned shook his head.
Suddenly a puff of brown smoke came from the side of the _Calvo_, and a
sharp screech followed. The next instant Ned felt the _Barrill_ quiver
in every fiber. She had been struck. A strange feeling came into the
boy’s mind. It was not nervousness, but a sort of dread for those under
him. As the smoke and dust cleared away, he gazed back below him and
saw fresh blood on the decks. Part of the rail lay shattered and riven,
and one of the rapid-fire guns appeared to be damaged.
The touch of the captain’s hand on his shoulder steadied him. The
absolute calm of the man was a tonic in itself.
“What is the range now?” he inquired in a cool, steady voice.
“Two thousand. We’ve been drawing away from them, sir,” rejoined Ned,
studying his instrument. He turned to the middy, who had gone almost as
pale as he had. This was no battle practice, but real war, with modern
ships and modern guns. Would they come out of it alive?
As these thoughts coursed through his mind, Ned gazed about him, and
the next moment gave a shout and pointed to call the attention of his
officers to what he had observed.
Out of the north was approaching, at tremendous speed apparently,
another vessel. It was one of the insurgent ships. The question
was--which one? If it were the torpedo-equipped craft, the _Bolivar_,
things could not be much worse.