But their apprehension was speedily relieved. Ned it was who first
sighted, carried far back in the ranks of the approaching horsemen, the
red, white and blue flag of the republic, with its golden star blazing
on the central white band. Never had a flag seemed more welcome to them
than this gaudy banner of a South American republic.
The leader of the troop, a young man whom they learned later was
Colonel Julio Lazard, galloped up to them with a flourish. The
Americans all saluted as he pulled up his horse, a fine, black steed,
furnished with a high-peaked, chased-leather saddle and bridle, silver
ornamented.
“Americans!” he exclaimed in fair English. “Gentlemen, this is a happy
encounter.”
“It is for us!” exclaimed Herc, in a loud aside to Ned.
“We mistook you for a scouting party of the enemy, and were about to
fire on you,” continued Colonel Lazard cheerfully.
“Phew! this impulsive Latin temperament again,” grinned Stanley, behind
his hand, to the two boys.
In the meantime Midshipman Stark had been responding to the other’s
salutations. These formalities concluded, Colonel Lazard informed them
that he was at the head of the troops which had been repulsed some days
previously by the insurgents. He and his staff officers had succeeded
in rallying their men after a precipitate flight into the mountains,
and were now advancing to take part in a daring dash to the relief of
Boca del Sierras.
“The infantry and artillery have gone on ahead,” explained the colonel,
“and my cavalry are bringing up the rear in order to guard against any
flank attack by the enemy.”
“You think there is danger of Boca del Sierras falling?” inquired
Midshipman Stark, after Colonel Lazard had explained this much to the
adventurers.
“I fear that such a catastrophe is in grave danger of occurring,”
was the rejoinder. “But with my brave troops----,” he continued
grandiloquently.
“Just as if they hadn’t all taken to the tall timbers the last time
they smelled powder,” whispered the incorrigible Herc.
“But with my brave troops,” went on the officer, who, of course, had
not heard the remark, “we will save them if it is humanly possible to
do so.”
“You do not think, then, that the insurgent army of the north has
united with the other body of troops?” questioned Mr. Stark.
“No,” responded the officer, “and it will be our duty to see that they
do not do so. Our scouts inform us, however, that the advance on the
city is to be made before noon to-day, so that we have no time to lose.
I must marshal my forces at the Hill of the Ten Saints.”
The Dreadnought Boys recalled, as he mentioned the name, the location
he referred to. It was a small hill outside the city to the north, the
value of which, as a strategic position, was at once apparent. Nestling
close in under the mighty ramparts of the Sierras themselves, it
commanded the northern approach to the city perfectly.
“The battle, if there is one, will resolve itself into a struggle for
the possession of that hill,” explained the colonel. “The troops that
arrive there first will win the day”--and his brow clouded--“unless the
insurgent navy arrives and bombards the city from the sea.”
“Do not worry about that, sir,” Stark assured him. “The navy will not
be there.”
“Indeed, you are in possession----”
“Of positive information.”
“Its source, senor?”
“That I cannot divulge. But I can assure you that the navy will not be
there.”
The colonel looked at him curiously.
“You will pardon my seeming curiosity, sir, but who or what are you
and your companions?”
It will be recollected that the Americans were in plain clothes.
Dust-covered and travel-stained as they were, they might have indeed
excited curiosity in anybody who had espied them traveling among the
war-ridden hills.
For a second the midshipman hesitated, and then compromised by saying:
“You will not misunderstand our motives, sir, when I assure you that
it is from no evil intent that I cannot tell you everything about us.
Suffice it to say that we are Americans traveling in the country on
business--I think I may add, important business. It is essential that
we should be in Boca del Sierras to-day, and for that reason we are
traversing this road.”
“I appreciate what you say, senor,” rejoined the colonel. “I respect
and admire all Americans. They are the government’s friends. If you
wish you may travel with us. We are on the eve of a great battle. By
accepting our escort you will have a chance to see what the troops of
the republic can accomplish.”
The offer was naturally accepted with thanks by the midshipman on
behalf of the party, and a few minutes later the cavalcade moved
forward. They shortly diverged from the main road and struck off upon a
narrow trail. So narrow was it that the troopers were compelled to ride
in single file in some parts of it. A thick growth of brush screened it
perfectly from the view of any one below them--between the mountains
and the sea, that is--so that, strategically considered, the colonel
had chosen a splendid route for moving his troops.
It was shortly before noon, and the sun blazed hotly down, when they
reached a spot where the trail converged into the main road. A few rods
beyond the ground sloped upward toward the summit of the Hill of the
Ten Saints.
“Forward!” shouted the colonel, as he saw that the coveted elevation
was untenanted. “We are the first to arrive.”
But even as he spoke the bushes surrounding the junction of the road
and the trail became alive with men, and a raking fire was poured into
the cavalry. The insurgents had prepared an ambush, into which Colonel
Lazard’s cavalry had walked like so many flies into the spider’s web.
For an instant all was confusion. Near to Ned a horse fell to the
ground, kicking and struggling in its death agony. Bullets whistled
by him, and all about arose the clashing and cries of conflict. The
troopers wavered and seemed to be about to seek safety in flight.
“Your carbines!” shrieked the cavalry officers.
They spurred their horses hither and thither, in the crush of
panic-stricken horses and men, striking their followers with the flats
of their swords and fairly driving them into the conflict. After a
few moments of this frenzied work, the horsemen rallied a little and
poured back an answering fire from their carbines. Their cordite-driven
bullets did sharp execution in the insurgent ranks, and the ambuscade,
having done its work, began to give way, falling back on the main lines
of the insurgent troops.
Then came a breathing spell, but the Americans knew as well as the
government officers that it was the lull before the storm. General de
Guzman was far too tricky a campaigner to have massed all his strength
on that one blow.
“Where are your infantry and artillery?” asked the middy, who, with the
others, had remained at the colonel’s side in the skirmish.
“I do not know,” began the colonel, distractedly looking about him. “If
they do not arrive soon, we are lost. We dare not move forward without
their fire to cover our advance.”
As he spoke there came from below a bugle call, which the Americans
recognized as the “advance.” In many South American armies the bugle
calls are the same as ours, and the Republic of Costaveza was no
exception.
“They have disobeyed my orders!” exclaimed Colonel Lazard furiously.
“They have taken the lower road.”
To understand what is to follow, it is necessary to comprehend that,
at this stage of the engagement, the government cavalry were massed at
the junction of the mountain trail and the main road. To the north, on
the main road, were the insurgents, with their machine guns. On a lower
road still was the government infantry and artillery. It afterward
transpired that they had been compelled to take that route to avoid
falling into the rear guard of the insurgents. Straight ahead on the
main road lay the Hill of the Ten Saints, but it was commanded from the
main road by the guns of the insurgents.
Situated as were Colonel Lazard’s infantry and artillery,--without
which latter he could not hope to hold the hill, even if he gained
it,--they could not be communicated with in regard to the situation. It
became necessary, then, to send a scout across to them to inform them
of conditions, so that a concentrated advance might be begun.
The colonel issued a call for volunteers, but of all that body of men
not one would risk crossing the main road. Commanded as it was by the
insurgent artillery, it did, indeed, seem to be a fatal mission. The
Americans began to chafe and fidget. If Colonel Lazard did not soon
make a decisive move, the insurgents would begin the advance, in which
case the key to the situation would be theirs. With the rebels in
control of the city and the approaches, every one of the party from the
_Beale_ realized that their chance of rejoining their ship would be
remote in the extreme. A drum-head court-martial would be the best they
could expect, if their part in the sinking of the _Bolivar_ and the
_Manueal Calvo_ were ever known.
A short distance beyond their present situation Ned’s sharp eyes had
already noted a dip in the road. It was but a slight depression, to be
sure, but into the boy’s mind had suddenly come the idea that it could
be utilized. Brush grew close up to it on both sides, so that it would
be possible to approach it without being observed from the north. The
dip, or so Ned believed, was deep enough to hide the form of any one
crawling across. Riding to the side of the midshipman, he confided his
bold plan to him. It was nothing more nor less than to dismount and
attempt to cross the gun-commanded road by the dip. At first Stark
shook his head.
“I cannot permit it, Strong. It is far too risky. I am your officer,
and would be responsible for you if anything happened.”
“But I don’t believe anything will happen, sir,” exclaimed Ned. “If I
did I would not risk it.”
“Hum,” pondered the middy, “it’s certain that something has to be done.
None of these cowards here will make a move, and if the artillery isn’t
on that hill within the next few moments it’s ‘good-by,’ republic.”
“Then I can try it, sir?” asked Ned joyously.
“It is against my judgment, but--well, yes, but for Heaven’s sake be
careful.”
“You can depend upon that, sir,” rejoined Ned.
He slipped from his horse and crept off into the undergrowth before
any of Lazard’s cowardly command realized what he was about. Throwing
himself flat on his stomach, the boy wormed his way forward through
the brush till he reached a point which, he concluded, must be about
opposite the dip in the road.
Cautiously he raised his head and saw, to his joy, that only a few
yards now separated him from his coveted depression. His heart began to
beat thick and fast. Ned knew well that the road which he must cross
was commanded from above by the insurgent guns. If the dip were not as
deep as he calculated--if it would not keep him hidden--he would be
shot down like a dog.
“Now for it,” he whispered to himself, lying flat once more and
wriggling forward, as before.
Suddenly he stopped dead and listened intently. He had heard a sound in
the brush behind him.
As he listened the sound came again, sharp and crackling. Somebody was
evidently approaching him and using the utmost caution in doing so.
After the first sharp crackling of the broken stems, he heard no more.
Ned reached back and drew his revolver. Then, crouching on his knees
behind a close-growing bush, he waited the coming of his trailer.