Hardly daring to draw a breath, and with his heart pounding against his
ribs as if it would break them, Ned waited. It was overpoweringly hot
in the brush. The sweat dribbled from his forehead and rolled down his
nose, itching it in maddening fashion, but he did not dare to move a
hand to mop his brow. A moment of inattention, he felt, might cost him
his life.
Suddenly the crackling was repeated, this time close at hand. Ned could
not repress a start, and as his frame twitched nervously the brush
directly in front of him parted. To his astonishment, something red
was thrust through. In the sudden relief to his feelings, Ned almost
burst into a roar of laughter, for the rubicund object quickly revealed
itself as Herc’s scarlet thatch. The former farm boy raised a red,
dripping face, and gazed inquiringly about him, his countenance framed
oddly in the dusty brush.
“I’ll swear I heard something,” he muttered.
“And you did, too,” whispered Ned, in a cautious tone, but one which
carried.
“Ned----” almost shouted Herc.
“Hush, you red-headed Indian! do you want to bring the insurgent army
down on us?
“What on earth are you doing here?” demanded Ned, as Herc drew closer.
“Why, I saw you slip from your horse, and I guessed you were going to
do something risky. I couldn’t help it, Ned, I had to be with you.”
“But, Herc, this is a dangerous errand. It may mean death.”
“I know that,” rejoined Herc simply. “That’s the reason I came--so that
I could be with you in case of trouble.”
“Herc, you are a brick!” exclaimed Ned, his voice shaken with real
feeling. He reached out and clasped the Dreadnought Boy’s hand.
“We’re in this thing together now,” he went on.
“And we’ll see it through together.”
“You bet. Now, come on.”
Forward crept the two boys. In a few minutes they gained the edge
of the declivity, through which they hoped to crawl, unseen by the
insurgent gunners. Without a word, for it was not a situation which
any words would fit, they emerged from the friendly cover of the
brush, and began crawling along the bottom of the dusty dip. It seemed
terribly shallow, now that they were in it, and, flat as they stretched
themselves, Ned felt that they must look as big as elephants.
“Reminds me of the time I played in a show at the village hall,”
whispered Herc, as they crawled through the dust. “I felt like I was
the only thing on the stage.”
In times of great physical risk the mind sometimes remains almost
dormant during the most dangerous part of the performance. So it was
that, almost without knowing it, the Dreadnought Boys crossed the dip
in the road and emerged unscratched in the government lines.
They were rudely recalled to themselves, however, by a sharp voice
almost in their ears. Looking up, they saw a dark-skinned soldier, in a
shabby uniform standing over them. His bayonet was fixed, and he looked
formidable.
“What did he say?” whispered Herc.
“Something like ‘Speak, or I’ll shoot,’” rejoined Ned, holding up one
hand in token that it was empty.
“Americanos,” he said.
The soldier seemed to comprehend, and nodded. Beckoning, he led the
Dreadnought Boys through a thick grove to where a group of officers
stood chatting.
“You’d think they were going to play tennis to look at them!” exclaimed
Herc.
“Yes, if Colonel Lazard is worrying, they are not,” agreed Ned.
Fortunately the leader of the halted government infantry and artillery
spoke English, so that Ned was able to explain to him his errand. Many
and loud were the congratulations the Americans received on their
bravery in daring to cross the road. Such a deed was, in fact, beyond
the comprehension of the Costavezans, brave enough though some of them
were.
Ned noted with satisfaction that fully twenty machine guns and a
good-sized body of infantry were scattered about under the trees. Their
commanding officer explained coolly enough that he had ordered a halt
till he heard from Colonel Lazard.
“But suppose he could not have communicated with you?” asked Ned.
“Then,” said the officer, with a shrug, “we should have had to remain
here.”
“Nice sort of soldiers,” thought Ned.
But now that they had definite orders to advance on the hill, the
troops became animated enough. In five minutes the guns were ready
to be rushed into position, and the infantry was so arranged as to
surround the precious implements of warfare and protect them.
Ned’s blood thrilled as the advance was sounded. That what was to come
would be real warfare he had no doubt.
As the government troops advanced up the road, the expected happened.
From the insurgent guns to the north a raking fire opened. The infantry
surrounding the guns replied, but their fire was half-hearted. In fact,
there was no object in wasting time and ammunition in retaliating. To
gain the hill in the speediest possible time was the object of the dash.
“This is warm work, Herc!” exclaimed Ned, as they stumbled forward
with the troops. Beside the Dreadnought Boy one of the infantrymen had
just fallen, badly wounded. Ned picked him up and placed him on a gun
carriage.
General de Guzman had been completely taken by surprise by the sudden
move of the government troops. He had been depending on his guns to
prevent communication between the two bodies, and thus hamper them till
the expected ships arrived in the harbor below. The booming of their
guns he intended to make the signal for his advance. Suddenly, from the
harbor, there sounded a loud report.
Boom!
Its echoes clashed back against the hills. Ned and Herc looked seaward
surprised. They were still more surprised when they saw, making for the
harbor entrance, two vessels. One of them they recognized even at that
distance as the _Barrill_. The other they guessed to be the _De Barros_.
“Hooray! Captain Gomez made good!” exclaimed Ned. “I’ll bet he’s got a
prize crew on the _De Barros_ now.”
And so it afterward proved. The plucky captain had made a night sortie
on Santa Anna, lured the _De Barros_ seaward, and, after a brief
engagement, forced her surrender. Then, placing a prize crew on board,
he started for Boca del Sierras. The gun they had heard was his salute
of triumph. But de Guzman mistook the report for the approach of the
insurgent navy, and at once gave orders to advance. His position was
screened from a sight of the sea, so that his eyes had not fallen on
the same spectacle as had the boys. Otherwise the command might never
have been given.
Under a raking fire from the advancing insurgents, the hill was gained
at last. The guns were soon rushed to the summit. As they gained it,
to the westward of the town firing began. Another small hill in that
direction burst into smoke and flame. The heavy booming of the guns was
distinctly borne to their ears.
The other section of the insurgent army was taking up the attack at
that point. A short distance from the hill, de Guzman, seeing that it
was impossible for him to cut off the government artillery, halted his
troops. As a means of harassing the enemy by every means possible, he
ordered a raking fire on the gunners, as they began to operate the
machine guns. Man after man was mowed down as he worked at the guns. It
began to look as if, after all, the Hill of the Ten Saints might become
the scene of a disastrous rout. The native troopers, easily influenced
by a turn of luck one way or the other, began to waver. Ned could see
that it only needed a little more to throw them into a complete panic.
Revolver in hand, he rushed up to the gunners, urging them to their
work. From the boxes he seized, with his own hands, the long bands of
ammunition--six hundred shots to a band--and fed them into the breeches
of the guns.
“Now, pull the triggers,” he shouted.
From one or two of the guns a raking fire opened, but even as it
started it was stopped by de Guzman’s sharpshooters.
“We’ve got to dislodge those fellows from that position!” exclaimed Ned
to the native commander. The other nodded.
“But our guns, senor. We must protect them. If the insurgents seize
them, we should be powerless.”
“You leave me the artillery to look after,” exclaimed the boy
excitedly, “and take your infantry round on de Guzman’s flank. That
will give me a chance to get this battery in shape.”
The officer nodded. He saw and understood Ned’s strategy. It was, in
fact, the one chance they had of holding the position.
“They’re throwing up trenches!” exclaimed Herc suddenly, pointing down
the road.
Ned followed the direction Herc indicated, and saw that de Guzman’s men
were, indeed, busy in erecting earthworks.
“If they get them up they’ll dislodge us from here in half an hour!”
shouted the boy.
All the time their “sappers” were at work on their trenches, the
insurgents kept up a steady fire on the hill. The infantry had
departed, on their mission to divert this steady hail, some minutes
before. Would they attack the insurgent flank before it was too late
and the trenches completed?
Herc and Ned worked like demons, driving the men to the guns. But
the natives’ courage, never of the strongest quality, was waning
fast. Moreover, the Dreadnought Boys knew that occasionally in those
countries whole regiments had been known to give up and go over to the
enemy if the day was going against them.
Suddenly, however, below them a sharp barking of rifles broke out to
the left, or to seaward.
“Hooray! It’s the infantry!” shouted Ned.
Immediately the fire on the guns slackened, while the insurgents
turned to face this new attack.
The moment had arrived.
“Tell them to get to those guns,” he shouted to a native officer.
With shouts, threats and execrations the men were finally driven to
the machine weapons. The rapid fire that resulted as they manipulated
the firing levers seemed to give them new heart. They broke into wild
cheers as the concentrated fire of the battery poured into the half
completed trenches of the insurgents.
“Hooray! Let ’em have it!” yelled Herc, as he saw the insurgents begin
to waver.
Filled now with foolhardy bravery, the government troops began to leap
into the line of the insurgent fire, capering and shouting exultingly.
Several lost their lives in this way before the boy could check them.
Suddenly there came the sound of hoofs behind them. The boys turned, to
face a young officer.
“Who is in command of this battery?” he demanded.
As nobody answered, Ned assumed the responsibility.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I have ridden over from the other hill to find out,” explained the
officer. “We are driving back the insurgents there, and were threatened
with them on this flank when your magnificent fire turned them. Your
name, senor?”
Luckily a desperate charge by the insurgents obviated the necessity
of Ned’s replying at that instant. Led by de Guzman himself, the
insurrectos swept forward in a desperate effort to capture the hill by
main force. But the guns were too much for them. Half way to the foot
of the hill their ranks wavered and broke. The advance turned suddenly
into a wild, demoralized rush for safety. But nowhere could they find
it. Attacked on the left flank by the infantry, and on the rear by
Colonel Lazard’s cavalry, the insurgents were driven back toward the
mountains, dozens being killed in the rout.
The victory for the government troops was complete and final. Yet, had
it not been for the Americans, there might have been another tale to
tell.
“Let’s get out of this!” exclaimed Ned to Herc, as the ranks of the
insurgents broke and fled. “There’s no more work for us here.”
“And that dago is eying us as if he’d like to take us prisoners,”
remarked Herc, gazing sidewise at the young horseman who had demanded
their names.
In the confusion they slipped off unobserved, making their way toward
the city. On every hand they passed excited people. The news of the
complete rout of the insurgents had spread broadcast. The insurrectos
had been beaten back on the west, as well as at the Hill of the Ten
Saints. The day was saved for the Costavezan government and for the
Americans holding concessions under it.
“What about the midshipman and Stanley?” asked Herc, as they hurried
along toward the town and entered its scattering suburbs.
“Mr. Stark said that if we were separated we were to meet at the office
of the American consul,” said Ned. “We’ll head for there.”
Rapidly the two Dreadnought Boys made their way along through the
excited crowds, not one of whom dreamed of the part the two lads had
played in what was actually the decisive engagement of the day. For,
had de Guzman’s troops gained the hill and captured the guns, they must
have swept the city.
At last they entered the narrow street on which the consulate stood,
and Ned burst into a joyous cry.
“Look at that, Herc!” he cried, pointing.
“That” was the American flag floating above the door of the consulate.
Both Dreadnought Boys came to “attention,” clicked their heels together
and saluted. Then they hastened forward. But as they were entering the
portal, they received a sudden check.
Lieutenant Timmons was just hurrying out. The Dreadnought Boys almost
collided with him.
The officer started as if he had seen a couple of ghosts. In truth,
the boys’ appearance was startling. Half ragged, powder-stained and
bleeding from some minor cuts, they looked as if they had been in a
desperate engagement, as, indeed, we know they had.
“Great heavens! where did you come from?” exclaimed the officer, as the
Dreadnought Boys drew themselves up and saluted.
“From the Hill of the Ten Saints, sir!” exclaimed Ned, with a twinkle
in his eye.
“What, where that brave stand against the enemy was made? Are you the
two Americans whom every one is talking about? Great Heavens! come
inside at once----”
From the officer’s tone there was evidently something more than praise
coming to them. Nobody realized better than Ned that their rash acts
on the hill might result seriously. Of one thing he was glad. They had
not worn the United States uniform when they played their part in the
government army.
As, with these mingled emotions, they turned to follow their officer,
a sudden clatter resounded up the street, and two horsemen appeared.
They were Midshipman Stark and Stanley.
Lieutenant Timmons gave a half-humorous groan as he saw them.
“Thank Heaven, you are alive!” he exclaimed, “but how on earth am I
going to explain all this?”