Mark Merrill continued on in the even tenor of his way through his
second year, and once more stood at the head of his class.
As for honors won the third year was but a repetition of the other two,
and he entered upon the last year of his Naval School life with the
goal of his ambition in sight, the chance of becoming the “first honor
man.”
When the last day rolled around, the one that was to make or mar his
hopes of winning or losing, he was pale but calm.
He had held his popularity with all, and they all wished him success.
He had held his place so well in his studies, his deportment, and
through every duty and drill, that only a slip could send him to the
rear.
There, among the visitors, was the Honorable Secretary of the Navy, and
there, too, was the gallant old sailor who had been his friend, and who
had been honored by promotion, and now appeared as Rear-Admiral Lucien.
“I dare not fail in their presence,” Mark Merrill had muttered to
himself, and his face flushed as he suddenly beheld two others there
with their eyes upon him.
Those two were his mother and Virgene Rich, the latter now grown into a
beautiful young lady of twenty.
Dare he fail now? No, and he did not, for his name stood at the head of
the list as number one.
And more, he was praised in no measured terms, and cheered in a manner
that showed that his fellows were glad in their inmost hearts.
And that night when he appeared at the Naval Ball he was the cynosure
of all eyes, and justly so, for a splendid, handsome fellow was this
daring young sailor who had made such a brave fight for fame.
When Mrs. Merrill and Virgene returned homeward they had as an escort
the young naval officer, who was on his “graduation leave” before being
ordered away on a three years’ cruise.
Arriving at Spook Hall, and mingling among those who had known him in
the past, the verdict of all was that he was not in the least spoiled
by the honors he had won.
Asking about Scott Clemmons, Mark learned that he had gone away from
home upon an expedition to Cuba, to fight with the Cuban patriots
struggling to free the “ever faithful isle” from the tyrannical yoke of
Spain.
After a happy visit at home, where Herbert Nazro came and visited him
the last month of his leave, and fell desperately in love with Virgene
Rich, Mark reported for duty, and was ordered on board the United
States steamer Frolic, which was to sail for the West Indies.
Three months after, one dark and rainy night, the Frolic lay at anchor
in the harbor of Santiago de Cuba.
In the steerage a number of young officers were gathered around a
table, before which was spread a map of the harbor and the town.
One was talking in low, earnest tone, and others were listening with
rapt attention.
The speaker was saying: “Now, gentlemen, these prisoners have been
placed in this prison--here it is upon this map, and to-morrow they
will be taken to the fortress, where they will remain until Sunday,
when, with the others now condemned and captured on the Commandatario,
they will be shot by the Spaniards, for Spain is merciless to her foes.
If they are removed to the fortress, then all hope for them is gone,
so we must act to-night. I have bribed a Spaniard to aid us, and he
is to secure the uniform of an aide to General Buriel, and meet us at
this point--here on this map. He will have uniforms awaiting us, and
we will march to the outpost for the prisoners, while he states that
he has been sent to conduct them to the fortress, fearing an attempt
at rescue by the Cubans. The commandant of the outpost prison is a new
man, and his men have just come from Havana, so that Buriel’s aides
are not known to them, and herein is our strength. Now I saw these
prisoners to-day, and every one of the seven are Americans, whom, as
our cruiser will not protect, we must aid to escape. Nay, more, one
of these prisoners is the gallant Bascomb, who resigned after leaving
the academy, and accepted a position as commander of a Cuban blockade
runner. Another is Scott Clemmons, also once a cadet, who was Bascomb’s
lieutenant, and the others are also brave American boys who must not be
shot to satiate Governor Buriel’s thirst for blood. Are you with me?”
“To a man,” said Bemis Perry, and the others, eight in number, held
forth their hands and grasped that of Mark Merrill, who continued:
“It is not law; I know, it is against naval discipline; but it is
justice, it is humanity, for if we do not save those poor lads they are
dead men within thirty-six hours. Now we have leave to go on a special
invitation to our fellows of the Powhattan, so we’ll instead pull
ashore and meet my Spaniard.”
“We are ready,” said Perry, and soon after, muffled in their great
coats, the young officers entered a cutter and were rowed away through
the darkness and rain.
They landed at a certain point on the shore where there was a hut in
which shone a light.
Here a Spaniard met them, and Spanish uniforms were put on over their
own, muskets were taken, and they marched off.
The Spaniard was in the uniform of a captain, and wore a cloak.
He led the way, and after a march of half a mile they came to the
outpost _carcel_, or prison.
The pretended Spanish officer gave the countersign, and going into the
_carcel_ told what his orders were.
It seemed a long time for the waiting officers in their disguise, but
at last the clanking of chains was heard and out marched the prisoners,
seven in number, and heavily ironed.
The pretended captain placed them in single file between his men, and
off they marched in the darkness and storm. They did not return to the
cabin, but continued along the shore, until they came to a boat, and
dimly seen offshore was a small sailing craft.
“Now, señor, unlock these irons, and let the men go aboard as quickly
as possible, for their craft must be well off the coast before dawn,
and with this gale they can be, for it blows straight out of the
harbor. Then see us back to the cabin, and your work is done,” said
Mark Merrill.
“I should know that voice among a thousand--by heaven! you are Mark
Merrill.”
“Yes, Bascomb, but breathe it not, for we are Spanish soldiers this
night of our Lord.”
“Ever the same noble, gallant fellow, Merrill, and God knows I’ll never
forget you for this, will we----”
“Come, you must be off, or you will undo all that has been done. There
is your craft and two men on board, chartered for the cruise--please
go.” And thus urged the rescued men hastened into the boat, which at
once shoved off, while brave Bascomb cried:
“We’ll meet again, Merrill; God bless you and your brave crew, whoever
they be.”
“Now we must get out of this,” said Mark, and the Spaniard led the way
rapidly back to the hut.
When the uniforms were discarded Mark handed the Spaniard the amount
promised him, and getting into their boat, it was headed back to the
Frolic.
“Merrill,” said Bemis Perry, in a low tone.
“Yes?”
“You engineered the bravest act of your life to-night, one which, dared
it be known, would win you a name that would never die. I am proud to
have been with you; but did you see that Clemmons skulked away when
Bascomb recognized you, that he uttered no word?”
“Yes, he’s the same old Clemmons, Perry,” was the reply.
The ship was reached, and when the next morning came the news of the
daring rescue of the prisoners became known, but no one placed the
daring deed where it belonged, and that the call of the captured men
was a close one was proven by the deliberate and cruel execution, as
the murder was called, of scores of gallant men who had volunteered to
aid the patriot cause of Cuba, and were doomed to death by the butcher,
Buriel.
Soon after the Frolic steamed away from the shores of the ever faithful
isle, and no one ever dreamed the real truth of that midnight rescue of
Americans led by Mark Merrill.