Kitabı oku: «The Boy Aviators in Nicaragua; or, In League with the Insurgents», sayfa 13
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE FLOWER OF FLAME
Ben Stubbs and Billy had stood straining their eyes after the Golden Eagle, when the air-craft flew from Plateau Camp, for as long as they could detect against the dark sky, the darker shadow of its outline; then they turned to the camp-fire and Ben Stubbs, whistling loudly, almost defiantly, set about the task of getting supper. Both occupants of the camp felt singularly disinclined for talk and it was not until after supper was finished and Ben’s pipe fairly going, that either uttered more than a few perfunctory words.
By that time the storm, into which the Golden Eagle had soared on what proved a fatal voyage, was upon them. It came with the same sharp puff of wind and far-off flash of lightning that had first alarmed the boys.
“I’m going to double-lash that tent,” remarked Ben Stubbs, briefly, after he had washed the tin plates. “This is goin’ to be a hummer and no mistake.”
As for Billy the apprehension he felt would not put itself into words. As the storm increased, though, and he helped Ben Stubbs to what the old sailor called “double-gasket” the waterproof tent, his heart sank.
“If the boys could not make a landing? – What then?” It was an unbearable thought and, as often as it came to him, and, try as he would the young reporter could not dispossess himself of it – there came with it a premonition of disaster. Though Ben didn’t mention it the same thought was chasing itself through his mind. At last he could contain himself no longer and remarked:
“Now, mate, all’s snugged down and ship-shape and I reckon we’d better turn in and get what sleep we can,” he looked at the alarm-clock that hung on the tent pole.
“Eight bells,” he said, “I wonder how it’s going with them boys?” That was all, but the note of anxiety in his voice showed that the hardened old salt was as badly worried about what was transpiring on the Golden Eagle as Billy himself.
“I guess they will be all right, don’t you, Ben?” anxiously asked Billy, quite willing to catch at even a straw of hope.
For answer Ben pulled the tent flap aside and looked out into the black night.
“Wall,” he replied slowly, after he had cast his eye up at the sky, which was ribboned with blue, serpent-like streaks of lightning, – “wall, I’ve seen dirtier nights; but not many. I don’t know much about air wessels;” he went on deliberately, “but my opinion, Mister Barnes, is that this ain’t no kind of weather to be navigating on sea or land.”
Not a word more could Billy get out of him and he could find no comfort in what the old tar had said.
It was snug enough in the tent, with the lamp hung to the ridge-pole and Ben’s pipe going, but outside the storm was evidently waxing in fury. As the thunder crashed and roared its echo was flung against the steep cliff – on the summit of which lay the Toltec treasure valley – with the noise of a battery of heavy guns. It was deafening and to Billy, who had never before experienced a tropic thunderstorm, it was terrifying. He said nothing, however, but sat nursing his knee on the edge of his cot while outside the uproar grew every minute more angry and menacing.
As for Ben Stubbs his conduct was singular. He sat, pipe in mouth, with his head on one side, as though listening intently for something – for what Billy had no idea – and as Ben didn’t seem in a talkative mood he didn’t ask him.
Suddenly there came a lull in the storm and the old sailor ran to the flap of the tent. Outside he threw himself on the ground, holding one ear close to it. He was up in a second and back in the tent.
Billy looked at him wonderingly. The grizzled veteran of the sea and mountain looked worried.
“What’s the matter, Ben?” demanded Billy, struck by the singular aspect of Ben’s countenance.
“Matter?” replied the sailor, “matter enough. This is only a Dutchman’s hurricane to what’s in the wind. Listen! Do you hear that?”
He held up a finger to command attention.
Billy listened and to his ears there was borne, in a lull of the storm, a sound like the far-off whining of thousands of tortured animals. It was like nothing he had ever heard before.
Suddenly he jumped to his feet with an alarmed yell.
“There’s something under my cot!” he cried.
“It’s shaking it!” he shouted the next minute.
“There ain’t nothing under yer cot but the solid earth, mate,” replied the sailor gravely, “and it’s that what you feels a’ shaking. It’s the terremoto and it’s going to be a bad ’un.”
“The terremoto?”
“Yes; the earthquake,” was Ben’s reply.
“Now, mate,” went on Ben Stubbs gravely, “the main thing ter do in er case like this, is ter keep yer head. Keep cool and we’ll come out all right.”
As he spoke there came a violent convulsion that almost threw Billy off his feet, – at the same moment a terrific puff of wind ripped out the tent pegs in spite of all Ben’s “double-gasketing” and the two occupants of it were struggling in its folds, while beneath them the earth shook and above the sky seemed to open and pour out a dreadful flood of living fire.
To Billy it seemed that his last hour had come. To make matters worse the oil had spilled out of the lamp as the tent collapsed and caught fire. The reporter, struggling desperately for release, realized this and shouted aloud, – not from any good he thought it might do, but from mere instinct. He could actually – or so it seemed to him – feel the flames at his legs when suddenly something ripped open the canvas that enveloped his head, and he felt the blessed air.
It was Ben Stubbs’ knife that had saved him.
“Close call that, mate,” commented the imperturbable Ben, as if he had just warned his companion not to step in front of a street-car, or something like that.
There was no time to answer. There came a deafening crash of thunder and another violent shaking of the earth. In the light of the blazing tent, which lit up the scene like a bonfire, they could see great trees crashing down and the forms of terrified wild animals rushing through them in a wild hope of escaping the fury of the earthquake and the storm. None of the fleeing wild beasts seemed to have the slightest fear of the men or even to notice them. Terror of the aroused forces of nature had overcome all their aversion to their human enemies.
“It’s a shame ter see all that good game going to waste,” was Ben’s only comment on the terrific scene that was taking place about them.
Billy looked at him in surprise. Was this man made of steel or iron? He seemed as impassive as either. From his companion’s calm demeanor Billy caught renewed courage and thought to himself, with a sort of desperate pride:
“Well if he can stand it I can.”
“How long is this likely to last?” Billy asked in a trembling voice of Ben, as the earth fairly heaved under the convulsions that now seemed to be rending its very crust.
“No telling, mate;” shouted Ben, with his mouth at Billy’s ear, “it may last an hour or a day – or not more’n five minutes more. Holy Moses – !”
The abrupt exclamation was called forth by an extraordinary sight.
From the Treasure Cliff, as the boys had christened it – there suddenly shot upward a tall pillar of flame, which died down again as abruptly. A sulphurous reek filled the air at the same moment.
Ben seized Billy by the arm with a grip that pained.
“Come on; run for your life – ” he shouted – “the whole blame mountain’s going.”
“Where are we to go?” gasped Billy, who shrank from the idea of the forest; where trees were crashing down every minute.
“Come on, I tell you, don’t stop to ax questions,” shouted Ben plainly excited, and Billy knew, – even in the turmoil in which his feelings then were, – that the peril must be serious indeed that would excite the cool-headed ex-prospector.
“That’s only the beginning,” shouted Ben as they ran, “if we stay here ten minutes longer our lives won’t be worth an old chew of terbacey.”
As he spoke he fairly dragged Billy along with him. Their way lay down the steep hill, and they stumbled and slipped, and fell down and scrambled up again like men fleeing from a remorseless enemy.
To Billy it all seemed like a hideous dream. Suddenly the whole scene was illumined by a fresh out-gush of flame from the summit of the treasure cliff. The amazing pillar of fire shot straight up for a height of fully fifty feet and blossomed out, whitely, as its summit into the resemblance of a huge fiery chrysanthemum. Even in his terror Billy could not help admiring, awestricken, the awful, majestic beauty of the sight. It was plain enough now to him what had happened, – the earthquake had opened up some hidden seam in the mountain, possibly that bottomless pit of the White Snakes and this pillar of fire was gushing upward from the bowels of the earth.
Ben, far from being struck with the overpowering majesty of the spectacle, seemed to regard it merely as a fresh cause for apprehension. By this time they were stumbling along through the forest; but the brilliant light of the volcanic flame behind them, made their way as light as day. Right across their way lay a huge fallen tree with a trunk fully forty feet in diameter. Ben uttered a cry of joy as he saw it.
“Quick, Billy, in under it!” he exclaimed, at the same time dragging the reporter to the ground and fairly pushing him under the massive trunk, as if he were afraid Billy would not obey quickly enough.
There was a low growl as he did so and a spotted form slunk away. It was a jaguar that had sought the same shelter as themselves; but such was the savage beast’s terror that it made no attempt to attack them and merely crouched, with its ears back and lashing tail, gazing at them from the other end of the trunk. After a few minutes it slunk off into the brightly illuminated jungle and they lost sight of it.
“That’s a wise beast,” remarked Ben, “purty near as wise as we are. Nothing like getting a roof over your head when there’s trouble of the kind that’s a comin’ around.”
As he spoke there was a tiny patter on the leaves all about them.
“Rain!” exclaimed Billy with some glee, recollecting the old New England idea that when rain breaks the worst of a thunderstorm is over.
“Rain,” scornfully snorted Ben, “it’s the kind of rain you couldn’t keep off with an umbrella, son.”
Billy looked at him puzzled.
“It’s what you might call a rocky rain,” explained Ben. “Hark!”
The light patter that Billy had heard rapidly increased to a rattling sound as if some giant were throwing gravel over the jungle. In a few minutes huge stones began to fall all about them and the blazing mountain to emit a roar like a thousand blast furnaces.
“Now do you see why we got under this tree?” demanded Ben, as the stones, thrown up from the mouth of the blazing pit, fell all about them, but, of course, did not harm them in their snug shelter.
Billy merely nodded, he was past speaking; but, with all his own alarm, and that was not a little, his mind still reverted to the boys. Could they ride out this awful night in safety?
How long they lay there, crouching low and listening to the terrible stony downpour about them Billy never knew, but it seemed a veritable eternity. From time to time wild beasts would creep under the same shelter with them without taking any more notice of the two men than if they had been of their own kind. This in itself – so unnatural was it – added to Billy’s alarm.
Suddenly, however, Ben uttered an exclamation.
“Don’t it appear to you, Billy, that she’s dying down at the top?” he asked, pointing to the great flowering pillar of flame. Billy looked, and for several minutes they both gazed at the volcanic blast furnace in silence. Then they uttered a glad cry.
There was no doubt about it, – the flame was dying down.
The incessant rain of stones too had ceased and the storm had resolved itself into frequent flashes and low growls of distant thunder. Billy gave a whoop of joy.
“Don’t holler till yer out of the wood, mate,” admonished Ben, “and we ain’t out of this yet, by a long shot.”
“But the worst is over, isn’t it?” asked Billy.
“Sure, the worst of the storm is; but we’ve got to get some place out of here, and there are two things we don’t want to run into, – one is Rogero’s army and the other is Injuns.”
“That’s so,” assented Billy, “have you any plan?”
“Wall,” drawled Ben, “the source of the San Juan River ought to be right around to the south of here some place, and I figure that by traveling in that direction we are bound to hit it, – if nothing hits us in the meantime. Then we can get a canoe somehow, and drift down to Greytown.”
“You’re the doctor,” remarked Billy, whose cheerfulness was fast returning.
A few hours later a dawn, – as soft and bright as if the events they had passed through had been a nightmare, – broke over the valley at their feet. It was hard for Billy to realize that the hours of horror they had gone through had been real; – but the huge stones that lay all about and the uprooted and lightning blasted trees that strewed the jungle gave but too vivid evidence that it all had been real. Suddenly a thought struck him.
The pillar of fire. It issued from the treasure cliff, and, – as nearly as he could judge, – from a spot right above the White Serpent’s Abyss! He turned to Ben with an anxious look on his face.
“Ben,” he said, “do you think that the passage is blocked?”
“What passage?” asked the practical Ben, who was looking over his revolver to make sure that it was in working order.
“Why the passage – the passage to the Toltec mines.”
Ben whistled.
“Son,” he replied, “there ain’t no more chance of that there passage being there to-day than there is that this yer gun wouldn’t blow my brains out if I pointed it at my head and pulled the trigger.”
This was bad news; as Billy knew that the boys had meant to come back with a properly equipped expedition and make a thorough investigation of the Toltec Valley. He recollected too Ben Stubbs’ bar gold that was cached there.
“Why, Ben, you’ve lost a fortune if that’s true,” he exclaimed petulantly, “and you don’t seem to worry over it? You’ve lost your bar gold.”
“Hev I,” rejoined Ben in a quiet voice that made Billy’s cheeks crimson, “well, youngster, I’ve got my life and I’m thankful for one mercy at a time.”
After that there was no more talk from Billy of the lost treasure.
They struck out to the South at once and about noon, after passing through terrible evidences of the ravages of the storm, and the earthquake, reached the banks of a muddy stream that reeked of malaria and disease. Ben, after a brief period of reconnoitering, announced that it was the San Juan River in his opinion, and that anyhow whatever watercourse it was it would bring them to the coast. Luck was with them for, after an hour or so of casting about, they found a rough native canoe drawn up on the bank. Not far from it, crushed beneath a mighty tree that had fallen in the earthquake, lay the figure of the Indian to whom it had belonged.
“Poor fellow,” said Stubbs, “I guess he’s beyond minding if we do borrow his property.”
A few minutes later they were on board the rough dug-out, which Ben handled as skilfully as a canoe, and on their way to the coast. Not before, however, Ben had cut two sticks of wood from a low growing umbrella tree, with his ever handy knife, and, lashing them together with a bit of creeper, formed a rude cross, – which he placed in the ground at the dead Indian’s head.
“Now that’s all ship-shape;” he exclaimed as after viewing his handiwork with satisfaction he stepped cautiously into the cranky native craft and shoved off into the rapid current.
CHAPTER XXVII.
PRISONERS OF WAR
As Frank and Harry found themselves confronted with the row of leveled rifles the officer who had addressed them placed a small silver whistle to his lips and blew twice. At the signal a score of men came rushing out of the mangroves, all armed and as villainous looking as the men who had first surprised the boys. The officer gave them a brief order in Spanish, the purport of which the boys did not get.
They were not long to be left in doubt as to its significance however. Two of the men advanced with a rope and motioned to the boys to place their hands together in front of them. The boys’ reply was emphatic and startling. Frank’s fist shot out, at almost the same moment as Harry’s, and in a second both the Nicaraguan worthies were lying flat on the ground, wondering what had struck them. Far from irritating the officer and his men the boys’ act seemed to amuse them. They shouted with laughter as their injured countrymen picked themselves up and slunk away with black looks at the boys. They muttered something as they went.
“They are saying, señors,” said the polite young officer, “that they hope to form part of the firing squad at your execution.”
In spite of themselves both boys gave a gasp of horror.
“Ah, I see I have shocked you,” went on their persecutor, “is it possible that you did not know that Rogero has been particularly anxious to find you, ever since you so cleverly rescued your young journalistic friend. In fact I expect to get a very handsome reward for your capture. I can assure you that when our scouts reported two American boys in league with the insurgent troops that I lost no time in taking steps to make sure your capture. I must thank you for the charming manner in which you have walked into my trap. What is it you Americans say ‘Will you walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly?’ – ah, yes, that is it. Well, Señors Fly, you see I have you trapped and you might as well submit gracefully to capture.”
Like a flash both boys realized the serious position they were in. “In league with insurgents” their sneering captor had said. It would be a difficult matter to prove that they were not and, as non-combatants, of course, they had no business to be on active service for either army. Both boys knew Rogero too well to expect any mercy from him. Brave as they were their hearts sank but only for a moment.
“Come on, Frank, let’s make a dash for it,” exclaimed Harry. “They can only shoot us.”
Frank put out a detaining hand.
“It would be of no use Harry,” he said, “we are in their power and had better submit. We will find a way out yet, – never fear.”
The boys had carried on this conversation in snatches. This seemed to irritate their captor.
“Do you intend to submit to being bound or shall I have to order my men to club you down,” he demanded.
The cold brutality of his tone struck into both the boys like a lash across the face.
“We will be bound, if you think that is necessary,” replied Frank contemptuously.
“Yes, I do,” replied the officer, “you see you are very slippery customers and we don’t want you to fly away, señors flies;” and he laughed at his abominable joke in a way that made both boys long to hammer him into insensibility.
Two men – not the two the boys had knocked down, these could not be persuaded to go near them regarding them as “diabolos,” – quickly bound their wrists with green hide thongs and then, at a sharp command from the officer, the men marched off through the jungle. Frank and Harry well guarded by a dozen men with fixed bayonets marched in the middle. No wonder their spirits fell to zero.
There was not a chance of escape.
Rapidly the boys’ brains reviewed the situation. Resourceful as they were they could see no way out of their dilemma. They were fairly trapped. Again and again they bitterly blamed their recklessness in taking any part in the revolutionist’s cause, for the fact that they had been caught red handed in the very act of transferring ammunition from the ship to the shore, would be exactly the circumstance Rogero would seize upon to order their execution. They both realized that. Had it not been for that they could have demanded to see their consul and probably Rogero would not have dared to refuse their request – as it was, however, they were to all intents and purposes revolutionists and their fate at Rogero’s hands they could anticipate all too clearly.
At dawn they were on the march once more, after a brief encampment at about midnight. From this hurry they gathered that the force that had attacked Ruiz was not the main branch of the army but a marauding force sent out by Rogero. They did not question that they were on their way to the latter’s headquarters. What would become of them there they had already guessed. They had little time to act if they were to formulate a plan of escape, – but it seemed maddeningly impossible to frame any scheme, that would hold water when it was conned over.
All day they marched through the steaming jungle. Sometimes they forded chocolate-colored sluggish streams and waded through vile morasses, – where huge alligators slipped from rotting logs into the slimy waters, – or blue herons stood in solemn rows, like an army of ghostly soldiers, – seen among the trees. Then again they issued onto savannahs, on which the sun beat down with a heat that seemed to penetrate the skull. All about them the boys could not help noticing the ravages of the earthquake. Once at an early stage of the march they had asked one of their guards what had uprooted so many trees and caused such widespread damage:
“Terremoto,” he replied with a grunt.
At the word Ben Stubbs and Billy flashed across their minds and the night, that seemed now so long ago, on which they had set out from Plateau Camp. As they passed through villages and noticed the havoc all about, – the masses of ruins and the wretched families huddled upon them, picking over the debris for their buried possessions, Frank’s mind reverted to the Treasure Cliff.
How much was left of the passage, after what had evidently been a terrific upheaval of the land. As he thought of this, and communicated his fears that it was completely blocked to Harry, his hand abstractedly – or perhaps through some association of thought – slipped into his pocket and his fingers encountered the rubies they had wrenched from the sculptured quesals beside the gulf of the White Serpents.
If the worst came to the worst he determined to get them to his father somehow and ask him to give Billy Barnes his share. He did not mention his resolution to Harry for the younger boy was deeply depressed and Frank did not want to add to his troubles by obtruding on his mind any of his fears of what their destiny was to be.
All day they marched on; the half-fed looking soldiers seeming as tireless as mountain mules. With the boys the situation was far different; they were not used to forced marches under a tropic sun, and their legs felt like so many pounds of lead long before late afternoon found them advancing over a broad savannah, at the further side of which they could make out a row of palm trees, and gray-iron roofs beyond them, that somehow looked strangely familiar. Before they had gone many yards further they realized why the place seemed as if they had seen it before. The young officer, who had diverted himself over their capture to such a degree, had strode at the head of the column while they were on the march. Now however he fell back and pointed at the scene in front of them with his sword.
“Greytown,” he said.
“We are to camp there?” asked Frank.
The officer replied with a short laugh.
“No; we shall stay there for some time – particularly some of us,” he added with a sneering emphasis, and looking hard at the boys. “General Rogero took possession of the town two days ago,” he added.
This was serious news indeed to the boys whose only hope now lay in an attack by revolutionists which, while it might not do them any good would at least divert attention from their case for several days during which some opportunity to escape or communicate with their friends might present itself. But with Greytown, – a strong strategic point, – in the hands of Rogero and the government forces the outlook was black indeed.
A short time later they entered the town and marched up the well remembered main street, by the hotel where Rogero had shot down poor Jose and into the dusty barracks, from whence they had seen the troops issue, as it seemed to them years before. With their guard pressing closely about them they were about to pass under the gate when a strange thing happened. A bearded man was pressing through the crowd that had surrounded the barracks to see the soldiers and their prisoners march in. Of all that ragged crowd he was the raggedest; but if Frank and Harry had seen an angel they could not have welcomed the sight more than they did the vision of that tattered, bearded man, – for, under the dust and dirt that covered his face, and his wild gestures, – which seemed to redouble as soon as their eyes met, – the boys had recognized Ben Stubbs!
How he had got there they had of course not the remotest idea nor did they know that his errand in town was to buy food for Billy who was played out by the long trip down the San Juan. It was enough for them that he was there near at hand – the first friend they had seen since they left Plateau Camp. Ben on his part seemed equally rejoiced to see them as, it will be remembered, that neither of the two members of the party, left behind at Plateau Camp, had any idea of whether the boys had ridden out the storm in safety or not.
But Ben was typically cautious. With the cunning of an old adventurer he realized that the present was no time to claim acquaintance. Frank and Harry were about to give vent to a loud exclamation when he silenced them by putting a long, brown finger to his lips. The next minute Ben Stubbs was the most active and the loudest of all the crowd, who tried to curry favor with the government troops by reviling the Americans at the top of their voices. To hear Ben Stubbs talk – of course in Spanish – which he spoke like a native, to see his gestures of hatred and contempt a bystander would have thought that the boys had no worse enemy in the world than this scarecrow tatterdemalion whom the crowd jeered at as “loco” (crazy).
It took some time, in the confusion of arrival at the barracks, to get the troops assigned to their quarters in an orderly manner and, during this interval, Frank and Harry, their faces burning with indignation, had to stand, surrounded by their armed guards, in the center of the court and listen to the imprecations of the crowd against Americans, most of which they fortunately could not understand – or they might have been tempted to risk their lives in one dash at the contemptible ruffians who from a safe distance baited them.
While this was going on Ben Stubbs had disappeared and the boys were at a loss to understand and a little angry at his non-appearance. They were not left long to puzzle over it, however, for, after about ten minutes’ wait in the barrack-yard, the crazy figure came dancing in once more amid the shouts of laughter of the disreputable mob that thronged the open space, and came straight up to where Frank and Harry stood guarded by the soldiers. He had in his hand a roll of Spanish bread and, amid the jeers of the crowd he held it high above his head.
“Maybe the Americans are hungry?” he shouted, “perhaps they want bread. Here is some for the procos (pigs) may it poison them and all such perros (dogs).”
With that he hurled the roll at them and the boys, – divining that some meaning lay behind all this rigmarole, – signed to one of the soldiers to pick it up and indicated that they were ravenously hungry, as indeed they were, not having been given anything to eat since early morning. The soldier sullenly thrust the roll into Frank’s pocket and a few minutes later the boys were pushed into a noisome cell and an iron door clanged to. As the key rasped in the lock they felt that it was like the closing of the world’s doors on them and that they were extremely unlikely ever to see another sunset – unless a miracle intervened.
One thing, however, had been done for which they were thankful before the cell door was shut. The thongs that bound their wrists had been cut. This was an unspeakable relief as the green hide of which they were formed had contracted during the day and they had actually cut into the flesh, – causing excruciating agony.
As soon as their guard had paced away from the cell-door Frank eagerly brought the roll out of his pocket. He broke it open, after first carefully examining it for any signs of writing, and then uttered a cry of delight. Imbedded in the soggy crumb of the roll was a neatly folded bit of paper. With trembling hands Frank opened the screed and, with Harry looking over his shoulder, read as follows:
“Deer buoys:
Noe tyme 2 rite mutch wil say bili & mee is cum down thee rivver in a canoo. Thank heving u air save an soun. Now don u wurri ship matz bili and mee wil see noe harm cums to u. benn Stubbs A. B. (able seeman.)”
It was with difficulty the boys kept back their tears as they read this ill-spelled but true-hearted document. As they sank into a troubled sleep on the bare benches of their cell that night both boys felt that they had a friend at work for them who would die himself rather than not use every effort in his power to help them escape from what seemed to be a helplessly locked steel-trap.
