Kitabı oku: «When Santiago Fell: or, The War Adventures of Two Chums», sayfa 3
CHAPTER VII.
FOOLING THE SPANISH GUERRILLAS
“Halte!”
It was the cry of the nearest of the Spanish horsemen. He had espied us just as Alano let out his cry of alarm, and now he came galloping toward us at a rapid gait.
“Let us run!” I ejaculated to my Cuban chum. “It is our only chance.”
“Yes, yes! but to where?” he gasped, staring around in bewilderment. On one side of the road was a woods of mahogany, on the other some palms and plantains, with here and there a great rock covered with thick vines.
“Among the rocks – anywhere!” I returned. “Come!” And, catching his hand, I led the way from the road while the horseman was yet a hundred feet from us.
Another cry rang out – one I could not understand, and a shot followed, clipping through the broad leaves over our heads. The horseman left the road, but soon came to a stop, his animal’s progress blocked by the trees and rocks. He yelled to his companions, and all of the guerrillas came up at topmost speed.
“They will dismount and be after us in a minute!” gasped Alano. “Hark! they are coming already!”
“On! on!” I urged. “We’ll find some hiding-place soon.”
Around the rocks and under the low-hanging plantains we sped, until the road was left a hundred yards behind. Then we came to a gully, where the vegetation was heavy. Alano pointed down to it.
“We can hide there,” he whispered. “But we will be in danger of snakes. Yet it is the best we can do.”
I hesitated. To make the acquaintanceship of a serpent in that dense grass was not pleasant to contemplate. But what else was there to do? The footsteps of our pursuers sounded nearer.
Down went Alano, making leaps from rock to rock, so that no trail would be left. I followed at his heels, and, coming to a rock which was partly hollowed out at one side and thickly overgrown, we crouched under it and pulled the vines and creepers over us.
It was a damp, unwholesome spot, but there was no help for it, and when several enormous black beetles dropped down and crawled around my neck I shut my lips hard to keep from crying out. We must escape from the enemy, no matter what the cost, for even if they did not make us prisoners we knew they would take all we possessed and even strip the coats from our backs.
Peering from between the vines, we presently caught sight of three of the Spaniards standing at the top of the gully, pistols in hand, on the alert for a sight of us. They were dark, ugly-looking fellows, with heavy black mustaches and faces which had not had a thorough washing in months. They were dressed in the military uniform of Spain, and carried extra bags of canvas slung from their shoulders, evidently meant for booty. That they were tough customers Alano said one could tell by their vile manner of speech.
“Do you see them, Carlo?” demanded one of the number. “I thought they went down this hollow?”
“I see nothing,” was the answer, coupled with a vile exclamation. “They disappeared as if by magic.”
“They were but boys.”
“Never mind, they were rebels – that is enough,” put in the third guerrilla, as he chewed his mustache viciously. “I wish I could get a shot at them.”
At this Alano pulled out his pistol and motioned for me to do the same.
“We may as well be prepared for the worst,” he whispered into my ear. “They are not soldiers, they are robbers – bandits.”
“They look bad enough for anything,” I answered, and produced my weapon, which I had not discharged since the brush with the alligator.
“If they are in the hollow it is odd we do not see them on their trail,” went on one of the bandits. “Perhaps they went around.”
His companions shook their heads.
“I’ll thrash around a bit,” said one of them; and, leaving the brink of the gully, he started straight for our hiding-place.
My heart leaped into my throat, and I feared immediate discovery. As for Alano, he shoved his pistol under his coat, and I heard a muffled click as the hammer was raised.
When within ten feet of us the ugly fellow stopped, and I fairly held my breath, while my heart appeared to beat like a trip-hammer. He looked squarely at the rock which sheltered us, and I could not believe he would miss discovering us. Once he started and raised his pistol, and I imagined our time had come; but then he turned to one side, and I breathed easier.
“They did not come this way, capitan!” he shouted. “Let us go around the hollow.”
In another moment all three of the bandits were out of sight. We heard them moving in the undergrowth behind us, and one of them gave a scream as a snake was stirred up and dispatched with a saber. Then all became quiet.
“What is best to do now?” I asked, when I thought it safe to speak.
“Hush!” whispered Alano. “They may be playing us dark.”
A quarter of an hour passed, – it seemed ten times that period of time just then, – and we heard them coming back. They were very angry at their want of success; and had we been discovered, our fate would undoubtedly have been a hard one. They stalked back to the road, and a moment later we heard the hoof-strokes of their horses receding in the distance.
“Hurrah!” I shouted, but in a very subdued tone. “That’s the time we fooled them, Alano.”
My Cuban chum smiled grimly. “Yes, Mark, but we must be more careful in the future. Had we not been so busy talking we might have heard their horses long before they came into view. However, the scare is over, so let us put our best foot forward once again.”
“If only we had horses too!” I sighed. “My feet are beginning to get sore from the uneven walking.”
“Horses would truly be convenient at times. But we haven’t them, and must make the best of it. When we stop for our next meal you had best take off your boots and bathe your feet. You will be astonished how much rest that will afford them.”
I followed this advice, and found Alano was right; and after that I bathed my feet as often as I got the chance. Alano suffered no inconvenience in this particular, having climbed the hills since childhood.
We were again on rising ground, and now passed through a heavy wood of cedars, the lower branches sweeping our hats as we passed. This thick shade was very acceptable, for the glare of the sun had nearly blinded me, while more than once I felt as if I would faint from the intense heat.
“It’s not such a delightful island as I fancied it,” I said to my chum. “I much prefer the United States.”
“That depends,” laughed Alano. “The White Mountains or the Adirondacks are perhaps nicer, but what of the forests and everglades in Florida?”
“Just as bad as this, I suppose.”
“Yes, and worse, for the ground is wetter, I believe. But come, don’t lag. We must make several more miles before we rest.”
We proceeded up a hill and across a level space which was somewhat cleared of brush and trees. Beyond we caught sight of a thatched hut. Hardly had it come into view than from its interior we heard a faint cry for help.
CHAPTER VIII.
ANDRES
“What is that?” ejaculated Alano, stopping short and catching my arm.
“A cry of some kind,” I answered. “Listen!”
We stepped behind some trees, to avoid any enemies who might be about, and remained silent. Again came the cry.
“It is a man in distress!” said Alano presently. “He asks us not to desert him.”
“Then he probably saw us from the window of the hut. What had we best do?”
“You remain here, and I will investigate,” rejoined my Cuban chum.
With caution he approached the thatched hut, a miserable affair, scarcely twelve feet square and six feet high, with the trunks of palm trees as the four corner-posts. There were one tiny window and a narrow door, and Alano after some hesitation entered the latter, pistol in hand.
“Come, Mark!” he cried presently, and I ran forward and joined him.
A pitiable scene presented itself. Closely bound to a post which ran up beside the window was a Cuban negro of perhaps fifty years of age, gray-haired and wrinkled. He was scantily clothed, and the cruel green-hide cords which bound him had cut deeply into his flesh, in many places to such an extent that the blood was flowing. The negro’s tongue was much swollen, and the first thing he begged for upon being released was a drink of water.
We obtained the water, and also gave him what we could to eat, for which he thanked us over and over again, and would have kissed our hands had we permitted it. He was a tall man, but so thin he looked almost like a skeleton.
“For two days was I tied up,” he explained to Alano, in his Spanish patois. “I thought I would die of hunger and thirst, when, on raising my eyes, I beheld you and your companion. Heaven be praised for sending you! Andres will never forget you for your goodness, never!”
“And how came you in this position?” questioned my chum.
“Ah, dare I tell, master?”
“You are a rebel?”
The negro lowered his eyes and was silent.
“If you are, you have nothing to fear from us,” continued Alano.
“Ah – good! good!” Andres wrung his hand. “Yes, I am a rebel. For two years I fought under our good General Maceo and under Garcia. But I am old, I cannot climb the mountains as of yore, and I got sick and was sent back. The Spanish soldiers followed me, robbed me of what little I possessed, and, instead of shooting me, bound me to the post as a torture. Ah, but they are a cruel set!” And the eyes of the negro glowed wrathfully. “If only I was younger!”
“Were the Spaniards on horseback?” asked Alano.
“Yes, master – a dozen of them.”
Alano described the bandits we had met, and Andres felt certain they must be the same crowd. The poor fellow could scarcely stand, and sank down on a bed of cedar boughs and palm branches. We did what we could for him, and in return he invited us to make his poor home our own.
There was a rude fireplace behind the hut, and here hung a great iron pot. Rekindling the fire, we set the pot to boiling; and Andres hobbled around to prepare a soup, or rather broth, made of green plantains, rice, and a bit of dried meat the bandits had not discovered, flavoring the whole mess with garlic. The dish was not particularly appetizing to me, but I was tremendously hungry and made way with a fair share of it, while Alano apparently enjoyed his portion.
It was dark when the meal was finished, and we decided to remain at the hut all night, satisfied that we would be about as secure there as anywhere. The smoke of the smoldering fire kept the mosquitoes and gnats at a distance, and Andres found for us a couple of grass hammocks, which, when slung from the corner-posts, made very comfortable resting-places.
During the evening Alano questioned Andres closely, and learned that General Garcia was pushing on toward Guantanamo, as we had previously been informed. Andres did not know Señor Guerez, but he asserted that many planters throughout the district had joined the rebel forces, deserting their canefields and taking all of their help with them.
“The men are poorly armed,” he continued. “Some have only their canefield knives – but even with these they are a match for the Spanish soldiers, on account of their bravery” – an assertion which later on proved, for the greater part, to be true.
The night passed without an alarm of any kind, and before sunrise we were stirring around, preparing a few small fish Alano had been lucky enough to catch in a near-by mountain stream. These fish Andres baked by rolling them in a casing of clay; and never have I eaten anything which tasted more delicious.
Before we left him the Cuban negro gave us minute directions for reaching the rear guard of the rebel army. He said the password was still “Maysi.”
“You had better join the army,” he said, on parting. “You will gain nothing by trying to go around. And you, master Alano – if your father has joined the forces, it may be that will gain you a horse and full directions as to just where your parent is,” and as we trudged off Andres wished us Godspeed and good luck over and over again, with a friendly wave of his black bony hand.
The cool spell, although it was really only cool by contrast, had utterly passed, and as the sun came up it seemed to fairly strike one a blow upon the head. We were traveling along the edge of a low cliff, and shade was scarce, although we took advantage of every bit which came in our way. The perspiration poured from our faces, necks, and hands; and about ten o’clock I was forced to call a halt and throw myself on my back on the ground.
“I knew it would be so,” said my chum. "That is why I called for an early start. We might as well rest until two or three in the afternoon. Very few people travel here in the heat of the day."
“It is suffocating,” I murmured. “Like one great bake-oven and steam-laundry combined.”
“That is what makes the vegetation flourish,” he smiled. “Just see how it grows!”
I did not have far to look to notice it. Before us was a forest of grenadillo and rosewood, behind us palms and plantains, with an occasional cacao and mahogany tree. The ground was covered with long grass and low brush, and over all hung the festoons of vines of many colors, some blooming profusely. A smell of “something growing green” filled the hot air, and from every side arose the hum of countless insects and the occasional note of a bird.
“I wouldn’t remain on the ground too long,” remarked Alano presently. “When one is hot and lies down, that is the time to take on a fever. Better rest in yonder tree – it is more healthy; and, besides, if there is any breeze stirring, there is where you will catch it.”
“We might as well be on a deserted island as to be in Cuba,” I said, after both of us had climbed into a mahogany tree. “There is not a building nor a human soul in sight. I half believe we are lost again.”
Alano smiled. "Let us rather say, as your Indian said, 'We are not lost, we are here. The army and the towns and villages are lost,'" and he laughed at the old joke, which had been the first he had ever read, in English, in a magazine at Broxville Academy.
“Well, it’s just as bad, Alano. I, for one, am tired of tramping up hill and down. If we could reach the army and get a couple of horses, it would be a great improvement.”
My chum was about to reply to this, when he paused and gave a start. And I started, too, when I saw what was the trouble. On a limb directly over us, and ready to descend upon our very heads, was a serpent all of six feet in length!
CHAPTER IX.
ACROSS THE CANEFIELDS
“Look, Mark!” ejaculated Alano.
“A snake!” I yelled. “Drop! drop!”
I had already dropped to the limb upon which I had been sitting. Now, swinging myself by the hands, I let go and descended to the ground, a distance of twelve or fifteen feet.
In less than a second my Cuban chum came tumbling after me. The fall was no mean one, and had the grass under the tree been less deep we might have suffered a sprained ankle or other injury. As it was, we both fell upon our hands and knees.
Gazing up at the limb we had left, we saw the serpent glaring down at us, its angry eyes shining like twin diamonds. How evil its intention had been we could but surmise. It was possible it had intended to attack us both. It slid from the upper limb to the lower, and stretched out its long, curling neck, while it emitted a hiss that chilled my blood.
“It’s coming down! Run!” I began; when bang! went Alano’s pistol, and I saw the serpent give a quiver, and coil and uncoil itself around the limb. The bullet had entered its neck, but it was not fatally wounded; and now it came for us, landing in the grass not a dozen feet from where we stood.
Luckily, while traveling along the hills, we had provided ourselves with stout sticks to aid us in climbing. These lay near, and, picking one up, I stood on the defensive, certain the reptile would not dare to show much fight. But it did, and darted for me with its dull-colored head raised a few inches out of the grass.
With all of the strength at my command I swung the stick around the instant it came within reach. It tried to dodge, but failed; and, struck in the neck, turned over and over as though more than half stunned.
By this time Alano had secured the second stick, and now he rushed in and belabored the serpent over the head and body until it was nearly beaten into a jelly. I turned sick at the sight, and was glad enough when it was all over and the reptile was dead beyond all question.
“That was a narrow escape!” I panted. “Alano, don’t you advise me to rest in a tree again. I would rather run the risk of fever ten times over.”
“Serpents are just as bad in the grass,” he replied simply. “Supposing he had come up when you were flat on your back!”
“Let us get away from here – there may be more. And throw away that stick – it may have poison on it.”
“That serpent was not poisonous, Mark. But I will throw it away, – it is so covered with blood, – and we can easily cut new ones.”
The excitement had made me forget the heat, and we went on for over a mile. Then, coming to a mountain stream, we sat down to take it easy until the sun had passed the zenith and it was a trifle cooler.
About four o’clock in the afternoon, or evening, as they call it in Cuba, we reached the end of the woods and came to the edge of an immense sugar-cane field. The cane waved high over our heads, so that what buildings might be beyond were cut off from view. There was a rough cart-road through the field, and after some hesitation we took to this, it being the only road in sight.
We had traveled on a distance of half a mile when we reached a series of storehouses, each silent and deserted. Beyond was a house, probably belonging to the overseer of the plantation, and this was likewise without occupant, the windows and doors shut tightly and bolted.
“All off to the war, I suppose,” I said. “And I had half an idea we might get a chance to sleep in a bed to-night.”
“We might take possession,” Alano suggested.
But to this proposition I shook my head. “We might be caught and shot as intruders. Come on. Perhaps the house of the owner is further on.”
Stopping for a drink at an old-fashioned well, we went on through the sugar cane until we reached a small stream, beyond which was a boggy spot several acres in extent.
“We’ll have to go around, Alano,” I said. “Which way will be best?”
“The ground appears to rise to our left,” he answered. “We’ll try in that direction.”
Pushing directly through the cane, I soon discovered, was no mean work. It was often well-nigh impossible to break aside the stout stalks, and the stubble underfoot was more than trying to the feet. We went on a distance of a hundred yards, and then on again to the stream, only to find the same bog beyond.
“We’ll have to go further yet,” said Alano. “Come, Mark, ere the sun gets too low.”
“Just a few minutes of rest,” I pleaded, and pulled down the top of a cane. The sweet juice was exceedingly refreshing, but it soon caused a tremendous thirst, which I gladly slaked at the not over clear stream. Another jog of quarter of an hour, and we managed to cross at a point which looked like solid ground.
“How far do you suppose this field extends?” I asked.
“I have no idea; perhaps but a short distance, and then again it may be a mile or more. Some of the plantations out here are very large.”
“Do you think we can get back to the road? I can’t go much further through this stubble.”
“I’ll break the way, Mark. You follow me.”
On we went in the direction we imagined the trail to be, but taking care to avoid the bog. I was almost ready to drop from exhaustion, when Alano halted.
“Mark!”
“What now, Alano?”
“Do you know where we are?”
“In a sugar-cane field,” I said, trying to keep up my courage.
“Exactly, but we are lost in it.”
I stared at him.
“Can one become lost in a sugar-cane field?” I queried.
“Yes, and badly lost, for there is nothing one can climb to take a view of the surroundings. Even if you were to get upon my shoulders you could see but little.”
“I’ll try it,” I answered, and did so without delay, for the sun was now sinking in the west.
But my chum had been right; try my best I could not look across the waving cane-tops. We were hedged in on all sides, with only the setting sun to mark our course.
“It’s worse than being out on an open prairie,” I remarked. “What shall we do?”
“There is but one thing – push on,” rejoined Alano gravely; “unless you want to spend a night here.”
Again we went on, but more slowly, for even my chum was now weary. The wet ground passed, we struck another reach of upland, and this gave us hope, for we knew the sugar cane would not grow up the hills. But the rise soon came to an end, and we found ourselves going down into a worse hollow than that we had left. Ere we knew it, the water was forming around our boots.
“We must go back!” I cried.
“I think it is drier a few yards beyond,” said Alano. “Don’t go back yet.”
The sun had set, so far as we were concerned, and it was dark at the foot of the cane-stalks. We plowed on, getting deeper and deeper into the bog or mire. It was a sticky paste, and I could hardly move one foot after another. I called to Alano to halt, and I had scarcely done so when he uttered an ejaculation of disgust.
“What is it?” I called.
“I can’t move – I am stuck!”
I looked ahead and saw that he spoke the truth. He had sunk to the tops of his boots, and every effort to extricate himself only made him settle deeper.
I endeavored to gain his side and aid him, but it was useless. Ere I was aware I was as deep and deeper than Alano, and there we stood, – and stuck, – unable to help ourselves, with night closing rapidly in upon us.
