When Santiago Fell: or, The War Adventures of Two Chums

And pull we did, until, in spite of the cold rain, each of us was dripping with perspiration and ready to drop with exhaustion.

Boom! a cannon shot rang out, and involuntarily both of us ducked our heads. But the shot flew wide of its mark – so wide, in fact, that we knew not where it went.

“They’ll get out a boat next!” I said. “Pull, Alano; put every ounce of muscle into the stroke.”

“I am doing that already,” he gasped. “We must be getting near the shore. What about the guard there?”

“We’ll have to trust to luck,” I answered.

Another shot came booming over the misty waters, and this time we heard the sizz of the cannon ball as it hit the waves and sank. We were now in the glare of the searchlight, but the mist and rain were in our favor.

“There is the shore!” I cried, on looking around a few seconds later. “Now be prepared to run for it as soon as the boat beaches!”

With a rush our craft shot in between a lot of sea grass and stuck her bow into the soft mud. Dropping our oars, we sprang to the bow and took long leaps to solid ground. We had hardly righted ourselves when there came a call out of the darkness.

“Quien va?” And thus challenging us, a Spanish soldier who was on guard along the water’s edge rushed up to intercept our progress. His bayonet was within a foot of my breast, when Alano jumped under and hurled him to the ground.

“Come!” he cried to me. “Come, ere it is too late!” and away we went, doing the best sprinting we had ever done in our lives. Over a marsh and through a thorny field we dashed, and then struck a narrow path leading directly into a woods. The guard yelled after us and fired his gun, but that was the last we saw or heard of him.

Fearful, however, of pursuit, we did not slacken our pace until compelled to; and then, coming to a thick clump of grass at the foot of a half-decayed banana tree, we sank down completely out of breath. I had never taken such fearful chances on my life before, and I trusted I would never have to do so again, little dreaming of all the perils which still lay before us.

“I believe we are safe for the present,” said Alano, when he could get his breath. “I wonder where we are?”

“We’re in a very dark, dirty, and wet woods,” I returned gloomily. “Have we got to remain here all night?”

“It’s better than being in a Spanish prison,” replied my Cuban chum simply. “We can go on after we are a bit rested.”

The rain was coming down upon the broad leaves of the banana tree at a lively rate, but Alano said he thought it must be a clearing shower, and so it soon proved to be. But scarcely had the drops ceased to fall than a host of mosquitoes and other insects arose, keeping us more than busy.

“We must get out of this!” I exclaimed, when I could stand the tiny pests no longer. “I’m being literally chewed up alive. And, see, there is a lizard!” And I shook the thing from my arm.

“Oh, you mustn’t mind such things in Cuba!” said Alano, laughing shortly. "Why, we have worse things than that – snakes and alligators, and the like. But come on, if you are rested. It may be we’ll soon strike some sort of shelter."

Luckily, through all the excitement we had retained our valises, which were slung across our backs by straps thrown over the shoulder. From my own I now extracted a large handkerchief, and this served, when placed in my broad-brimmed hat, to protect my neck and ears from the insects. As for Alano, he was acclimated and did not seem to be bothered at all.

We pursued our way through the woods, and then ascended a steep bank of clay, at the top of which was a well-made road leading to the northward. We looked up and down, but not a habitation or building of any kind was in sight.

“It leads somewhere,” said Alano, after a pause. “Let us go on, but with care, for perhaps the Spanish Government has guards even as far out as this.”

On we went once more, picking our way around the numerous pools and bog-holes in the road. The stars were now coming out, and we could consequently see much better than before.

“A light!” I cried, when quarter of a mile had been traversed. “See, Alano.”

“It must be from a plantation,” he answered. “If it is, the chances are that the owner is a Spanish sympathizer – he wouldn’t dare to be anything else, so close to the city.”

“But he might aid us in secret,” I suggested.

Alano shrugged his shoulders, and we proceeded more slowly. Then he caught my arm.

“There is a sugar-house back of that canefield,” he said. “We may find shelter there.”

“Anywhere – so we can catch a few hours' nap.”

We proceeded around the field with caution, for the plantation house was not far away. Passing a building where the grinding was done, we entered a long, low drying shed. Here we struck a match, and by the flickering light espied a heap of dry husks, upon which we immediately threw ourselves.

“We’ll have to be up and away before daybreak,” said my chum, as he drew off his wet coat, an example which I at once followed, even though it was so warm I did not suffer greatly from the dampness. “We would be sorry fellows to give an explanation if we were stopped in this vicinity.”

“Yes, and for the matter of that, we had better sleep with one eye open,” I rejoined. And then we turned in, and both presently fell asleep through sheer exhaustion.

How long I had been sleeping I did not know. I awoke with a start, to find a cold nose pressing against my face.

“Hi! get out of here!” I cried, and then the owner of the nose leaped back and uttered the low, savage, and unmistakable growl of a Cuban bloodhound!

CHAPTER III.

IN THE WILDS OF THE ISLAND

To say that I was alarmed when I found that the intruder in our sleeping quarters was a bloodhound would be to put the fact very mildly. I was truly horrified, and a chill shook my frame as I had a momentary vision of being torn to pieces by the bloodthirsty animal.

My cry awoke Alano, who instantly asked what was the matter, and then yelled at the beast in Spanish. As the creature retreated, evidently to prepare for a rush upon us, I sprang to my feet and grasped a short ladder which led to the roof of the shed.

“Come!” I roared to my chum, and Alano did so; and both of us scrambled up, with the bloodhound snarling and snatching at our feet. He even caught the heel of my boot, but I kicked him off, and we reached the top of the shed in temporary safety. Baffled, the dog ran out of the shed and began to bay loudly, as though summoning assistance.

“We’re in for it now!” I groaned. "We can’t get away from the dog, and he’ll arouse somebody before long."

“Well, we can’t help ourselves,” replied Alano, with a philosophical shrug of his shoulders. “Ha! somebody is coming now!”

He pointed through the semi-darkness, for it was close to sunrise. A Cuban negro was approaching, a huge fellow all of six feet tall and dressed in the garb of an overseer. He carried a little triangular lantern, and as he drew closer he yelled at the bloodhound in a Cuban patois which was all Greek to me, but which Alano readily understood. The dog stopped baying, but insisted upon leading his master to the very foot of the shed, where he stood with his nose pointed up at us.

There was no help for it, so Alano crawled to the edge of the roof and told the overseer what was the trouble – that the dog had driven us hither and that we were afraid of being killed. A short conversation followed, and then my chum turned to me.

“We can go down now,” he said. “The overseer says the dog will not touch us so long as he is around.”

We leaped to the ground, although I must admit I did not do so with a mind perfectly at ease, the bloodhound still looked so ugly. However, beyond a few sniffs at my trousers-leg and a deep rumble of his voice, he offered no further indignities.

“He wants to know who we are,” said Alano, after more conversation. “What shall I tell him?”

“Tell him the truth, and ask him for help to reach your father’s plantation, Alano. He won’t know we escaped from Santiago de Cuba without permission.”

Alano did as directed. At the mention of Senor Guerez' name the overseer held up his hands in astonishment. He told Alano that he knew his father well, that he had met the señor only two weeks previously, and that both Alano’s father and my own had thrown in their fortunes with the insurgents!

“Is it possible!” I ejaculated. “My father, too! Why, he must be still lame!”

“He is,” said Alano, after further consultation with the newcomer. “My father, it seems, had to join the rebels, or his plantation would have been burned to the ground. There was a quarrel with some Spanish sympathizers, and in the end both your father and mine joined the forces under General Calixto Garcia.”

“And where are they now?”

“The overseer does not know.”