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

“Will that delay us much?”

“Not over a few hours. We will reach Rodania by nightfall.”

The captain was right, for it was not yet six o’clock when, from the side of one mountain, we saw the buildings of Rodania perched upon the side of another. We traveled across the tiny valley separating the two, and just outside of the town Captain Guerez called a halt.

“I think I had better send Jorge ahead and see if the coast is clear,” he said. “The coming of the negro into town will not be noticed, and he can speedily learn if there are any Spaniards about.”

This was agreed upon, and, after receiving his instructions, the colored guide hurried away, to be gone less than half an hour.

“Spanish soldiers dare yesterday,” he announced. “All gone now – on the road to Cubineta.”

“Did they have any prisoners?” questioned Captain Guerez.

“Yes, dree – two Cubans and an Americano.”

“My father!” I cried. “Oh, Captain Guerez, cannot we overtake them before they manage to get him to some fort or prison?”

“We’ll try our best, Mark,” replied Alano’s father.

“Why can’t we travel after them at once?” put in Alano, fairly taking the words out of my mouth.

“We will,” replied his father. “The long noontime rest has left our horses still fresh. Forward, all of you! We will take a short cut, and not visit Rodania at all.”

During the halt I had taken the opportunity to brush off my clothing, which was now thoroughly dry. I had taken a bath at noon, so now felt once more like myself, although several blisters on my neck and hands, received from the fire, hurt not a little. I told Jorge of the bums, and he ran into the woods for several species of moss, which he crushed between two rocks, putting the crushed pulp on the blisters.

“Take burn out soon,” he announced; and he was right. In less than half an hour after the application was made the smarting entirely ceased.

We were now in the depths of a valley back of Rodania, and here the trail (they are called roads in Cuba, but they are only trails, and sometimes hardly that) was so choked up with vines and so soft that our progress was greatly impeded, and about eight o’clock we came to a halt in the darkness.

“The mud beyond is all of two feet deep, and we can’t get through it,” declared one of the men, who had been sent in advance. “We’ll have to go back.”

This was discouraging news, and I looked in perplexity at Alano’s father, whose brow contracted.

“I’ll take a look myself,” he said, and, dismounting so that his horse might not get stuck, advanced on foot.

In my impatience I went with him. The way was very dark, and I suggested that a torch be lighted.

“An excellent plan,” said Alano’s father, and immediately cut a cedar branch. By its blaze we were enabled to see quite well, and succeeded in finding another path around the muddy spot.

To save our horses we walked them for half a mile. It was tough traveling, and the clouds of mosquitoes made the journey almost unendurable. I was glad when, at early dawn, we emerged from the valley on a bit of a rise, where the ground was firm and the growth somewhat limited.

A broad highway now lay before us, the main road from Rodania to Cubineta. It was one of the best highways I had seen since leaving Santiago de Cuba, and this was explained by Captain Guerez, who said the road had been put into condition just previous to the breaking out of the war.

As usual, one of the party was in advance, and this was a lucky thing, for about ten o’clock the soldier came tearing toward us on his horse and motioning us to take to the woods.

Captain Guerez was on the lookout, and turned to us quickly.

“Dismount!” he cried in Spanish, and we leaped to the ground, and led our animals into a thicket growing to the left of the highway. The vidette followed us, stating that a large body of Spanish cavalry was approaching.

We forced our horses into the thicket for fully a hundred feet and tied them fast. Then, with cautious steps, we returned to the vicinity of the road and concealed ourselves behind convenient trees and bushes.

By this time a thunder of hoofs could be heard, and soon the cavalry appeared, at least two hundred strong. They were the finest body of men I had seen in the island, and looked as if they had just come over from Spain, their uniforms and weapons were so clean and new. They were riding at a brisk pace, and hardly had we caught a good look at them than they were gone, leaving a cloud of dust behind them.

Captain Guerez was the first to speak, when they were well out of hearing.

“It’s a good thing we did not run into them,” he remarked grimly. "Our little detachment would have stood small chances with such a body of well-armed men."

“They form a great contrast to the rebels,” I could not help but murmur.

“They do indeed, Mark. But why not? The rebels, especially in this district, were never soldiers. When the war broke out they were without uniforms or weapons; and what was and is worse, many of them knew nothing about the use of a firearm. You will find the men in the western provinces, where the whites predominate, both better trained and clothed – although, let me add, their hearts are no more sturdy or loyal than you will find here in the East.”

Thus talking, we went on and on, until Alano, who had gone ahead this time, came back with the information that Cubineta was in sight.

“And the village seems to be under guard of the Spanish soldiery,” he added, words which caused me, at least, considerable dismay.

CHAPTER XXVI.

A DISHEARTENING DISCOVERY

“Under Spanish guard!” I cried, and looked questioningly at Alano’s father.

“That’s too bad,” he said gravely. “However, there is no help for this unexpected turn of affairs, and we must make the best of it. Alano, my son, you are sure you are not mistaken?”

“There are a number of Spanish soldiers on the highway, and with the field-glass I saw that more soldiers were scattered round about.”

“Then your report must be true. I’ll ride ahead and take a view of the situation.”

I begged to go along, and Captain Guerez agreed. Alano came too, while the others withdrew to a thicket, to avoid being surprised by any of the Spaniards who might be out foraging.

A turn in the highway brought us in full view of Cubineta. Of course we were not foolish enough to expose ourselves. Screened behind bushes and vines, we took a survey through the glass of the place, its people, and the soldiers.

Cubineta was not a large village, but it was a pretty place and evidently thriving – or had been thriving before the war put a blight upon all Cuban industries. There was one long street of stores and dwellings, a church, a casa or town-house, and at the farthest end what looked to be a hastily constructed fort, built of heavy logs and sods.

“The Spaniards are evidently going to use the place as a center or depot for supplies,” was Captain Guerez' comment. “Under the present circumstances I hardly know what is best to do.”

“Perhaps they have my father a prisoner in that fortress,” I suggested.

“It is not unlikely, Mark – if the men who held him have not yet gone further than Cubineta.”

“Can’t we steal into town under cover of night?” I continued.

“We might do that – if it would do any good.”

“I want to join my father at any hazard.”

“That might be very foolish, Mark. How can you assist him if you are yourself made a prisoner?”

“Would they hold a boy like myself?”