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

“You’re all right – they have put you in a cell with me,” I hastened to reassure him, and then he sat up.

“Who – what – ” he paused. “In a cell, eh? And they caught you, too?”

“Yes.”

“That’s too bad.” He drew a deep breath. “Did you fight with them?”

“No. I saw it would be no use.”

“I was a fool to do it. I’m too hot-blooded for this sort of work. I ought to have stayed in Boston reporting local affairs.”

“Are you a reporter?”

“Hush! Yes; but I don’t want it to become known if I can help it. They think I am nothing more than an inquisitive American.”

“Then why did they lock you up?”

“That was more of my hot-headedness. I was sketching a picture of the town and this fort or prison, when a Spanish officer came up and tried to snatch the drawing from my hand. Instead of demanding an explanation I promptly knocked him down. Then a couple of guards ran for me, and I dusted. But it was no use. They sent a company of soldiers after me, and here I am.”

“And here we are both likely to remain for some time to come,” I added bitterly.

“Looks that way, that’s a fact. By the way, you said something about your father, didn’t you?”

"Yes. My father is a prisoner of the Spaniards, and I felt almost certain he was in this fort."

“What’s your father’s name?”

“Richard Carter. My name is Mark.”

“And my name is Gilbert Burnham. I’ve heard of your father, come to think of it. He joined the Cuban army along with a plantation owner named Guerez and another American named Hawley.”

“You are right. Did you hear anything at all of him here in Cubineta or the vicinity?”

“No. But then, you see, that is not strange, as I talk very little Spanish. I certainly haven’t seen any Americans here but you and myself.”

Gilbert Burnham asked me to tell him my story; and, feeling that I could lose nothing by so doing, I favored him with a recital of my efforts to get to my father. He was quite interested.

“By Jove, young man, if I get clear from here I’ll do what I can to help you,” he said.

Then he told me his own history – how he had grown tired of newspaper reporting in Boston and begged the head editor of the paper he represented to send him on an “assignment” to Cuba. He had been in the island four months, and had had a varied list of adventures, although none of a particularly thrilling or perilous nature.

“But now it looks as though I was in for it,” he concluded moodily. “That officer I knocked down will make matters as hard as he can for me.”

“And I’m afraid trying to break away from prison won’t help matters,” I said.

“You are right there. But, heigho! we must make the best of it.”

Yet making the best of it was small satisfaction to me. Tired out in body and mind, I sank down in a corner of the gloomy and damp cell and gave myself up to my bitter reflections.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

A BATTLE ON LAND AND WATER

It was about eight o’clock in the morning that the door of the prison cell was opened and Gilbert Burnham and I were ordered to march out into a larger apartment.

The order was given by a Spanish officer who spoke fairly good English, and the officer was backed up by a guard of eight men, all well armed.

“They are going to run no chances on us now,” remarked the newspaper correspondent, as he arose from the floor, upon which he had been resting.

“We had better be as civil as possible,” I answered. “If we anger them they have it in their power to make us mighty uncomfortable.”

“I’ll keep as civil as my hot-headedness will permit,” he grumbled.

We were led from one end of the fort to the other, where there was a narrow room, provided with a small, square table and half a dozen benches. At the table sat several officers I had seen before. One was a particularly ugly-looking fellow, and Burnham nudged me and said this chap was the fellow he had knocked down.

“And he’s got it in for me,” he added.

I was marched to the front of the table, and the officer who could speak English forced me to clasp my hands behind me. This done, one of the officers at the table asked a number of questions in Spanish.

“No habla V. castellano? [Do you not speak Spanish?]” he asked me.

“No, señor,” I replied.

He glared at me suspiciously for a moment, then spoke to the other officer.

“Who you are?” demanded the latter.

“I am Mark Carter, an American boy. I came to Cuba to join my father, who was stopping at a plantation near Guantanamo.”

This was repeated in Spanish. At the mention of my name several of those present exchanged glances.

“You son of Richard Carter?” was the next question.

“Yes, señor. I understand he is a prisoner. Is it true?”

My question remained unanswered, and it was plain that my captors intended to give me no information.

“Why you break in the fort? Did this man pay you to do that?” And the Spanish officer pointed to Gilbert Burnham.

“I never saw or heard of this man before, señor. I broke in because I thought my father was a prisoner there. I heard an American was there, and I thought it must be he.”

“Aha, I see! Well, your father is not here, as you have found out.”

“Where is he?”

This question also remained unanswered. The officers began to consult among themselves, and then I was ordered back to the cell. I tried to protest, and pleaded for liberty, for a chance to find my parent, but it was all in vain. I was hustled off without ceremony and made as close a prisoner as before.

It was nearly noon before Gilbert Burnham joined me. In the meantime I had had nothing to eat or drink, and was beginning to wonder if my enemies meant to let me die of hunger and thirst.