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

The locomotive kept coming closer, and presently we heard the rattle of the cars as they bumped over the rails, which were far from being well ballasted. The captain was peering out from behind the tree branches, and he gave a deep breath as a flash of lightning lit up the scene.

“It is a freight train!” he exclaimed softly. “Come down to the branch below, all of you!”

We understood him, and one after another we dropped to the branch mentioned. It was directly over the track upon which the freight was pounding along, and we calculated that the distance to the top of the tallest cars would not be over six or eight feet.

“We can’t jump with that train running at twenty or thirty miles an hour,” I said, with a shudder. “We’ll slip and be ground to death under the car wheels.”

“Mark is right – a jump is out of the question,” added Gilbert Burnham. “I’d rather risk staying here.”

“The train may have supplies for the soldiers about here and stop,” whispered Captain Guerez. “Watch your chances.”

On and on came the train, and in a few seconds more we realized that those in charge had no intention of stopping in that vicinity. Yet as the headlight came closer we lowered ourselves in readiness to make a leap.

Suddenly there was a shrill whistle, and down went some of the brakes on the long train. I glanced in the opposite direction from whence the freight had come and saw on the tracks one of our runaway horses, which stood staring in alarm at the glaring headlight. Evidently the engineer had been startled by the sudden appearance of the animal, and, not realizing exactly what it was, had, on the impulse of the moment, reversed the locomotive’s lever and whistled for brakes.

The train could not be stopped in time to save the beast, which was struck and sent rolling over and over down the embankment. Then the train went on still further, the locomotive finally coming to a halt about fifty yards beyond the tree upon which all of us were perched.

As it slowed up the top of one of the tall freight cars rolled directly beneath us. Giving the word to follow, Captain Guerez let himself drop on the “running board,” as it is termed by train hands – that is, the board running along the center of the top of a freight car from end to end. All of us came after him, the quartette landing in a row less than two yards apart. As soon as each had struck in safety he lay down flat, that those below the embankment, as well as those on the train, might not have such an easy chance to discover us.

Scarcely had the train halted than some of the Spanish soldiers came running up to ascertain why it had stopped. But their shouting evidently frightened the train hands, who possibly thought a band of rebels was at hand and that the horse on the track had been a ruse to stop them. The engineer whistled to release brakes, and put on a full head of steam, and on went the train, while the Spaniards yelled in dismay and flourished their weapons.

“By Jove! that was a move worth making!” remarked Gilbert Burnham, after the long train had covered at least an eighth of a mile. “We are clear of those chaps now.”

“Where will this train take us?” asked Alano of his father.

“The next village is Comaro, but I do not know if the train will stop,” was the reply. “Two miles further on is Los Harmona, but we must not go there, for I understand there is a strong Spanish garrison stationed in the village. Let us get down between the cars and watch our chance to spring off. If we remain here some of the brakemen may come along and give the alarm.”

The lightning and thunder were decreasing in violence, and the rain had settled into a thin but steady downpour. The captain was nearest to the front end of the freight car, and led the way down the narrow ladder to the platform below. Once on this, and on the platform of the car ahead, we divided into pairs on either side and awaited a favorable opportunity to leave the train.

Comaro was reached and passed in the darkness, and the long freight began to pull out for Los Harmona at a steady rate of twenty-five miles or more an hour. No chance had been given us to jump off without great danger, and now it began to look as if we would be carried right into the fortified town, or further.

“Some distance below here is, unless I am greatly mistaken, a wide patch of meadow,” said Captain Guerez. “I do not believe a leap into the water and mud would hurt any of us very much, and, under the circumstances, I am in favor of taking the risk, in preference to being carried into Los Harmona.”

“If you go I will follow,” I said, and Alano said the same.

“Well, I don’t intend to be left alone,” smiled Burnham grimly. “But what will we do after we strike the meadow?”

“The meadow is not very broad,” answered the captain, “and beyond is a highway leading almost directly into Guantanamo. We will take to this highway and trust to luck to get on as originally intended. Of course the loss of our horses is a heavy one, but this cannot be helped. If we – Ha!”

Captain Guerez stopped short, and not without good reason. From the interior of the freight car had come the unmistakable sounds of human voices. We heard first two men talking, then a dozen or more. The conversation was in Spanish, and I did not understand it. But Alano and his father did, and my Cuban chum turned to Burnham and me in high excitement.

“What do you think!” he whispered. “This car is filled with Spanish soldiers bound for Guantanamo! They heard us talking, and they are going to investigate and find out where we are and who we are!”

CHAPTER XXXII.

A LEAP IN THE DARK

My readers can readily believe that all of us were much alarmed at the prospect ahead. We had not dreamed that the freight car contained soldiers, although all of us had heard that the Spanish Government was transporting troops by this means wherever the railroads ran.

Alano had scarcely explained the situation, when Captain Guerez motioned us to withdraw from the side edges of the platforms, so that the soldiers looking out of the broad side doors of the car could not catch sight of us.

“We must jump as soon as the meadow appears,” whispered the captain. “Be prepared, all of you.”

He had scarcely finished when we heard a clatter of feet, and knew that one or more of the Spaniards had crawled from a side door to the top of the car. Then followed cautious footsteps in the direction of the rear platform. Finding no one there, the Spanish soldiers came forward.

“Ha!” cried one, as he espied Captain Guerez. “Who are you?”

“Friends,” was the reply, of course in Spanish.

“Friends? And why ride out here, then?”

“We have no money, capitan. We are dirt-poor.”

“And where do you intend to go?”

“Los Harmona – if the train will ever reach there.”

“What will you do there?”

“We may join the Spanish soldiery, capitan– if you will take us.”

“Ha!” The Spanish officer tugged at his heavy mustache. He was only a sergeant, but it pleased him to be called captain. “Why did you not come into the car instead of sneaking around outside? If you want to become soldiers we will take you along fast enough. But you must not play us false. Come up here.”

“I am afraid – I may fall off,” answered Alano’s father, in a trembling voice.

All the while the conversation had been carried on he had been peering sharply ahead for the meadow and the water to appear. We now shot out of the woods, and on either side could be seen long stretches of swamp. He turned to us and spoke in English. “All ready to jump?”

“Yes,” we answered in concert.

“Then jump – all together!”

And away we went, leaving the rude steps of the freight cars with an impetus that took each several yards from the tracks. I made a straight leap and landed on my feet, but as quickly rolled over on my shoulder in the wet grass. Burnham came close to me, but took a header, which filled his nose and one ear with black mud. Alano and his father were on the opposite side of the track.

A pistol shot rang out, followed by half a dozen more, but the bullets did not reach any of us. In a moment the long train had rolled out of sight. We watched its rear light for fully an eighth of a mile, when it disappeared around a bend behind a bit of upland.

“Hullo, Mark, how are you?” It was the voice of Alano, who came up on the tracks directly the freight had passed. He was not hurt in the least. Captain Guerez had scratched one arm on a bit of low brush, but outside of this the entire party was uninjured.

“Come now, follow me; there is no time to be lost,” said the captain. “Those soldiers may take it into their heads to have the train run back in search of us.”

“Yes, that’s true,” said Burnham. “Which way now?”

“We’ll walk back on the tracks until we reach dry ground.”

The plunge into the wet meadow had completed the work of the rain in soaking us to the skin, but as the night was warm we did not mind this. Keeping our eyes on the alert for more Spanish sentries, we hurried along the railroad embankment for a distance of several hundred yards. Then we left the tracks and took a trail leading southward.

Our various adventures for the past few hours had completely exhausted Burnham, while the others of the party were greatly fatigued. The newspaper man was in favor of stopping under a clump of palm trees and resting, but Captain Guerez demurred.

“We’ll reach a hut or a house ere long,” he said. “And there the accommodations will be much better.”