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

These words caused me to utter a deep sigh of relief. They had not discovered us, and now they were going away. But the next words sent a chill down my backbone.

“Can there be a cellar under the house?” questioned one of the others.

“There is no cellar,” said Murillo simply. “There is a little hole, half full of water. You can look down if you wish.”

“We will.”

What could it mean? We held our breath as the old man led the way to the apartment used as a kitchen. We heard him raise another trapdoor, some distance behind us.

“Humph! A man would be a fool to get in there!” we heard the officer remark, and then the trap was dropped again into place. “We will go.”

The soldiers passed through the kitchen and toward the front door. One of them must have taken a last look around, for suddenly he uttered a cry.

“Ha! what is this? A collar and a tie! Do you wear these?”

“Confound it, my collar and tie,” murmured Burnham. “I knew I forgot something.”

“They belong to my nephew,” said Murillo calmly.

“Your nephew? Where is he?”

“He is now at Baiquiri at work on one of the shipping wharves.”

“He must dress well?” remarked the officer dryly.

“Alfredo earns much money. He was educated at the college.”

The officer tapped the floor with his heavy boot. “You tell a good story,” he said. “Beware lest we find you have been lying. Come!” The last word to his companions.

The soldiers went outside, and we heard a call to the men sent out into the woods and brush. A few minutes later there followed the sounds of horses' hoofs receding in the distance.

“Now we can get out of this hole, thank goodness!” burst out Burnham.

“Wait – Murillo will inform us when the coast is clear,” said Captain Guerez.

Fully five minutes passed before the old man raised the trap. His face wore a satisfied smile.

“We fooled them nicely, did we not, capitan?” he said.

“You did well, Murillo,” said Alano’s father. “Here is a gold piece for your trouble.”

But the old man drew back, and would not accept the coin. “I did it not alone for you,” he said. “Cuba libre!”

We all thanked him heartily, and then Alano’s father asked him in what directions the two bodies of soldiers had gone. That from the railroad had taken the highway to Canistero.

“We will have to take another road, not quite so short,” said Captain Guerez. “It is unfortunate, Mark, but it cannot be helped. Forward!”

Much refreshed by our night’s rest, we struck out rapidly, and by noon calculated that we had covered eight miles, a goodly distance in that hilly district. A little before noon we came out on a clearing overlooking a long stretch of valley and swamp lands.

“Just below here is the village of San Luardo,” said the captain. “It is there we ought to find out something concerning your father. It may be possible he is quartered somewhere in the village, that is, if the journey to Santiago has been delayed.”

“Is the village under guard?” I questioned anxiously, my heart giving a bound when I thought how close to my parent I might be.

“Yes, every village in this district is under Spanish rule.”

“Then how can we get in?”

“I have been trying to form a plan,” was the slow answer. “Let us get a little closer, and I will see what can be done.”

We descended from the clearing, and just before noon reached the outskirts of the village. The captain had been right; two companies of freshly imported soldiers were in control of San Luardo.

As we surveyed the situation from a bit of woodland, we heard the heavy creaking of an ox-cart on the stony road. Looking down we saw the turnout coming slowly along, loaded with hay and straw, probably for the horses of the Spanish soldiers.

“I will go into town in that!” cried Captain Guerez. “Stop that fellow!” and he indicated the driver.

A rush was made, and the ox-cart came to a sudden halt. When the dirty fellow who drove it saw us he turned pale, but a few words from Alano’s father soon reassured him, and he readily consented to allow the captain to hide himself under the hay and straw and thus pass the guards. The driver was working for the Spaniards, but his heart was with the insurgents.

Stripping himself of his coat and everything else which gave him a military appearance, Captain Guerez rubbed a little dirt on his face, neck, and hands, leaped into the ox-cart, and dove beneath the straw. If discovered, he intended to explain that he was out of work and was willing to do anything the Spaniards desired.

Once more the cart creaked on its way toward the village, and we were left alone. Withdrawing to a safe and cool shelter, we sat down to rest and to await the captain’s return.

“I wish I could have gone along,” I said to my chum.

“Father can do the work better alone,” replied Alano, who had great faith in his parent’s ability.

“Perhaps so. He wouldn’t want me anyway – after the mess I made of it when I discovered Mr. Burnham.”

“Mess!” cried the newspaper man. “Why, it was through you that I escaped, my boy. You’re all right. But I fancy Captain Guerez knows just exactly what he wishes to do, and probably one person can do it better than two.”

“The fact that you are an American would make everyone regard you with suspicion,” added Alano.

Two hours went by, which to me seemed a day, and then came a peculiar whistle from the road. At once Alano leaped to his feet.

“My father is back!” he announced, and we ran forth to meet the captain. At first we hardly knew him, for he had taken some grease and some burnt cork and transformed himself into a negro. He was out of breath, and one of his hands was much scratched.

“I had a narrow escape,” he panted. “Come with me! There is not a moment to lose!”

Although almost out of breath, he ran off, and we went with him through the woods and up the side of a small hill, which course took us around San Luardo. Not until the town was left well behind did the captain stop and throw himself on a patch of deep grass. He was too exhausted to speak, yet he saw my anxiety and smiled.

“Don’t worry, Mark; so far your father is safe,” were his brief words.

“That’s good!” I cried, with a weight lifted from my heart, for during the wait I had conjured up any number of dreadful thoughts concerning my parent.

“Yes, so far he is safe. They have him a prisoner at San Luardo, but they intend to remove him to Santiago before nightfall.”

“Before nightfall!” My heart seemed to stop beating. “How will they do it? Can’t we stop them and rescue him?”

“We must rescue him,” was the reply. “That is why I hurried back. If they get him to Santiago he will be – that is, Mark, I am afraid you will never see him alive again.”