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

THE LAST OF THE BLOODHOUNDS

The announcement that the bloodhounds would soon be upon us filled me with dread. I had had one experience with this class of beasts, and I did not wish to have another. I looked around at our party and saw that the others, even to the captain, were as agitated as myself. A Cuban dreads an unknown bloodhound worse than a native African does a lion or an American pioneer does a savage grizzly bear.

“Have your pistols ready!” went on the captain, when an idea came into my head like a flash, and I turned to him.

“If they are following the mules, why not turn the mules into a side trail?” I said. “My father can ride with me, and Mr. Raymond can double with somebody else.”

“A good idea!” cried Captain Guerez. “Quick, let us try it.”

In a twinkle my father had leaped up behind me, and Alano motioned Mr. Raymond to join him. A small side trail was close at hand, and along this we sent the mules at top speed, cutting them deeply with our whips to urge them along.

“Now to put distance between them and ourselves!” cried my father, and once more we went on. As we advanced we listened to the bloodhounds. In a few minutes more we heard them turn off in the direction the mules had taken, and their bayings gradually died away in the distance. Then we slackened our speed a bit, and all breathed a long sigh of relief.

“That was a brilliant idea, my boy!” said Mr. Raymond warmly. “Mr. Carter, you have a son to be proud of.”

“I am proud of him,” said my father, and he gave my arm a tight squeeze. From that moment on, Mr. Raymond, who was a business man from the West, became my warm friend.

It must not be supposed that we pursued our journey recklessly. Far from it. The captain rode in advance continually, and on several occasions called a halt while he went forward to investigate. But nothing offered itself to block our progress, and late that night, saddle-weary and hungry, we came in sight of the seaport town for which we were bound.

“I believe the bark Rosemary is in port here,” said Mr. Raymond. “And if that is so, we ought to be able to get on board, for I know the captain well.”

“Then that will save us a good deal of trouble,” replied my father. “But of course we can’t go aboard openly – the Spanish authorities wouldn’t allow that.”

How to get into the town unobserved was a question. Finally Alano’s father said he would ride in as a horse dealer, taking all of our animals with him. To disguise himself he dirtied his face once more, and put on my hat and coat, both rather small for him. Then driving three of the horses before him, he went on.

We went into camp under some plantains, and it was not until three o’clock in the morning that Captain Guerez came back. He returned with a smile on his face, for he had sold two of the worst of the steeds at a good price and had in addition found the Rosemary and interviewed her captain.

“The captain said he couldn’t do anything for you to-night,” he explained. “But to-morrow, if it is dark, he will send a rowboat up the shore to a rock he pointed out to me with his glass. You are to be at the rock at one o’clock sharp – if it’s dark. If it is not, you are to wait until the next night. He says to try to come on board from the quay will only bring you to grief.”

“Good for Captain Brownley!” cried Mr. Raymond. "I felt sure he would not go back on me. Once on board, Mr. Carter, and the three of us will be safe."

“There is, therefore, nothing to do but to wait,” went on Captain Guerez. “I shall see you safe off, and then return to Father Anuncio’s convent with Alano and join the rest of my family once more.”

As soon as it was light we rode and tramped through the woods and the swamps to the seacoast, where it did not take long to locate the rock the captain of the Rosemary had pointed out to Captain Guerez. This accomplished, we retired to a near-by plantain grove, there to eat and rest, and spend a final day together.

The thought of parting with my chum was a sad one, yet I felt it my duty to remain with my father. Alano was also affected, and often placed his brown hand affectionately on my shoulder while we conversed.

“Let us both hope that this cruel and senseless warfare will soon cease, and that Cuba will be free,” I said.

“Yes, Mark, and that we will soon be together again,” he replied. “I hope your journey proves a safe one; and when you get back you must remember me to all of the other boys.”

“I’ll do it; and you must remember me to your mother and your two sisters,” I said.

With it all, however, the day passed somewhat slowly, for we were impatient to see what the night would bring forth. The sun set clearly, and soon the heavens were bespangled with countless stars.

Mr. Raymond shook his head. “Captain Brownley won’t risk coming to-night,” he remarked. “They could easily spot a boat from the town shore, it is so clear.”

But about ten o’clock it began to cloud over, and at eleven it started to rain, a gentle but steady downpour. Not a star remained, and out on the water it was as dark as Erebus.

“A kind Providence is with us!” cried my father. “We could not possibly imagine a better night.”

Slowly the time wore on, until Captain Guerez' watch indicated ten minutes to one. We sat close beside the rock, paying no attention to the rain, although it was gradually soaking us to the skin.

“Here they come!” whispered my father, and a few seconds later a rowboat containing four sailors loomed up through the darkness. As silently as a shadow the boat glided up past the rock and into the swamp grass.

“On time, I see,” said Mr. Raymond, as he advanced. “Is Captain Brownley here?”

"No, he’s watching at the ship, and will give us the signal when to come aboard," replied one of the sailors, who was in command. “Come aboard, if you are ready, sir.”

“We are,” said my father.

There was a short but affectionate good-by on both sides. Captain Guerez wrung my hand tightly, and I gave Alano a warm squeeze. Then Mr. Raymond, Burnham, father, and myself stepped into the rowboat, and the sailors pushed off with their long oars. In another instant the craft swung clear of the shore and was turned in the direction from whence we had come. I was going to cry out a last parting to my chum, when the sailor sitting nearest checked me.

“Be silent, my lad; if we’re discovered we’ll all be shot.”

“Yes,” put in my father, “don’t make a sound. Leave everything to these men. They have their instructions and know what they are doing.”

On and on over the Bay of Guantanamo glided the rowboat. The rain still came down, and if anything the night was blacker than ever. I wondered how the sailors could steer, until I saw one of them consulting a compass which lay in the bottom of the craft, looking it by the rays of a tiny dark-lantern.

I reckoned that the best part of half an hour had gone by, when the sailors rested on their oars, while one took up a night-glass. For five minutes he waited, then put the glass down.

“It’s all right,” he whispered. “Let fall. No noise now, on your life!”

Forward went our craft again, and now I noticed that each oar was bound with rubber at the spot where it touched the rowlock, to keep it from scraping. Thus we moved onward in absolute silence.

From out of the darkness we now saw a number of lights, coming from the town and the shipping. A few minutes later we ran up to the dark hull of a large vessel. A rope ladder was thrown down to us, and a sailor whispered to us to go up. We followed directions as rapidly as we could, and once on the deck we were hurried below, while the rowboat was swung up on the davits.

“Ah, Mr. Raymond, glad to see you!” said Captain Brownley, a bluff New Englander, as he extended his hand. “A fine night to come on board.” And then he turned to us and we were introduced.

The Rosemary was bound for Philadelphia, but would not sail for three days. She was under strict Spanish watch, so it was necessary for us to keep out of sight. We were locked in a stateroom, but made as comfortable as circumstances permitted.

From time to time during the three days the captain came to us with various bits of news. One was to the effect that the Spanish detachment which had had my father and Mr. Raymond in charge had reported a conflict with a Cuban force fifty or sixty strong. Another was that the United States had declared war upon Spain and was going to bombard Havana.

“I wonder if it is true that we are to fight Spain?” I said to Burnham. “What do you think?”

“We ought to fight Spain,” answered the newspaper man. “Cuba deserves her freedom, and if she can’t help herself against Spanish imposition and brutality we ought to give her a friendly hand.”

We talked the matter over at some length; but neither of us knew the truth – that war was really declared, and that not Havana, but Santiago, was to be attacked by the time the year was half over.

At last came the hour when the ship’s anchors were hove apeak and the sails were set. We sailed at high noon, and, having a good wind, soon passed outside of Guantanamo Bay, which, as my readers may know, is situated but a few miles to the eastward of Santiago Bay.

“Free at last!” cried my father, as he came on deck to get the fresh air. “I must say I am not sorry to leave Cuba – since the times have grown so troublesome.”

He had scarcely spoken when a small Spanish revenue cutter hove in sight, steaming down the coast evidently from Santiago Bay. While Captain Brownley was examining the craft, there was a flash of fire, and a dull boom sounded over the water.

“Great Scott! What does that mean?” demanded Burnham, leaping up from his seat near the rail.

“It’s an order to heave to,” answered Captain Brownley grimly. “We are not yet out of the woods, it would seem.”