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

“It’s worse than being out on an open prairie,” I remarked. “What shall we do?”

“There is but one thing – push on,” rejoined Alano gravely; “unless you want to spend a night here.”

Again we went on, but more slowly, for even my chum was now weary. The wet ground passed, we struck another reach of upland, and this gave us hope, for we knew the sugar cane would not grow up the hills. But the rise soon came to an end, and we found ourselves going down into a worse hollow than that we had left. Ere we knew it, the water was forming around our boots.

“We must go back!” I cried.

“I think it is drier a few yards beyond,” said Alano. “Don’t go back yet.”

The sun had set, so far as we were concerned, and it was dark at the foot of the cane-stalks. We plowed on, getting deeper and deeper into the bog or mire. It was a sticky paste, and I could hardly move one foot after another. I called to Alano to halt, and I had scarcely done so when he uttered an ejaculation of disgust.

“What is it?” I called.

“I can’t move – I am stuck!”

I looked ahead and saw that he spoke the truth. He had sunk to the tops of his boots, and every effort to extricate himself only made him settle deeper.

I endeavored to gain his side and aid him, but it was useless. Ere I was aware I was as deep and deeper than Alano, and there we stood, – and stuck, – unable to help ourselves, with night closing rapidly in upon us.

CHAPTER X.

A COUNCIL OF THE ENEMY

“Well, this is the worst yet,” I said, after a minute of silence. Somehow, I felt like laughing, yet our situation was far from being a laughing matter.

“We have put our foot into it, and no mistake,” rejoined Alano dubiously.

“Say feet, Alano, – and legs, – and you’ll be nearer it. What on earth is to be done?”

“I don’t know. See, I am up to my thighs already. In an hour or so I’ll be up to my neck.”

To this I made no reply. I had drawn my pistol, and with the crook of the handle was endeavoring to hook a thick sugar-cane stalk within my reach. Several times I had the stalk bent over, but it slipped just as I was on the point of grasping it.

But I persevered, – there was nothing else to try, – and at last my eager fingers encircled the stalk. I put my pistol away and pulled hard, and was overjoyed to find that I was drawing myself up out of my unpleasant position.

“Be careful – or the stalk will break,” cautioned my Cuban chum, when crack! it did split, but not before I was able to make a quick leap on top of the clump of roots. Here I sank again, but not nearly as deeply as before.

The leap I had taken had brought me closer to Alano, and now I was enabled to break down a number of stalks within his reach. He got a firm hold and pulled with all of his might, and a moment later stood beside me.

“Oh, but I’m glad we’re out of that!” were his first words. “I thought I was planted for the rest of my life.”

“We must get out of the field. See, it will be pitch dark in another quarter of an hour.”

“Let us try to go back – it will be best.”

We turned around, and took hold of each other’s hands, to balance ourselves on the sugar-cane roots, for we did not dare to step in the hollows between. Breaking down the cane was slow and laborious work, and soon it was too dark to see our former trail. We lost it, but this was really to our advantage, for, by going it blindly for another quarter of an hour, we emerged into an opening nearly an acre square and on high and dry ground.

Once the patch was reached, we threw ourselves down on the grass panting for breath, the heavy perspiration oozing from every pore. We had had another narrow escape, and silently I thanked Heaven for my deliverance.

Toward the higher end of the clearing was a small hut, built of logs plastered with sun-baked clay. We came upon it by accident in the dark, and, finding it deserted, lit our bit of candle before mentioned and made an examination.

“It’s a cane-cutter’s shanty,” said Alano. “I don’t believe anybody will be here to-night, so we might as well remain and make ourselves comfortable.”

“We can do nothing else,” I returned. “We can’t travel in the darkness.”

Both of us were too exhausted to think of building a fire or preparing a meal. We ate some of our provisions out of our hands, pulled off our water-soaked boots, and were soon asleep on the heaps of stalks the shanty contained. Once during the night I awoke to find several species of vermin crawling around, but even this was not sufficient to make me rouse up against the pests. I lay like a log, and the sun was shining brightly when Alano shook me heartily by the shoulder.

“Going to sleep all day?” he queried.

“Not much!” I cried, springing up. “Hullo, if you haven’t got breakfast ready!” I added, glancing to where he had built a fire.

“Yes; I thought I’d let you sleep for a while,” he answered. “Fall to, and we’ll be on our way. If we have good luck we may strike a part of General Garcia’s army to-day.”

“If we can get out of this beastly canefield.”

“I’ve found a way out, Mark. Finish your meal, and I’ll show you.”

Breakfast was speedily dispatched, and, having put on my boots, which were stiff and hard from the wetting received, and taken up my valise, I followed Alano to the extreme southwest end of the clearing. Here there was an ox-cart trail, leading in a serpentine fashion through the canefield to still higher ground. Beyond were the inevitable rocks and woods.

“We seem to have missed everything,” I said pointedly. “We have been lost several times, and even now we don’t know where we are.”

“We know we’re not sinking to the bottom of that sugar-cane field,” replied my Cuban chum grimly. “That’s something to be thankful for. Ah, look – there is quite a respectable-looking highway. Let us take to that and keep our eyes and ears open. It must lead to somewhere.”

We had reached the highway at right-angles, and now we pursued a course directly eastward, which we felt must bring us closer and closer to the vicinity of Guantanamo. I asked Alano if he recognized the country at all, but he shook his head.

“I was never out in this direction,” he explained. “My journeys have always been from Guantanamo to Santiago by water.”

As we progressed we passed several isolated huts, and then a village containing perhaps a score of dwellings. The separate huts were deserted without exception, but in the village we came across three tall and bony colored women, who eyed us with great suspicion.

Alano began to open a friendly conversation in Spanish with them, and offered to pay them well if they would get us up a good dinner. But this they could not do, for there was little to be had outside of some vegetables. They said they had had some meat, but it had all been confiscated by the soldiers who had passed through only the evening before.

“She means a body of Spanish soldiers,” said Alano, after some more talk with the oldest of the women. “She says there were about a hundred of them on horseback, and they were following up a detachment of General Garcia’s volunteers.”

“If that is so they can’t be far off,” I rejoined. “We must be more careful than ever.”

"If only we could catch up to them, get around them, and warn our fellows!" remarked Alano, his black eyes sparkling.

“It’s easy to see you’re a rebel,” I said, laughing.

“And why not – if my father is one? Come, what do you say?”

“I am with you, if it can be done. But we mustn’t run into needless danger, Alano.”

“We will take care, Mark.”

Luckily, the sun had gone under the clouds, so it was not so warm when we resumed our journey, after the negro women had supplied us with the best meal at their command. They smiled broadly when Alano told them he was a rebel sympathizer, and each declared her husband had joined General Garcia’s army several weeks previously.

The road now led along the southern edge of a deep ravine, bordered upon either side with wild plantains and cacao trees, with here and there an occasional palm. The highway was stony, and presently Alano called a halt.