Edward Stratemeyer - When Santiago Fell - or, The War Adventures of Two Chums

In another moment all three of the bandits were out of sight. We heard them moving in the undergrowth behind us, and one of them gave a scream as a snake was stirred up and dispatched with a saber. Then all became quiet.

“What is best to do now?” I asked, when I thought it safe to speak.

“Hush!” whispered Alano. “They may be playing us dark.”

A quarter of an hour passed, – it seemed ten times that period of time just then, – and we heard them coming back. They were very angry at their want of success; and had we been discovered, our fate would undoubtedly have been a hard one. They stalked back to the road, and a moment later we heard the hoof-strokes of their horses receding in the distance.

“Hurrah!” I shouted, but in a very subdued tone. “That’s the time we fooled them, Alano.”

My Cuban chum smiled grimly. “Yes, Mark, but we must be more careful in the future. Had we not been so busy talking we might have heard their horses long before they came into view. However, the scare is over, so let us put our best foot forward once again.”

“If only we had horses too!” I sighed. “My feet are beginning to get sore from the uneven walking.”

“Horses would truly be convenient at times. But we haven’t them, and must make the best of it. When we stop for our next meal you had best take off your boots and bathe your feet. You will be astonished how much rest that will afford them.”

I followed this advice, and found Alano was right; and after that I bathed my feet as often as I got the chance. Alano suffered no inconvenience in this particular, having climbed the hills since childhood.

We were again on rising ground, and now passed through a heavy wood of cedars, the lower branches sweeping our hats as we passed. This thick shade was very acceptable, for the glare of the sun had nearly blinded me, while more than once I felt as if I would faint from the intense heat.

“It’s not such a delightful island as I fancied it,” I said to my chum. “I much prefer the United States.”

“That depends,” laughed Alano. “The White Mountains or the Adirondacks are perhaps nicer, but what of the forests and everglades in Florida?”

“Just as bad as this, I suppose.”

“Yes, and worse, for the ground is wetter, I believe. But come, don’t lag. We must make several more miles before we rest.”

We proceeded up a hill and across a level space which was somewhat cleared of brush and trees. Beyond we caught sight of a thatched hut. Hardly had it come into view than from its interior we heard a faint cry for help.

“What is that?” ejaculated Alano, stopping short and catching my arm.

“A cry of some kind,” I answered. “Listen!”

We stepped behind some trees, to avoid any enemies who might be about, and remained silent. Again came the cry.

“It is a man in distress!” said Alano presently. “He asks us not to desert him.”

“Then he probably saw us from the window of the hut. What had we best do?”

“You remain here, and I will investigate,” rejoined my Cuban chum.

With caution he approached the thatched hut, a miserable affair, scarcely twelve feet square and six feet high, with the trunks of palm trees as the four corner-posts. There were one tiny window and a narrow door, and Alano after some hesitation entered the latter, pistol in hand.

“Come, Mark!” he cried presently, and I ran forward and joined him.

A pitiable scene presented itself. Closely bound to a post which ran up beside the window was a Cuban negro of perhaps fifty years of age, gray-haired and wrinkled. He was scantily clothed, and the cruel green-hide cords which bound him had cut deeply into his flesh, in many places to such an extent that the blood was flowing. The negro’s tongue was much swollen, and the first thing he begged for upon being released was a drink of water.

We obtained the water, and also gave him what we could to eat, for which he thanked us over and over again, and would have kissed our hands had we permitted it. He was a tall man, but so thin he looked almost like a skeleton.

“For two days was I tied up,” he explained to Alano, in his Spanish patois . “I thought I would die of hunger and thirst, when, on raising my eyes, I beheld you and your companion. Heaven be praised for sending you! Andres will never forget you for your goodness, never!”

“And how came you in this position?” questioned my chum.

“Ah, dare I tell, master?”

“You are a rebel?”

The negro lowered his eyes and was silent.

“If you are, you have nothing to fear from us,” continued Alano.

“Ah – good! good!” Andres wrung his hand. “Yes, I am a rebel. For two years I fought under our good General Maceo and under Garcia. But I am old, I cannot climb the mountains as of yore, and I got sick and was sent back. The Spanish soldiers followed me, robbed me of what little I possessed, and, instead of shooting me, bound me to the post as a torture. Ah, but they are a cruel set!” And the eyes of the negro glowed wrathfully. “If only I was younger!”

“Were the Spaniards on horseback?” asked Alano.

“Yes, master – a dozen of them.”

Alano described the bandits we had met, and Andres felt certain they must be the same crowd. The poor fellow could scarcely stand, and sank down on a bed of cedar boughs and palm branches. We did what we could for him, and in return he invited us to make his poor home our own.

There was a rude fireplace behind the hut, and here hung a great iron pot. Rekindling the fire, we set the pot to boiling; and Andres hobbled around to prepare a soup, or rather broth, made of green plantains, rice, and a bit of dried meat the bandits had not discovered, flavoring the whole mess with garlic. The dish was not particularly appetizing to me, but I was tremendously hungry and made way with a fair share of it, while Alano apparently enjoyed his portion.

It was dark when the meal was finished, and we decided to remain at the hut all night, satisfied that we would be about as secure there as anywhere. The smoke of the smoldering fire kept the mosquitoes and gnats at a distance, and Andres found for us a couple of grass hammocks, which, when slung from the corner-posts, made very comfortable resting-places.

During the evening Alano questioned Andres closely, and learned that General Garcia was pushing on toward Guantanamo, as we had previously been informed. Andres did not know Señor Guerez, but he asserted that many planters throughout the district had joined the rebel forces, deserting their canefields and taking all of their help with them.

“The men are poorly armed,” he continued. “Some have only their canefield knives – but even with these they are a match for the Spanish soldiers, on account of their bravery” – an assertion which later on proved, for the greater part, to be true.

The night passed without an alarm of any kind, and before sunrise we were stirring around, preparing a few small fish Alano had been lucky enough to catch in a near-by mountain stream. These fish Andres baked by rolling them in a casing of clay; and never have I eaten anything which tasted more delicious.

Before we left him the Cuban negro gave us minute directions for reaching the rear guard of the rebel army. He said the password was still “Maysi.”

“You had better join the army,” he said, on parting. “You will gain nothing by trying to go around. And you, master Alano – if your father has joined the forces, it may be that will gain you a horse and full directions as to just where your parent is,” and as we trudged off Andres wished us Godspeed and good luck over and over again, with a friendly wave of his black bony hand.