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

ONE DIFFICULTY TO ANOTHER

      How we ever escaped from the falling tree I do not fully know to this day. The lightning stunned me almost as much as my companion, and both of us went down in a heap in the soft mud, for it was now raining in torrents. We rolled over, and a rough bit of bark scraped my face; and then I knew no more.

      When I came to my senses I was lying in a little gully, part of the way down the hillside. Alano was at my side, a deep cut on his chin, from which the blood was flowing freely. He lay so still that I at first thought him dead, but the sight of the flowing blood reassured me.

      A strong smell of sulphur filled the air, and this made me remember the lightning stroke. I looked up the hill, to see the palm tree split as I have described.

      “Thank God for this escape!” I could not help murmuring; and then I took out a handkerchief, allowed it to become wet, and bound up Alano’s cut. While I was doing this he came to, gasped, and opened his eyes.

      “Què — què– ” he stammered. “Wha – what – was it, Mark?”

      I told him, and soon had him sitting up, his back propped against a rock. The cut on his chin was not deep, and presently the flow of blood stopped and he shook himself.

      “It was a narrow escape,” he said. “I warned you we must get out into the open.”

      “We’ll be more careful in the future,” I replied. And then I pointed to an opening in the gully. “See, there is a cave. Let us get into that while the storm lasts.”

      “Let us see if it is safe first. There may be snakes within,” returned Alano.

      With caution we approached the entrance to the cave, which appeared to be several yards deep. Trailing vines partly hid the opening; and, thrusting these aside, we took sticks, lit a bit of candle I carried, and examined the interior. Evidently some wild animal had once had its home there, but the cave was now tenantless, and we proceeded to make ourselves at home.

      “We’ll light a fire and dry our clothing,” suggested Alano. “And if the rain continues we can stay here all night.”

      “We might as well stay. To tramp through the wet grass and brush would be almost as bad as to have it rain – we would be soaked from our waists down.”

      “Then we’ll gather wood and stay,” said he.

      Quarter of an hour later we had coaxed up quite a respectable fire in the shadow of a rock at the entrance to the cave, which was just high enough to allow us to stand upright, and was perhaps twelve feet in diameter. We piled more wood on the blaze, satisfied that in its damp condition we could not set fire to the forest, and then retired to dry our clothing and enjoy a portion of the contents of the provision bag Alano had improvised out of the purloined napkin.

      As we ate we discussed the situation, wondering how far we could be from some village and if there were any insurgents or Spanish soldiers in the vicinity.

      “The rebels could outwit the soldiers forever in these hills,” remarked Alano – “especially those who are acquainted in the vicinity.”

      “But the rebels might be surrounded,” I suggested.

      “They said at Santiago they had too strong a picket guard for that, Mark.”

      “But we have seen no picket guard. Supposing instead of two boys a body of Spanish soldiers had come this way, what then?”

      “In that case what would the Spanish soldiers have to shoot at?” he laughed. “We have as yet seen no rebels.”

      “But we may meet them – before we know it,” I said, with a shake of my head.

      Scarcely had I uttered the words than the entrance to our resting-place was darkened by two burly forms, and we found the muzzles of two carbines thrust close to our faces.

      “Who are you?” came in Spanish. “Put up your hands!”

      “Don’t shoot!” cried Alano in alarm.

      “Come out of that!”

      “It’s raining too hard, and we have our coats off, as you see. Won’t you come in?”

      At this the two men, bronzed and by no means bad-looking fellows, laughed. “Only boys!” murmured one, and the carbines were lowered and they entered the cave.

      A long and rapid conversation with Alano, which I could but imperfectly understand, followed. They asked who we were, where we were going, how we had managed to slip out of Santiago, if we were armed, if we carried messages, if we had the countersign, how we had reached the cave, and a dozen other questions. Both roared loudly when Alano said he thought they were rebels.

      “And so we are,” said the one who appeared to be the leader. “And we are proud of it. Have you any objections to make?”

      “No,” we both answered in a breath, that being both English and Spanish, and I understanding enough of the question to be anxious to set myself right with them.

      “I think our fathers have become rebels,” Alano answered. “At least, we were told so.”

      “Good!” said the leader. “Then we have nothing to fear from two such brave lads as you appear to be. And now what do you propose to do – encamp here for the night?”

      “Unless you can supply us with better accommodations,” rejoined my chum.

      “We can supply you with nothing. We have nothing but what is on us,” laughed the second rebel.

      Both told us later that they were on special picket duty in that neighborhood. They had been duly enlisted under General Garcia, but were not in uniform, each wearing only a wet and muddy linen suit, thick boots, and a plain braided palm hat. Around his waist each had strapped a leather belt, and in this stuck a machete – a long, sharp, and exceedingly cruel-looking knife. Over the shoulder was another strap, fastened to a canvas bag containing ammunition and other articles of their outfit.

      These specimens of the rebels were hardly what I had expected to see, yet they were so earnest in their manner I could not help but admire them. One of them had brought down a couple of birds, and these were cooked over our fire and divided among all hands, together with the few things we had to offer. After the meal each soldier placed a big bite of tobacco in his mouth, lit a cigarette, and proceeded to make himself comfortable.

      “The Spaniards will not move in this weather,” said one. “They are too afraid of getting wet and taking cold.”

      Darkness had come upon us, and it was still raining as steadily as ever. Our clothing was dry; and, as the cave was warmed, the rebel guards ordered us to put out the fire, that it might not attract attention during the night.

      We were told that we had made several mistakes on the road and were far away from Tiarriba. If we desire to go there, the rebels said they would put us on the right road.

      “But if you are in sympathy with us, you had better pass Tiarriba by,” said one to Alano. “The city is filled with Spanish soldiers, and you may not be able to get away as easily as you did from Santiago.”

      Alano consulted with me, and then asked the rebel what we had best do.

      “That depends. Do you want to join the forces under General Garcia?”

      “We want to join our fathers at or near Guantanamo.”

      “Garcia is pushing on in that direction. You had best join the army and stay with it until Guantanamo is reached.”

      “But we will have to fight?” said my Cuban chum.

      The guard smiled grimly, exhibiting a row of large white teeth.

      “As you will. The general will not expect too much from boys.”

      There the talk ended, one of the rebels deeming it advisable to take a tramp over to the next hill and back, and the other crouching down in a corner for a nap. With nothing else to do, we followed the example of the latter, and were soon in dreamland.

      A single call from the man