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

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.

      CHAPTER VIII.

      ANDRES

      “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.

      The cool spell, although it was really only cool by contrast, had utterly passed, and as the sun came up it seemed to fairly strike one a blow upon the head. We were traveling along the edge of a low cliff, and shade was scarce, although we took advantage of every bit which came in our way. The perspiration poured from our faces, necks, and hands; and about ten o’clock I was forced to call a halt and throw myself on my back on the ground.

      “I knew it would be so,” said my chum. "That is why I called for an early start. We might as well rest until two or three in the afternoon. Very few people travel here in the heat of the day."

      “It is suffocating,” I murmured. “Like one great bake-oven and steam-laundry combined.”

      “That is what makes the vegetation flourish,” he smiled. “Just see how it grows!”

      I did not have far to look to notice it. Before us was a forest of grenadillo and rosewood, behind us palms and plantains, with an occasional cacao and mahogany tree. The ground was covered with long grass and low brush, and over all hung the festoons of vines of many colors, some blooming profusely. A smell of “something growing green” filled the hot air, and from every side arose the hum of countless insects and the occasional note of a bird.

      “I wouldn’t remain on the ground too long,” remarked Alano presently. “When one is hot and lies down, that is the time to take on a fever. Better rest in yonder tree – it is more healthy; and, besides, if there is any breeze stirring, there is where you will catch it.”

      “We might as well be on a deserted island as to be in Cuba,” I said, after both of us had climbed into a mahogany tree. “There is not a building nor a human soul in sight. I half believe we are lost again.”

      Alano smiled. "Let us rather say, as your Indian said, 'We are not lost, we are here. The army and the towns and villages are lost,'" and he laughed at the old joke, which had been the first he had ever read, in English, in a magazine at Broxville Academy.

      “Well, it’s just as bad, Alano. I, for one,