Chapter 14

GENERAL CALIXTO GARCIA.

My first view of General Calixto Garcia was a disappointing one. For some reason, probably from the reports I had heard concerning his bravery, I had expected to see a man of great proportions and commanding aspect. Instead, I saw an elderly gentleman of fair figure, with mild eyes and almost white mustache and beard, the latter trimmed close. But the eyes, though mild, were searching, and as he turned them upon me I felt he was reading me through and through.

He was evidently surprised to see a boy, and an American at that. He spoke but little English, but an interpreter was close at hand, who immediately demanded to know who I was, where I had come from, and what I wanted.

“My name is Mark Carter, and I have journeyed all the way from Santiago de Cuba,” I replied. “I heard that my father and his friend, Se�or Guerez, had joined General Garcia’s forces.”

“You are Se�or Carter’s son!” exclaimed the Cuban officer, and turned quickly to General Garcia. The two conversed for several minutes, and then the under-officer turned again to me.

“General Garcia bids you welcome,” he said, and at the same time the great Cuban leader smiled and extended his hand, which I found as hard and horny as that of any tiller of the soil. “He knows your father and Se�or Guerez well.”

“And where are they now?” I asked quickly.

“They were with the army two days ago, but both went off to escort the ladies of Se�or Guerez' family to a place of safety. The se�or was going to take his wife and daughters to an old convent up a river some miles from here.”

This was rather disheartening news, yet I had to be content. I asked if my father was well.

“Very well, although hardly able to walk, on account of a leg he broke some time ago.”

“And have you seen Alano Guerez? He is about my own age, and was with me up to this morning,” I went on, and briefly related my adventures on the road, to which the officer listened with much interest.

“We have seen nothing of him,” was the reply I received. “But he may be somewhere around here.”

The officer wished to know about the Spanish detachment we had met, and I told him all I knew, which was not much, as I had not understood the Spanish spoken and Alano had not interpreted it for me. But even the little I had to say seemed to be highly important, and the officer immediately reported the condition of affairs to General Garcia.

By this time some of the soldiers who had taken part in the fight at the foot of the plateau came back, bringing with them several wounded men, including the negro whose wound I had bound up. The disabled ones were placed in a temporary hospital, which already sheltered a dozen others, and General Garcia rode off with his horsemen, leaving the foot soldiers to spread out along the southeastern slope of the mountain.

Left to myself, I hardly knew what to do. A black, who could speak a few words of “Englis',” told me I could go where I wanted, but must look out for a shot from the enemy; and I wandered over to the hospital and to the side of the fellow I had formerly assisted.

The hospital, so called, consisted of nothing more than a square of canvas stretched over the tops of a number of stunted trees. From one tree to another hammocks, made of native grass, were slung, and in these, and on piles of brush on the ground, rested the wounded ones. Only one regular doctor was in attendance, and as his surgical skill and instruments were both limited, the sufferings of the poor fellows were indeed great.

“Him brudder me—you help him,” said the black who spoke “Englis',” as he pointed to the fellow whose wound I had dressed. “Jorge Nullus no forget you—verra good you.”

“Is your name Jorge Nullus?”

“Yeas, se�or—him brudder Christoval.”

“Where did you learn English?”

“Me in Florida once—dree year ago—stay seex months—no like him there—too hard work,” and Jorge Nullus shrugged his shoulders. “You verra nice leetle man, se�or,” and he smiled broadly at his open compliment.

“Do you know Se�or Guerez?” I questioned quickly.

“Me hear of him—dat’s all.”

“Do you know where the old convent on the river is?” I continued.

The Cuban nodded. “Yeas—been dare many times—bring 'taters, onions, to Father Anuncio.”

“Could you take me there—if General Garcia would let you go?”

“Yeas, se�or. But Spaniards all around—maybe shoot—bang!—dead,” and he pointed to his wounded brother. The brother demanded to know what we were talking about, and the two conversed for several minutes. Then Jorge turned again to me.

“Christoval say me take you; you verra good leetle man, se�or. We go now, you say go.”

“Will you be allowed to go?”

“Yeas—General Garcia no stop me—he know me all right,” and the negro grinned and showed his teeth.

I was tempted to start at once, but decided to wait until morning, in the hope of finding Alano. In spite of the fact that I knew my chum would be doubly cautious, now we were separated, I felt decidedly anxious about him. The Spanish troops were on every side, and the soldiers would not hesitate to shoot him down should they learn who he was.

The night passed in comparative quietness. Toward morning we heard distant firing to the northwest, and at five o’clock a messenger dashed into camp with the order to move on to the next mountain, a distance of two miles. Through Jorge I learned that the Spaniards had been outwitted and driven back to the place from whence they had come.

There now seemed nothing for me to do but to push on to the convent on the river, in the hope of there joining my father. We were, so I was told, but a few miles from Guantanamo, but the route to the convent would not take us near the town.

Jorge’s brother felt much better, so the negro went off with a light heart, especially after I had made it plain to him that my father would reward him for any trouble he took on my account. I told him about Alano, and before leaving camp we walked around among the sentries in the hope of gaining some information concerning him. But it was all useless.

“Maybe he went on to Father Anuncio’s,” said my negro guide, and this gave me a grain of comfort.

The soldiers and Jorge and myself left the camp at about the same time, but we did not take the same road, and soon my guide and I found ourselves on a lonely mountain trail overlooking a valley thick with brush and trees. The sun shone brightly, but the air was clear and there was a fine breeze blowing, and this made it much cooler than it would otherwise have been.

I missed the horse, and wondered if Alano still had the animal he had captured. It might be possible he had ridden straight on to Guantanamo, and was now bound from there up the river. If that was so, we might meet on the river road.

“Werry bad road now,” said Jorge, as we came to a halt on the mountain side. “Be careful how you step, Se�or Mark.”

He pointed ahead, to where a narrow trail led around a sharp turn. Here the way was rocky and sloped dangerously toward the valley. He went on ahead, and I followed close at his heels.

“No horse come dis way,” observed Jorge, as he came to another turn. “Give me your hand—dis way. Now den, jump!”

We had reached a spot where a tiny mountain stream had washed away a portion of the trail. I took his hand, and we prepared to take the leap.

Just then the near-by crack of a rifle rang out on the morning air. Whether or not the shot was intended for us I cannot say, but the sound startled me greatly and I stumbled and fell. Jorge tried to grab me, but failed, and down I shot head first into the trees and bushes growing twenty feet below the trail!