Chapter 23

ON THE TRAIL OF MY FATHER.

“Mark!” ejaculated my Cuban chum, when, on releasing himself from his sisters' embraces, he espied me. “So you have reached here before me. I am very glad to see it.”

“You are wounded?” I queried, as we shook hands. Had it not been for the girls and Jorge we would have fairly hugged each other. “How did that happen?”

“It’s quite a story. Are my father and mother safe?”

“Yes, although your father, too, is wounded.”

“Those soldiers at the coffee plantation, then, did not manage to catch you?”

“No.”

“They caught me and Jorge, and we were their prisoners for five or six hours. We would not have gotten away, only Jorge bribed one of the servants at the plantation, another negro. He cut the cords with which we were bound, and we got out of the cellar into which we were put at night.”

“And that wound?”

“I got that when they came after us, ten minutes later. They couldn’t see us and fired blindly, and I got a bullet across the forearm. But it’s a mere scratch,” Alano added, as he saw Inez and Paula look serious.

He wanted to know all about my adventures, but there was no time to tell of them just then, for the convent gates were soon reached and here Alano’s mother met him and, after a warm embrace, led him to his father’s side. It was a happy family gathering, and I thought it best to withdraw for the time being. I walked again to the roof; and an hour later Alano joined me there.

His story was soon told. After escaping from the coffee plantation he and Jorge had become lost like myself in the forest. They, however, had not made their way to the mountain side, but had entered a valley between that mountain and the next, and, coming to a branch of the river, had floated down it until overtaken by the storm at night.

The storm had driven them to shelter under some shelving rocks, and here a temporary camp was made and Jorge went out on a search for food. Little could be found, but in the morning the guide had brought down several birds with a stick and these they had cooked and eaten with keen relish. The way was then resumed, when, at noon, they had found themselves on the wrong road and many miles out of their way.

Jorge was much chagrined at his mistake and wanted Alano to kick him for his thoughtlessness. The stream was left, and they took a cut through the woods, which at last brought them to the old convent, as described.

When Alano had finished, I told him my story in all of its details, especially my adventures in the mountain stream and on the underground river. He listened in silent amazement.

“It was a wonderful escape!” he cried, when I was through. “A wonderful escape! I would like some day to explore that cave.”

“It was nothing but a big hole in the ground, and I never want to see it again,” I answered, with a shudder. “But now you are here, what do you expect to do?”

“If my father will permit me, I’ll join you and him in the search for your father,” he answered. “But it may be that he will wish me to remain here with my mother and my sisters.”

“Yes, somebody ought to remain with them, Alano.”

“My father is expecting Se�or Noenti, a relative of mine. If he comes he will look after my mother and sisters. He is a very brave and powerful man.”

Alano and I slept together that night, just as we had often done at Broxville Academy. It was a good deal to me to have my chum by me again. We had missed each other more than mere words can tell.

We had just finished breakfast the next day, and Captain Guerez was trying to walk around a bit on his wounded leg, when several newcomers were announced. Among them was Se�or Noenti, who was warmly received by the Guerez family.

During the morning it was arranged that he should remain at the old convent during Captain Guerez' absence, and by hard pleading Alano obtained permission to join us in our hunt for my father. Jorge and three other trusty men were to go along also. Alano’s father pronounced himself quite able to ride, and each of us was fitted out with a good horse, a brace of pistols, and a quantity of ammunition sufficient to last for several engagements. We also carried with us two days' rations. When they were gone we would have to depend upon what we found for our meals. But armed as we were, and in a country where everything grew in profusion, it was not likely that such a small body would lack for something to eat. Starvation was common in the regular Cuban army, but only when the troops remained in one mountainous region for a long while and ate up everything in sight.

Captain Guerez had a well-formed idea concerning the highways and trails the party having my father a prisoner would take; and, after an affectionate farewell to his wife and daughters, he led our little party up past the bluff the Spaniards had occupied and along a path skirting the mountain which had caused me so much trouble. Our horses were fresh, and we made good time until sunset, when we reached a small village called Molino. Here there were a number of blacks and the poorer class of whites. All, however, made us welcome, and here it was decided to remain for the night.

The principal man living in the place was a Spaniard named Curilos, a fellow who years before had been a sailor. He was a comical fellow in the extreme and a good singer, accompanying himself in singing on a home-made guitar, a rough-looking instrument, but one very sweet in tone. How a sailor had ever settled there was a mystery to me, but there he was and apparently more than content.

Curilos' home was of long tree branches, fastened together with tough vines, which grow everywhere in profusion. The branches were twined and intertwined and lashed to four corner-posts. The roof of this abode was covered with dried palm leaves, and was quite water-proof. In one corner was a rude fireplace of stone, and the smoke curled up through a hole in a corner of the building.

I slept in this structure on a hammock stretched from one corner-post to another. It was as good a bed as one would desire had it not been for one thing, as disgusting to me as it was annoying: the house was overrun with vermin—a not uncommon thing, even in the dwellings of the middle classes.

It was hardly sunrise when Alano’s father called us for breakfast, after which we leaped into the saddle once more and rode off at a stiff gait. The ride of the afternoon had left me a little sore, I not as yet being used to such traveling, but I made up my mind not to complain, as it would do no good and only worry Captain Guerez and my chum. Riding never bothered Alano, as he had been used to the high, stiff Spanish saddle from early boyhood.

As we proceeded on our way we of course kept a strict lookout for enemies, and on more than one occasion Alano’s father called a halt, while he rode ahead to make certain that the road was clear.

“If we’re not careful the Spaniards may surprise us and make us all prisoners,” he said grimly. "Although I hardly think any troops are near us at present," he added a minute later.

Having stopped for dinner in the middle of a dense woods, we rode out in the afternoon on a broad plateau overlooking numerous valleys. Far to the southward could be seen the buildings in Guantanamo. By the aid of the field-glass Captain Guerez pointed out a portion of his immense plantation.

As this was the first sight I had had of Alano’s home, I gazed at it with interest. While I was looking, I saw a small column of smoke curling upward from a broad stretch of canefields. I watched it for several seconds, and then called Alano’s attention to it.

“There should be no smoke there,” he said gravely, and called his father, who had turned away for the moment to give Jorge some directions.

“What is it—smoke?” cried Captain Guerez, snatching the glass. “Let me see if you are not mistaken.” He gave a searching look and then a groan. “You are right, boys, the Spaniards have kept their word. They threatened to burn down my fields if I did not declare in their favor, and now they are doing it. In a few hours the whole of my property will be nothing more than a blackened waste!”