Chapter 28

A BATTLE ON LAND AND WATER.

It was about eight o’clock in the morning that the door of the prison cell was opened and Gilbert Burnham and I were ordered to march out into a larger apartment.

The order was given by a Spanish officer who spoke fairly good English, and the officer was backed up by a guard of eight men, all well armed.

“They are going to run no chances on us now,” remarked the newspaper correspondent, as he arose from the floor, upon which he had been resting.

“We had better be as civil as possible,” I answered. “If we anger them they have it in their power to make us mighty uncomfortable.”

“I’ll keep as civil as my hot-headedness will permit,” he grumbled.

We were led from one end of the fort to the other, where there was a narrow room, provided with a small, square table and half a dozen benches. At the table sat several officers I had seen before. One was a particularly ugly-looking fellow, and Burnham nudged me and said this chap was the fellow he had knocked down.

“And he’s got it in for me,” he added.

I was marched to the front of the table, and the officer who could speak English forced me to clasp my hands behind me. This done, one of the officers at the table asked a number of questions in Spanish.

“No habla V. castellano? [Do you not speak Spanish?]” he asked me.

“No, se�or,” I replied.

He glared at me suspiciously for a moment, then spoke to the other officer.

“Who you are?” demanded the latter.

“I am Mark Carter, an American boy. I came to Cuba to join my father, who was stopping at a plantation near Guantanamo.”

This was repeated in Spanish. At the mention of my name several of those present exchanged glances.

“You son of Richard Carter?” was the next question.

“Yes, se�or. I understand he is a prisoner. Is it true?”

My question remained unanswered, and it was plain that my captors intended to give me no information.

“Why you break in the fort? Did this man pay you to do that?” And the Spanish officer pointed to Gilbert Burnham.

“I never saw or heard of this man before, se�or. I broke in because I thought my father was a prisoner there. I heard an American was there, and I thought it must be he.”

“Aha, I see! Well, your father is not here, as you have found out.”

“Where is he?”

This question also remained unanswered. The officers began to consult among themselves, and then I was ordered back to the cell. I tried to protest, and pleaded for liberty, for a chance to find my parent, but it was all in vain. I was hustled off without ceremony and made as close a prisoner as before.

It was nearly noon before Gilbert Burnham joined me. In the meantime I had had nothing to eat or drink, and was beginning to wonder if my enemies meant to let me die of hunger and thirst.

The face of the newspaper correspondent was much downcast.

“I’m to catch it now,” he said. “To-morrow morning they are going to start to transport me to some regular fortress, and there I suppose I’ll be permitted to languish until this bloody war is over. I wish I had made a dash for liberty when I was out in that courtroom.”

“They would have shot you dead. They were too well armed for anything of the sort.”

“Maybe. But this is tough. Is there a pitcher of water anywhere?”

“Not a drop.”

At this he stormed more than ever, and finally shouted to the guard to bring some agua. But no one paid any attention to his cries, further than to order him to be silent, under penalty of being gagged, and then he subsided.

Slowly the morning wore away. The sun was shining brightly outside, and the cell, with only one narrow window, high up to the ceiling, was like a bake-oven. Once I climbed up to the window sill and looked out, only to have the muzzle of a gun thrust into my face, while a guard outside ordered me to drop. I dropped, and made no further attempt to get a whiff of fresh air.

I wondered if Jorge had escaped in safety and if Captain Guerez would do anything to save me. I felt certain he would be very angry over the way I had acted, and, looking back, I felt that I richly deserved to be censured.

It was high noon, and I and my companion were walking the floor, impatient for food and drink, when the door opened and a guard came in with a platter and an earthenware pitcher. He set both on the floor and withdrew without a word.

“Well, here’s something, anyway,” remarked Gilbert Burnham. “Bah! a stew of onions and garlic, not fit for a dog to eat. Let me have some of the water.”

Neither of us could do more than taste the mess which had been served; and as for the water, it looked as if it had been scooped from the river, and was both warm and muddy. I had just finished taking a gingerly drink, when a shot from outside startled both of us. Several more shots followed, and then came a blast on a trumpet from somewhere in the distance.

“Hullo! that means a fight!” ejaculated Gilbert Burnham, his face brightening. “I hope it’s a body of rebels to the rescue.”

“So do I, and I further hope they release us,” I replied.

At the first shot an alarm had been sounded in and about the fort. We could hear the soldiers hurrying in several directions and a number of orders issued in Spanish. The firing now continued to increase, and presently we heard a crash of splintered woodwork.

“It’s getting interesting, eh, Carter?” said Gilbert Burnham. “If only they don’t grow too enthusiastic and fire in here!”

Scarcely had he spoken than we heard a little noise up at the window. A bullet had entered and buried itself in the woodwork opposite.

“Better lay down,” I urged, and set the example, which the newspaper man was not long in following. The firing and shouting kept on steadily, and we heard the occasional splashing of water, telling that the encounter was taking place on the river as well as on land.

The battle had been going on with more or less violence for half an hour, when there came a wild rush through the fort, and some shooting just outside of our cell. Then the door went down with a crash, and we found ourselves confronted by a score or more of dusky rebels, all of whom wore the flag of Cuba pinned to their hats and coats.

“Americano!” shouted one of them, and allowed us to come outside. Then, without waiting to question us, the crowd dashed to the entrance of another cell and succeeded in liberating several of their own countrymen. But now the soldiers of the fort rallied, and the intruders were driven back.

Feeling it was our one chance to escape, we went with the insurgents, and soon found ourselves on the outskirts of Cubineta, in a spot backed up by a forest of palms and oaks. As we ran along Gilbert Burnham paused and pointed to the dead body of a Spanish soldier.

“He won’t need his weapons any more, poor fellow,” he said, and stooping down secured two pistols, one of which he gave to me. There was also a belt of cartridges, and this was speedily divided between us.

“I think the road to the camp I left is behind us,” I remarked, as I took a view of the situation, in the meantime screening myself from our enemies by diving behind a clump of trees. “I think I’ll go in that direction. Do you want to come along?”

My companion was willing to go anywhere, so long as we kept clear of the Spanish forces, and off we went on an easy run down the highway, keeping our pistols in our hands and our eyes to the right and the left, as well as ahead. Quarter of an hour of this sort of traveling brought us to the spot where I had left Alano and the others.

The temporary camp was deserted.