Chapter 29

LOOKING FOR MY CUBAN CHUM.

“Gone, eh?” remarked Gilbert Burnham, as he saw the disappointed look upon my face. “Well, you could hardly expect anything different, with the fighting going on. It’s more than likely they took part in the attack.”

“I presume so,” I answered. “But where can they be now? The firing has about ceased.”

“The rebels have withdrawn from the town, that’s certain. Let us try to find the main body of the insurgents, and there we’ll probably learn of the whereabouts of your friends.”

I considered this good advice, and, leaving the vicinity of what had been the former camp, we struck out on a trail which took us in a semi-circle around Cubineta.

It was one of the hottest days I had yet experienced since landing on the island, and we had not progressed a half-mile before I was fairly panting for breath. As for Gilbert Burnham, he declared that he must halt or collapse.

“Talk about balmy groves and summer skies,” he growled. "I would rather be at the North Pole any time. Why, I’ll bet a dollar you could bake bread on that bit of ground out there!" and he pointed to a stretch of dark soil, dried as hard as stone by the fierce rays of the sun.

“The average Cuban never thinks of traveling in the sun between eleven and three o’clock, and I don’t blame him,” I rejoined. “Let us climb a tree and take it easy.”

We mounted an oak, I making certain first that there was no snake on it, and took seats near the very top. By parting the branches we could get a fair view of Cubineta, and we saw that the attack was at an end. The rebels had retreated out of sight, but not before setting fire to the fort, which was burning fiercely, with nothing being done to save it from destruction.

“To me it looks as if the rebels were bunched in the woods to the north,” I said, after a long and careful survey. “I wish we had a field-glass.”

“I’m glad we took the pistols, Carter. They may come in very handy before we reach safe quarters again.”

“I’m sure I don’t want to shoot anyone, Burnham,” I answered.

“But you believe in defending yourself?”

“Yes. But what do you propose to do, now you have escaped?”

“Get back to the coast and take the first vessel I can find for the United States.”

“Then you’ve had sufficient of reporting down here?”

“Yes, indeed! If any other young man wants to come down here and take my place, he is welcome to do so.” And Gilbert Burnham spoke with an emphasis that proved he meant every word he uttered.

As soon as we were cooled off and rested, we resumed our way, through a heavy undergrowth which, on account of the entangling vines, often looked as if it would utterly stay our progress. But both of us were persevering, and by four o’clock had reached the section of country I had fancied the rebels were occupying.

My surmise was correct. Hardly had we proceeded a dozen yards along a side road than three Cubans leaped from behind some brush and commanded us to halt. We did so and explained that we were Americans, at the same time pointing to the burning fort and then crossing our wrists as though tied.

The rebels understood by this that we had been prisoners, and as we did not attempt to draw our pistols, they shouldered their long guns and conducted us to the officer in command.

“Look for Captain Guerez?” said the officer, whose name I have forgotten. “He ride off dat way!” and he pointed with his hand to the westward. “He look for you, I tink.”

This was comforting news, and I asked if Alano’s father had taken part in the attack on Cubineta, to which I received the reply that both the captain and all under him had taken part and that one of the insurgents had been killed.

“Was it his boy Alano?”

“No, man named Ciruso.”

I waited to hear no more, but, thanking the officer for his trouble, hurried off down a trail leading to the westward, with Burnham at my side.

We were descending a short hill, covered with a stunted growth of brush, which tripped us up more than once, when my companion suddenly uttered a howl and tumbled over me in his effort to retreat.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Spiders, or crabs, as big as your foot,” he cried. “Look! look!” He pointed to several holes in the sand, beside a small brook. At the entrance to each hole sat an enormous land crab, gray in color, with round, staring eyes, well calculated to give anyone a good scare.

“They are only crabs, and won’t hurt you, unless you try to catch hold of them,” I laughed. “Alano told me of them, and I’ve met them before.”

“More of the beauties of this delightful country,” said Burnham sarcastically.

I advanced and stamped my foot, and instantly each crab scampered for his hole, in the clumsy fashion all crabs have. I fancied some of them hissed at us, but I might have been mistaken.

The brook crossed, we ascended the next hill and entered a plantain grove where the fruit hung in profusion on all sides. We found some that was almost ripe, and made a refreshing meal.

“Hullo, Mark!”

The welcome voice rang out from a grove of oaks on the other side of the plantains. I started, then rushed ahead, to find myself, a minute later, in Alano’s arms, with Captain Guerez looking on, highly pleased.

“We thought you were killed!” ejaculated my Cuban chum, when our greeting was over. “Where on earth have you been?”

“Haven’t you seen Jorge?”

“No,” put in Alano’s father.

“It’s a long story. Let me introduce another American,” and I presented Gilbert Burnham.

Sitting down in as cool a spot as we could find, each related all he had to tell. My story is already known.

“When you did not show up in camp I was much worried,” said the captain, “and I sent men out at once to hunt up both you and Jorge. During this search one of the men, Circuso, met some of the Spanish troops, and fought desperately to escape them, but was shot and killed.”

“Poor chap!” I could not help but murmur. “Did he leave a family?”

“No; he was a bachelor, without kith or kin.”

“I think he might have escaped,” put in Alano, “but he was so fierce against the soldiers from Spain. He said they had no right to come over here and fight us, and he was in for killing every one of them.”

“While the hunt for you and Jorge was going on,” continued Alano’s father, "the rebel leader, Captain Conovas, arrived and said he had instructions to attack Cubineta and make an attempt to release the prisoners at the fort. I decided to join him in the attack, at the same time thinking you might be a prisoner with your father.

“We operated from the south and from across the river, and soon took possession of the fort, only to be repulsed with a heavy loss. Then our party withdrew to this quarter, and here we are.”

“And what of my father?” I asked anxiously. “He was not at the fort, nor have I been able to hear anything of him.”

“The Cuban forces captured several prisoners, and they are being held in a valley just below here. I was on the point of journeying hither to interview them on that point when Alano discovered you coming through the plantain grove,” answered Captain Guerez.

“Then let us go and question them now,” I cried.

The captain was willing, and off we hurried on horseback, Burnham and myself being provided with steeds which had belonged to the Spanish prisoners.

Riding was much more comfortable than walking, and the road being fairly level the distance to the valley mentioned was soon covered. Here it was found that four of the Spaniards had died of their wounds, but there were six others, and these Captain Guerez proceeded to examine carefully, taking each aside for that purpose.

“Your father is en route for Santiago,” he said, when the examination was over. “When he arrives there he is to be tried by court-martial for plotting against the life of a certain Spanish leader, General Gonza. If we wish to save him we must start after him without an instant’s delay.”