The Boy Aviators in Nicaragua; or, In League with the Insurgents

The boys felt the reproof and remained silent.

“And don’t despise this errand because you don’t happen to think there’s any glory in it,” the general went on, “there is danger in it, – a good deal more danger than I feel that I have a right to ask you to run, – but, after all,” he concluded, “you are just as safe there as in the camp.”

The next minute he had gone and the boys started down the trail cut by the machete men, by which the army had advanced from the beach. They knew where the boats were drawn up, under the roots of a giant mangrove, but in the darkness they had some difficulty in finding the exact spot. At last, however, they discovered one of the small craft and Harry leaned over to untie the painter. It was pitchy dark and the man who had knotted the boat’s painter was not a scientific tier of knots.

“Bother it;” exclaimed Harry, fumbling with the knot, “we shan’t get away till daylight at this rate.”

“Here, have some light on the subject,” struck in Frank lighting a match. With the aid of the illumination. It didn’t take Harry long to cast loose and tumble into the boat. Frank, who had been leaning over him as he fumbled with the rope, straightened up and prepared to follow him. The stump of the match was still in his fingers and shed a yellow glow about them. Suddenly, Frank uttered a sharp exclamation. The next minute the match burned his fingers and died out.

“That was funny;” he exclaimed as he took his seat in the boat and both boys gave way with the oars.

“What was funny?” demanded Harry.

“Oh, nothing;” replied Frank, almost shamefacedly, “I suppose it was fancy – must have been in fact. But as that match died out I am almost certain I saw a face part the creepers and peer at me out of the mangroves.”

“Who could it have been?” asked Harry.

“I have no idea,” rejoined Frank, “that’s why I put it all down to imagination.”

Both boys ran the boat alongside the gunboat’s gangway a few minutes later.

A sharp “Who goes?” spoken with a marked German accent, showed that good watch was kept aboard the ship. As soon as the boys had announced their identity satisfactorily and been allowed on board, the sentry hurried to arouse Captain Scheffel, who, although he was in pajamas and his eyes heavy with sleep, showed truly Teutonic unconcern in the presence of his midnight awakening.

“Der keys for der magazine – hein?” he remarked placidly. “All right, I get dem for you in a minud.”

He shuffled off to his cabin, the boys hardly keeping from laughing at the queer aspect he presented. In a few minutes he was back with a bunch of keys.

“Dis is him,” he said, selecting a Yale key, “and, boys, vun vurd – no schmoking in der magazine – hein?”

“We don’t smoke at all, captain,” replied Frank with a laugh, “and if we did we wouldn’t take our first lesson in a magazine.”

“Vell, schmokin’ is goot and magazine is goot bud dey don’d mix, ain’d it?” commented the German skipper sententiously as he shuffled back to his bunk. He was simply the hired navigator of the gunboat and, so long as the boys didn’t blow his ship up, he had no further interest in their movements.

The boys had carried perhaps their fiftieth case of rifle shells to the deck and piled them there, preparatory to taking them ashore, when their attention was attracted by evidence that the coming fight that Ruiz had prophesied was already on. From where they stood they could catch the flashes of the machine-guns on the hill and hear distinctly the rattle of rifles which accompanied their steady cough.

“Come on, Frank,” said Harry, as the sounds were borne to their ears; “we’ve no time to loaf now. They may need this stuff urgently this minute. Come on; we’ll take what we’ve got here and get ashore with it.”

Several of the sailors who had come from below on the news that there was fighting going on ashore gave them a hand to load the cases in the boat and it was not very long before they were ready to cast off.

They rowed landward almost in silence watching between strokes the phosphorescent gleams where the fins of the man-eaters cut about the water on all sides.

“They’d find our cargo pretty indigestible;” laughed Frank, as one monster, whose form showed flaming green in the depths alongside, dashed by with hungry, gaping jaws and dived beneath the boat after darting a glance at the boys out of his little pig-like eyes.

They had marked the location of the landing-place by a tall ceiba tree, which formed an excellent landmark, before they left shore; so that they had no trouble in picking up the spot in the mangroves where the boats lay snugly hidden. As their boat’s nose grated in amongst the twisted roots, Frank sprang quickly out and made fast the painter and then Harry began the work of handing the ammunition ashore.

“Ruiz will have to send down some men to carry this stuff up into camp,” remarked Harry, puffing under his exertions, which, as each case weighed about fifty pounds, were not inconsiderable.

“And here they come, now;” rejoined Frank, as there was a trampling in the mangroves at the back of them. Both boys looked up to greet the newcomers and tell them how to lay hold of the boxes, when a startling thing happened.

The new arrivals came forward steadily and halted in a line, and, as if moved by clockwork, a dozen rifles went up to as many shoulders, covering the boys, whose hands dropped to their sides in sheer amazement at this unexpected turn of affairs.

Instinctively Frank and Harry reached for their revolvers, as soon as they recovered their senses.

“The señors will not move if they value their lives;” said a voice in excellent English, which proceeded from an officer; evidently in charge of the force of men which had surprised them.

“What?” gasped the boys angrily.

“Because,” went on the soft-voiced officer, not noticing their indignant exclamation, “I shall then be under the painful necessity of shooting down the two Señors Chester without the formality of a court-martial.”

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE FLOWER OF FLAME

Ben Stubbs and Billy had stood straining their eyes after the Golden Eagle, when the air-craft flew from Plateau Camp, for as long as they could detect against the dark sky, the darker shadow of its outline; then they turned to the camp-fire and Ben Stubbs, whistling loudly, almost defiantly, set about the task of getting supper. Both occupants of the camp felt singularly disinclined for talk and it was not until after supper was finished and Ben’s pipe fairly going, that either uttered more than a few perfunctory words.

By that time the storm, into which the Golden Eagle had soared on what proved a fatal voyage, was upon them. It came with the same sharp puff of wind and far-off flash of lightning that had first alarmed the boys.

“I’m going to double-lash that tent,” remarked Ben Stubbs, briefly, after he had washed the tin plates. “This is goin’ to be a hummer and no mistake.”

As for Billy the apprehension he felt would not put itself into words. As the storm increased, though, and he helped Ben Stubbs to what the old sailor called “double-gasket” the waterproof tent, his heart sank.

“If the boys could not make a landing? – What then?” It was an unbearable thought and, as often as it came to him, and, try as he would the young reporter could not dispossess himself of it – there came with it a premonition of disaster. Though Ben didn’t mention it the same thought was chasing itself through his mind. At last he could contain himself no longer and remarked:

“Now, mate, all’s snugged down and ship-shape and I reckon we’d better turn in and get what sleep we can,” he looked at the alarm-clock that hung on the tent pole.

“Eight bells,” he said, “I wonder how it’s going with them boys?” That was all, but the note of anxiety in his voice showed that the hardened old salt was as badly worried about what was transpiring on the Golden Eagle as Billy himself.

“I guess they will be all right, don’t you, Ben?” anxiously asked Billy, quite willing to catch at even a straw of hope.

For answer Ben pulled the tent flap aside and looked out into the black night.

“Wall,” he replied slowly, after he had cast his eye up at the sky, which was ribboned with blue, serpent-like streaks of lightning, – “wall, I’ve seen dirtier nights; but not many. I don’t know much about air wessels;” he went on deliberately, “but my opinion, Mister Barnes, is that this ain’t no kind of weather to be navigating on sea or land.”

Not a word more could Billy get out of him and he could find no comfort in what the old tar had said.

It was snug enough in the tent, with the lamp hung to the ridge-pole and Ben’s pipe going, but outside the storm was evidently waxing in fury. As the thunder crashed and roared its echo was flung against the steep cliff – on the summit of which lay the Toltec treasure valley – with the noise of a battery of heavy guns. It was deafening and to Billy, who had never before experienced a tropic thunderstorm, it was terrifying. He said nothing, however, but sat nursing his knee on the edge of his cot while outside the uproar grew every minute more angry and menacing.

As for Ben Stubbs his conduct was singular. He sat, pipe in mouth, with his head on one side, as though listening intently for something – for what Billy had no idea – and as Ben didn’t seem in a talkative mood he didn’t ask him.

Suddenly there came a lull in the storm and the old sailor ran to the flap of the tent. Outside he threw himself on the ground, holding one ear close to it. He was up in a second and back in the tent.

Billy looked at him wonderingly. The grizzled veteran of the sea and mountain looked worried.

“What’s the matter, Ben?” demanded Billy, struck by the singular aspect of Ben’s countenance.

“Matter?” replied the sailor, “matter enough. This is only a Dutchman’s hurricane to what’s in the wind. Listen! Do you hear that?”

He held up a finger to command attention.

Billy listened and to his ears there was borne, in a lull of the storm, a sound like the far-off whining of thousands of tortured animals. It was like nothing he had ever heard before.

Suddenly he jumped to his feet with an alarmed yell.

“There’s something under my cot!” he cried.

“It’s shaking it!” he shouted the next minute.

“There ain’t nothing under yer cot but the solid earth, mate,” replied the sailor gravely, “and it’s that what you feels a’ shaking. It’s the terremoto and it’s going to be a bad ’un.”

“The terremoto?”

“Yes; the earthquake,” was Ben’s reply.

“Now, mate,” went on Ben Stubbs gravely, “the main thing ter do in er case like this, is ter keep yer head. Keep cool and we’ll come out all right.”

As he spoke there came a violent convulsion that almost threw Billy off his feet, – at the same moment a terrific puff of wind ripped out the tent pegs in spite of all Ben’s “double-gasketing” and the two occupants of it were struggling in its folds, while beneath them the earth shook and above the sky seemed to open and pour out a dreadful flood of living fire.

To Billy it seemed that his last hour had come. To make matters worse the oil had spilled out of the lamp as the tent collapsed and caught fire. The reporter, struggling desperately for release, realized this and shouted aloud, – not from any good he thought it might do, but from mere instinct. He could actually – or so it seemed to him – feel the flames at his legs when suddenly something ripped open the canvas that enveloped his head, and he felt the blessed air.

It was Ben Stubbs’ knife that had saved him.

“Close call that, mate,” commented the imperturbable Ben, as if he had just warned his companion not to step in front of a street-car, or something like that.

There was no time to answer. There came a deafening crash of thunder and another violent shaking of the earth. In the light of the blazing tent, which lit up the scene like a bonfire, they could see great trees crashing down and the forms of terrified wild animals rushing through them in a wild hope of escaping the fury of the earthquake and the storm. None of the fleeing wild beasts seemed to have the slightest fear of the men or even to notice them. Terror of the aroused forces of nature had overcome all their aversion to their human enemies.

“It’s a shame ter see all that good game going to waste,” was Ben’s only comment on the terrific scene that was taking place about them.

Billy looked at him in surprise. Was this man made of steel or iron? He seemed as impassive as either. From his companion’s calm demeanor Billy caught renewed courage and thought to himself, with a sort of desperate pride:

“Well if he can stand it I can.”

“How long is this likely to last?” Billy asked in a trembling voice of Ben, as the earth fairly heaved under the convulsions that now seemed to be rending its very crust.

“No telling, mate;” shouted Ben, with his mouth at Billy’s ear, “it may last an hour or a day – or not more’n five minutes more. Holy Moses – !”

The abrupt exclamation was called forth by an extraordinary sight.

From the Treasure Cliff, as the boys had christened it – there suddenly shot upward a tall pillar of flame, which died down again as abruptly. A sulphurous reek filled the air at the same moment.

Ben seized Billy by the arm with a grip that pained.

“Come on; run for your life – ” he shouted – “the whole blame mountain’s going.”

“Where are we to go?” gasped Billy, who shrank from the idea of the forest; where trees were crashing down every minute.

“Come on, I tell you, don’t stop to ax questions,” shouted Ben plainly excited, and Billy knew, – even in the turmoil in which his feelings then were, – that the peril must be serious indeed that would excite the cool-headed ex-prospector.

“That’s only the beginning,” shouted Ben as they ran, “if we stay here ten minutes longer our lives won’t be worth an old chew of terbacey.”

As he spoke he fairly dragged Billy along with him. Their way lay down the steep hill, and they stumbled and slipped, and fell down and scrambled up again like men fleeing from a remorseless enemy.

To Billy it all seemed like a hideous dream. Suddenly the whole scene was illumined by a fresh out-gush of flame from the summit of the treasure cliff. The amazing pillar of fire shot straight up for a height of fully fifty feet and blossomed out, whitely, as its summit into the resemblance of a huge fiery chrysanthemum. Even in his terror Billy could not help admiring, awestricken, the awful, majestic beauty of the sight. It was plain enough now to him what had happened, – the earthquake had opened up some hidden seam in the mountain, possibly that bottomless pit of the White Snakes and this pillar of fire was gushing upward from the bowels of the earth.

Ben, far from being struck with the overpowering majesty of the spectacle, seemed to regard it merely as a fresh cause for apprehension. By this time they were stumbling along through the forest; but the brilliant light of the volcanic flame behind them, made their way as light as day. Right across their way lay a huge fallen tree with a trunk fully forty feet in diameter. Ben uttered a cry of joy as he saw it.

“Quick, Billy, in under it!” he exclaimed, at the same time dragging the reporter to the ground and fairly pushing him under the massive trunk, as if he were afraid Billy would not obey quickly enough.

There was a low growl as he did so and a spotted form slunk away. It was a jaguar that had sought the same shelter as themselves; but such was the savage beast’s terror that it made no attempt to attack them and merely crouched, with its ears back and lashing tail, gazing at them from the other end of the trunk. After a few minutes it slunk off into the brightly illuminated jungle and they lost sight of it.

“That’s a wise beast,” remarked Ben, “purty near as wise as we are. Nothing like getting a roof over your head when there’s trouble of the kind that’s a comin’ around.”

As he spoke there was a tiny patter on the leaves all about them.

“Rain!” exclaimed Billy with some glee, recollecting the old New England idea that when rain breaks the worst of a thunderstorm is over.

“Rain,” scornfully snorted Ben, “it’s the kind of rain you couldn’t keep off with an umbrella, son.”

Billy looked at him puzzled.

“It’s what you might call a rocky rain,” explained Ben. “Hark!”

The light patter that Billy had heard rapidly increased to a rattling sound as if some giant were throwing gravel over the jungle. In a few minutes huge stones began to fall all about them and the blazing mountain to emit a roar like a thousand blast furnaces.

“Now do you see why we got under this tree?” demanded Ben, as the stones, thrown up from the mouth of the blazing pit, fell all about them, but, of course, did not harm them in their snug shelter.

Billy merely nodded, he was past speaking; but, with all his own alarm, and that was not a little, his mind still reverted to the boys. Could they ride out this awful night in safety?

How long they lay there, crouching low and listening to the terrible stony downpour about them Billy never knew, but it seemed a veritable eternity. From time to time wild beasts would creep under the same shelter with them without taking any more notice of the two men than if they had been of their own kind. This in itself – so unnatural was it – added to Billy’s alarm.

Suddenly, however, Ben uttered an exclamation.

“Don’t it appear to you, Billy, that she’s dying down at the top?” he asked, pointing to the great flowering pillar of flame. Billy looked, and for several minutes they both gazed at the volcanic blast furnace in silence. Then they uttered a glad cry.

There was no doubt about it, – the flame was dying down.

The incessant rain of stones too had ceased and the storm had resolved itself into frequent flashes and low growls of distant thunder. Billy gave a whoop of joy.

“Don’t holler till yer out of the wood, mate,” admonished Ben, “and we ain’t out of this yet, by a long shot.”

“But the worst is over, isn’t it?” asked Billy.

“Sure, the worst of the storm is; but we’ve got to get some place out of here, and there are two things we don’t want to run into, – one is Rogero’s army and the other is Injuns.”

“That’s so,” assented Billy, “have you any plan?”

“Wall,” drawled Ben, “the source of the San Juan River ought to be right around to the south of here some place, and I figure that by traveling in that direction we are bound to hit it, – if nothing hits us in the meantime. Then we can get a canoe somehow, and drift down to Greytown.”

“You’re the doctor,” remarked Billy, whose cheerfulness was fast returning.

A few hours later a dawn, – as soft and bright as if the events they had passed through had been a nightmare, – broke over the valley at their feet. It was hard for Billy to realize that the hours of horror they had gone through had been real; – but the huge stones that lay all about and the uprooted and lightning blasted trees that strewed the jungle gave but too vivid evidence that it all had been real. Suddenly a thought struck him.

The pillar of fire. It issued from the treasure cliff, and, – as nearly as he could judge, – from a spot right above the White Serpent’s Abyss! He turned to Ben with an anxious look on his face.

“Ben,” he said, “do you think that the passage is blocked?”

“What passage?” asked the practical Ben, who was looking over his revolver to make sure that it was in working order.

“Why the passage – the passage to the Toltec mines.”

Ben whistled.

“Son,” he replied, “there ain’t no more chance of that there passage being there to-day than there is that this yer gun wouldn’t blow my brains out if I pointed it at my head and pulled the trigger.”

This was bad news; as Billy knew that the boys had meant to come back with a properly equipped expedition and make a thorough investigation of the Toltec Valley. He recollected too Ben Stubbs’ bar gold that was cached there.

“Why, Ben, you’ve lost a fortune if that’s true,” he exclaimed petulantly, “and you don’t seem to worry over it? You’ve lost your bar gold.”

“Hev I,” rejoined Ben in a quiet voice that made Billy’s cheeks crimson, “well, youngster, I’ve got my life and I’m thankful for one mercy at a time.”

After that there was no more talk from Billy of the lost treasure.

They struck out to the South at once and about noon, after passing through terrible evidences of the ravages of the storm, and the earthquake, reached the banks of a muddy stream that reeked of malaria and disease. Ben, after a brief period of reconnoitering, announced that it was the San Juan River in his opinion, and that anyhow whatever watercourse it was it would bring them to the coast. Luck was with them for, after an hour or so of casting about, they found a rough native canoe drawn up on the bank. Not far from it, crushed beneath a mighty tree that had fallen in the earthquake, lay the figure of the Indian to whom it had belonged.

“Poor fellow,” said Stubbs, “I guess he’s beyond minding if we do borrow his property.”

A few minutes later they were on board the rough dug-out, which Ben handled as skilfully as a canoe, and on their way to the coast. Not before, however, Ben had cut two sticks of wood from a low growing umbrella tree, with his ever handy knife, and, lashing them together with a bit of creeper, formed a rude cross, – which he placed in the ground at the dead Indian’s head.

“Now that’s all ship-shape;” he exclaimed as after viewing his handiwork with satisfaction he stepped cautiously into the cranky native craft and shoved off into the rapid current.

CHAPTER XXVII.

PRISONERS OF WAR

As Frank and Harry found themselves confronted with the row of leveled rifles the officer who had addressed them placed a small silver whistle to his lips and blew twice. At the signal a score of men came rushing out of the mangroves, all armed and as villainous looking as the men who had first surprised the boys. The officer gave them a brief order in Spanish, the purport of which the boys did not get.

They were not long to be left in doubt as to its significance however. Two of the men advanced with a rope and motioned to the boys to place their hands together in front of them. The boys’ reply was emphatic and startling. Frank’s fist shot out, at almost the same moment as Harry’s, and in a second both the Nicaraguan worthies were lying flat on the ground, wondering what had struck them. Far from irritating the officer and his men the boys’ act seemed to amuse them. They shouted with laughter as their injured countrymen picked themselves up and slunk away with black looks at the boys. They muttered something as they went.

“They are saying, señors,” said the polite young officer, “that they hope to form part of the firing squad at your execution.”

In spite of themselves both boys gave a gasp of horror.

“Ah, I see I have shocked you,” went on their persecutor, “is it possible that you did not know that Rogero has been particularly anxious to find you, ever since you so cleverly rescued your young journalistic friend. In fact I expect to get a very handsome reward for your capture. I can assure you that when our scouts reported two American boys in league with the insurgent troops that I lost no time in taking steps to make sure your capture. I must thank you for the charming manner in which you have walked into my trap. What is it you Americans say ‘Will you walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly?’ – ah, yes, that is it. Well, Señors Fly, you see I have you trapped and you might as well submit gracefully to capture.”

Like a flash both boys realized the serious position they were in. “In league with insurgents” their sneering captor had said. It would be a difficult matter to prove that they were not and, as non-combatants, of course, they had no business to be on active service for either army. Both boys knew Rogero too well to expect any mercy from him. Brave as they were their hearts sank but only for a moment.

“Come on, Frank, let’s make a dash for it,” exclaimed Harry. “They can only shoot us.”

Frank put out a detaining hand.

“It would be of no use Harry,” he said, “we are in their power and had better submit. We will find a way out yet, – never fear.”

The boys had carried on this conversation in snatches. This seemed to irritate their captor.