through the jeering camp the american prisoners were marched. they had, of course, been searched and their revolvers confiscated. how fortunate, ned thought it then, that he had left the will in safe hands before they started on their perilous errand. from the general’s manner, he had seen that it was of even more importance than he had deemed it.
“i wonder if he is not withholding his niece’s inheritance from her,” he thought.
but there was little opportunity for reflection as they were hurried along the white coast road toward miraflores. all the way they were greeted with jeers and execrations.
“yankee pigs” was the mildest of the epithets hurled at them with true south american vehemence.
behind the file of soldiers which formed their escort came charbonde and hank, both mounted on wiry little native horses. the latter held a handkerchief to his face, on which a large, dark bruise was rapidly forming. at that moment hank would have ridden a much greater distance than the few miles to miraflores to witness ned’s execution.
at last they entered the town—a fair-sized place under a sloping bank of greenery. in front stretched the sea. in a vain hope of rescue from thence the sailors looked ocean-ward, but the expanse was empty of life. not a sail or a funnel marred its glistening surface.
through the town, while women joined the ranks of their tormentors, the dusty, worried americans were marched straight up to a small building with barred windows.
“the prison!” flashed across ned’s mind.
but he soon found that the place was a courtroom—dark, cool and dusty. at the head of a long table standing on trestles, which occupied the center of the chamber, charbonde took his[174] seat. there were some papers there and ink and pens. he wrote rapidly for several minutes, while the prisoners stood dejectedly amidst their guards at the other end of the table. hank stood by the south american, leaning over and occasionally offering advice, or so it seemed.
at last charbonde looked up. as he did so a thrill of horror passed through the boys. they realized at last that this room was the courtroom in which they were to undergo the mockery of a trial for their lives. as they waited several other officers sauntered in as if to a show. one of them addressed charbonde as colonel. this explained at once his precedence at the so-called court-martial.
standing up, charbonde read rapidly in a sing-song voice from the indictment he had just drawn up. as it was in spanish the dreadnought boys did not understand a word of it. so rapidly did the colonel—as we must now call him—read, in fact, that even midshipman stark and stanley, both of whom understood the language, had but a vague idea of the charges.
“well, gentlemen, what have you to say?” inquired charbonde, as he finished reading from the document.
“do i understand that you have charged us with conducting a naval expedition into your lines for the purposes of ascertaining your forces and position?” asked the middy in a firm voice.
“you do, sir,” rejoined charbonde, sitting back and nibbling his pen point in a judicial manner. it was evident that he was enjoying the situation thoroughly.
“but—but i protest,” burst out the young officer, “the navy has nothing whatever to do with this thing. it is purely a private enterprise—if you want to call it that. don’t you understand?”
“i must confess i do not. there now remains but one thing to do. gentlemen, you have heard the evidence and the defense, what is your verdict?”
he turned to the lounging officers.
“this is an outrage!” shouted the midshipman. “i demand to be heard. i——”
a touch on his arm quieted him. it was stanley.
“keep cool, sir,” he advised, “it ain’t no use appealing to reason when you find yourself in a den of tigers.”
after a few moments of whispering among themselves, charbonde stepped forward from the group of officers. all looked curiously at the boys.
“the court finds you guilty as charged,” he said in a crisp, curt voice. “it is now my duty to impose sentence.”
utter silence fell in the gloomy room. outside could be heard the rattle of a sentry’s rifle as he changed arms. the hammer of a horse’s hoofs across a distant bridge was painfully distinct.
“i sentence you to be shot to-morrow at sunrise!”
“great heavens! you can’t mean this. we——”
“now, then, sir, steady on,” warned stanley once more, as the middy was beginning a fresh plea. “it won’t do any good, sir.”
“remove the prisoners and see that they are guarded closely,” came the next command from charbonde.
“keep a stiff upper lip, herc,” whispered ned, as they were marched from the room where this parody of a trial had taken place.
“all right, ned,” answered the red-headed dreadnought boy grittily enough, “but it’s tough, isn’t it?”
under his freckles and tan the lad was ashy white. ned himself, pluckily as he tried to bear it, was not far from breaking down at that moment. fortunately, however, for their self-respect—for they would rather have cut off their right hands than have shown any weakness before the south americans—the very suddenness with which their doom had been pronounced had partially stunned them. stanley shuffled forward down the dusty street as if in a daze. midshipman stark was in the same condition. once when he got near to ned he said in low voice:
“i hope you’ll forgive me, strong. i got you into this mess.”
“cheer up, sir,” comforted ned, “we’re not dead yet.”
“true for you,” burst out stanley, “and though this is a tight place we may wriggle out of it yet.”
it wasn’t much, but somehow to the condemned americans even this scrap of cheerful conversation, forced from despairing hearts, was something. they stepped forward with a new confidence and faced the gibes and missiles of the street crowds with stiff upper lips. it was not long before their guard turned into a filthy alleyway. marching a short distance up this narrow thoroughfare, the sergeant halted his file of men before a big oak door, studded with huge nails. he opened it, and a rush of fetid air poured out from the dark interior on which the portal opened. it was the dreadnought boys’ first taste of the breath of a south american prison.
the guard motioned for them to enter. they did so, stumbling half blindly into the odoriferous, gloomy place. the next instant the door clanged to, and they heard a metallic jangling, as the fastenings[179] were secured on the outside. the middy, the full sense of their predicament breaking upon him at last, threw himself on a narrow bench at one side of the chamber. a ray of sun falling through a narrow, barred window high up illumined his shoulders. they were heaving.
“here, come over this way,” muttered stanley. “it isn’t good to see an officer that way.”
“do you think they mean to shoot us?” asked herc in a shaky voice.
“no, sonny, i don’t. these dagoes are great on bluffs. i guess they just want to throw a scare into us. they wouldn’t dare to shoot four americans at the word of a rat like that chawedbone.”
although stanley assumed a light and indifferent tone in the hope of cheering up his comrades, his feelings were anything but confident. ned also, although he said nothing, could not help recalling outrages he had read of in the newspapers in which americans had been executed by south american troops, without a chance to defend themselves. but stanley’s confidence had[180] its effect on herc and midshipman stark. soon they fell to discussing their situation earnestly. stanley’s first move was to “get his bearings,” as he called it.
with the aid of ned’s shoulders he clambered up to the window and hung on by the bars.
“i can see the sea, anyway,” he called down.
“is there any sign of the beale?” asked the midshipman, with a wild hope for an instant that some chance might have brought her there.
the boatswain’s mate shook his head soberly as he alighted once more on the cell floor.
“no, sir, there ain’t,” he said, “and even if there were it wouldn’t do us any good.”
“isn’t there a chance of getting out?”
stanley hit the walls with his mighty fist.
“hear that?” he asked; “solid as gibraltar, as the advertisements say. and to make sure we don’t gouge our way out they’ve got three of those tin soldiers marching up and down in front.”
this was the death blow to their last lingering hope of escape. for a time they sat in[181] silence, with bowed heads. suddenly stanley straightened up from the bench on which he had been sitting.
“hark!” he exclaimed.
the sound of a horse galloping furiously was borne to their ears. it came nearer and nearer, and finally, to the prisoners’ astonishment, the steed was reined in in front of their place of confinement.
“what’s up now?” exclaimed stanley wonderingly.
“maybe a pardon or something,” suggested herc.
but stanley shook his head as the sound of excited voices outside filtered through into the cell.
“it’s a woman!” he gasped.
