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A Prisoner of Morro: In the Hands of the Enemy, a fiction by Upton Sinclair |
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Chapter 14. Bessie Stuart |
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_ CHAPTER XIV. BESSIE STUART The event to which Ignacio was looking forward with so much pleasure was not long in taking place. The trip by the railroad lasted about half an hour only. Ignacio would hardly have had more than time to carry out his dastardly purpose before the train arrived. The car came slowly to a stop and the sergeant got up and opened the door. "Here we are," said he. "And I am glad." Ignacio was apparently glad, too, since he had failed in his first plan. He sprang up eagerly and watched the removal of the prisoners. The sergeant untied the Americans' feet and gruffly ordered them to march. With the soldiers before and behind they were led rapidly through the streets of Havana. If the arrival of those prisoners in a small town created excitement, one may well imagine that the big capital turned out a crowd to watch them; but there was almost no demonstration against them, for the party hurried along rapidly. And Ignacio did not try any of his tricks; he knew that his chance would soon come, and he waited patiently. Clif gazed about him as he walked. He was listless and hopeless, but he could not help feeling an interest in the city he had heard so much of and which he had been so busily helping to blockade. But he had little chance to look about. He was marching down a long street crowded with Spaniards of all sizes and shades. And then suddenly before a dark, heavy-looking building, the guards came to a halt. There was a heavy iron door in front of it that opened slowly. "March in," said the sergeant. And the prisoners, with bayonets at their backs, were forced up the steps and into the building. The door shut again with a dull iron clang that sounded like a death knell to Clif. Ignacio entered, too. He seemed to have the privilege of going where he chose; the sentries who were guarding that door asked him no questions. It was apparently some sort of a military jail to which they had been taken. Down a long stone corridor they were marched, and then halted in front of a door. The sergeant entered, and Ignacio after him. The rest waited outside. It must have been at least fifteen minutes before anything more occurred. Then the sergeant came out, and ordered the prisoners to enter. Clif, as the officer, entered first, and he found himself facing a tall, military looking Spaniard with a resplendent uniform and an air of authority. Who he was Clif had no idea, but he was evidently in command of the place. He was a dark, savage-looking man, and his brows were drawn down as he frowned upon the prisoners. And Clif was not surprised. "He's had Ignacio to tell him about us," he thought to himself. Ignacio was standing just behind the officer. There was a grin on his face and a look of delight; he rubbed his hands gleefully as he watched what transpired. The Spanish officer glared at his prisoners sternly. Clif's bearing was quiet and dignified. "So you are the officer who commanded the Yankee pigs?" growled the man. "I am an American naval cadet," was the response. The Spaniard said nothing more for a moment, but continued his piercing look. "You put on a bold front," he said at last. "You must have looked differently when you were running away." The remark required no answer, and got none. Clif did not mean to bandy words with the officer; if he wanted to taunt him he was welcome to do so. "We treat our prisoners more politely," he thought, "but I suppose this is the Spanish way." Meanwhile the officer went on. "You will be less impudent later on," he snarled, "when you learn what is in store for you. You've no idea, I presume." "I understood that I was a prisoner of war," was the American's quiet answer. "And I understood that Spain considered itself a civilized nation." The Spaniard laughed softly. "A prisoner of war," he chuckled. "So you really expect to be treated as such--and after what you have done!" "What have I done?" asked Clif. Ignacio's eyes began to dance at that; for the officer turned toward him. "This gentleman," said the officer, "is one of our trusted agents. And I have learned from him of your villainy." Clif was not in the least surprised at that. It was just what he had looked for. "I should be pleased to learn also, if I may, what has this trusted agent told you?" As he said that, he turned toward the grinning Ignacio. But it was the officer who continued speaking. "I suppose you wish to deny everything," said he. "But I assure you it will do not the least good in the world." "I presume not," escaped Clif's lips. The Spaniard frowned angrily, but he went on without a change of tone. "You were captured, if I understand it truly, from a merchantman which you ran upon the rocks in order to prevent one of our vessels from recapturing her?" "That is true," Clif said. "And you must have thought it quite a smart trick! But according to this man here, you previously had some fighting with our vessel. Would you mind telling me about it?" "I would not," said Clif. "We were steaming toward Key West, myself and these four men being a prize crew from the gunboat Uncas. We were hailed from the darkness by another vessel----" "Ah! And what was the name of the vessel?" "I do not know." "Did you not ask?" "I did. But she answered falsely. She pretended to be an American vessel----" The Spaniard gave a sneer. "So that is the yarn you mean to tell," he laughed. "That is what occurred," said Clif, quickly. "If you have heard otherwise you have been told a lie. And my men will bear me out in the statement." "Indeed! I do not doubt it." There was fine sarcasm in that tone; but Clif did not heed it. "Would you mind telling me what this fellow Ignacio has said?" he inquired. "He says," responded the other, "that the vessel announced herself as a Spaniard, and called on you to surrender. You did so; and then when the boat's crew came aboard you shot two of them and steamed away. Is that so, Ignacio?" "It is," snarled the "agent." "I will take my oath upon it." It was of course a lie; and it made Clif's blood boil. The Spanish vessel had deceived them and tried to capture them by stealth. The men of the Spanish boat's crew had been shot while trying to hold up the American. But Clif had expected that Ignacio would tell such a tale, and so he was not surprised. The offense with which the lad found himself charged was a terrible one, and he realized that he could be hanged for it. Yet what was he to do? "I fear," he said to the Spaniard, "that it will do me little good to deny this story." "That is true," said the other, promptly. And his cruel eyes gleamed as he watched the prisoner. "Do you deny the shooting?" he demanded. "No," said Clif, "I do not." "You find it easier to say that the men pretended to be Americans." "I find it easier because it is truer," was the cadet's answer. And then there were several moments of silence while the three actors of this little drama watched each other eagerly. Ignacio was fairly beside himself with triumph. He could scarcely keep himself quiet, and under his bushy eyebrows, his dark eyes gleamed triumphantly. He had played his trump card. And he had his victim where he wanted him at last. To watch him under the torture of his present position was almost as good as to watch him under the torture of the knife. For what could he do? He might bluster and protest (all to Ignacio's glee) but nobody would believe him. For Ignacio knew that the Spanish officer was glad enough to believe the story the spy told him. His prejudice and his hatred of Americans would turn the scale. And it would be fine to punish a Yankee pig for such a crime as this. As for Clif, he was filled with a kind of dull despair; he knew the odds against him, and realized that his struggles would be those of a caged animal. He had done nothing but his duty and the law of nations would have justified him. But Ignacio's lie upon that one small point (of what the Spanish gunboat had done) was enough to make him liable to death. The officer seemed to realize the smallness of difference, for he turned to Ignacio. "Are you perfectly sure," he demanded, "that you heard our vessel announce her identity?" "I am, senor." "And what was her name?" Clif's eyes brightened at that; he thought Ignacio would be caught there. But the cunning fellow was prepared, and answered instantly. "The Regina." He had chosen the name of a Spanish gunboat he knew to be at sea; and the ruse worked. "What more can you expect?" demanded the officer of Clif. And then the cadet looked up to make the last effort for his life. "As I have told you," he said, "this fellow's story is false. And now I will tell you why he has done it. He has long been an enemy of mine, and he is making an effort to ruin me. I foiled him----" "If you are going to tell me about that attempt of his to kill your Yankee admiral," interrupted the officer, "I know it already." And Ignacio gave a chuckle of glee. "In fact," the officer added, "I have learned of all your adventures, young man. And I have no doubt you consider yourself quite a hero after what you have done against Spain. But you will live to regret it, I think." And Clif saw that he had nothing to gain by pursuing that tack any further; he was silent, for he knew nothing more to do. The Spaniard went on: "I know also of another affair of yours," he added. "It seems that your pig government sent a naval officer over to see that bandit robber Gomez. And our friend here, Ignacio, was leading him into our camp. I believe that was it, was it not, Ignacio?" "It was, senor, and this Yankee here met us----" "And wounded you and rescued the officer, with the aid of some of the robber's men, and that girl you told me about." "Exactly," said Ignacio. "What was her name?" the other continued. "Stuart, I think. We will soon manage to stop her tricks, I fancy." Clif had been listening to their conversation without any particular interest. But suddenly as he heard that last speech his face flushed crimson and he half staggered back. "Bessie Stuart!" he gasped, under his breath. The Spanish officer was looking at him and he laughed as he saw the American's thunderstruck expression. "Ha! ha!" he chuckled, "so you are interested in her, are you? A sweetheart, perhaps, hey?" Clif did not answer that; he was staring at the man in horror. Stop her! What in the world could he mean? What could he know about Bessie Stuart? The girl was a dear friend of Clif's who had come to Cuba to hunt for a relative of hers. Clif had left her under the protection of Gomez; and that was the last he had heard of her. And here was the brutal Spaniard mentioning her. How had he and how had the villainous Ignacio learned about her? It was small wonder that Clif started back; Bessie Stuart was the dearest friend he had. Meanwhile the Spaniard was leering at him. "The Yankee pig seems worried," he said. "If that girl is his sweetheart, he did not do wisely to leave her with the bandit Gomez. Did he, Ignacio?" "No, senor," was that person's grinning response. "For she will soon be somebody else's sweetheart," chuckled the other. That was too much. Clif had held himself back, for he did not wish those cruel men to know he could torment him. But at that last remark he could no longer restrain his anxiety. He sprang toward the Spanish captain with a pleading look on his face. "Tell me!" he cried. "Tell me--where is she?" The other's lip curled sneeringly as he stared at him. "You are very much interested," said he. "Well, to be sure, the girl is pretty--pretty as I ever saw, unfortunately for her. But you may see her again. I expect--she is likely to be in the same prison with you." Every drop of blood left Clif's face at those terrible words. Bessie Stuart in prison! "Merciful providence!" he gasped. And then once more he sprang toward the Spaniard, a look on his face, a look of agony that would have touched a heart of stone. "For Heaven's sake, sir," he gasped, "tell me!" "Tell you what?" "Is she in Havana?" The Spaniard laughed softly. Then he nodded toward Ignacio. "Ask him," he said. "He keeps track of such people for us. She has been here some time now; and people who get into our prisons don't--ha! ha! they don't get out in a hurry, do them, Ignacio?" "No, senor." "And then she is very pretty, too," added the officer, with a laugh. To the agony those remarks were raising in the mind of poor Clif those two brutal men seemed quite insensible. Or perhaps they were teasing him. But if so, the officer had enough then, for he turned upon his heel impatiently. "Enough of this nonsense," he said. "You need not worry about your sweetheart, for you will probably be dead by to-morrow." And the man turned to the soldiers. "Those four prisoners," he said, pointing to the sailors, "will be kept here for the present. They will probably be exchanged in a few days. We do not blame them for the crime this officer here committed. As for him, he will probably be sent over to Morro Castle to-night." And then the file of soldiers closed about the dazed cadet and led him out of the room. He was scarcely able to walk by himself. The last sound that he heard as he left the room was the fiendish chuckle of the triumphant Ignacio. _ |
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