CHAPTER XXXI
Peter Goes Ashore
At dawn the British fleet began to ascend the river to carry hostilities into Rioguayan territory. The van of the fleet consisted of a number of West Indian motor fishing-boats, provided with paravanes and other countermining devices. These boats, belonging to patriotic owners in Jamaica, Trinidad, St. Vincent, Barbadoes, and Barbuda, had been offered to the British admiral, who, realizing their value, had gratefully accepted them.
They were manned entirely by volunteers from the fleet—men who knew the danger but did not hesitate to risk their lives for their comrades.
Following the sweepers came the battleships, cleared for action. Hard on their heels were three flotillas of destroyers, ready should occasion arise to dart past the lowering hulls of the battleships, and deal effectively with any hostile craft that might pluck up sufficient courage to attack. The light cruisers came next, escorting a huge airplane carrier, although no attempt had been made to use any of her brood for reconnaissance or bombing work, She was like a "back-number" veteran amongst a crowd of athletes.
Astern of the light cruisers were the fleet store-ship and oil-tankers, while in the rearguard were more destroyers and half a dozen "coastal motor-boats" that had come south from Halifax on the decks of two fleet auxiliaries.
The passage between the Island of Sambrombon and San Benito was accomplished without any sign of resistance. It had been expected that the enemy would train their anti-aircraft rays upon the motor-craft, since their magnetoes would be affected in a similar manner, but unaccountably the Rioguayans made no attempt to do so.
At length the fleet came in sight of San Antonio, and consequently well within range of their 15-inch guns. From the yard-arm of the Royal Oak a hoist of bunting fluttered.
"Flag making our number, sir," reported the chief yeoman to the officer of the watch of the Rebound. The "answering pennant" was hardly up before the Royal Oak semaphored:
"Flag to Rebound. Lieutenant Peter Corbold to report on board as soon as convenient."
Peter was given the message. He guessed what was "in the wind" and hastened to obey. "As soon as convenient" meant, he knew, in naval parlance "as sharp as you jolly well can, and the quicker the better". Rigged out in a white drill tropical uniform lent by a brother officer who luckily had lost only a small amount of kit during the action, Peter went over the side into the waiting picket-boat and was soon on his way to the Flagship.
"I have selected you, Mr. Corbold," said the Admiral in his usual style of coming straight to the point, "to be the bearer of this letter to the President of Rioguay, since, I believe, you speak the language and have been a resident in Rioguay, You will wait till noon for a reply. The ultimatum is unsealed. Read it, and make yourself acquainted with the terms."
Peter did so. The British ultimatum was brief and emphatic. It demanded the unconditional surrender of San Antonio, with all warships, forts, military, naval, and aircraft stores and equipment. No hostages were demanded, and a promise was given that private and civil property would be strictly respected. The question of indemnities with respect to the wanton destruction of British mercantile shipping would be impartially dealt with at a later date. Failing an acceptance of the terms by noon, the port and fortified positions of San Antonio would be bombarded at 3 p.m.
The ultimatum was then sealed and again handed to Peter for delivery.
Five minutes later, the envoy was in the stern-sheets of the picket-boat on his way to San Antonio. He was unarmed, as were the crew. From the jack-staff in the bows was displayed a large white flag.
It was a good half-hour's run to the naval port landing-steps. The picket-boat was not fired upon, although Peter would not have been surprised if the Rioguayan forts and ships had done so. As he passed the shell-shattered warships lying at anchor off the town, their crews regarded the British boat with unfeigned interest, but without any demonstration of anger. The wharves, too, were crowded with spectators, civilians, seamen, and soldiers mingling indiscriminately.
It was a risky business. At any moment an exasperated Rioguayan might "let rip" with rifle or revolver, since there were no signs of anyone in authority to hold the throng in check. Yet unhesitatingly the unarmed picket-boat held on her course until at length she ran alongside the broad stone steps facing the Rioguayan Port Admiral's residence.
"Hey, laddie!" exclaimed a voice that sounded strangely familiar.
"Hello, Mackenzie!" replied Peter. "Didn't expect to see you in this galley."
"I hardly did myself," admitted Mackenzie. "I've only been released from prison this morning. They nabbed me when you cleared out. Our mutual friend Don Ramon wasn't particularly gentlemanly about it. Snarled like a dog. He was a bit hipped because you took French leave. But I hardly expected to see you here again and in that rig. So you got away all right? I had no means of finding out. And how is Mr. Strong?"
"Steady, Mac," protested Peter laughingly. "It's a long yarn and can wait. I've got to interview the port officials. We're going to put it about them this time."
"Never doubted but what we would," rejoined the Scot, "I gathered that Rioguay is feeling a bit sorry for itself. For one thing, my release. They wouldn't have been so courteous if things had been going their way. I'll wait on board your wee boat if you have no objection, and perhaps you will give me a passage?"
"Do so," agreed Peter. "I hope I shan't be very long."
All this while, a party of Rioguayan officers had been kept waiting. The lieutenant was in no hurry. He meant to let them cool their heels.
Then, with a great amount of saluting and heel clicking, the Rioguayan officers introduced themselves and offered to escort the envoy to the Admiralty buildings. There was no hauteur in their demeanour. They seemed genuinely anxious as to what was going to happen and were almost clamouring to pay attention to the representative of the British admiral.
In one of the rooms of the Admiralty House, Peter was introduced to the Port Admiral and Governor of San Antonio. With them were numerous officials—military, naval, and civilian.
Declining the offer of a glass of wine, Peter delivered his dispatch. Keenly observing the faces of the Rioguayan officials as one of the number translated the terms of the ultimatum, Corbold knew that there would be no bombardment. In fact, the mildness of the terms was a complete surprise. They expected nothing less than a demand for the surrender of the principal officers of the port and the instant payment of a vast sum of money to save the town from destruction.
Then they explained the situation to the British envoy. As far as San Antonio was concerned, the terms were accepted, and probably the rest of the Republic of Rioguay would surrender on the same conditions. For, unknown to the British admiral, a revolution had broken out. President Jaime Samuda had been shot during the fighting in the streets of the capital, Don Ramon Diaz and Don José Cordova, his principal lieutenants, were in the hands of the insurgents, and the last of the troops fighting for President Samuda had laid down their arms.
Eight bells, noon, was being sounded off when Peter went on board the Royal Oak bearing a written acceptance of the British admiral's ultimatum.
At 2 p.m. the fleet stood towards San Antonio. An hour later, the Rioguayan colours on board the various warships were replaced by the White Ensign. The forts were taken over by British marines and the town patrolled by armed bluejackets.
That evening, Corbold and Cavendish, accompanied by Mackenzie, went ashore. The shops were open, electric tramcars were running, and the town was brilliantly lighted as usual. Everywhere the British seamen and marines were received not as conquerors, but as deliverers from the drastic rule of the dictator, President Samuda. Perhaps most of the demonstrations of friendship were simulated, but the inhabitants of San Antonio were certainly favourably impressed by the demeanour of the victors and by their generous terms.
"By Jove! I had no idea that this was such an up-to-date place," remarked Cavendish. "Everyone seems chock-a-block with prosperity. Why weren't the silly asses content? What possessed them to twist the tail of the British lion?"
"They were made to," explained Mackenzie. "It was the late President's idea."
"But surely they could have declined to risk their lives and property?" rejoined Cavendish.
"There were inducements," continued Mackenzie. "Samuda gave them to understand that Great Britain was a pigeon to be plucked. But apart from that, the President's will was law. The Czar of all the Russias in his day was not more autocratic. But they've learned a lesson."
"Are you remaining here?" asked Peter.
Mackenzie nodded.
"Yes," he replied slowly. "I am. I'm away home for a bit, though, but I'll be back before very long. There's money to be made in Rioguay after this trouble's over. And that mystery man—your Uncle Brian—I suppose he'll be out this way again? Or perhaps he's made enough out of his invention to retire into private life?"
"I don't think he'll come out to Rioguay," replied Peter. "He's had enough, I fancy. As for making money out of the rays, that won't worry him very much. From what I know of him, he'll have a tip-top laboratory, wear any old clothes, and give away all his superfluous cash."
Cavendish was unusually quiet that evening. The unrestrained gaiety of the streets fascinated him. He could not understand why a people, only just beaten in war, should take so light-heartedly to amusements and rejoicing. The Rioguayans had discovered that there was far more liberty under the British flag than there had been under the late republic.
Suddenly there came the sound of men shouting in execration.
"What's that?" exclaimed Cavendish, his hand gripping the flap of his revolver holster. "Some of our men being knocked about?"
"No fear," replied Mackenzie reassuringly. "The Dagoes wouldn't risk doing that—even if they wanted to. Come on, let's see what the row's about."
A crowd taking up the whole width of the spacious Calle Almeira swept along, brandishing sticks and waving sombreros and yelling threats.
Standing on the steps of a café, the three chums could see a strong body of civil police forcing their way through the press. In the centre of the guards were three or four men looking horribly scared. They were bleeding from wounds in the head, caused by missiles hurled by the mob, who threatened to rush the none too determined police.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Peter. "There's Don Ramon Diaz."
It was. Ramon and the other principal officials of the late Government had been brought in from the capital to be tried at San Antonio. Even if they had a fair trial, which was doubtful, they were practically certain to be condemned and shot. That was one of the penalties of holding office in an unstable South American republic—autocratic power one day, degradation and a firing party the next. In the present case, it looked doubtful whether the prisoners could be taken through the mob, some of whom had just thrown noosed ropes over the electric lamp standards in the Plaza.
Gone was Ramon's sickly smile. It was the first time Peter had seen him without that sneering, fatuous grin. He was trembling violently and clinging desperately to the civil guard on his left.
"Poor blighter!" ejaculated Peter.
He was almost on the point of forcing his way through the mob to attempt to save Ramon from lynch law. But moderate counsel prevailed. He realized that in their present burst of frenzy, the crowd might murder him. He was willing to risk that possibility, but the result would destroy the amicable relations existing between the inhabitants of San Antonio and the British seamen and marines. The bloodshed that would ensue would be enormous, and perhaps the Rioguayans would make a desperate and prolonged resistance.
Yet, somehow, Peter couldn't stand by and watch his enemy being done to death.
Mackenzie was watching him covertly.
"Keep cool, laddie," he exclaimed. "There's an armed party coming up."
A British naval patrol and a picquet of marines, wearing shrapnel helmets, doubled up the street. A sharp word of command and the armed men formed two deep right across the Calle Almeira, motionless as statues.
"Order arms... fix bayonets!"
The click of steel and the clatter of rifle butts on the asphalt acted like a cold douche upon the hot-headed citizens of San Antonio. The forefront of the crowd retreated. Those in the rear, unable to see what was going on, pressed forward. Yet a strange silence fell upon the crowd.
The civil police, seizing their opportunity, hurried their prisoners forward right up to the steel-tipped line of British bluejackets and marines.
The officer in charge of the armed party was in a bit of a dilemma. Unable to understand a word, he tried to silence the now vociferous clamour of both prisoners and civil guards. He couldn't grasp the situation, being under the impression that the affair was an anti-British demonstration, while Don Ramon was in such a state of collapse that his fluent command of English failed him utterly.
Peter and Cavendish, followed by Mackenzie, went up to the officer, who happened to know the two former. Briefly Corbold explained the situation.
"Well, what can I do?" asked the officer in charge of the party. "These fellows aren't our prisoners. I can't take them away from the civil authority."
Peter turned to the non-commissioned officer of the Rioguayan police. The man stated that his orders were to take the prisoners to the town gaol for the night. They would be tried and shot before noon to-morrow, he added inconsequently.
"It's murder," declared Peter, conferring with the lieutenant of the landing-party. "Look here, can you detail half a dozen men? I'll take all responsibility and get the prisoners on board. After all's said and done, they aren't criminals, merely political prisoners."
"Get on with it then," was the reply, "and jolly good luck. Only, remember, I can't make these opera bouffe policemen give up their prisoners."
"I'll try, anyway," rejoined Peter.
Producing a buff-coloured paper with the Admiralty crest, Peter held it in front of the Rioguayan caporal.
"Here is your new President's authority that all political suspects under arrest are to be placed in British custody," he said brazenly.
The Rioguayan couldn't read. If he did and was able to understand English, he would have seen that the document was a receipted mess account. But it served its purpose.
"Sí, señor capitan," he replied, with a salute.
Ten minutes later, Don Ramon and his companions in misfortune were seated in the stern-sheets of the Rebound's picket-boat. He was only too glad to enjoy the security afforded by the British navy that he had oft-times derided.
Standing beside the midshipman at the wheel of the picket-boat was Peter Corbold, ruminating with satisfaction upon the results of his jaunt ashore.
As the cool air of the river fanned his face, he rubbed his cheek vigorously.
"Wish the greasy blighter hadn't kissed me," he soliloquized, as he gave a backward glance at the smug features of Don Ramon Diaz.