CHAPTER IV
A Night on the Neutral Ground
"Game for a jaunt into Spanish territory, old man?" enquired Osborne, indicating the hilly ground across the blue waters of the bay. "There's a boat leaving for Algeciras in half an hour."
The Portchester Castle lay off the New Mole at Gibraltar. She had coaled and had taken in stores. A few minor defects were being made good, and she was awaiting orders to proceed. Leave had been given to the starboard watch that afternoon, and, having nothing in the way of duty to perform, Osborne had made a tempting suggestion to his chum Tom Webb.
"Rather, I'm on," replied the Sub. "There's leave for officers till eight bells, I believe."
"Yes, but we'll have to be back well before that time," observed Osborne. "The gates of the fortress close at sunset, remember."
Tom Webb during the last few days had made good use of his time at Gib., but, he argued, being ashore on that bold, rocky promontory was not exactly being abroad. He was still on British territory. Hence his eagerness to set foot upon foreign soil.
Soon the two chums, in undress uniforms, were picking their way through the narrow streets of Gibraltar, dodging among the motley crowd that comprises the populace of the place—Spaniards, Greeks, Moors, Arabs, and "Rock Scorps", with a liberal leavening of British seamen, marines, and soldiers.
"That fellow seems to take a lot of interest in us," remarked Webb as the two officers found themselves on board the little steamer bound for Algeciras.
"Let him," declared Osborne inconsequently. He had had too long an acquaintance with foreign ports to trouble about the curious looks and attentions of the inhabitants. "Which one do you refer to? That Spaniard with the piebald side-whiskers?"
"No, the johnny leaning against the ventilator," replied the Sub. "Looks as if he wants a permanent prop, and his hands seem sewn up in his pockets."
Osborne glanced over his shoulder. Instantly the individual in question feigned interest in the smoke issuing from the steamer's funnel, until the effort of craning his neck was too much of a physical strain, and he again looked curiously at the two naval officers.
He was a man of about thirty, full-faced and of a sleek and oily complexion. His dark chestnut hair was closely cropped. He sported a tuft of side-whiskers on each cheek and a heavy moustache. His costume consisted of a dirty white shirt, ill-cut trousers, and straw-plaited shoes round his waist was a gaudily coloured scarf that might or might not have hidden a knife. On the back of his head he wore a broad-rimmed straw hat with a band of vivid yellow, into which was stuck a bunch of peacock's feathers.
"A picturesque-looking villain!" commented Webb.
"A typical Spaniard, that's all," Osborne reassured him. "We'll have a few dozen of 'em crowding round directly we land, you know. Every man jack will offer his services as a guide, philosopher, and friend."
Apparently the fellow thought it worth while to take time by the forelock, since his interest in the British officers was reciprocated. Removing his hands from his pockets he came forward, and giving an elaborate sweep with his hat he tendered a dirty piece of pasteboard.
"My card, señores!" he exclaimed. "At your service. Show you everyzing in Algeciras. Blow me tight, I will."
The last sentence, of which he seemed particularly proud, had been picked up from a British Tommy. The Spaniard considered it to be the hall-mark of correct English.
Osborne took the proffered card. On it was printed: "Alfonzo y Guzman Perez, Qualified Guide and Interpreter".
"We don't require a guide," said Osborne.
Señor Perez smiled benignly.
"P'raps ze senores get into ze mischief wizout a Spanish caballero who through misfortune is obliged to accept ze monies for his services. You officers are from ze war-ship Paragon?"
"No, from the——" began Webb. Then he brought himself up with a round turn.
"From ze——?" repeated the Spaniard. But Tom was not to be caught napping a second time.
"Sorry, Señor Perez," interrupted Osborne firmly. "We don't want you. Nothing doing this trip."
The steamer was now making fast to the little pier. Without paying further attention to the over-attentive Spaniard the young officers landed, and, as Osborne had foretold, were surrounded by a mob of frantically gesticulating natives.
"Not much of a place," declared Webb. "Horribly dirty, in fact. Can't we get out into the country?"
"We could," replied his chum. "In fact we could give the steamer a miss on the return journey."
"How?"
"By walking round the Bay and getting back to Gib. by means of the Neutral Ground. It's a tidy step, but we've heaps of time."
"Good idea!" declared Webb enthusiastically. "Let's get along out of this."
By degrees the mob of undesirables diminished. The pace set by two mad Englishmen was far too hot. A few, however, still hung on, their appeals for alms giving place to abuse at the callousness of the British officers.
"Wish we had Laddie with us," remarked Webb. "He'd soon make the crowd take to their heels."
"Couldn't be done," said Osborne. "I thought of it, but there are the local quarantine restrictions to be taken into consideration. Also, there'd be a risk of the dog being shot by the Spanish Customs guards on the Neutral Ground. They're dead nuts on dogs."
"Why?" asked Tom.
"Because dogs are largely used by smugglers to run contraband into Gib. Of course, I'm sorry, but it can't be helped."
At last the Spaniards dropped behind and the chums were free of any embarrassing society. They, too, were glad to ease down, for the day was extremely sultry. There were bunches of delicious grapes to be had without let or hindrance, and altogether the two chums were beginning to enjoy themselves.
"How much farther?" enquired Tom at length.
Osborne consulted his watch.
"By Jove, we must look sharp!" he said. "We've a tidy step yet. In fact, we haven't got as far as Mayorga."
The road, hitherto by no means good, had deteriorated into a rough track. Progress, too, was impeded by several inlets, which meant considerable detours inland. Consequently it was late in the afternoon when, hot and tired, the young officers limped into the village of Mayorga, some five miles from the "Lines" of Gibraltar.
"I vote we get a carriage of sorts," suggested Osborne. "We'll be properly dished if we don't. My heel's galled, and it's still some way to go."
Making the best of his limited knowledge of Spanish, Osborne contrived to hire, for the sum of five pesetas, a ramshackle conveyance with solid wooden wheels and drawn by a couple of oxen. It was the only vehicle available, but the villainous-looking driver assured his hirers that it was a swift means of transport.
The cart set off in excellent style—"Under forced draught," Osborne explained—but before it was clear of the village the swaying, jolting conveyance had settled down to a funeral pace. When Osborne expostulated, the driver stopped to offer a lengthy explanation of the dangerous character of the road, promising to make up for the lost time directly the comparatively level Neutral Ground was reached.
Anxiously the Lieutenant consulted his watch, glanced at the setting sun, and mentally measured the distance between him and the frowning Rock, which appeared much nearer than it actually was.
Suddenly the cart gave an extra heavy lurch. The oxen stumbled; while, to the accompaniment of a rending crash and the angry oaths of the driver, the off-side wheel was wrenched from its axle. The next instant Osborne and Webb found themselves lying in the long rank grass by the side of the cart-track.
"Excelsior, old bird!" exclaimed the Lieutenant as the twain recovered their feet. "Look alive, there's no time to be lost!"
Paying the Spaniard his five pesetas, although he had not completed his part of the contract, the two officers hastened towards their goal, regardless of the forcible demands of the driver that his late fares would contribute towards the damage done to the crazy vehicle.
Nearer and nearer came the "Lines", until the Neutral Ground was less than four hundred yards away. Then, to the chums' consternation, a gun boomed forth in the still evening air. It was the signal that until daybreak the gates of Gibraltar were closed so that none should enter or depart.
"A fine old business!" declared Osborne. "It's no use going on. We'd stand a chance of being fired upon by the Spanish guards, and a still greater one of being winged by the British sentries. They were alert enough in pre-war days, and you can bet your bottom dollar that they'll be doubly sharp now."
"Suppose the best thing to do is to return to Mayorga and get a bed at the inn," suggested Webb. "My word, there'll be a row for overstaying our leave!"
"No Spanish inn for me," said the Lieutenant with conviction. "Verminous holes, that's what they are. No, we'll camp out, and imagine it's the good old Scout days."
"Might do worse," agreed Tom with his cheery smile. "So the sooner we pitch upon a suitable spot the better. It will be dark in another ten minutes."
The site selected was a sandy hollow fringed with long coarse grass, and open to the east. In that direction lay the Mediterranean, its shores being separated from the officers' bivouac by a distance of about twenty yards. To the south the summit of the towering heights of the Rock could just be discerned, above the ridge of sand that enclosed the hollow on three sides.
Thoroughly tired with their exertions, the chums were soon fast asleep. Then Webb awoke with a start and a stifled exclamation on his lips. It seemed as if he had slept but a few minutes. In reality six hours had elapsed.
He could hear voices conferring in undertones—voices unfamiliar, and speaking in a foreign language.
For some moments Webb lay still. He remembered where he was, and that it was not at all strange for men to be conversing in an unknown tongue. What he remarked was the fact that they should choose an isolated spot in the small hours of the morning to engage upon what was evidently a secret confabulation.
Cautiously the Sub raised himself on his elbows and peered through the long grass. In the bright starlight he made a strange discovery. There were three men: two in the uniform that bore a strong resemblance to that of the British Navy; the third was none other than the chums' would-be philosopher and guide, Señor Alfonzo y Guzman Perez.