I touched my cap and ran off to the rear to make inquiries, expecting endless difficulties in having to conduct an investigation with native mule-drivers who were most probably as ignorant of the English language as I was of Spanish.
Meanwhile about a dozen of the mules were careering about wildly in the neighbouring ravines, pursued by their shouting and screaming owners. Some of the frightened animals had already rid themselves of their burdens, and the ground was strewn with bags of biscuit, preserved provisions, and cases of ammunition.
The worthy Mr. Triggs proved to be a friend in need to me, for on reaching the spot where the main body of the baggage-animals was collected, I found him firmly holding a swarthy Cuban by the scruff of the neck and administering to another portion of his body some hearty kicks.
“This is the rascal that caused all the mischief with the mules, Mr. Darcy,” he exclaimed in rather breathless tones as I ran up. “The cruel brute broke several sticks over the back of a poor mule that had gone dead lame, and the wretched animal was in such pain and so frightened that it broke away, and seems to have infected a lot of the others with its terror.”
I promptly seized the culprit by one arm.
“You come along with me,” I said; “our chief is going to have you tried by a drumhead court-martial, and perhaps shot, according to the regulations of war.”
I do not know if the wretch understood what I was saying, but he commenced to struggle and shout defiantly in his native tongue.
Mr. Triggs, however, seized him by the other arm in an iron grip, and, in spite of his writhings and kickings, we hurried him forward to the spot where the gunnery lieutenant was standing awaiting events.
The gunner related to his superior in a few words how he had caught the culprit in the very act of brutally ill-treating a helpless lame mule.
“Is there an interpreter there?” demanded Mr. Thompson.