“Pitou and his rebels have captured Port Livingstone and the fort on the headland across the river from the town. Every inch of the coast is guarded. The loyal army is marching from the Pacific side of the republic—very few in numbers and poorly armed. Pitou, the great rogue, has laid a trap for the loyalists. Unless General Mendez, in charge of the loyal troops, is communicated with to-morrow morning, there will be fighting and bloodshed, and perhaps the insurrectionists will win.”
Bob and Dick were following the don closely, wondering what he was driving at.
“Of course,” the don resumed, after a brief silence, “as Spanish consul, I am not warranted in mixing in the imbroglio. Whatever I do, I do in a private capacity, and merely as a preserver of peace. However, it is well known that the insurrection, headed by this soldier of fortune, Pitou, is merely for the sake of gain. If successful, Pitou and Fingal would get a grip on the throat of the little republic, and lawlessness would reign. You know something about Pitou and Fingal and their base methods and designs. Therefore, I come to you.”
“Why do you come to me?” inquired Bob.
“Why, with the submarine you could pass the mouth of the Izaral under water and unseen by the rebels; you could continue up the Izaral, still below the surface, to the place where the Purgatoire enters the stream. From that point I could communicate with General Mendez and warn him of the trap that has been laid by Pitou. The general could save his army—and the fate of the republic hangs on General Mendez. Will you do this? Will you assist Don Ramon Ortega in such a humanitarian work?”
Bob was dazed by the proposition.
“You,” pursued the don passionately, “come from a great and rich country, where there is always peace. Then have you got it in your heart to withhold a helping hand from a smaller and war-harried little country whose fate may hang upon your decision? See?”
The don pulled a stool in front of him, untied the canvas sack and spilled a heap of golden sovereigns out of it.
“Here are fifty pieces of gold, Bob Steele,” he went on, “and, if we are successful in passing the revolutionists and getting word to General Mendez, you shall have one thousand more. Will you do this for me, Don Ramon Ortega? Will you do it for humanity? I do not appeal to your wish for gain—you are above such sordid things—but I ask you in the name of right and justice! Lives, human lives, depend on you! The fate of a republic depends on you! As for the risk to you and the submarine—bah!” The don shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. “Am I not going with you? Would I endanger my own life?”
The don paused anxiously for reply. Dick peered at his friend reflectively. Speake, Clackett, and Gaines, having finished their work below, had come to the periscope room and were standing in one of the bulkhead doors. They had heard the don’s proposition, and the gold was sparkling its lure in their greedy eyes.