They were on their way to Havana when rescued. Had their journey been finished they would undoubtedly have been shot in the prison yard of either Morro Castle or the Cabanas Fortress.
From these men Hal learned that the Cuban commander, Major Alvaredo, was supposed to be somewhere in the neighborhood, though that officer’s exact location could be only a matter of conjecture, for the Cubans moved from point to point with the speed of human lightning.
“I shall volunteer to the first Cuban commander I meet—no matter who he is,” declared Hal.
“Volunteer?” echoed Juan, smiling. “It is too late for that, mi amigo! Judging by the trail we have left behind, you are already a full-fledged Cuban commander. Never has so small a command done handsomer work.”
At noon they halted, in the midst of one of nature’s blooming wildernesses. Here there had been no plantations, no homes, hence the blighting hand of Spanish devastation had not left its mark.
For the first time our hero remembered the food with which Captain Blodgett had provided Juan and himself the night before.
It was brought to light now, and given entirely to the three late pacificos. They devoured it like famished creatures.
“It seems as if I lived again,” declared one of the poor, thin fellows, when he had finished.
“It is like a touch of Heaven,” said the second.
“The first real food I have touched in weeks,” sighed the third. “With this in my stomach I can fight for a week without feeding.”