“What’s the trouble?” cried Captain Guerez and Alano in a breath.
“I don’t know, but the horses are alarmed,” I answered.
By this time all were aroused by a shout from Jorge, who had been left on guard. As we stepped into the open air, he came running up from a path leading into the immense sugar-cane field back of the storehouse.
“Fuego! fuego! [Fire! fire!]” he shouted at the top of his powerful lungs.
“Where?” demanded Alano’s father quickly.
“In the fields! A band of Spanish guerrillas just came up and set fire all around.”
“That cannot be, Jorge. This is the plantation of Señor Corozan, a stanch supporter of Spain. They would not burn his fields.”
“Then they are rebels like ourselves.”
This last remark proved true, although we did not learn the fact until some time later. It seemed Señor Corozan had left the plantation immediately after refusing the demands of a Cuban officer for food for his soldiers, and in consequence the rebel had dispatched a detachment to burn up everything in sight. It was a wanton destruction of property, but it could not very well be avoided, through the peculiar conditions under which the war was being carried on.
Just now, however, there was no time left to think of these matters. A stiff breeze was blowing, and looking over the sugar-cane fields we could see the fire leaping from place to place. Then, turning about, we made another discovery. The very storehouse in which we had been sleeping was on fire. The smoke from the smoldering straw was what had caused me to cough and wake up.