“No, señor,” I replied.
He glared at me suspiciously for a moment, then spoke to the other officer.
“Who you are?” demanded the latter.
“I am Mark Carter, an American boy. I came to Cuba to join my father, who was stopping at a plantation near Guantanamo.”
This was repeated in Spanish. At the mention of my name several of those present exchanged glances.
“You son of Richard Carter?” was the next question.
“Yes, señor. I understand he is a prisoner. Is it true?”
My question remained unanswered, and it was plain that my captors intended to give me no information.
“Why you break in the fort? Did this man pay you to do that?” And the Spanish officer pointed to Gilbert Burnham.