“We want to join our fathers at or near Guantanamo.”
“Garcia is pushing on in that direction. You had best join the army and stay with it until Guantanamo is reached.”
“But we will have to fight?” said my Cuban chum.
The guard smiled grimly, exhibiting a row of large white teeth.
“As you will. The general will not expect too much from boys.”
There the talk ended, one of the rebels deeming it advisable to take a tramp over to the next hill and back, and the other crouching down in a corner for a nap. With nothing else to do, we followed the example of the latter, and were soon in dreamland.
A single call from the man who had slept beside us brought us to our feet at daybreak. The storm had cleared away, and now it was positively cool—so much so that I was glad enough to button my coat up tightly and be thankful that the fire had dried it so well. The second rebel was asleep, and had been for two hours. We followed one out of the cave without arousing the other.
A tramp of half a mile brought us to a high bank, and here our rebel escort left us.
“Across the bank you will find a wagon-road leading to the west,” he said. "Follow that, and you cannot help but meet some of our party sooner or later. Remember the new password, ‘Maysi,’ and you will be all right," and then he turned and disappeared from sight in the bush.