[CHAPTER I.]
OFF FOR THE INTERIOR.
“We cannot allow you to leave this city.”
It was a Spanish military officer of high rank who spoke, and he addressed Alano Guerez and myself. I did not understand his words, but my companion did, and he quickly translated them for my benefit.
“Then what are we to do, Alano?” I questioned. “We have no place to stop at in Santiago, and our money is running low.”
Alano’s brow contracted into a perplexing frown. He spoke to the officer, and received a few curt words in reply. Then the Spaniard turned to others standing near, and we felt that we were dismissed. A guard conducted us to the door, and saluted us; and we walked away from the headquarters.
The reason for it all was this: Less than a month before we had left the Broxville Military Academy in upper New York State to join Alano’s parents and my father in Cuba. Alano’s father was a Cuban, and owned a large sugar plantation some distance to the eastward of Guantanamo Bay. He was wealthy, and had sent Alano to America to be educated, as many rich Cubans do. As my father and Señor Guerez were well acquainted and had strong business connections, it was but natural that Alano should be placed at the boarding school which I attended, and that we should become firm friends. For a long time we played together, ate together, studied together, and slept together, until at last as chums we became almost inseparable.
Some months back, and while the great struggle for liberty was going on between the Cubans and their rulers in Spain, certain business difficulties had taken my father to Cuba. During his stop in the island he made his home for the greater part with Señor Guerez, and while there was unfortunate enough during a trip on horseback to fall and break his leg.
This accident placed him on his back longer than was first expected, for the break was a bad one. In the meantime the war went on, and the territory for many miles around Santiago de Cuba was in a state of wild excitement.
Not knowing exactly what was going on, Alano wrote to his parents begging that he be allowed to come to them, and in the same mail I sent a communication to my father, asking if I could not accompany my Cuban chum. To our delight the answer came that if we wished we might come without delay. At the time this word was sent neither Señor Guerez nor my father had any idea that the war would assume such vast proportions around Santiago, involving the loss of many lives and the destruction of millions of dollars of property.