“No speak Spanish, eh?” he growled, in return to my assertion to that effect. “Who you be? Where you go to?”
“I am on my way to Guantanamo, to join my father,” I said, and made as much of an explanation as I deemed necessary.
The soldiers glared suspiciously at me when my words were translated to them. Then, without ceremony, they began to search me, taking all I had of value from me.
“You are not going to rob me, I trust,” I said, and the man who could speak English laughed coarsely.
“We take all we get,” he replied. “All right in war, amigo.”
I was not his amigo, or friend, but I was forced to submit; and, even as it was, I was thankful my life had been spared, for they were a cruel-looking band, with less of the soldier than the bandit about them.
When I saw a chance, I started in to question them concerning Alano, but the nearest fellow, with a flat blow from his dirty hand, stopped me.
“No talk!” growled he who could speak English.
After this I said no more, but from where I had been placed, at the rear of the hot and ill-ventilated hut, I watched the men narrowly and tried to understand what they were talking about. I heard General Garcia mentioned and also the word “machete,” the name of the long, deadly knives most of the Cuban soldiers carried.
At last the men around the hut began to grow sleepy, and one after another sought a suitable spot and threw himself down to rest. The youngest of the party, a fellow not over twenty, was left on guard.