“We must get out!” he exclaimed in a low tone, so as not to be overheard. “Do you suppose I am going to remain here, when my father and mother are in the heart of the war district, and, perhaps, in great danger?”
“I am with you!” I cried. “For my father is there too. But how can we manage it? I heard at the hotel last night that every road leading out of the city is well guarded.”
“We’ll find a way,” he rejoined confidently. “But we’ll have to leave the bulk of our baggage behind. The most we can carry will be a small valise each. And we must try to get hold of some kind of weapons, too.”
We returned to our hotel, and during the day Alano struck up an acquaintanceship with a Cuban-American who knew his father well. Alano, finding he could trust the gentleman, took him into his confidence, and, as a result, we obtained not only a good pistol each,—weapons we immediately secreted in our clothing,—but also received full details of how to leave Santiago de Cuba by crossing the bay in a rowboat and taking to the woods and mountains beyond.
“It will be rough traveling,” said the gentlemen who gave us the directions, "but you’ll find your lives much safer than if you tried one of the regular roads—that is, of course, after you have passed the forts and the gunboats lying in the harbor."
Both Alano and I were much taken with this plan, and it was arranged we should leave the city on the first dark night. Two days later it began to rain just at sunset, and we felt our time had come. A small rowboat had already been procured and was secreted under an old warehouse. At ten o’clock it was still raining and the sky was as black as ink, and we set out,—I at the oars, and Alano in the bow,—keeping the sharpest of lookouts.
We had agreed that not a word should be spoken unless it was necessary, and we moved on in silence. I had spent many hours on the lake facing Broxville Academy, and these now stood me in good stead. Dropping my oars without a sound, I pulled a long, steady stroke in the direction I had previously studied out.
We were about halfway across the bay when suddenly Alano turned to me. “Back!” he whispered, and I reversed my stroke as quickly as possible.
“There is a gunboat or something ahead,” he went on. “Steer to the left. See the lights?”
I looked, and through the mists made out several signals dimly. I brought the boat around, and we went on our way, only to bring up, a few seconds later, against a huge iron chain, attached to one of the war vessels' anchors, for the vessel had dragged a bit on the tide.