The forty Cubans conversed in hushed tones. Every man had knapsack, blanket-roll, canteen, and loaded rifle. The Fearless again picked up full speed and moved straight for the coast. Soon the mountains loomed like gigantic shadows blotting out the stars. It was a bold, sheer coast, indented here and there by small bays into which the rivers flowed from the passes and valleys. It was in a certain one of these bays that Captain O’Shea had been told by the Junta to beach his cargo. A force of Cubans led by General Maximo Gomez himself would be waiting to receive the munitions. As had been arranged, the Fearless now showed a white mast-head light above a red. Captain O’Shea looked at his watch. Three minutes later his signal-lights flashed again. In the gloom of the mountain-side, a white light winked above a red.
“That looks good to me,” said O’Shea to the mate. “If there was anything wrong, the answering signal would warn us to keep clear. But I do not like this messin’ around in a bay. Give me the open coast and plenty of sea-room.”
The Fearless had come so near the entrance of the bay that the shadowy headlands on either side were dimly discernible from the bridge. The speed of the tug diminished until she was cautiously moving ahead with no more than steerage-way.
The silence was intense. No one spoke above a whisper. The engines were turning over so slowly that their rhythmic clamor was no more than a faint, muffled throb, like the pulse-beat of the ship. Warily she slid into the quiet bay and made ready to drop anchor off a strip of white beach. The surf-boats were hauled alongside and the cargo began to tumble into them. It looked as though this game of filibustering might not be so hazardous as reputed. The seamen were in the boats, detailed to handle the oars and put the Cubans and the cargo ashore.
The deep-laden flotilla had not quit the Fearless for the first trip to the beach when the vigilant skipper fancied he saw a shadow steal from behind a headland at the mouth of the bay. For a long moment he ceased to breathe, while his gaze followed the illusive shadow which he was not sure that he could distinguish from the darkened sea.
Then one or two sparks gleamed like fire-flies and were gone. This was enough. Captain O’Shea instantly concluded that the sparks had dropped from a steamer’s funnel. He was caught inside the bay. Perhaps the steamer would pass without sighting the Fearless. But the shadow halted midway between the headlands, and O’Shea cursed the treachery which he presumed had betrayed his destination. The snare had been cleverly set for him. The Cuban force in the mountains had failed to detect this Spanish vessel or they would not have signalled him that the coast was clear.
O’Shea had to make his choice. He could abandon his ship and flee with his crew and passengers to the beach and the jungle, or he could turn and try to smash his way out to sea. The thought of deserting the Fearless was so intolerable that he made his decision without hesitating. Summoning the mate and Johnny Kent, he spoke hurriedly.
“’Tis bottled up we are. Look yonder and ye can see for yourself. Call the men aboard and cut the boats adrift. Give it to her, Johnny, and hold on tight. There may be the divil and all of a bump.”
“Goin’ to run her down?” asked the chief engineer.
“If she doesn’t get out of my way. ’Tis a small gun-boat most likely.”