Not until they were safely seated in the launch, and her head was pointed to the open sea, did he relax his vigilance, or share in their rejoicing.
But when the boat sped forward and the shore sank into darkness he heaved a happy, grateful sigh.
“If you’ve left anything in that flask, Vicenti,” he said, “I would like to drink to the family of Rojas.”
The duel between the city and the fort had ceased. On the man-of-war and on the ramparts of the fortress the guns were silent. From the city came a confusion of shouts and cheers. In his excitement, Roddy stood upright.
“It sounds as though you had won, sir!” he cried.
“Or that they have exhausted their ammunition!” answered the General. The answer was not long in coming.
From the deck of the gun-boat there sprang into the darkness the pointing finger of a search-light. It swept the wharves, showing them black with people; it moved between the custom-house and the fort, and disclosed the waters of the harbor alive with boats, loaded to the gunwale with armed men. Along the ramparts of the fort the shaft of light crept slowly, feeling its way, until it reached the flag-staff. There it remained, stationary, pointing. From the halyards there drooped a long, white cloth.
With a cheer, Roddy spun the wheel, and swung the bow of the launch toward Miramar.
“You needn’t go to Curaçao to-night, General!” he cried. “This city votes solid for Rojas!”
From the wharves to the farthest limits of the town the cheers of victory swept in a tidal wave of sound. With one accord the people, leaping, shouting, dancing, and cheering, raced into the Alameda.