The lad’s heart almost stopped beating. Artillery he did not fear, if he could return the fire. He was confident that he could take care of himself with those three unerring guns, but this gun of the enemy was mounted just where Phil had warned him not to shoot. He sickened at the thought of disobeying the order, yet there was the menacing screech of the shell in his ears, as it struck the water only a few hundred yards ahead of his approaching gunboat.
What else could he do? The gun must be silenced before the “Mindinao” could proceed, and the gorge was only a thousand yards ahead.
CHAPTER XIX
A WILLING CAPTIVE
The sun was high the next morning before Phil awakened from his sound sleep. He had tossed on his hard bed listening to the half morbid ravings of poor Tillotson. Ever before him was the fear that after all he would be unable to save him. He knew only too well the difficulties that must be overcome before a rescue were possible. He recalled the difficult trails over which he and O’Neil had been led. At every point they had been under the eyes of unseen men on top of the mountain and within the range of modern rifles. There was not a tree nor rock large enough to offer cover to the men who on the morrow would assault the stronghold. His heart ever beat faster as he pictured the fight in his imagination: The natives behind intrenchments, cornered, no retreat open to them, fighting with the courage of despair; and the American soldiers, fearlessly charging upward, giving no heed to the danger at the top. On the summit, the lad knew, it would be a fight to the death. The part he was to play had seemed only too simple in the light of day, but now in the silence of the night, bound as he was hand and foot, and guarded by cruel enemies who would gladly shoot him down at the first show of force, all seemed different. O’Neil’s healthy body had long since been wrapped in slumber and when Phil’s feverish eyes opened he was up and seated calmly by the lad’s side.
“There are over a thousand of these gugus here in the camp,” he exclaimed as Phil with difficulty arose and endeavored to stretch his cramped limbs. “I have been spying from the door there, and I see Lopez has encamped his men right at the top of the trail, and the men who were there have been sent somewhere else. The natives who are guarding us are our own men, and one of ’em tried to stick his bayonet in me when I asked him for some water to wash in. I wish they were not so careful of appearances,” he added with a grim smile.
This was certainly cheering news. Lopez then had won his first point with the insurgent leader. Espinosa had believed his story.
Lieutenant Tillotson still lay like a log, completely overcome from exhaustion, caused by his torture of yesterday. Phil looked with compassion on the weak, boyish face; he was breathing evenly, but his skin was of an unhealthy pallor.
“He looks ill, sir,” O’Neil declared as Phil turned away with a sigh. “A few more days will do for him. He’s got too sensitive a nature for soldiering.”
The doorway was darkened by the entrance of two natives. Phil regarded them coldly as they advanced, and led him not ungently by the arm out into the sunshine. There they cut his binding cords and gave both him and O’Neil a bucket of water to wash in. They had been on the point of arousing Tillotson by a cruel kick, but through Phil’s insistence, they left the shack without disturbing the sleeping man.
After eating and enjoying a scanty breakfast, the two Americans surveyed with great interest the scenes about them.