LEAVES FROM A MIDDY’S LOG.

“In an agony of apprehension I knelt down at Charlie’s side.”

Page [33].

T. NELSON & SONS.

Leaves from a

Middy’s Log

BY
ARTHUR LEE KNIGHT
Author of “Adventures of a Midshipmite,” “The Rajah of Monkey Island,”
“The Cruise of the ‘Cormorant’.”
&c. &c.

THOMAS NELSON AND SONS
London, Edinburgh, and New York

1896

CONTENTS.

LEAVES FROM A MIDDY’S LOG.

CHAPTER I.
A STRANGE ADVENTURE.

At the time when the adventures which I am about to relate took place, I, Jack Darcy, was serving as a midshipman on board H.M.S. Rattler, a smart frigate of fifty guns, commanded by Captain Graves, who was a very distinguished officer and much beloved by all who served under him. Our vessel was attached to the North American squadron, and consequently we often visited the West Indies and cruised in the Caribbean Sea. On this particular occasion we were lying at anchor in the commodious harbour of Havana, the capital of the beautiful and fertile island of Cuba, which its Spanish masters delight to call “the pearl of the Antilles.”

A few days after we had come to anchor in the harbour, I, in company with some of my brother-middies, obtained leave to go ashore and have a look at the city and its Spanish and Creole inhabitants. As the reader may suppose, we found plenty to interest and amuse us. The afternoon, however, turned out so hot that we made up our minds to return on board the ship earlier than we had intended; and with this in view, we sauntered down to the wharf under a burning tropical sun to seek for a shore-boat. In a few minutes, the placid waters of the harbour, glowing like molten gold under the fierce rays of an almost vertical sun, opened out before us, crowded with shipping of various nationalities, amid which our own beautiful, shapely frigate was clearly discernible with her lofty tapering spars and shining black hull, the latter relieved by the broad white streak across the portholes, from which the open-mouthed guns frowned menacingly.

“I say, Jack,” exclaimed one of my messmates, Charlie Balfour, as we were steering our way through the piles of merchandise that lay strewn on the wharves, “that looks uncommonly like the officers’ recall flying at the Rattler’s masthead. What can the meaning of it be?”

We glanced in the direction of our ship, and sure enough there flew the recall as a signal for every officer to return on board without delay.

As we gazed a flash issued from one of the forecastle ports, and the sullen boom of a signal-gun reverberated over the harbour and died away in multitudinous echoes amongst the hills behind the city.

“Perhaps the flagship is coming in,” I suggested.

“Impossible, my dear fellow,” answered Charlie, who was a particular friend of mine; “the admiral was at Halifax by last advices, and was likely to remain there.”

“We shall soon solve the mystery, anyhow,” I answered, pointing across the harbour, “for here comes my boat, the second cutter.”

A few minutes later, the craft in question glided alongside the wharf, cleverly steered by Ned Burton, the coxswain.

“What’s up now, Ned?” we shouted in chorus; “why has the first lieutenant hoisted the recall?”

The coxswain touched his hat as he answered, “There is a high old row up somewhere along the coast, gentlemen; and the long and the short of it is that the captain has ordered us round to Santiago—leastways that’s the yarn upon the lower deck.”

At this moment a group of our wardroom officers hurried down to the landing-stage, and we all sprang into the cutter, which was at once pushed off into deep water and headed for the ship. The ten lusty oarsmen gave way with a will, and sent the boat spinning along at an exhilarating pace, whilst Ned Burton carefully steered her through the maze of merchant shipping and fishing-craft that thronged the harbour. In a quarter of an hour we were alongside the Rattler, and found every one full of excitement, and a general preparation for weighing anchor going forward.

It seemed that the crew of an English merchant vessel, more than half of whom were foreigners, had mutinied upon the high seas, and after murdering the captain and the first mate, and pitching their bodies overboard, had taken charge of the ship, which had a very valuable general cargo. They had run her into the harbour of Santiago de Cuba, where, owing to the disturbed state of the island, they imagined that they could perhaps dispose of the cargo, and then either burn the ship and join the insurgents, or put to sea again and trust to the hazardous chance of not falling in with an English cruiser.

Fortunately, however, their diabolical schemes were nipped in the bud by the successful escape of Mr. Osborne, the surgeon of the vessel, whom the mutineers had kept in close confinement lest they should require his services. On the arrival of the ship at Santiago, the leading desperadoes went on shore to try to dispose of the cargo. During their absence, the surgeon managed to give the others the slip, and with considerable pluck swam to a small coasting-steamer which was anchored not far off. The skipper of this craft had easily been prevailed upon to steam off at once for Havana on the promise of a reward; and to the surgeon’s delight he was soon en route for the capital. On arriving at Havana, he at once reported himself to Captain Graves, who paid the skipper of the steamer handsomely for his co-operation; and after consulting with the Captain-General of Cuba, he ordered the Rattler to hold herself in readiness to proceed to Santiago.

As the sun sank to rest in a blaze of crimson glory which was reflected in ruddy hues on city and shipping, and on the tranquil waters of the harbour, we tripped our anchor and steamed slowly out to sea. At the same time, the innumerable bells of Havana rang out their confused and jangling summons to vespers from the church and convent towers, their tones mellowed by distance as they came sounding over the expansive bay. They seemed to be ringing out a farewell to us as we faded from view in the short evanescent twilight, which still glowed with some of the sunset’s rapidly-dissolving glories.

We middies were of course full of excitement at the idea of fresh adventures, and were burning to know what plans the captain had laid for capturing this daring band of mutineers, who had had the effrontery to murder their officers and seize the vessel on the high seas.

It soon became known that Captain Graves designed to capture these villains by means of a little strategy. He intended to enter Santiago de Cuba under easy steam, after nightfall, so as not to arouse suspicion on board the craft which had been thus cleverly seized, and which was called the Flying-fish. It would then perhaps be possible to seize the crew in their hammocks before any resistance could be offered. Mr. Osborne, who accompanied us, gave it as his opinion that, on learning of his escape, the mutineers would probably be seized with alarm, and betake themselves elsewhere. It was highly improbable, indeed, that they could know of the presence of a British man-of-war in Cuban waters; but still they would not unnaturally conjecture that some Spanish gunboats might be sent in chase of them, as soon as the facts of the mutiny and murders reached the ears of the Captain-General at Havana.

Fortunately for our scheme, there was no moon, though the stars shone down with the sparkling brilliancy so remarkable in tropical climes. The night, however, was sufficiently dark for our purpose; and toward the end of the middle watch, the Rattler, like a giant phantom-ship, glided almost imperceptibly into Santiago harbour, with forecastlemen stationed at the small bower anchor, and armed boats’ crews ready to go on any service at a moment’s notice.

The captain knew the Santiago de Cuba anchorage well, besides being provided with excellent charts; so the frigate was taken in at the dead of night without the slightest hesitation. Mr. Osborne declared that he distinguished the Flying-fish in about the same position in which he had left her; consequently we anchored as quietly as possible a few lengths distant from her, and at once proceeded to put our plan into execution.

The second cutter, the boat of which I was midshipman, was one of those told off for the enterprise, so I hurriedly got my side-arms, and mustered my crew preparatory to manning the boat. Mr. Giles, the master-at-arms, supported by some ship’s corporals and marines, was to go with me, taking handcuffs with him. Mr. Thompson, the gunnery lieutenant, was to command the party, and, in company with Mr. Osborne—who had provided himself with a revolver—was to go in the first cutter with my chum, Charlie Balfour. These two boats the captain considered quite sufficient for the duty, especially as a complete surprise was intended, and it was known that the mutineers were very imperfectly supplied with arms.

With muffled oars, and long steady strokes, we pulled away over the star-begemmed waters for the long low vessel, which with her clear-cut spars and rigging, and somewhat rakish appearance, more nearly resembled a pirate than a peaceful merchantman.

All seemed silent as death. Not a voice broke the stillness that reigned fore-and-aft. The crew were apparently wrapped in slumber.

The first cutter hooked on at the vessel’s starboard gangway, whilst we made fast to port, and quickly scrambled on board. The deck was deserted, and a deathlike stillness reigned throughout the ship.

I met Mr. Thompson and his party at the main-hatchway, and we proceeded to light some dark lanterns we had brought with us, and get our revolvers ready for use.

“Mr. Osborne has sprained his ankle in getting out of the boat,” whispered the gunnery lieutenant, “and he is in such pain that we left him in the cutter in charge of the bowmen. We can manage all right without him. Have you got the handcuffs ready, Mr. Giles?”

“All right, sir,” replied that officer in the same undertone, and he held up to view the instruments in question, and chuckled audibly.

“Now, men, keep perfect silence,” continued Mr. Thompson, “and we’ll surprise these fellows in their berths, and bundle them into the boats before they can say ‘Jack Robinson.’ Follow me down the main hatchway, and in the first place we’ll overhaul the cabins, for it’s there the rascals are sleeping, I expect.”

With cautious and stealthy steps—having divested ourselves of our shoes—we followed our leader below. At this moment we almost betrayed ourselves through a clumsy marine knocking his head against the ship’s bell, which hung at the foot of the ladder, and gave out a metallic ring that could have been distinctly heard by any wakeful person on the main-deck or in the cabins.

“Confound that bullet-headed lobster!” whispered Mr. Thompson fiercely. “I’ll crack his skull in earnest for him if he doesn’t look out.”

The man, who had overheard this remark, and was ruefully rubbing his head, slunk to the rear, and sheltered himself behind the stalwart form of the master-at-arms.

“There are several men asleep in hammocks,” continued the gunnery lieutenant, flashing his lantern as he spoke on the after part of the deck.—“Mr. Darcy, you must take some of your crew and seize the men that are in them. One of the corporals will go with you, and two marines to handcuff them. I’ll push on with Mr. Balfour and capture the mutineers that may be in the stateroom and the cabins, and you can join me there as soon as possible.”

With a rush Ned Burton and my cutter’s crew surrounded the unconscious sleepers, and hauled them with little ceremony out of their hammocks; and thus before the men could recover from their surprise, they were cleverly thrown down and handcuffed. Being half dressed, they were all ready to be taken on board the Rattler; and I was on the point of leaving them in charge of the marines, and pushing on after Mr. Thompson, when one of them, who appeared from his accent to be an American, broke out with an angry demand as to the reason why he and his comrades had been taken prisoners. I answered laconically that it was for murder and piracy upon the high seas; and without paying any attention to a furious rejoinder made by the fellow—who had a very unprepossessing appearance—I hurried aft with Ned Burton and the rest of the blue-jackets.

Having pushed open a door, I found myself in a very elegant stateroom dimly lighted by two swinging lamps, which hung over a table covered with the débris of what had apparently been a sumptuous meal. Decanters and glasses sparkled in the rich dim light, and fruit and sweetmeats were scattered about in profusion over a snowy cloth of remarkably fine linen. Casting a hurried glance around, I saw that the stateroom was handsomely and even luxuriously furnished; everywhere signs of elegant taste were visible. The bulkheads were painted grey and gold, and had a handsome moulding running around them. The ports were draped with dainty curtains, and pictures were suspended in every available space. A rich carpet covered the deck, and was dotted with gipsy tables covered with fancy china, stands for photographs, bowls of flowers, and bric-à-brac.

“A curious place for mutineers this,” said I audibly, not a little surprised at what I saw before me.

“Ay, they live like fighting-cocks, sir, there’s no question about that, and they seem to have had a good tuck-in last night,” observed my coxswain in a jocular tone. “Perhaps the gunnery lootenant will let us finish up the scraps by-and-by.”

I was on the point of replying to Ned Burton, when a tremendous hubbub and uproar commenced in the after-cabins opening from the stateroom, to which Mr. Thompson had evidently penetrated with his men. Angry shouts and furious oaths were heard, followed by the sound of blows, the crashing of glass and furniture, and, more appalling than anything else, the shrill screams of frightened women.

Recovering from our surprise, we were on the point of rushing to our chief’s aid, when to our dismay the doors were burst open, and the lieutenant and his men, with horror-struck countenances, tumbled pell-mell into the stateroom, closely followed by a number of excited-looking individuals arrayed only in their nightshirts, and wielding chairs, walking-sticks, and any weapons that had come conveniently to hand. In the distance, we caught a hasty glance of two female forms retiring to the recesses of their sleeping-cabins. From the hurried glance I had at their faces, they seemed pale with alarm and dissolved in tears.

Directly my eye rested on the men who were following our party out, I saw that some egregious mistake had been made; for they were gentlemanly and superior-looking men, and were evidently as much astonished at our appearance as we were at theirs.

Mr. Thompson immediately recovered his self-possession, and ordered all the blue-jackets to leave the cabin, and wait for him outside. He then advanced with every mark of concern to the man who appeared to be the captain of the vessel, and offered the most profuse apologies for the extraordinary blunder that had been made.

“As you can see, sir, by our uniforms,” he began, “we are British naval officers. Acting on information which we had every reason to believe genuine, we boarded your ship, imagining her to be an English merchant vessel brought in here a few days ago by a mutinous crew who had murdered their captain and the chief officer. I can only say that I regret exceedingly the inconvenience and annoyance you have been put to, and you must convey our most heartfelt apologies to the ladies, who, I trust, will be none the worse for their fright. Captain Graves will himself come on board and personally make his excuses to-morrow; and of course any damage that has been done will be paid for by our Government.”

The American captain—for such he was—could not forbear smiling as he listened to Mr. Thompson’s narration.

“Stranger, I forgive you for this night’s work,” said he, “though I must say it is rather uncomfortable to be roused out of a deep sleep and arrested by a lot of fire-eaters like you and your men. I calculate if the President heard of it, there’d be some dispatches passing between the White House and St. James’s that wouldn’t be quite civil in tone.”

Mr. Thompson again tendered his excuses, and prepared to withdraw; but the American skipper and his friends, who had hastily arrayed themselves in dressing-gowns, insisted on our taking a glass of wine with them to show there was no ill-feeling, which we did, though the gunnery lieutenant, I could see, was burning to retire from a scene in which he had played so ridiculous a part.

“I calculate I can give you a hint as to the craft you’re looking for,” remarked the skipper, as he quaffed his wine. “If I’m not mistaken, she left this anchorage yesterday morning and steered in a southerly direction. She is uncommonly like us in build, and much the same rig aloft, but I’d lay a wager of a thousand dollars we could knock her into fits, either running on a wind or close-hauled. If you capture her, lieutenant, just bring the old hooker in here and we’ll have a racing match.”

Mr. Thompson smiled and said he’d see about it, and we then made our adieus and retired.

“Now, Mr. Darcy,” exclaimed my superior, as soon as we were out of earshot, “what shall we do to that rascal Osborne, who misled us so? I vote we string him up to the mainyard-arm as a terrible warning to other crack-brained medicos. By the powers, there might have been a pretty kettle of fish to fry if those Americans hadn’t turned up trumps. I was just on the point of spitting that skipper on the end of my sword when the fray began, and it was only when the master-at-arms rushed into the cabin of one of the ladies, with a couple of marines, and the handcuffs ready for slipping on, that her loud shrieks proved to me that there was something wrong. The whole lot of them then turned out, women and all, and attacked us like a lot of furies. I believe one of my little fingers is broken.”

We found that Mr. Osborne had been conveyed on board the Rattler again, so for the present he escaped the storm of resentment that was brewing in the gallant gunnery lieutenant’s breast.

As I passed under the merchantman’s stern on the way back, I deciphered her name by the aid of a lantern, and read, “Snapping Turtle, of Boston;” so there was no doubt about her nationality.

Ned Burton told me that the Yankee sailors had been in an ungovernable rage till Mr. Giles had come out and released them. Even then they had poured out volleys of invective, and threats of what their Government would do to avenge the insult they had received. At last Ned, stung by their remarks, offered to fight the biggest man amongst them with his fists. This offer they declined, and immediately grew more amicable, exchanging tobacco and compliments before our blue-jackets were ordered off to man the boats.

So ended a truly ludicrous adventure, in which we all cut a sorry figure, and from which we retired, as it were, with our tails between our legs.

Long and loud were the peals of laughter that greeted us when we regained the Rattler’s quarter-deck, where we found most of the officers assembled to await our return, to whom we had to narrate the whole of the incidents of the night’s adventure. Our surgeon announced that Mr. Osborne was in his cot, and was suffering much from his sprained ankle; so Mr. Thompson mercifully left him alone, vowing he would have his revenge at a more suitable opportunity.

The next morning the American captain, his wife, and the rest of the party came off and breakfasted with Captain Graves by the latter’s express invitation; and from the peals of laughter that issued from within, it was evident that host and guests were in the highest good-humour. Afterwards the Americans briefly inspected the ship, and then rowed back to the Snapping Turtle; while we made every preparation for departing in search of the Flying-fish and her piratical crew.

After the ship’s company had had their dinner, the boatswain piped “Up anchor!” and half an hour later we were standing out to sea under a full head of steam.

CHAPTER II.
WE STORM THE FORT.

After a long and patient search, our vigilance was rewarded by the discovery of the Flying-fish, securely moored in an almost land-locked creek on the southern coast of Cuba. It was impossible for the Rattler to enter, on account of her draught; nor could she bring her guns to bear on the merchantman, for that craft was protected by an outlying spit of land, over which her spars alone were visible.

Under these circumstances there was no alternative but to send in some of the boats to cut her out; and the pinnace, the first and second cutters, and the jolly-boat were quickly got in readiness for the service. As far as we could see with our glasses, there was a battery on the heights above the creek; but as it was probably garrisoned by Spanish regulars, Captain Graves refrained from opening fire. We soon, however, saw the true nature of this work; for, as soon as the crew of the Flying-fish saw that we were going to push in with our boats, they abandoned their ship, and putting off to the shore, leisurely retreated into the fort, where we saw them get into readiness to open fire as soon as our flotilla should get within range. It was pretty evident that they were being encouraged in their resistance by bodies of insurgents, who had apparently seized the battery and killed or dispersed the Spanish garrison.

Mr. Thompson commanded the flotilla of boats, and took his station in the pinnace, which carried a nine-pounder Armstrong gun in the bows. He had previously sent for Charlie Balfour and myself, who were to go in the first and second cutters, and had given us an outline of the proposed operations.

“There is little doubt of our success, Mr. Darcy,” he had said laughingly; “but I must warn you and your brother-midshipman not to allow your men to waste their ammunition, and mind you attend strictly to any orders I may issue from the pinnace.”

“Jolly spree this will be, Jack; won’t it?” Charlie had sung out to me just as we were getting into our respective boats.

“The best lark we’ve had all the commission, I expect,” I had answered with boyish thoughtlessness.

We had reason to change our minds when we reached the shore and grappled with our determined foes.

At the last moment the captain sent a sub-lieutenant and the gunner to assist us in the cutters, and the boatswain and one of the middies shared the honours of the jolly-boat.

With a cheer we shoved off from the ship, fully expecting to see jets of flame dart from the embrasures of the fort, and hissing shot and shell come hurtling through the air in our direction. At first, however, all was silent in the battery. Not even a cheer or a shout was audible, and no defiant bunting flew from the flagstaff which occupied a prominent position on the sea-front.

Mr. Thompson immediately took the offensive, and with his nine-pounder opened a brisk and well-directed fire upon the mutineers and their allies. This had the effect of creating some confusion within the fort, as we were able to observe with our glasses; and this was still further increased when we began peppering them with rockets from the cutters. After a time, however, they steadied down and returned our fire with very indifferent aim from six guns, which appeared to be the armament of the work. The Rattler now brought some of her guns to bear, and her heavy shell told with great effect, making a breach in the sea-front and dismounting two of the guns even before we had reached the landing-place.

Under cover of this iron hailstorm we got our gallant fellows safely on shore, formed them up, and charged forward up the hill at the double. As yet not a man had fallen, though there had been some narrow escapes which seemed to me almost miraculous. As we swept up the slope to the assault, the enemy depressed the muzzles of their remaining guns, and met us with a galling salute of grape-shot. This discharge, at almost point-blank range, cut up our ranks a little. Undaunted, we gave a loud cheer and pressed on without a moment’s hesitation—Mr. Thompson waving his sword well in advance, and shouting words of encouragement.

The frigate was now obliged to suspend her fire, as was also the pinnace, which latter, in charge of the gunner, had taken up a position in the creek so as to cover our advance.

In the onward rush, Charlie and I found ourselves advancing side by side, though we could scarcely identify each other through the cloud of dun war-smoke that enveloped us as we approached the battery. Now and again the ruddy jets of flame darted angrily through the vapour, as the mutineers and insurgents plied their guns; and the hoarse roar of the artillery and the sharper rattle of the musketry made a terrible din in our ears as we pressed onwards.

As yet we had not fired a shot in return, as Mr. Thompson’s plan was to rush the fort and, if possible, carry it at the point of the bayonet in true British style.

“Well, Jack,” shouted Charlie, “what do you think of this for a nice little shindy?”

“It’s rather awful,” I replied; “not that I funk it in the least, but I can’t bear to see our brave fellows knocked over. Lobb, the captain of the mizzen-top, was killed by a round-shot just now, and you know he was rather a pal of mine.”

“I’m awfully sorry, I can tell you, old man,” said Charlie in sympathetic tones; “I didn’t know the poor fellow had lost the number of his mess. Lobb was such a general favourite that everybody on board the Rattler will miss him.”

“We’re close to the fort now,” I said, drawing my loaded revolver from my belt. “Let’s stick to each other, Charlie, and try to be first over the rampart!”

“We’ll make a dash for it at any rate!” shouted my friend excitedly. “Come along, Jack; try to think you’re winning a hurdle-race!”

Like an inrushing tide, determined to drive everything before it, our little naval brigade swept up to the attack, and with a ringing cheer threw itself, sword and revolver in hand, into the breach which the frigate had made with her shell.

A more diabolical set of men than those who clustered on the rampart to meet us I had never before seen. They were not in the least cowed by our determined attack, and met us with shouts of defiance and rage, some discharging pistols in our faces, and others pouring in volleys of musketry, which for a moment checked our advance.

But only for a moment!

Charlie and I did not succeed, much to our disappointment, in being the first to cross swords with the enemy. However, there was no time to think about such things at the moment, for our work was cut out for us, and a foe worthy of our steel, desperate and determined, was lining the earthworks to dispute our advance inch by inch and foot by foot. All our energies, and all our dogged British courage and persistence, were called into play at that supreme crisis in our fortunes; and well and valorously did our noble blue-jackets respond to our call.

As Charlie and I scrambled upwards, still mercifully unscathed, we caught sight of Mr. Thompson’s and the boatswain’s forms erect upon the rampart, looming huge through the smoke, and in a few seconds we had scrambled up beside them through a storm of bullets. Then was heard the sharp ringing clash of steel as we crossed swords with the desperadoes. As we had suspected, they had leagued themselves with a ferocious band of Creole insurgents, who no doubt anticipated sharing in the plunder of the Flying-fish.

Very soon after the mêlée commenced, I saw Charlie—who had got a little separated from me—seized by two of the mutineers, and, in spite of his violent struggles, thrown violently over the wall into the ditch. Much to the astonishment of an antagonist with whom I was crossing swords at the time, I disengaged myself from him and darted to the rear in search of my chum, much fearing that I should find him badly hurt. No doubt the piratical fellow I had been fighting with thought that I was fleeing from him in dismay; but fortunately he did not attempt to follow me. Nor did I meet with any obstruction by the way; for every moment our brave fellows were pressing forward and slowly but surely driving the enemy back, though the latter, to do them full justice, fought most tenaciously, and seemed little inclined to surrender.

It took me only a few seconds to rush down the embankment, and I at once caught sight of Charlie’s prostrate form extended motionless in the ditch. Close beside him lay the dead body of a seaman who had been shot through the head with a rifle-bullet just as we were about to rush the fort. In a moment I was at my friend’s side, half dreading that he might be dead too; for he lay motionless, with his white face upturned to the sky.

In vivid contrast to all the sounds of battle was the deathlike stillness of that gloomy ditch, where the two human forms lay inert and apparently lifeless.

In an agony of apprehension I knelt down at Charlie’s side, and called him loudly by his name, at the same time placing my hand upon his heart to feel whether it still throbbed with life. I fancied there was a faint pulsation, and this gave me hope; but I was alarmed to find that my friend’s head had been cut and was bleeding rather profusely. This I quickly bandaged with my pocket-handkerchief; and then, as there appeared to be no signs of returning consciousness, I looked about me to see if I could discover any water near. By great good-fortune, I found a little stream trickling down the hillside not fifty yards away. Overjoyed at this discovery, I ran quickly across the intervening space, took up some of the water in my cap, hurried back to Charlie’s side, and commenced bathing his temples with the refreshing liquid.

To my joy the effect was almost immediate, for after a few moments I noticed a little colour coming back into his cheeks, and a quivering of the eyelids. I wetted his lips, and chafed his cold hands with my warm ones.

“He’s coming round all right,” I muttered. “I must persevere for a few minutes.”

Presently my friend moved uneasily, and then opened his eyes, which rested upon me with a frightened expression.

“You’re all right, old chap,” I said reassuringly. “You fell over the embankment, and were stunned for a few minutes.”

“I recollect something about it now,” he replied faintly, making a futile attempt to raise his right hand to his head. “A fellow pitched me over—yes—an awfully strong chap—I’d like—”

“Don’t talk till you’re feeling a bit stronger,” I interrupted. “Try to take a drink of this water.”

My friend managed to swallow a mouthful or two, and the effect was almost instantaneous, for he presently sat up and looked about him.

“Damaged about the head,” he observed, his hand straying to the bandage; “but I don’t believe it’s anything very bad.”

“It’s just cut a little by a stone,” I said; “but I don’t believe you’ve got any bones broken, Charlie, or you wouldn’t be able to sit up like that.”

At this moment one of our surgeons who had accompanied the force came running up at full speed, carrying a case of instruments in one hand.

“I’ve only just caught sight of you fellows,” he exclaimed, as he arrived breathless on the scene. “What did you stow yourselves away in this ditch for, I should like to know?”

I hurriedly explained the position of affairs.

“Well, I must just overhaul you, Balfour,” said the surgeon, laying his case of instruments upon the ground, and turning to examine him. “I trust, however, that it’s only a case of cuts and bruises, which boys are pretty well accustomed to.”

“Have a look at that poor fellow first,” said Charlie, pointing to the body of the poor seaman which lay near him; “I’m afraid he’s much worse off than I am.”

The surgeon bent down and felt the pulse and heart of the poor fellow, more as a matter of form than anything else. The bullet-wound in his forehead told its own tale only too legibly, and that tale was: “Died for Queen and country.”

The surgeon now again turned his attention to Charlie, and soon announced, much to my joy, that there was no serious damage done.

“We’ll have you carried on board as soon as possible,” he said, “and you’ll be as right as a trivet in a few days, if you keep perfectly quiet in a cot.”

“Do you know if the scrimmage is over?” I asked the doctor.

“Our fellows were driving all before them when I last had a glimpse of them,” the medico replied.—“Hallo! who are these rascally-looking villains bearing down upon us?”

Turning in astonishment, I beheld four armed desperadoes swiftly approaching us from the rear.

CHAPTER III.
A FIGHT FOR LIFE.

It was a ticklish moment, but the surgeon was coolness itself.

“Stand steady, Darcy!” he cried to me in resolute tones, as he drew his sword from its sheath. “Empty your revolver amongst them, my boy, and be careful to take steady aim.”

I must confess that I felt a little flurried at this moment, though I tried hard to pull myself together, knowing how much depended upon my coolness and resolution. This attack by a detachment of the enemy was so sudden, and was made in such a determined manner, that it is small wonder that my presence of mind deserted me for a few moments.

Charlie tried in vain to rise, and then sank back in an exhausted state.

“Give me a weapon to defend myself with,” he said hoarsely; “I won’t be killed without a struggle, weak as I am.”

My friend’s faltering voice and pathetic request helped to recall my wits, and braced up my nerves like a powerful tonic. I darted to the dead blue-jacket’s side, and gained possession of his rifle and cutlass. The latter I handed to Charlie with the remark, “We’ll defend you, old chap, but you may as well have this bit of steel in your fist.” Then I glanced hurriedly at our approaching foes. They were only twenty yards distant. Every moment was precious indeed. There had been no time for me to obtain cartridges from the dead man’s pouch, but I now hastily opened the breech of the rifle and discovered, to my delight, that it was loaded. Without a moment’s hesitation I dropped on one knee, levelled the piece, and took careful aim at one of the leading desperadoes.

A jet of flame issued from the muzzle of the rifle as I pressed the trigger, and then a little puff of sulphurous smoke. At almost the same moment the man at whom I had aimed sprang several feet from the ground in a sort of convulsive bound, and then fell heavily to the earth a lifeless corpse.

Unfortunately the surgeon had no pistols with him.

“Well done, my boy!” he cried, as he saw the effect of my shot; “that’s reduced the odds against us, at any rate.”

“Do give us a hand, Jack,” cried Charlie, making a fresh but equally futile attempt to struggle to his feet. “I’m sure I can do something to help.”

“Just you shut up, Charlie!” I said angrily; “you’re only balking me at the moment when—”

I broke off short, for a bullet from a pistol whizzed so close to my head that it almost grazed my temple.

Two of our antagonists, who possessed pistols, had opened fire upon us at almost point-blank range. It was fortunate for us that they were so poorly supplied with firearms. Had it been otherwise, our chances of success would have been slender indeed.

The surgeon stood unscathed, his bright sword-blade flashing in the sunlight. He was a Scotsman, tall, lithe, muscular, and a very good fencer. I felt sure that he would make very short work of an indifferent swordsman, however powerful an individual the latter might be. For all we knew, however, the unprepossessing men who were bearing down upon us might be adepts at wielding the cutlasses which they were waving defiantly in the air as they bounded along.

“Blaze away with your revolver, my lad!” shouted the doctor. “Don’t let them all come to close quarters.”

I had already taken aim with my Colt, trusting to make another gap in the little detachment before it rushed in upon us. Sharply the report rang out, the surgeon gave an exultant shout, and as two villanous-looking fellows charged in upon us with glaring eyeballs and features distorted with rage, I caught a hasty glance of the man I had covered with my pistol writhing on the ground and uttering horrible imprecations. I afterwards discovered that I had shot him in the right shoulder, and had thus effectually debarred him from taking part in the conflict.

The odds were thus made even, but I felt that even man for man we had our work cut out for us, for both our antagonists, though rather below middle size, were square-built, powerful-looking fellows. Their brawny, sunburnt throats and chests were bare, and the rolled-up sleeves of their loose jackets displayed muscles and sinews of which any athlete might have been proud.

I had again levelled my revolver, hoping to get in another shot; but before I could take proper aim or press the trigger, my invaluable little weapon was struck from my hand by a blow from the cutlass of the man who had singled me out for attack. Most fortunately my hand escaped injury, for I was quite sure that my opponent had fully intended to sever it from my arm at the wrist. Stepping back a pace, I hurriedly shifted my sword from my left hand to my right, and brought it to the first guard, keeping my eyes warily fixed upon the dark, cruel orbs of my savage-looking antagonist. It flashed like lightning through my brain that, by great good luck, I was not pitted against an expert swordsman, for I saw him again raise his cutlass in order to deliver a swashing blow instead of making a straight and direct lunge at my heart.

“I’ll have him now!” I muttered, feeling all the self-confidence of a youngster who had not reached his seventeenth year; and with great promptitude I shortened my sword and drove the sharp point straight at his breast, just as he had unwarily left it exposed by raising his brawny arm to cut me down. I ought to have got that point home. By all the laws of fence my antagonist’s life was at my disposal, and he should have been stretched upon the sward at my feet; but as ill luck would have it—we always attribute our misfortunes to ill luck, don’t we?—I slipped on a patch of wet grass, and fell prostrate at the very feet of my foe, my nose coming into violent contact with a hard mound of earth.

Although this contretemps was most unexpected, and the shock considerable, I had presence of mind enough to keep a firm grip of my sword. One does not lightly part with a firm and trusty friend.

But oh, how well I remember, even at this distance of time, the awful thought passing swiftly through my brain, “I’m helplessly in the power of my antagonist, and he’ll assuredly kill me.”

A boy, however, does not give in while there’s a chance left, slight and remote as it may be, and even as the thought recorded above flashed through my mind I struggled to rise. As I turned my head I saw, to my horror, that my foe, with a cruel and exultant smile on his lips, was on the point of running me through with a downward stabbing blow. It was impossible to avoid this thrust in my helpless position, and I felt an icy feeling of despair at my heart. Then the sharp crack of a revolver—to my intense astonishment—cleft the air, and the next moment the fellow who had been so intent upon finishing me off fell across me with a terrific thud, and I lost consciousness from the violence of the shock.

CHAPTER IV.
WE RETURN ON BOARD.

It was not long before I recovered my senses. When I did so, I found that I was stretched upon the ground, and that the surgeon was bending over me bathing my temples with water.

“That’s right, youngster!” he cried encouragingly; “I knew you wouldn’t take long to come round, though Balfour declared you were shamming just to excite our sympathy.”

Memory returned in a flash.

I sat up without assistance, and gazed about me with great curiosity.

Close to me, and reclining against a convenient hillock, was my friend Charlie. He still looked ghastly pale, and his bandaged head seemed to add to the impression; but he was evidently better, and there was life in his handsome dark eyes. At his feet lay my revolver and the cutlass I had given him. Stretched on the ground at the distance of some yards were the bodies of our late enemies, now powerless for evil.

“That chap must have taken your wind jolly well, Jack,” said my friend, pointing to one of the corpses; “but you may thank your stars that he didn’t take your life. By Jove, he went for you like a wild beast!”

“How did it happen?” I asked in a rather bewildered manner. “Who shot him, and where did the pistol come from?”

“Balfour will never tell you,” remarked the surgeon, whose name was Grant; “he’s much too modest a fellow. The truly brave and the truly great are not given to blowing their own trumpets. I’m afraid I’m just the opposite, and blow a tremendous blast on mine whenever an opportunity offers. Not having been born with a silver spoon in my mouth, I have to—”

“Blow upon a silver trumpet,” interrupted Charlie rather rudely.

“Ah, I see you’re recovering rapidly,” said Dr. Grant good-naturedly, giving me at the same time a sly wink.

“But do you mean to say that Charlie shot him!” I exclaimed excitedly; “he had no firearms.”

“Ah, that’s where the story comes in,” said the surgeon with a laugh. “Balfour saw that you were about to be spitted upon yonder fellow’s sword, and also saw that I was engaged in a desperate hand-to-hand conflict with the other villain, and was powerless to render you any assistance; so what does he do but crawl out and gain possession of the revolver which had been dashed from your hand at the first shock of conflict—as Sir Walter Scott would have said. To his delight he found that there was still one cylinder loaded; but there was not a second to lose, for your end was at hand. The deadly shot was fired, and so truly sped the bullet to its billet that the fellow for whom it was destined fell dead without so much as a cry or a groan. It was a masterpiece. I’ve no hesitation in saying so, upon my word.”

“Charlie,” I cried emphatically, “you’re the best chum I ever had, and I owe my life to you!”

“What nonsense!” exclaimed Charlie. “Do you suppose I was going to sit still and see you stuck like a pig? Not if I know it, old chap.”

“And he was almost too weak to crawl,” I said, turning to Dr. Grant. “It was splendid of him!” and my eyes filled with tears.

“We may all thank God for our narrow escape,” said the surgeon; “at one time I thought I had myself caught a Tartar.”

At this moment the air was rent with loud halloos and triumphant shouts, and we saw the officers and men of our little naval brigade pouring down over the embankment of the fort.

In five minutes they were around us, listening to our story and detailing their own.

“The beggars have fled in all directions into the interior,” said Mr. Thompson in conclusion. “We’ve spiked their guns, and taken a number of prisoners, arms, and ammunition.”

“That’s very creditable and satisfactory as far as it goes,” said Dr. Grant, rather dryly; “but the principal question to my mind is, what has become of the valuable cargo which is known to have been on board the Flying-fish when the mutineers seized her?”

“Why, what a croaker you are!” exclaimed the lieutenant laughingly. “I should say that the so-called valuable cargo is at the present moment safely in the hold of the Flying-fish.”

“I very much doubt it,” said the surgeon laconically; “but we won’t argue the point now, as I am anxious to get the wounded on board the Rattler with as little delay as possible, and I daresay you won’t be sorry to get rid of your prisoners.”

The lieutenant looked thoughtful as he marched off with his men, and it occurred to me that he was wondering whether the merchantman had been entirely abandoned by her crew, and whether or not Captain Graves had sent a boat to ascertain the fact during our absence on shore.

Charlie was put on a stretcher and carried carefully down to the place of embarkation, but I was now sufficiently recovered to walk with the occasional assistance of the surgeon’s arm. In half an hour we were all safely on board the Rattler again, and Mr. Thompson at once went to make his official report to the captain. I accompanied my friend below, and saw him snugly ensconced in a cot in the sick-bay.

The operations ashore had taken place rather late in the afternoon, and the sun had already begun to sink in the west when we returned on board the frigate. I had now quite recovered from the effects of my adventure, and was ravenously hungry and thirsty; so after administering some beef-tea to Charlie, I repaired to the gunroom to get some tea, during which meal I had to relate over and over again to those of my messmates who had been debarred from joining the expedition the story of our hairbreadth escape.

“We had a mild kind of excitement while the landing-party was ashore,” observed one of my brother-middies, as he looked disconsolately into a nearly empty pot of marmalade.

“What was that?” I asked, hacking away viciously at a huge loaf. “I suppose you had a rat hunt in the bread-room with the commander’s dog and the ship’s cat.”

“It would have been a case of ‘the dog that worried the cat that killed the rat,’ I should say, if we had gone in for that sort of sport,” answered my messmate laughingly.—“Steward, bring me a pot of strawberry jam.”

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense any longer,” I said impatiently, “or you’ll take all my appetite away; honour bright.”

“Darcy’s off his feed, you fellows!” shouted my teasing brother-middy, whose name was Fitzgerald; “and I can positively count his ribs through his waistcoat.—Steward, bring a soup-tureen of oatmeal porridge in this direction and a few gallons of buttermilk, for there’s a young gentleman here at the last gasp for want of nourishment.”

The steward at this moment entered the mess with the pot of strawberry jam which had been ordered; but before he could deposit it upon the table in front of Fitzgerald, I had snatched it from the tray and placed it by the side of my own plate. Then seizing a large table-spoon, and without even looking at the rightful owner of the preserve, I made a pretence of digging out an enormous spoonful of it for my own special gratification.

“O you greedy beggar!” shouted Fitzgerald, starting up and trying to snatch his property from me. “Even if you were more like a skeleton than you are, you’ve no business to grub away at another fellow’s jam like that.”

But I put one firm hand upon the jam-pot, and waved him away with the other which held the spoon.

“Spin your yarn and eat your jam, or hold your tongue and see it go into my capacious maw,” I said, grinning at him. “You pay your money and take your choice, old man.”

Fitzgerald laughed. “I’d like awfully to punch your head, Darcy, but unluckily fighting isn’t allowed in the mess. The yarn is short, I’m thankful to say, and so you won’t have much time to stow away my jam in that horrid ‘capacious maw’ of yours. Well, as the story is wrung out of me, I must tell you that whilst you were on shore pretending to scrimmage with the mutineers and their allies, we manned the remaining boats, and under the commander’s orders boarded the Flying-fish. I was in the gig, and was on the tiptoe of expectation, wondering whether we should meet with resistance, or find the ship entirely deserted. The commander told us that he hoped at any rate to gain possession of the valuable cargo which was supposed to have fallen into the hands of the mutineers, and which was reported to be worth many thousands of pounds. Imagine our disgust, then, when we clambered up the side and found that the ship was nothing more nor less than an empty and deserted hulk. Every bit of the cargo that was of any value had been removed ashore, and the only living beings we found on board were the second mate and the boatswain, and they had been securely put in irons long before the Flying-fish had entered the creek. Of course, we immediately released the poor fellows, and found them half dead from exhaustion and semi-starvation. It was they, of course, who told us about the cargo having been taken out of the ship, and they added that they were positive that in some way the mutineers had heard that a British cruiser was on the look-out for them, most probably through their insurgent friends ashore.”

“No doubt that was it,” I said, “and they took the precaution of hiding their ill-gotten gains away in some inaccessible place up country well-known to the rebels.”

“My pot of strawberry jam, please,” said Fitzgerald austerely, and holding out his hand in what I considered rather a peremptory manner.

“I’ve a good mind to levy blackmail,” I cried, flourishing my big spoon; “but on second thoughts I’ll be magnanimous, and hand it over intact. It’s awfully good-natured of me!”

Fitzgerald was still more “awfully good-natured,” for after helping himself in what I considered a very lavish manner, he handed me over the crock with a lordly air and the very unnecessary remark, “Help yourself, old chap, but leave us a scraping at the bottom.”

It was my first watch that night, and I was pacing the deck in a somewhat dreamy state, and longing for midnight to arrive that I might be enabled to turn in, when I saw the gunner, Mr. Triggs, ascend the main hatchway, walk to the starboard entry-port, and gaze out upon the moonlit waters of the roadstead.

“Well, Mr. Triggs, how are you this evening?” I said, accosting him. “None the worse for the shindy on shore, I hope?”

“Not a bit, thank you, Mr. Darcy. Didn’t get a scratch, I’m thankful to say; and now I’m only hoping that I may have the good luck to see a bit more service ashore.”

“I’m afraid we won’t get the chance again in a hurry,” I answered. “It isn’t every day that crews mutiny on the high seas.”

“Ah, you haven’t heard the news then,” said the gunner with a chuckle. “It isn’t often I score off you like that.”

“What news?” I asked excitedly. “Do tell me, Mr. Triggs.”

“Well, I don’t know, I’m sure, if I oughtn’t to keep it to myself,” answered the gunner, trying to look very solemn. “Maybe ’twould be strong meat for babes, so to speak.”

“You’re positively insulting, Mr. Triggs! The midshipmen of the Rattler will hold a drumhead court-martial on you to-morrow if I’m not mistaken, and you may depend upon it the sentence will be a severe one.”

“I’m beginning to shake in my shoes at the very prospect of such a thing,” said the gunner, with a laugh; “and as I’m a married man with a family, I think I ought to be excused if I cave in.”

“Confide in me, and the matter shall go no further,” I exclaimed, with a patronizing air.

“I think I must have a couple of whiffs before I turn in,” said the gunner, proceeding to light his pipe. “’Tis against orders, I’m aware, but I rely on you, Mr. Darcy, not to split upon me to the officer of the watch.”

“You may smoke till you’re black in the face,” I rejoined irreverently, “so long as you heave ahead and tell me what I want to know.”

“You midshipmen are a terribly impatient lot of mortals—”

“That’s better than being prosy and tedious,” I interrupted. “Steam ahead full speed, Mr. Triggs, and keep a look-out for shoals.”

“So impatient that you’d try the temper of the quietest cow that ever chewed the cud,” continued the gunner emphatically; “and as to repartee, I’m jiggered if I think an Irish car-driver wouldn’t be out of the running with the dullest of you. Well, I’ll relieve your curiosity, Mr. Darcy, and the yarn is just this. Mr. Osborne, the surgeon of the Flying-fish, told our assistant-surgeon, who had been a-doctoring of his foot, that the captain had been questioning him about the value of the cargo that the mutineers had seized, and had mentioned that it was his intention to endeavour to track the rascals down and recover the booty. On the top of that I had a message late in the evening from the gunnery lieutenant that an armed expedition up country was in contemplation, and requesting me to keep a weather eye lifting on stores and ammunition and such like.”

“What perfectly splendid news!” I cried excitedly; “but I wonder if I’ve the remotest chance of being appointed to the force.”

“You were knocked about a bit in the scrimmage ashore, weren’t you?” asked the gunner.

“Yes; but I’m not incapacitated for duty,” I said, “or I shouldn’t be keeping watch now. It was my chum Charlie Balfour who was seriously hurt, poor fellow.”

“I believe it’s considered a bit feverish up country, Mr. Darcy, and that may put a stopper on any midshipmen going; but I’m sure I heartily wish you good-luck, and your chum a speedy recovery.” And so saying, Mr. Triggs knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and went below to turn in.

What exciting dreams I had that night!

CHAPTER V.
THE NAVAL BRIGADE LANDS.

When I went on deck the following morning, I found that the steam-pinnace had towed the Flying-fish to an anchorage in the roadstead not many cable lengths from the Rattler. I at once observed the strong resemblance she bore to the Snapping Turtle, and I no longer felt surprise at the mistake Mr. Osborne had made at Santiago de Cuba.

Mr. Thompson was standing by the taffrail narrowly observing her through a telescope.

“I should like to see a race between her and the Snapping Turtle, sir,” I said to him. “I’m not surprised the Yankee skipper was so keen on it, for they’re wonderfully alike in build and rig.”

“Indeed they are,” answered the lieutenant; “one might almost call them twin-vessels. The main difference is that the American’s masts rake more.”

“It’s a curious thing about the cargo having been all taken out of the Flying-fish, sir; and by all accounts it’s a valuable one.”

The gunnery lieutenant turned and looked at me keenly.

“You young rascal,” he said, “you’re trying to pump me; but you do it in such a clumsy way that I can’t help seeing through you.”

I felt rather confused.

“Well, sir,” I said, “I do hope that I may be allowed to go on the expedition up country if it is true that a force is to be landed.”

“It will be no secret in an hour’s time, Darcy, so I may as well tell you that to-morrow morning a naval brigade is to be landed in order to hunt down the mutineers and rebels; and I think there is a very fair chance of your being able to go. The captain, I believe, has permission from the captain-general to take any steps he may think necessary to bring the delinquents to justice.”

I begged the gunnery lieutenant, who had always shown me great kindness, to try to get me appointed to the expedition, and he promised to use his influence in that direction. I then ran off to the sick-bay to see my friend Charlie and tell him the news, which I felt sure he had not as yet heard. I found him much better; and the surgeon, who was just leaving the sick-bay as I entered, told me that I need have no fear as to his recovery.

This was very good news; but I found that I had been forestalled as news-carrier by Dr. Grant, and that Charlie was as well informed on the subject of the expedition as I was myself.

“It’s jolly hard lines that I can’t go, old chap,” he said to me; “but the surgeon says I must be on the broad of my back and nurse this wretched old head of mine for some time to come. Pleasant prospect, eh?”

“I’m very sorry indeed,” I answered; “and you must try to console yourself with the fact that you’ve still a head screwed tight and fast on your shoulders. Poor Lobb had his taken off by a round-shot.”

“Oh, I’m as grateful as anything, of course, Jack; not only on my own account, but because as an out-and-out patriot I have the best interests of my country at heart. What an irreparable loss it would have been to Great Britain if my brains had bespattered the battle-field! National mourning for a fortnight, eh, and messages to my bereaved relatives from the Queen and the other members of the royal family, to say nothing of minute guns, half-mast flags, and a tomb near Nelson’s in the crypt of St. Paul’s? By Jove! it makes me quite excited to think of it.”

“Has Grant ordered you any soothing draught?” I asked, hunting about with pretended anxiety amongst a whole brigade of medicine-bottles that stood upon a table at my elbow.

“Yes; Mother Gimcrack’s soothing syrup!” said my chum with a laugh. “Good for teething babes; and do you know, Jack”—this very solemnly—“I lost two or three of my front teeth in that nasty somersault I took yesterday. My beauty is gone for ever and ever!”

I had noticed the disfigurement my friend referred to, but had not alluded to it for fear of hurting his feelings.

“There is always a silver lining to the cloud,” continued Charlie more cheerfully. “That rascal of a gunroom steward won’t be able to palm off on me any longer his wofully tough salt horse and brickbat biscuit. No; he’ll have to feed me on a special diet of Brand’s beef jelly, Benger’s food, turtle soup, and jams of all sorts, varied occasionally by oysters (real natives of course), tipsy cake, and fruit jellies. Not a bad idea, eh? I’ll give you a tuck-in now and again, Jack, as you’re a good chum to me!”

“Thanks, awfully!” I said; “but I’m certain the steward would rather go to the expense of buying you a new set of teeth from a London dentist, than feed you up on all the delicacies of the season for the rest of the commission. Now I’m certain you oughtn’t to talk any more, Charlie, so I’m going to make myself scarce; and you must try to sleep till dinner-time, when I shall come and see you again.”

Half an hour later the Rattler was a scene of great excitement, for orders had gone forth that immediate preparations were to be made for landing a powerful naval brigade. I was very quickly caught up in the whirl of excitement, for Ned Burton, the coxswain of my boat, came hurrying to me to say that he had received orders from the first lieutenant to get the second cutter in readiness to assist in landing men, stores, and ammunition.

“It’s to be a picked force, sir,” said the seaman in conclusion, “and I’m glad to say that we’re both detailed for service.”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” I answered, “for I was half afraid that midshipmen would be excluded. When do we land, Ned?”

“I think in the evening, sir, so as to be ready for a start in the morning. We can’t take no field-guns, more’s the pity, for they say the country is a sight too hilly for anything but mountain guns.”

“How about the commissariat, ammunition, tents, and so forth?” I asked; “we shall require transport animals of some kind.”

“I believe the Spanish Government is going to let us have a lot of mules that are accustomed to that sort of work,” said my coxswain.

“Oh, we shall pig it out somehow, I dare say,” I exclaimed with a laugh, “and it would be rather fun to rough it a bit.”

That evening we occupied the fort in force. The dead had been buried at an early hour in the morning, and so there was little or no trace of the struggle that had taken place so recently, except in the fort itself, where the dismounted and spiked guns told their own tale. In all we numbered one hundred officers and men, well supplied with all that was necessary for a short campaign. At the time of my story, machine-guns had not been invented, and that underhand weapon of warfare, the torpedo, was unknown. A few of the former would have been extremely serviceable to our brigade on this occasion; but still we were extremely well armed in accordance with the ideas of that day, each man being supplied with a breech-loading rifle, a cutlass which could be used as a sword-bayonet if necessary, and a revolver. An ammunition-pouch, a blanket, a water-bottle, and a pair of leggings for each man completed the equipment, nothing being showy, but everything extremely serviceable.

As before, Mr. Thompson was appointed to command the brigade, as he had had a great deal of experience in shore-going expeditions in a previous commission on the west coast of Africa. Two lieutenants, the captain of marines, Dr. Grant, four sub-lieutenants, the gunner, Fitzgerald, and myself made up the list of officers; and about seventy picked blue-jackets and twenty marines composed the rank-and-file. No commanding officer could have wished for finer men. Not only was their physique splendid, but they were tried, trustworthy fellows who had all seen service on previous occasions, and could be relied on to do their duty in the direst emergency.

Tenacious bull-dogs! that’s what they were. It would be impossible to describe them better in a couple of words.

CHAPTER VI.
“COLD PIG” AND “SLING THE MONKEY.”

I was effectually roused from my slumbers on the following morning by the shrill bugle-calls which the drummer seemed to take a delight in blowing as near the gunroom tent as possible. On murderous thoughts intent, and clad in very scanty apparel, Fitzgerald and I made a desperate sortie, one carrying a huge bath-sponge saturated with water, and the other a well-knotted towel.

“What a lark!” exclaimed Fitzgerald, capering about with delight; “cold pig for the drummer, and a lambasting afterwards to warm him up and prevent any possibility of his catching cold whilst so far away from his mammy’s protecting care!”

Dawn had scarcely broken, and it was almost dark outside the tent and rather unpleasantly chilly. The bugle-calls had ceased, but we thought we distinguished the drummer some yards away just upon the point of raising his instrument of torture to his lips again.

“I’ll put a stopper on his little game,” said Fitzgerald hastily to me. “Ready! present! fire!” and he hurled the heavy sponge with admirable aim straight at the dusky little figure; whilst I darted forward with a sort of Red Indian war-whoop, waving the knotted towel over my head.

The sponge landed with a splosh full upon the head of the individual it was intended for, and the latter staggered and gave a shout of dismay and disgust as the highly-unpleasant projectile came into contact with him.

“Good shot!” I cried exultingly. The next moment I recoiled in horror, and Fitzgerald turned deadly pale, for we recognized in our unlucky victim the short but sturdy Mr. Triggs, the gunner, who, being a very early riser, had taken it into his head to emerge from his tent and endeavour to make out the Rattler through a pair of night-glasses. How would he take our explanation that we had mistaken him for the drummer-boy tooting on a bugle?

Before we had time to think or apologize for our mistake, the sponge was sent hurtling back through the air by the muscular arm of Mr. Triggs. I was relieved to see that it was aimed at the real delinquent, Fitzgerald, and not at me.

“O you mischievous middies!” shouted the gunner, running towards us; “you’re always up to some tomfoolery or other!”

Fitzgerald saw the sponge flying towards him, and tried to dodge it, but as ill luck would have it trod with his bare foot upon a sharp stone. The pain was so great that it brought him to the ground; but in trying to save himself he threw out his arms and they unfortunately encountered me, and I felt myself seized in a grip which there was no shaking off. In a moment we were both sprawling upon the ground, arms and legs inextricably mixed up in a sort of “limb hotch-potch.”

The gunner, chuckling with delight at our misadventure, now came running up, his hair and face dripping from the effects of his lately-inflicted “cold pig.”

“If I don’t pay you youngsters out, my name ain’t Timothy Triggs!” he exclaimed; “and ’tis a grand opportunity I’ve got,” and so saying he snatched the knotted towel out of my hand, and began belabouring us both with it with remarkable muscular energy.

“Stop, stop, stop!” I yelled; “we mistook you for the drummer, and are awfully sorry, Mr. Triggs!”

Whack, whack, whack! The blows fell with wonderful regularity and with marvellous impartiality, first on Fitzgerald and then on me.

All this time the gunner was chuckling with suppressed laughter, for he was thoroughly enjoying the joke, being at heart a most good-natured man.

“You can just imagine you’re playing ‘sling the monkey,’” he exclaimed; “’tis a right good game and no mistake!”

Fitzgerald and I, however, had by this time managed to disentangle our arms and legs, and we were on our feet again in a moment. We did not at all appreciate this novel kind of “sling the monkey.”

“Is that the enemy coming over the hill?” I exclaimed in an alarmed voice, and pointing away to the rising ground which, beyond the confines of the fort, rose steep and dark against the primrose-tinted sky.

Mr. Triggs promptly turned his head to look, and in an instant I had snatched the towel from his hand.

“Cut and run, Fitz!” I cried; “I thought I’d gammon him,” and so saying I fled precipitately in the direction of the gunroom tent, my brother-middy hobbling after me as fast as his wounded foot would allow.

Mr. Triggs, however, did not attempt to give chase, feeling, I suppose, that his skylarking days—now that he was on the shady side of fifty—were over. So the worthy warrant-officer contented himself with keeping up a hot and strong running fire of anathemas upon us as long as we remained in sight.

“The bath-sponge, Fitz, the bath-sponge!” I gasped out, as I ran panting into the tent and flung myself upon the ground, which formed the only flooring.

“By Jove! I forgot all about it,” said my hobbling messmate; “I hope old Triggs won’t appropriate it.”

At that moment the real drummer-boy passed our tent whistling a merry air.

I promptly stopped him.

“Do you mind seeing, like a good fellow, if there’s a bath-sponge lying just over there by that tent?” I said.

“All right, sir, I’ll have a look,” answered the drummer-boy, good-naturedly, and off he went.

In a minute or two he returned with it.

“Here you are, sir. Been playing Aunt Sally with it, I suppose?”

“No, Uncle Triggs,” I said laughingly. “You’ve had an awfully narrow escape, bugler, only you don’t know it. I should strongly advise you not to come near the gunroom tent in the early morning, for Mr. Fitzgerald there always gets a violent attack of homicidal mania about that time.”

An hour later the tents were struck and we had started on our march up country to the tune of “Rule Britannia,” played with tremendous energy by our fife-and-drum band.

Little did I anticipate what was before me—such adventures as even in my wildest dreams had not occurred to my mind.

CHAPTER VII.
NED AND THE MULE-DRIVER.

We had two sets of native auxiliaries. One consisted of a fine lot of Spanish baggage-mules, strong hardy beasts, thoroughly acclimatized, and remarkably sure-footed; and the other a little bevy of guides, interpreters, and spies, without whose aid we could have accomplished little or nothing, for we were entirely ignorant of the country we were about to traverse, and our knowledge of Spanish was confined to about a dozen words or so.

The spies, some of whom were negroes and the others half-castes, assured us that they had tracked the mutineers for some distance, and were well acquainted with the route they had taken, which was a beaten track leading straight into the interior. These swarthy fellows also asserted that a body of insurgents had accompanied the lawless crew of the Flying-fish in their retreat. We questioned them as to any knowledge they might have acquired with regard to the whereabouts of the valuable cargo which it was the object of our expedition to recover. About that they declared that they knew nothing whatever, although they confessed to having heard rumours that large bodies of men were passing and repassing between the shores of the creek and the spurs of the inland hills during the whole of the day before the Rattler’s arrival upon the scene.

“’Tis a good thing we’ve no field-guns and limber-waggons with us,” said Ned Burton to me as we marched along; “they’d have delayed us terribly, and prevented our making forced marches.”

“You think we’ll soon come up with them then?” said I. “For my own part I hope the fun won’t be over too soon. If we returned victorious in a couple of days, the fellows left on board would be sure to jeer at us, and say we had only gone for a sort of picnic into the mountains.”

“Ah, ’twill take more than a couple of days even under the most favourable circumstances,” answered Ned. “I take it these merchant-service fellows haven’t got marching-legs, so to speak, and are perhaps encumbered with wounded men, but still they’ve got a pretty fair start, you see, and that ain’t a thing to be sneezed at.”

“The difficulty will be to find where they have hidden away the booty,” I said; “no doubt the insurgents have put them up to a wrinkle or two, knowing every inch of the country as they do.”

“Doesn’t the Rattler look jolly?” exclaimed an enthusiastic voice at my elbow.

I turned and beheld Fitzgerald, who still had a slight limp as a legacy from the morning’s fracas.

“Poor old ‘hop-and-go-one,’ what’s he trying to say?” I asked in a jocose tone, and clapping him on the shoulder rather harder than was altogether necessary.

“‘Do you bite your thumb at me, sir?’” demanded Fitzgerald, tapping his sword-hilt with his left hand, and trying hard but very unsuccessfully not to laugh.

“‘I do bite my thumb, sir,’” I answered promptly, and trying to put on a swashbuckler air; “but I need not say that I should infinitely prefer to bite yours or even Mr. Triggs’s.”

“Then old ‘hop-and-go-one’ and old ‘hop-o’-my thumb’ would be sworn chums for ever and ever,” laughed Fitzgerald; “but at this moment I don’t want to fall out with you, honour bright! I want you to look back at that magnificent view, and the dear old Rattler in the middle of it. I never saw a more lovely picture!”

Fitz was an artist of no mean capacity, and I strongly suspected that he had at that moment a paint-box and brushes in his pocket. Hand-cameras would have enchanted him, but they had not then been invented.

It certainly was a lovely view, and I felt grateful to my brother-middy for calling my attention to it.

We had been winding gradually along the summit of a low range of hills, on the outermost spur of which was situated the fort we had just evacuated. The gradient was upwards, though in no place steep, and we had now reached a somewhat extensive plateau covered with short springy sward. From this point of vantage we had a full and extensive view of the winding tortuous creek; the hills, clad with palm groves, which enclosed it; and the broad blue sea beyond, glittering in the sunshine, and here and there barred with purple cloud-shadows. For the primrose streaks of colour in the sky had melted away as if by magic, and the glorious sun had recalled a sleeping world to life. In the roadstead our beautiful frigate lay calmly and serenely at anchor, her guns frowning from the portholes, and her shapely hull and taut spars and rigging reflected with extraordinary fidelity in the waters which appeared to sleep in the warm rays of the sun. Astern lay the Flying-fish, which, though a well-built vessel, lacked the trim appearance and impressiveness of the British man-of-war. Above, the blue vault of heaven stretched away into limitless infinity, its tint of deepest azure only broken here and there by a few sluggishly-moving clouds and the white wings of innumerable sea-gulls.

As we gazed admiringly at our floating home we saw the proud white ensign slowly ascend to her gaff, drooping listlessly in the stagnant air; and the distant strains of “God save the Queen” came faintly to our ears through the still, clear atmosphere of a Cuban early morning.

“Eight bells!” I cried. “If we were on board the old hooker, Fitz, we should be just sitting down to eat salt-junk and swill gunroom catlap.”

“Instead of which we’re out upon the war-path,” said Fitzgerald, “and, like Fenimore Cooper’s Indian braves, are dying to scalp the enemy.”

A halt was called just at this moment on account of a stampede amongst some of the baggage-mules.

The gunnery lieutenant, who was very anxious to push on and find traces of the enemy, was exceedingly angry at this unlooked-for delay.

“Mr. Darcy,” he sang out to me, “ascertain at once the cause of that stampede among the mules; and if it was due in any way to the cruelty of the Spanish drivers, have the delinquents brought before me, and I’ll give them a lesson they won’t forget in a hurry.”

I touched my cap and ran off to the rear to make inquiries, expecting endless difficulties in having to conduct an investigation with native mule-drivers who were most probably as ignorant of the English language as I was of Spanish.

Meanwhile about a dozen of the mules were careering about wildly in the neighbouring ravines, pursued by their shouting and screaming owners. Some of the frightened animals had already rid themselves of their burdens, and the ground was strewn with bags of biscuit, preserved provisions, and cases of ammunition.

The worthy Mr. Triggs proved to be a friend in need to me, for on reaching the spot where the main body of the baggage-animals was collected, I found him firmly holding a swarthy Cuban by the scruff of the neck and administering to another portion of his body some hearty kicks.

“This is the rascal that caused all the mischief with the mules, Mr. Darcy,” he exclaimed in rather breathless tones as I ran up. “The cruel brute broke several sticks over the back of a poor mule that had gone dead lame, and the wretched animal was in such pain and so frightened that it broke away, and seems to have infected a lot of the others with its terror.”

I promptly seized the culprit by one arm.

“You come along with me,” I said; “our chief is going to have you tried by a drumhead court-martial, and perhaps shot, according to the regulations of war.”

I do not know if the wretch understood what I was saying, but he commenced to struggle and shout defiantly in his native tongue.

Mr. Triggs, however, seized him by the other arm in an iron grip, and, in spite of his writhings and kickings, we hurried him forward to the spot where the gunnery lieutenant was standing awaiting events.

The gunner related to his superior in a few words how he had caught the culprit in the very act of brutally ill-treating a helpless lame mule.

“Is there an interpreter there?” demanded Mr. Thompson.