Part 13

Before I could follow them, Zorilla's cavalry were on top of me. I dodged to the rear of the first wagon as they swept round it. Over it went, there was a jumble of horses and men, and I was dashed to the ground, my right leg jammed down by a horse. Troopers tried to cut at me or get me with their lances, but they were swept along by those coming behind them. The horse which was pinning me down half struggled to its feet, I drew my leg away, and huddled under the wagon as they thundered along the road to the ford.

I'd been knocked a bit 'silly,' and the next I know I was hobbling up the stairs to the roof with my right leg giving me 'gyp,' and the little brown chaps firing like mad.

'Look! Look!' Seymour cried, leaning on his elbows and pointing towards San Fernando.

Oh! My God! The cavalry had swept clean across the stream and were dashing madly along the road and beach, but behind them they left a trail of dead and wounded men and horses. I saw some riderless horses dashing backwards and forwards, and then had to lie down because the firing was so heavy. I hadn't seen Gerald, and there seemed to be no one alive at the ford.

'The infantry are advancing now,' Seymour told me, but it was that cloud of cavalry galloping towards San Fernando that I couldn't take my eyes off--there must have been five hundred of them, and we could hear the noise they made though they were a mile away.

'D'you hear that?' Seymour cried; 'Jones and Richardson have started firing.'

Hear! Why, I jumped to my feet and yelled with delight, for the 'pom--pom--pom--pom,' 'pom--pom--pom,' 'pom--pom--pom' and the 'crack--crack--crack' of the little one-pound shells bursting, told me what had happened.

'Keep down, you fool!' Seymour shouted. Bullets were shrieking past, chipping against the concrete every second, and Zorilla's infantry were coming down the road and through the trees, in close order, sweeping past the Casino towards the ford.

My aunt! how we shot! I'd never heard any noise like the noise of the firing that went on then, and I wonder, now, how many of those rifles were properly aimed.

The Casino seemed to be trembling and shaking, my little chaps began scrambling in the bottom of their bags for cartridges, and I knew that they were running short of ammunition, but then they began shrieking with joy, because the infantry couldn't stand the fire from Gerald's chaps along the stream, and we saw them dodging back again from tree to tree, and clearing away from the road--a tall gaunt officer, on horseback, trying to stem the retreat and turn them round again.

Even at that distance I recognised him. It was General Zorilla, but he couldn't make them face the stream again, and they swept past him out of sight.

'The cavalry are broken!' Seymour cried joyfully, and, turning my head, I saw them coming back again, the pom-pom shells knocking up little spurts of dust and smoke among them, and some of Gerald's people at the side of the road firing point-blank at them. They were having an awful time, horses and men coming down every second, and as a horse fell, it brought down others behind it, in a heap of struggling bodies and legs, the little white-shirted men darting out from the trees with their _machetes_ to kill the wretched troopers before they could get to their feet.

Those still on horseback came nearer and nearer, the leading ones were almost up to the ford, and I could see them lying down on their horses' necks, their arms raised in front of their heads, as Gerald's people crowded to the side of the road to fire at them; they burst through the stream and came flying past the front of the Casino, many horses riderless, their flanks streaming with blood from sharp spurs, and their blood-shot eyes almost sticking out of their heads. We could hear the sobbing noise they made in their distress--poor brutes, they were absolutely foundered.

Those of my chaps, on the roof, who had any cartridges left let off their rifles at them again, and at others who were lashing their poor tired brutes through the sand, along the beach, at the back of the house. I don't think that more than a couple of hundred got back beyond that bend in safety. One, a powerful-looking native, half-nigger, was the last to come struggling along the beach. Hundreds of bullets were hitting the sand all round him and splashing in the water beyond, but he seemed to bear a charmed life. He'd thrown away his rifle and his lance, and as he came to that line of Gerald's people across the beach, he put his hand in front of his face, bent low over his horse's neck, and charged right through them. I felt jolly glad to see him safe and coming towards us, but then one of my own little chaps ran out from the Casino, down the beach, knelt down, raised his rifle, and waited for him.

The trooper saw him, struck his poor beast with the flat of his sword, and made one gallant effort to ride him down, but the horse was so exhausted that he could hardly raise a trot in that loose sand. The little kneeling man fired, and the horse plunged on to its head and rolled over, the trooper slipping to his feet and jumping clear. With a yell he grabbed his sword and rushed at the little man, and I thought my chap was finished, but he had another cartridge in his rifle, fired again, and the big trooper slithered forward, clawed at the sand, and was dead. I felt jolly sorry, but the men on the roof, watching with bloodthirsty eyes, jumped to their feet and yelled, and the little man, bending over the body, pulled off the big trooper's boots, stuck them on his own feet, and came awkwardly up to the Casino again, his face beaming with pride.

I felt rather sick, and looked round. Seymour was on his knees.

'We've won,' he cried, with a wild look in his eyes. 'I've done my bit, too.' He raised himself to his feet, and would have fallen if I hadn't caught him and lowered him on his mattress.

I heard shouts of '_Don Geraldio!_' '_Viva los Horizontals!_' and looking over into the road, saw dear old Gerald stalking along smoking his pipe, making big strides over dead men and horses, and Jose, in his red sash, leading his horse behind him. I ran down to meet him as he came up the steps.

'We've won, Gerald!' I sang out.

'You've made a beastly mess of the Casino, Billums; I hope no one has collared the mater's bag,' was the only thing he said.

Well, that finished the 'Two Days' Fight' as it was called; Gerald's chaps were too worn out and too short of ammunition to follow Zorilla immediately, and gave him time to withdraw, with the remnant of his people, along the road to El Castellar.

Jones and Richardson came along presently with their two pom-poms and five or six hundred riflemen they had brought from San Fernando. They were awfully full of 'buck.'

'We frightened those cavalry chaps with our shells, and these little brownies stopped them with their rifles,' they told us, as we all carried Seymour down from the roof and put him in his buggy, which turned up from somewhere or other.

They took him back--very slowly and gently--to San Fernando, and intended to take him on board the _Hector_.

'Thank God, you came!' I said. 'You were just in time.'

He smiled wildly, wanted to say something, but didn't, and was taken away.

And now came the saddest of all things, for the wounded began to creep out of the forest and make their way to the Casino or be carried there--hundreds of them--and there wasn't a piece of lint or a bandage in the place. They simply squatted down and waited--for what I don't know. I got a good many of them water from the Casino well, and they were very grateful, but I couldn't do anything else.

I missed Gerald, went in search of him in the Casino, heard the noise of splashing water, and found him having a cold bath, Jose standing by to rub him down.

'Only thing which keeps me awake, Billums,' he laughed. 'I've given my chaps a couple of hours' sleep, and shall follow Zorilla as soon as those field-guns you took into San Fernando come along. I've sent for them.'

'They don't seem to be going to sleep yet,' I said, for there was any amount of noise outside and shouting of '_Viva Don Geraldio! Viva los Inglesas!_'

'They want me, I expect,' he said; 'chuck us a towel, Billums,' and, winding it round him, he went out. He still had a nasty scar on the right arm--where that bit of shell had hit him a month ago.

'Tidy your yellow mop a bit,' I sang out, 'it's all over your eyes,' so he smoothed it back and went out on the balcony overlooking the road.

My aunt! there must have been thousands of the little brown men and their black-bearded officers there, and they made a tremendous noise, shouting, '_Viva Yuesencia Don Geraldio!_'

I was looking out from behind a door, and you bet I was proud of old Gerald. Wouldn't the mater have just loved to see him there, the only white-skinned chap among them, and wouldn't the old pater have grinned and chuckled to think he'd been the father of him. I could just imagine him patting Gerald's naked shoulder and tipping him a sovereign.

There were more yells.

'Come out, Billums, they want you!'

I went cold all over.

'Come out, you ass! Take your hat off too--let 'em see your straw thatching.'

I went and stood beside him, and it was the proudest thing that ever happened to me; it was nothing but a sea of brown heads and white hats, rifles and bayonets, and then they yelled and waved their hats--even those of the wounded who could stand, stood up and shouted, '_Viva los Hermanos!_'[#]

[#] Hermanos = brothers.

When the noises stopped a bit, I sang out, '_Gracias! Gracias! Muchas Gracias!_'--about the only Spanish words I knew. They cheered more than ever.

'Quite effective show, that,' Gerald smiled cynically, as he went back to dress, 'you and I standing there by the side of the insurgent flag. They love anything like that.'

I hadn't really noticed the flag--I'd been much too nervous.

'That little fiend of yours tried his tricks on again last night, tried to knife me,' he said presently.

'And you killed him?'

'I took away his knife and boxed his ears,' he told me, lighting his pipe with one of my last matches. 'It's a treat to get a decent match, Billums, I hate those "stinkerados"[#] we get in this confounded country.'

[#] 'Stinkerados' is a term applied to the ordinary foul-smelling Spanish sulphur matches.

'Confounded country!' I answered angrily. 'You seem to be risking a good deal for it. I wished to goodness you'd killed the beast."

'My dear Billums, I'd fight on either side so long as I could get a bit of excitement--so long as I could boss the show.'

'I wish to goodness I could chip in with you,' I told him. 'I don't even boss the gun-room--not properly, the Commander thinks.' Oh, bother the _Hector_! I remembered that my leave was up at noon. 'Bother it all, Gerald, I've got to keep the "afternoon" watch, and see that a boat doesn't shove off with the fenders over its side, and listen respectfully whilst the Commander bellows at me that a man hasn't got his chin-stay down, and that I'm an incompetent, useless fool. It's nearly ten o'clock now and I must be off.'

He got me a horse, and I left him, his worn-out little brown chaps, and his wounded, and shoved off back to San Fernando, galloping along the beach, and learnt then what an unsuccessful cavalry charge meant; for the shore was strewn with dead and dying horses, dead men, rifles, swords, lances, and, more conspicuous than anything else, the red blankets they'd thrown away in their retreat. The tide, too, had risen and was half covering some of the bodies with sand, as if it wanted to hide the horrid sight and wipe out all traces of that awful morning's work.

I was looking about me for something to take back for the mater, and had passed any number of ordinary swords, which were not worth the trouble of dismounting, but at last saw one with a very elaborate hilt and sword-knot, lying close to a body stretched face downwards in the sand, so jumped off and picked it up. The uniform on the body was that of an officer, and out of curiosity I turned the head round with my foot. Ugh! It was Zorilla's black A.D.C., the chap who had been so impressed with our after 9.2 gun that day we anchored off Los Angelos. I scrambled back into the saddle with his sword and rode on, shuddering and thinking a lot of things which I couldn't write down, without you laughing at me.

Presently, as I got a bit more chirpy, and began looking round again, I saw a little chap trudging along ahead of me, splashing through the edge of the sea where the sand was firmer. Something about him seemed familiar, and as I overtook him he looked round, gave a yelp of fright, and bolted, drawing a _machete_ out of his belt. It was the little brute, and I dug my heels into the horse and was after him like a shot. I simply rode him down--he couldn't run fast in the loose sand--and at last turned, holding up the _machete_ to protect himself. I was jolly glad that he'd lost his revolver, for I had lost mine somewhere. I meant to kill him, and I saw that he knew it, and that he couldn't be springy on his feet in the sand, and struck at him for all I was worth with the A.D.C.'s sword, meaning to beat down his guard and get at his head, but the horse swerved when he saw the sword flash, and the blade only came down on the back of the hand which held the _machete_ and lopped the fingers clean off, the _machete_ falling down. I wrenched the horse round and went at him again, and was just going to finish him when, I'm sorry to say, something inside me wouldn't let me kill him now that he couldn't defend himself, and, like the ass I am,--how I cursed myself for it afterwards--I jumped off and tried to stop the bleeding. He thought me a fool, I know, and so I was.

Then I made him step out alongside me, and was so angry with myself for being so soft-hearted that I prodded him in the back when he wouldn't go fast enough.

But the miserable brute, with his bleeding stumps, was nearly dead with fright and could hardly put one foot in front of another, so at last I swung him up in front of me, and took him into San Fernando like that, riding up to the _Cuartel de Infanteria_, where a 'red-cross' flag was flying, and handing him over to the people there, trying to explain that he was a prisoner.

My Christopher! the look he gave me when I went away!

I left my horse at the barracks, walked down to the shore, stood on that jetty, and waved my arms about till one of the _Hector's_ signalmen spotted me, and the skiff was sent in to take me off.

I had just time to change into uniform, and get a bit of grub in the gun-room, before the 'Forlorn Hope,' who'd kept the 'Forenoon' watch and wanted his lunch, sent down an indignant message to know when I was going to relieve him, so up I went, buckling on my sword-belt, and tramped up and down the quarterdeck for four hours. I'm certain that I could never have stopped awake had not Cousin Bob, the 'Angel,' and young Marchant walked alongside me and made me tell them all that had happened ashore.

When I went down below again, I showed the black A.D.C.'s sword to Navarro, and told him, as well as I could, all that had happened. He was very depressed, chiefly because he was so fond of old Zorilla, but didn't seem to worry in the least about the black A.D.C., and made me keep the sword.

He shrugged his shoulders when I told him about not killing that little ex-policeman, and said, 'Till he die he always make revenge,' which made me think myself more of an ass than ever for not having killed him when I had the chance.

*CHAPTER XI*

*San Fernando attacked from the Sea*

_Written by Captain Grattan, R.N._

Much to my relief, young Wilson came off in time to keep his afternoon watch, none the worse for his extremely exciting forty-eight hours' leave, and directly he had told me that all fighting had ceased, I sent Watson, my Fleet Surgeon, and my young Surgeon, Clegg, ashore to help patch up the wounded, giving them as many chaps as they wanted to take to help them, and writing a polite note to the New President's Secretary informing him of the fact. I knew that every doctor would be wanted, because the fighting had been very severe and all that morning we had seen streams of wounded men dragging themselves back from Marina along the road by the sea. Already one Englishman, a man named Seymour, had been brought off to the ship, badly wounded, but he died as he was being hoisted on board, so his friends took the body ashore again.

I went ashore, myself, soon afterwards, and found everybody at the Club. A cheery lot of chaps they were, in spite of their pal's death, and when the little Secretary, who had heard that I had come ashore and followed me there, bowed himself in half and said, 'The President is much gratitude for the guns,' they yelled with delight.

'The hydraulic machinery you brought from Princes' Town,' they roared. 'We couldn't have managed without it--just came in the nick of time,' and then bundled my little friend into the next room. They told me that the whole of General Zorilla's artillery had been captured, and, before I went back to the ship, drove me down to have a look at it--four field-guns of French manufacture, four English field-guns, and two 4.7's on field carriages.

'Those English guns don't seem to have done much work,' I suggested, screwing my eyeglass in very hard, 'do they?' and they explained that they'd been busy polishing them up ever since they'd been brought in--that was why they looked so new.

It struck me that, now the insurgents--or I suppose I should say Gerald Wilson--possessed all these guns and had knocked Zorilla so hopelessly, they had only to capture El Castellar to make themselves safe from the Santa Cruz Navy. Once they had captured it, the guns there would prevent any cruisers passing through the narrow entrance, and they could sit still and wait till that big cruiser, _La Buena Presidente_, came along and made them masters of the sea.

I told my friends, the Englishmen, about that little 'accident' down at El Castellar with our 9.2, and they were highly amused--everything seemed to amuse them that day. A most cheery lot they were, and when I wished them good-bye, before getting into my boat, and asked them what they actually had done with the hydraulic machinery I had brought them, they were more amused than ever, and I left them enjoying some little joke they had.

Old 'Spats' sent me a wireless signal from the _Hercules_ next day to tell me that _La Buena Presidente_, flying the black and green flag, had put into Madeira to coal, but had been refused permission. If that was the case, she'd have a good deal of trouble to arrange for colliers to meet her at sea, and it might be many weeks before she arrived here.

Things went along remarkably peaceably for the next few days, my two doctors were up to their necks in work ashore, and hardly had time to come aboard and ask after my gout, and we heard that Gerald Wilson had driven Zorilla and his army into El Castellar and was investing it.

Then, one fine morning, along came the whole of the Santa Cruz fleet, cruisers, gunboats, and torpedo-boats, escorting half-a-dozen tramp-steamers filled with troops.

They anchored close to El Castellar--we could see their smoke plainly enough--and began firing--shelling Wilson's trenches, we presumed. Of course we all thought they'd do the natural thing--land their troops there, drive off the insurgents, join hands with all that was left of Zorilla's army--about two thousand infantry--and come marching along the seashore under cover of the ships' guns. This was evidently what Wilson's brother thought, for we could see his people streaming out from San Fernando, along the road to Marina, towards El Castellan.

Well, I suppose I'm a bit of a fool, but when I was a youngster I should have been mad to have missed anything like that, so I sent for the Commander, and told him he could give leave to the mids. and as many of the officers as he could spare. Most of them were already crowding on the fore bridge and up in the fore fire-control position, trying to see the Santa Cruz ships through their telescopes, but they clambered down in a twinkling, and cleared ashore in less than half an hour.

'Don't get into mischief or there'll be the dickens to pay,' I sang out to them, and, of course, immediately afterwards regretted letting them go.

They had been gone about two hours, and we'd seen them driving or walking out towards El Castellar, when the firing ceased, and it was reported to me that the fleet and transports were standing towards us.

I went along to my spare cabin, which I had given up to fat little Navarro (Zorilla's A.D.C.) whilst he was aboard, with his broken thigh, and told him what was happening. He was very excited, and craned his neck out of his scuttle to see the advancing ships.

In an hour they were abreast the _Hector_, and steamed slowly past. First their flagship, the _Presidente Canilla_, then the still smaller cruiser, _San Josef_, the old-fashioned torpedo gunboat, _Salvador_, the rakish _Estremadura_, an armed steam yacht, and the _Primero de Maie_, looking like a Gosport ferry steamer. They were steaming at about seven knots, but even at that speed the _Primero de Maie_ and the _Salvador_ could not keep station. Although I had a marine guard on the quarterdeck, my fat Subaltern of Blue Marines--the Forlorn Hope--flourishing his sword, and the bugler sounding an Admiral's salute, as the flagship crawled past, she took not the slightest notice of us, and we were all intensely amused to see the officers on her fore bridge gazing everywhere except in our direction, absolutely pretending to ignore the fact that we were there at all.

When you remember that barely seven weeks ago my ship had towed the whole five of them out from behind the breakwater of Los Angelos, it was all the more funny.

They fired a few shells into the town as they went past it, not more than three hundred yards from the shore, and I wondered whether my humorous friends at the Club were laughing quite so heartily. Half a mile astern of them came the two old-fashioned French torpedo-boats and the first of the transports, crowded with blackamoors, with yellow and green stripes in their hats, hooting and hissing as they passed close to us, though their officers, standing up amidships, took off their hats and bowed to make up for their men's rudeness. I took off mine and swept it to the deck in the most approved Spanish fashion.

Three more little transports lumbered by chock-a-block with troops, and the whole armada anchored at the head of the bay, about two miles beyond the town, and immediately began lowering their boats. My Sub was terribly put out. 'I'm afraid they've caught my brother napping this time, sir,' he said to me. 'He must have rushed all his troops out there early this morning, and look, sir, you can see them hurrying back again. They'll be too late.' I proceeded to give him a little lecture on the advantages of possessing the 'Command of the Sea.' 'A very neat illustration, my boy, right in front of your eyes. Canilla moves his troops about by sea--dumps them here and there, wherever he likes, whilst your brother, uncertain where he's going to land 'em, runs his chaps off their legs, backwards and forwards.'

'It's jolly hard luck, sir,' he answered, not relishing my short course of instruction on strategy.