CHAPTER XXXI.

THE FLAG OF CUBA.

“We shall have a race, Don Manada—a battle royal. The new United States cruiser America has just steamed out of the bay ahead of us and we shall soon be abreast of her.”

“A race, Senor Van Zandt? Santissimo! We shall have racing enough before we get to Cuba without challenging unsuspicious warships and courting investigation.”

Van Zandt laughs at the Cuban gentleman’s anxious tones. “I told you, my friend, that once on the high seas nothing short of a cannon ball can overhaul the Semiramis. Come on deck in an hour, senor, and I will prove to you what may now seem an idle boast.”

For excellent reasons Manada is keeping in the background as much as possible. But he finds the luxurious cabin of the Semiramis much to his liking, and he smokes and dreams of “Cuba Libre” while the Semiramis steams down the bay and out upon the bosom of the Atlantic, and when he goes on deck, wrapped in the long semi-military cloak which effectually conceals his person, the sight which greets his eyes fills him with apprehension, though challenging his liveliest interest.

The battle of steam is well under way. The America is less than a dozen lengths astern and presents a beautiful sight to the people on the Semiramis. The glistening white hull plows the water at a speed which dashes the spray high in air from the delicately carved cut-water, and the triple funnels vomit great clouds of inky smoke. Manada’s eyes rove to the United States flag whipping out in the breeze and he mutters a favorite malediction as he thinks of the insurgent arms stored in the hold of the Semiramis.

But as he grows aware that the yacht of his strange friend is drawing away from the American man-of-war he becomes the incarnation of suppressed excitement. And when Van Zandt claps him on the shoulder and shouts in his ear, “Well, senor, what do you think of the Semiramis?” the Cuban shouts back enthusiastically: “El Semiramis es un diablo verdadero!”

Without the change of a muscle in his weather-beaten face, Capt. Sam Beals paces the bridge of the Semiramis, while the exciting duel of steam and steel continues, not a gesture or ejaculation indicating that the beautiful yacht is literally steaming away from the cruiser—a vessel heralded far and wide as the speediest craft among all the navies of the world.

But if the chief officer is apparently undisturbed, the same cannot be said of any other person on board. The excitement of the race has roused the owner of the yacht from his cold reserve, and as with sparkling eye and eager step he hurries from the engine-room to the quarterdeck, noting with each return the slowly but steadily lengthening space of open water that separates the two vessels, Louise Hathaway mentally retracts her decision that Phillip Van Zandt is cold and unsympathetic.

As for Miss Hathaway herself, she is thoroughly imbued with the spirit of the race. Securely sheltered from the fierce rush of wind which the tremendous speed of the Semiramis causes to sweep over the deck, she makes an attractive picture as she watches the race. The svelte form is outlined in a gown of navy blue; the beautiful face is framed in a golden aureole of wavy locks; the matchless blue eyes glisten with unwonted excitement, and a delicate color tints her cheek. It is not strange that Van Zandt divides his time between the race and his fair passenger.

Even pale, stern-faced Cyrus Felton has for the nonce became stirred by the infectious excitement, and with a zest that he has not manifested for years he watches the unavailing efforts of the warship to overhaul the pleasure craft.

“Isn’t there more and blacker smoke pouring from the America’s stacks?” inquires Miss Hathaway, as the owner of the Semiramis returns from a brief interview with the engineer, with the cheery assurance that the engines are running as smoothly as if the yacht were moving at quarter-speed.

“She is surely making more smoke and, if I mistake not, more speed,” answers Van Zandt, a shade of anxiety replacing his almost boyish enthusiasm. “Mr. Beals, what think you of it?” turning to the executive officer; “is she gaining on us?”

“She has just put on her forced draught, sir, and is now running at her top speed. She is gaining, now, but—”

Without finishing the sentence the captain presses the electric bells which communicate with the engine-room. It is soon apparent that the yacht has not until now reached the limit of her speed. The regular vibrations that mark the revolutions of the twin shafts become one prolonged shiver, and the black hull is hurled through the water at incredible speed.

The effect becomes noticeable in short order. The white mass astern grows “fine by degrees and beautifully less,” and as Capt. Beals closes his glass with a snap he remarks, complacently: “She’ll be hull down in an hour or two if she doesn’t blow out a cylinder head before that time.”

Just about this time Van Zandt and Manada go below and reappear a few moments later with a closely rolled silken flag, which Van Zandt hands to the captain with the command that it be hoisted to the breeze. Without even examining the emblem, the imperturbable executive officer bends the silken roll upon the halyards. A few hearty pulls by a stalwart blue-jacket and the ensign reaches the masthead, where the stiff breeze quickly breaks it out.

As a singular flag, with a solitary star in a triangular field of blue, is revealed to the wondering gaze of passengers and crew, Don Manada reverently bares his head and his lips frame the words “Viva Cuba Libre!”

Suddenly there is borne to their ears, above the whistling of the wind and the mighty pulsations of the machinery, the sullen boom of cannon. All eyes instinctively seek the America. A puff of white issues from her forward barbette, and as Capt. Beals returns his glass to its socket, he tells Van Zandt:

“She has saluted the Semiramis and dipped her ensign. She is bearing off to windward and gives up the race.”

“She saw the flag, do you think?”

“Doubtless,” Mr. Beals replies, with a grim smile. “Shall we slacken speed, sir?”

“Only to natural draught. I wish to make our destination as soon as possible. And by the way, Mr. Beals, you may haul down the flag. It has served its purpose for the present,” pointing to the enraptured Don Manada.

Then Van Zandt conducts his passengers below and is prepared for Miss Hathaway’s question:

“Is that your personal emblem, Mr. Van Zandt?”

“No, Miss Hathaway,” is the calm response. “That is the flag of the Cuban Republic. You are now under the protection of the provisional government of the gem of the Antilles. Permit me to introduce to you Don Rafael Manada, minister of war of the infant republic. Long may she wave!”

Manada bows low and looks vastly gratified by the official title jestingly conferred upon him. Cyrus Felton’s face, however, is darkened by a frown and Miss Hathaway is not at all pleased.

“Will you not take seats and make yourselves entirely easy?” Van Zandt proceeds, unruffled by the cold demeanor of his passengers.

“Perhaps I should have told you before you embarked,” explains Van Zandt, with a glance at Miss Hathaway that does much toward reassuring her, “that although we are bound for Cuba, our primary destination is not Santiago. The Semiramis has a cargo of arms and ammunition which I have undertaken to deliver to the Cuban revolutionists. Senor Manada is the supercargo. Believe me,” he adds, as Miss Hathaway pales at the word “revolutionists,” “there is absolutely no danger, not the slightest—and least of all to you. Even if my yacht were apprehended—though I do not believe there is a vessel on the waters of the globe that can overtake her—you would be subject to no annoyance and but little inconvenience. After we have discharged our cargo we will proceed at once to Santiago, and you will be landed much earlier than if you had gone by a regular steamer. And I am sure this vessel is fully as comfortable as any of those stuffy, crowded craft.”

“Then we are aboard a filibustering expedition,” declares Mr. Felton, harshly.

“Hardly that. You are on board an American yacht, manned by American seamen, with just one Cuban patriot, a man as honorable and true as yourself, Mr. Felton.” Van Zandt’s voice is stern and dignified. “I am not a Cuban partisan, but liberty to me is as precious as the air of heaven. Until a few hours ago there was no thought of the cargo now beneath us. The arms were designed to go by another vessel. But at the last moment the plans of the patriots were betrayed. Then it was that I stepped in and offered the services of my yacht to convey the much-needed aid to the down-trodden men of the Antilles.”

“And meanwhile you have jeopardized the safety of Miss Hathaway and myself,” Mr. Felton sneers. “Suppose we are intercepted by a Spanish warship? Think you that they will not regard us—myself at least—as members of this expedition? What then, Mr. Van Zandt?”

The latter’s lip curls slightly. “Again I assure you that there is absolutely no danger. I will answer for your safety on this voyage with my life.” Then to Louise, with a look that brings a flush to her fair face: “Have you no faith in the yacht, if not in her owner, Miss Hathaway?”

“I think that Mr. Felton is needlessly alarmed,” is that young lady’s composed reply. “As for the yacht, I am quite carried away with it, figuratively as well as literally. This is my first voyage, Mr. Van Zandt, and if you will insure me against mal de mer, that dread bugbear of the voyageur, I will try to brave, with becoming equanimity, the perils of the Spanish main.”

Cyrus Felton, however, is decidedly alarmed by Van Zandt’s admission of the incidental errand of the Semiramis. A strong distrust of her owner begins to grow in his mind; this added to the qualms of seasickness, which have begun to make themselves felt, renders him thoroughly miserable in spirit and body, and without raising another objection he asks to be shown to his stateroom.

It must be confessed that Van Zandt does not manifest heartfelt regret at Mr. Felton’s unhappy condition, and even Miss Hathaway is somewhat perfunctory in her expressions of sympathy. An unaccountable confidence in the handsome owner of the Semiramis has replaced her early distrust, and, happily exempt from the “dread bugbear of the voyageur,” she accepts with pleasure Van Zandt’s proposition that they explore the yacht.

The Semiramis is fair to look upon, from capstan to rudder, and from keelson to main truck. The Vermont maiden marvels at the comfort, convenience and luxury on every hand. The palatial saloon, with its unusually high ceiling, furnished in oriental magnificence and including a superb upright piano, Miss Hathaway’s eye notes approvingly; the commodious staterooms, arranged en suite, with the respectable appearing stewardess in charge; the plain but ample and scrupulously neat quarters of the crew; the engine-room, with its masses of highly polished steel and brass—all possess elements of interest to the girl.

That night, as she lays her head on her pillow, “rocked in the cradle of the deep,” she suddenly starts as if from a dream. For there comes to her ears again, from somewhere, that melody strangely sweet, yet filled with subtle melancholy, the andante of her beloved sonata.

Then a light goes up, as the Germans have the saying, and Miss Hathaway understands now her blindly placed confidence in the master of the Semiramis. For Don Caesar de Bazan is Phillip Van Zandt and—and—

But what Miss Hathaway thinks about as Atlantic’s waves lull her to slumber would certainly interest the young man who sits up far into the night, chatting and smoking with the “minister of war of the Cuban republic” while the Semiramis rushes on her eventful voyage to the tropics.