CHAPTER LVI.

THE FATE OF THE SEMIRAMIS.

“And now, what?”

The boats have reached the Semiramis. Louise Hathaway has been tenderly assisted to the deck by Van Zandt, followed by Navarro and Barker, and the dead form of Cyrus Felton has been reverently conveyed aboard.

A sort of council of war is being held on the quarter-deck of the yacht, participated in by Van Zandt, Navarro and Capt. Beals. The master of the Semiramis looks inquiringly at the insurgent leader as he utters the words quoted above.

“For me personally there is but one course,” replies Navarro. “I must land somewhere in the night and make my way to Gen. Masso’s camp. That will not be a difficult matter. It is your own situation that I am considering. The American man-of-war, is she still in the harbor?”

Capt. Beals shakes his head. “She sailed an hour ago for Key West, for supplies and instructions. She will not return for at least two days.”

Navarro’s face grows grave. “Then you are not safe from molestation even in this vessel and under that flag,” he says, pointing to the red, white and blue floating from the masthead. “Without a man-of-war to protect you, the Spaniards, knowing that El Terredo is aboard, will search your yacht, possibly confiscate her and subject you to no end of annoyance, even though they should not find El Terredo. They respect no flag, no emblem, no rules of civilized nations, unless they are absolutely compelled to by superior force. You saw how they treated the American flag above the consul’s own residence. There are now three Spanish gunboats in the harbor. Within the hour I fear your yacht will be surrounded.”

“Then there is but one thing to do,” promptly replies Van Zandt. “Capt. Beals, have steam got up at once and weigh anchor. We will follow the America to Key West.”

There is silence on the quarter-deck for a few moments. Miss Hathaway has retired to her former stateroom immediately upon setting foot upon the yacht, and Barker is intently watching the shore from the bridge. For the time being Van Zandt and Navarro are alone. Suddenly the former breaks the silence.

“You are not a Cuban,” he says. “Why are you enlisted with the nondescript army of the insurrectionists?”

Navarro flushes at the word nondescript, but does not reply at once. Finally he says quietly: “No, I am not a Cuban. I am, like yourself, an American. But my ancestors were Cuban, back more than six generations. Until ten months ago,” continues Navarro, in a less-impassioned tone, “I was a careless, happy-go-lucky American youth, without any specific aim in life. But when the Cuban insurrection broke out, I was consumed with an overmastering desire to help free Cuba from the accursed yoke of Spain. I have sacrificed everything to that end, and now I am known to the Spaniards as ‘El Terredo,’ the terror. I believe I have been of some service to the struggling natives, and so I shall continue until Cuba is free, or–”

Navarro does not complete the sentence. While he was speaking the smoke has been pouring out of the chimneys of the yacht in steadily increasing volume, and now the clank of the steam windlass announces that the vessel is getting under way. Without replying to Navarro’s words, Van Zandt hastens below to inform Miss Hathaway of the destination of the yacht. Capt. Beals has taken his station on the bridge and the graceful vessel steams slowly toward the narrow entrance to the harbor of Santiago.

Navarro watches intently the three Spanish warships by which the Semiramis must pass within half a mile. As the yacht draws nearer, the watcher notes with anxiety a boat hastily putting out from the government wharf and evidently making for the flagship of the fleet, the Infanta Isabel. He communicates his discovery to Van Zandt, who has returned from below, with the comment: “They are evidently notifying the cruiser to have her stop this vessel. Rather than that she fire on the yacht and endanger the lives of those on board, including the young lady, you must surrender me. Then they may permit you to go unmolested.”

“No man leaves this ship for a Spanish prison or the garrote,” replies Van Zandt, his eyes burning with excitement, “as long as there is a timber of her afloat. It is less than six miles to the entrance to the harbor, and once outside we can snap our fingers at a whole fleet of Spanish cruisers. Besides, with all the various craft scattered about the harbor, they will not dare to fire on us.”

Navarro shakes his head skeptically, but does not reply. The boat has reached the side of the war vessel. The Semiramis is now nearly abreast of the latter and distant less than half a mile. Suddenly a puff of smoke rises from the forward deck of the Spaniard, followed by the sharp crack of a rifle.

“There! She has signaled you to heave to,” remarks Navarro. “As I told you, you must surrender me.”

“This is my answer,” replies the owner of the Semiramis, drawing his revolver and firing two shots in the air. Then to Capt. Beals on the bridge he sings out: “Full speed ahead!”

Smoke is now pouring from the stacks of the warship, and it is evident that she is preparing to pursue the American yacht, but she does not, as Navarro predicted, fire on the latter. Before the cruiser gets well under way the Semiramis is within four miles of the channel that marks the entrance to the harbor.

Van Zandt smiles at Navarro. “We will lead him a merry race if he thinks to catch the Semiramis,” he remarks. “This yacht can go two miles to his one. And if he hasn’t improved in his marksmanship I will risk his guns. Ah, there goes the first one!”

The Spaniard has succeeded in getting within range of the yacht without endangering any of the other craft, and the roar of his forward gun is heard as Van Zandt speaks.

“An eighth of a mile to windward,” observes the latter, as he watches the solid shot skip over the water. “He can’t race and shoot, too.”

Evidently the pursuer has come to the same conclusion, for he fires no more guns, but doggedly plows the placid waters of the harbor after the great black yacht.

And now the latter is less than half a mile from the cleft in the precipitous coast line. Capt. Beals has slowed down the engines and the yacht is picking her way by the reefs that guard the channel.

“Ship ahoy!” suddenly rings out from the lookout forward. All eyes are turned ahead. A steamer, inward bound, has just come into view in the channel.

“Permit me,” Navarro takes the glasses and focuses them upon the stranger. “It is the Spanish dispatch boat Pizarro,” he says. “When the cruiser recognizes her she will doubtless signal her to intercept the yacht, and in the narrow channel she can make serious trouble, I fear.”

The report of another cannon, followed by two more in quick succession, shows that the man-of-war has indeed recognized her compatriot almost as soon as the American. An answering gun from the dispatch boat also shows that she has heard and understands.

Capt. Beals looks inquiringly at Van Zandt. “We must continue straight on and take our chances in the channel with that craft,” the latter says. Then to Navarro: “Do you know what her armament is?”

“Oh, she is not a fighting ship. She has no armament, merely one gun for saluting purposes, and her crew cannot number over fifty.”

“Then we are all right. If she gets in our way she must take the consequences.”

But the dispatch boat evidently does not intend that the American shall pass. She has taken a position in the narrowest part of the channel and lies stationary, presenting her broadside to the oncoming yacht.

“Signal that we propose to pass to port,” Van Zandt says to Capt. Beals, “and if the Spaniard gets in our course run him down.”

Capt. Beals nods and a second later the hoarse whistle of the Semiramis echoes over the waters. The signal is answered with a rifle shot from the Spaniard’s forward deck and the dispatch boat moves forward two lengths, so that she lies fair and square in the announced course of the yacht.

But there are no signs of slackening on the part of the latter, and her black hull looks threatening indeed to the officers of the dispatch boat.

Caramba! Surely she will not run down the royal vessel! Yet it looks very like it! But they will not dare! Still—the Spanish commander hesitates no longer. He signals his vessel to back at full speed.

Too late!

The Pizarro has moved less than half a length when the American yacht crashes into her. There is a grinding shock that brings Louise Hathaway in terror to the deck of the Semiramis, and then the yacht continues on her course, apparently unharmed. Van Zandt catches a glimpse of a great jagged hole in the bow of the Spaniard, into which the water is pouring in a cataract; of a panic-stricken crew rushing frantically for the boats; and then he turns to Miss Hathaway. It is nothing, he assures her tenderly; a slight collision, but the yacht is all right and perhaps she had better return to her stateroom for the present. Later on—and Louise smiles, a little sadly, but permits Van Zandt to conduct her to the saloon.

Capt. Beals is awaiting Van Zandt as the latter bounds up the steps a minute later. “We are badly stove forward,” he reports, “and are making water quite rapidly. With the steam pumps going, we may keep afloat three or four hours, but the yacht is doomed.”

Van Zandt is so startled at the news that for a moment he is speechless. His eyes rove back to the Spanish warship, and then at the nearly perpendicular cliffs by which the Semiramis is steaming.

He looks for the dispatch boat, but it is not in sight. “The Spaniard?” he inquires, mechanically.

“Gone to the bottom,” laconically replies the captain.

“Then there is no hope for us but to keep on and try to land by the boats somewhere on the coast,” Van Zandt says. “The Spaniards will treat us all as enemies, now that we have sunk one of their boats. How long can we keep up this speed?”

“Perhaps an hour, perhaps more. The water will put out the fires.”

“Well, have the boats quietly prepared and keep within reach of land. Do you think the Spaniards will continue the pursuit?”

“Undoubtedly. They will stop only to pick up the crew of the Pizarro, and then will keep on after us. If there was some little bay near here where we could beach the yacht, but there isn’t.”

The noble craft continues to plow the waves and her injured bow still tosses the foam on either side, but her speed is sensibly diminishing. All on board have recognized the fact that the yacht is doomed, but there is no confusion, no manifest anxiety. The boats have been prepared and each member of the crew has secured in a little package his most valued possessions. On the quarter-deck Van Zandt, Navarro, Barker and Louise Hathaway are silently watching the Spanish warship. The latter is gaining now, for the Semiramis is steadily settling.

Navarro, his hat drawn over his eyes and his coat wrapped about him so that his countenance is partially veiled, has carefully avoided Louise. When she returns to the deck he walks over to where John Barker is leaning against the rail and remarks in Spanish:

“If you do not desire to be shot as a deserter I should advise you to borrow a suit of clothes from our friend, the owner of the yacht.”

The detective starts. “I guess you’re right,” he replies in English, and turns to Van Zandt. Five minutes later he emerges from the cabin attired in a fashionable suit of gray.

“The water is within two inches of the boilers,” reports the engineer, and Van Zandt sighs heavily.

“Well,” he says, “we may as well take to the boats. Come.” He leads Louise to the steamer’s launch.

“And he?” Louise points to where the body of Cyrus Felton lies, covered by its winding sheet of canvas.

“He will go down with the Semiramis. He could have no nobler tomb.”

Boom! The roar of the Spanish gun is the salute the people of the Semiramis hear as the boats pull away from the doomed yacht. The cruiser is within range and though her commander must be aware that the American vessel is sinking he is firing on her.

“The coward!” grits Van Zandt. “But the Semiramis will not strike her flag. She sinks with the stars and stripes flying.”

“Pull hard!” shouts Capt. Beals. “Pull hard! She’s going down!”