Dave Darrin at Vera Cruz Part 29

"I don't mind fighting," sighed Dan, ten minutes later, "but waiting gets on my nerves."

All the time small detachments of sailors and marines were moving gradually through the lower part of Vera Cruz, moving from one point to another, and always the leading detachments went further from the water front.

At last Trent, receiving his signal from a distance, marched his men up the street, away from the fortress of San Juan de Ulloa.

Only a quarter of a mile did they march, then halted. Fully three hundred Mexicans followed them, and stood looking on curiously.

"I wonder if any one ash.o.r.e knows the answer to the riddle of what we're doing," sighed Danny Grin.

"We're waiting orders, like real fighting men," Dave answered, with a smile.

"But there isn't going to be any fighting!"

"Where did you get that information?" Dave asked.

Noon came; no fighting had been started. By this time nearly every officer and man ash.o.r.e believed that the Mexican general at Vera Cruz had decided not to offer resistance. If so, he had undoubtedly received his instructions from Mexico City.

More minutes dragged by. At about fifteen minutes past noon, shots rang out ahead.

"The engagement is starting," Dan exclaimed eagerly to his chum.

"The shots are so few in number, and come so irregularly, that probably only a few Mexican hotheads are shooting," Dave hinted, quietly. "Troops, going into action, don't fire in that fashion."

"I wonder of any of our men are firing back."

"All I know," smiled Darrin, "is that we are not doing any shooting."

Pss-seu! sang a stray bullet over their heads. Only that brief hiss as the deadly leaden messenger sang past.

Pss-chug! That bullet caught Dalzell's uniform cap, carrying it from his head to a distance some forty feet rearward.

"Whew! That gives some idea of the spitefulness of a bullet, doesn't it?" muttered Danny Grin, as a seaman ran for the ensign's cap and returned with it.

"It must be that I didn't get iron-rust enough on this white uniform,"

commented Dalzell, coolly, gazing down at the once white uniform that he had yellowed by a free application of iron rust. "My clothing must still be white enough to attract the attention of a sharpshooter so distant that I don't know where he is."

Still Trent held his command in waiting, for no orders had come to move it forward.

"The barracks are over there," said Dave, pointing. "So far as I have been able to judge, none of the bullets come from that direction."

Still the desultory firing continued. The occasional shots that rang out showed, however, that the Americans were not firing in force.

"There they go!" called Lieutenant Trent, drawing attention to the nearest barracks. From the parade ground in front, small detachments of Mexicans could be seen running toward different parts of the town.

"Are you going to fire on them?" asked Darrin.

"Not unless the Mexicans fire on us, or I receive orders to fire,"

the lieutenant answered. "I don't want to do anything to disarrange the admiral's plans for the day, and at present I know no more than you do of what is expected of us."

Suddenly the air became alive with the hiss of bullets.

"I see the rascals," cried Dave pointing upward. "They're on the top of that building ahead."

Trent saw the sharpshooters, too. Perhaps twenty Mexican infantrymen occupied the roof of a building a few hundred yards ahead. Some were lying flat, showing only their heads at the edge of the roof.

Others were kneeling, but all were firing industriously.

"Forward, a few steps at a time," ordered the lieutenant. "Don't waste any shots, men, but pot any sharpshooter you can get on that roof, or any men who show themselves on other roofs as we advance."

"This work is a lot better than getting into boats and trying to take Castle San Juan," muttered Dalzell, as he drew his sword.

All three of the officers now had their blades in their hands, for the swords would be useful if they were obliged to fight at close quarters.

Crack! crack! crack! rang out the rifles of Trent's detachment.

But every shot told. Whenever any one of the three officers saw a man firing too rapidly that seaman was cautioned against wasting cartridges.

One of Trent's men was already wounded in the left hand, though he still persisted in firing.

At the first street crossing Trent shouted:

"Half of you men go down the street on that side, the rest of you over here. Ensign Dalzell, take command over there. Ensign Darrin, you will command here."

The street was swiftly emptied of blue-jackets. Hidden from the fire of the sharpshooters ahead, the sailors were out of immediate danger. But both Dan and Dave stationed a couple of good shots at either corner, in the shelter of the buildings and took pot shots at the snipers ahead.

"Darrin, pick out two of your best men, and send them to lie down in the middle of the street, facing that roof-top," Trent ordered, then shouted the order across the open street to Dalzell.

Thus, with four jackies lying flat in the middle of the street, and offering no very good targets to the roof snipers, and with two men behind each protecting corner, the Mexicans on the roof were subjected to the sharpshooting fire of the eight best shots in Trent's command.

"Darley, you stand here on the sidewalk, and watch the roof-top across the street," Dave ordered. "Hemingway, you get over on the other side and keep your eyes on the roof on this side of the street. If you see any one on a rooftop, let him have it as fast as you can fire."

Dan Dalzell, seeing that manoeuvre from across the street, stationed two roof-watchers similarly on his side.

"We'll stick to this sharpshooting stunt," Lieutenant Trent called in Darrin's ear, over the crackling of the rifles, "until we get a few of the Mexicans ahead. Then we'll rush their position and try to drive them from it. The only way-----"

That was as far as Lieutenant Trent got, for Dave, making a sudden leap at his superior, seized him by the collar, jerking him backward a few feet and landing him on his back.

"What the-----" sputtered Lieutenant Trent. That was as far as he got, for there was a crash, the sidewalk shook, and then Darrin quickly pulled his superior to his feet.

The report of Hemingway's rifle was not heard, but a tiny cloud of thin vapor curled from the muzzle of his uplifted weapon.

"I think I got one of the pair, sir!" called the sailor, gleefully.

"He threw up his hands and pitched backward out of sight."

Lieutenant Trent looked at the sidewalk astounded, for, where he had stood hay the broken pieces of a cookstove that had been hurled from the roof two stories above.

"That ma.s.s of iron fell right where I was standing," muttered Trent.

"Darrin, I wondered why on earth you should jerk me back and lay me out in that unceremonious fashion. If you hadn't done it the cookstove would have crushed my bones to powder."

"It shows the temper of the kind of people we're fighting," muttered Darrin, compressing his lips tightly. "We'll soon have the whole city full trying to wipe us out!"

"We may as well rush that building ahead," muttered the lieutenant.