Fighting in Cuban Waters Part 29

"Great Scott, boy, do you expect me to believe all that!" burst out the officer, in sheer astonishment.

"As you will, sir; it's true, though."

"But--but--let me see; you said you were on the _Merrimac_?"

"Yes, sir."

"And on sh.o.r.e among the Cubans, and then among the enemy?"

"Yes, sir."

"And then among the marines at Guantanamo Bay?"

"Exactly, sir. I escaped from a Spanish prison, and was lucky enough to fall in with the marines by accident. I fought with them too, sir."

"Russell, after you disappeared Surgeon Barker said you had been sick--had been troubled with some sort of fever in your head. Don't you believe you went out of your head entirely, and imagined all this?"

"No, sir."

"Well, I reckon that's the truth of the matter, and the best thing you can do is to turn yourself over to the surgeon again for further treatment. How is your head?" And the officer of the deck placed his hand on Walter's forehead. "Ah, rather hot, as I thought. You had better go to bed." And he turned away.

"I don't think I'll go to bed just yet," murmured Walter, and lost no time in reaching the berth deck. Here he came up behind Si and Caleb playing one of their favorite games of checkers, while Paul stood looking on.

"Crown that man," Caleb was saying, when he chanced to glance up, "Walter! or is it a ghost?" he fairly yelled, and leaped up, scattering board and men in all directions. "Walter, where on earth did you come from?" And he reached out his hand.

"It is Walter, back from the grave!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Si, and grasped the other hand, while Paul caught the youth by the neck.

"We thought you were drowned!" said all three, simultaneously.

"They said you had gone out of your mind, and committed suicide," added Paul.

"Well, I didn't commit suicide, and I'm as well as ever," was the merry return. "But--but--I don't believe you'll think I'm telling the truth when I give you my story."

"That depends on what sort of a yarn you spin," returned Caleb, dryly.

"Where have you been--sinking Cervera's fleet single-handed?"

"Not quite, but I've been pretty close to the fleet, and pretty close to the Spaniards." And dropping on a box Walter told his story, interrupted every few minutes by some newcomer who advanced to shake him by the hand, for since joining them he had made many friends among the jackies and petty officers.

"I don't wonder the officer of the deck wouldn't believe you, lad,"

remarked Caleb, when he had finished. "It's a big yarn; beats Jonah and the whale all to pieces--not but what _that's_ a true story, seeing as how it's in the Good Book. You are certain you wasn't taken down with the fever while you were on sh.o.r.e?"

"Not enough to lose my mind."

"I believe Walter," put in Si. "But if I were you I wouldn't tell this tale to the others," he added in a lower tone. "They'd be jealous of you, you know."

"I don't care, I'm telling the simple truth," answered Walter, stoutly.

That evening word was pa.s.sed to him to report at the captain's cabin, and he went, just as soon as he could slip on his best suit of clothing, wash up, and comb his hair, for on board of every man-o'-war a visit to "headquarters" is a big thing to any of the crew, and a "sprucing up" is, consequently, indispensable.

This was the first time Walter had visited the cabin of the _Brooklyn_, and the elegant surroundings immediately caught his eye. But in days gone by, before he had been compelled to live with the miserly Job Dowling, he had been used to a home furnished just as handsomely, and therefore the surroundings did not overawe him.

There was a small table in the centre of the cabin, at one end of which sat Commodore Schley, looking over a map of the Cuban coast. At the other end of the table sat Captain Cook, the firm and strict, yet well-beloved commander of the flagship.

"You sent for me, sir," said Walter, as he came in, "toed the mark," and saluted.

"You are Walter Russell?" asked Captain Cook, while Commodore Schley dropped the map and looked on with interest.

"Yes, sir."

"You have been absent from the ship ever since June the second, or third?"

"Yes, sir. But I couldn't help it. I was sick and fell overboard,--and I've had a whole lot of adventures since."

"So the officer of the deck tells me," answered the captain, dryly. He looked at the commander of the squadron. "Commodore Schley, would you like to ask Russell any questions?"

At this the commodore smiled and pulled meditatively at the little goatee he wore. "Russell, you can tell us your story in detail. But do not take over ten minutes," he said, and covered his eyes with his hands, as if in deep thought--one of his favorite att.i.tudes.

Standing as before and still "toeing the mark," Walter told his story again, simply but forcefully. Whether his hearers were listening or not he could not tell, for not a word was said until he had finished.

Then, however, came a flood of questions concerning the spot at which he had landed after leaving the _Merrimac_, the names of the various Cuban and Spanish leaders that he had encountered, and the names of the marines with which he had fought. He was also questioned about the trails and their conditions.

"Could loaded wagons get over them, in your estimation?" asked Commodore Schley.

"Not very well, sir. In one place I saw an ox-team with a load of fruit, and the load was in danger of being dumped every minute. Some of the paths are not fit for a pack-mule to use."

"What of the Cubans you met? Were they well armed?"

"A few of them had guns, but most of them had nothing but their machetes, sir. Ammunition, I was told, was very scarce."

"What of food?"

"That was scarce, too." And Walter smiled. "A good eater would starve to death on what both the Spaniards and the Cubans have to offer."

"Do the Spaniards expect an army of invasion--that is, did you hear any talk on the subject?"

"I caught a few words, sir. I cannot speak Spanish myself."

Commodore Schley mused for a moment. "That is all," he said, addressing Captain Cook. "The boy has certainly had some remarkable adventures. He is better off than poor Lieutenant Hobson."

"That's true," responded the commander of the _Brooklyn_. He turned to Walter. "You can go, Russell; if we want you again, we will send for you."

"Yes, sir," was the youth's reply, and, saluting, he turned and left the cabin. The interview had been a very formal one, but he was proud to think that he had come into personal contact with his gallant captain and his equally gallant commodore.

CHAPTER XXV