The Marines Have Landed Part 36

Already Tomas was racing beside the car, ten feet in advance. Would the black horse be equal to the effort? With a wild yell the boy dug the spurs into the flanks of the steed, and with a gasp of surprise the horse bounded forward as never before. For a second the painted side of the clattering coach was like a dull smear on d.i.c.k's blurred vision--then he leaned far out in his saddle to his left, his clutching fingers slid along the beveled edges of the car's wooden frame, they gripped the iron hand-rail at the rear end of the platform, the next moment he was pulled from his saddle, his feet struck the steps and with a last, final effort he fell breathless on the floor, held in safety by the strong hands of two astonished train guards.

"Well, I'll be jiggered, if it ain't d.i.c.k Comstock," exclaimed Private Jones, late of the _Denver's_ guard. "I ain't seen you since we separated at Colon. Say, d.i.c.k, what in the d.i.c.kens are you doing here, and where did you come from? I sure am some glad to see you."

"Wait a minute; let him get his breath before you take it all away again by making him answer your questions," said the other marine, a.s.sisting d.i.c.k to his feet, and looking at this sudden arrival with unfeigned admiration. "My word, Bo, but you beat any movie picture hero I ever seen. By the way, your friend back there doesn't seem to know what's become of you."

"I'm thinking he must believe the Angel Gabriel come along and took you up in his chariot," said Jones, whose knowledge of Biblical characters and their history was fragmentary.

Far down the track Tomas could be seen halted in the middle of the rails scratching his head while he gazed after the train in evident perplexity.

"I guess he'll figure it out. He's a wise old Indian," said d.i.c.k; then the reason for his being on the train struck him with its full significance, and, "Who's in charge of the train?" he asked.

"Why, d.i.c.k, our old friend, Sergeant Bruckner. He's up forward on the engine. Why? What's up?"

But d.i.c.k did not stop to answer. Roughly pus.h.i.+ng his way through the crowd of natives gathered at the end of the car to see what manner of man it was who rode hair-breadth races with railroad trains, he ran through the remaining coaches to the front end of the train, climbed over the tender, now nearly empty of wood, and finding the sergeant, he told him what he had done and what there was still to do.

"You say the artillery train left the vood station about tventy minutes ago?" asked Bruckner, reverting to his v-habit in his excitement.

"Yes, and they will necessarily have to go slowly. It is getting dark, and I believe we can catch them before too late."

"But ve also have to stop and refill with vood, and as ve von't find any men there to do the vork for us, it's going to be a very slow business."

"Slow? Why, if necessary, we'll make every pa.s.senger on this train lend a hand, willingly or otherwise," said d.i.c.k.

"Well, here we are," called the engineer who, though keeping his eye on the rails ahead, was an eager listener. "Come, all hands, get everyone on the job, and I'll lend a hand myself."

Never was wood hustled into a tender of the Ferrocarril de Nicaragua so fast as it was that October evening, and when the fireman finally announced that he had sufficient, the ear-splitting whistle had barely died away before the old wood burner was surging on into the gathering darkness, her headlight streaming on the lines of s.h.i.+ning rails ahead, making them appear like two bars of yellow gold stretching on into infinity.

"If there are any ties out, fishplates gone or spikes driven between the rails this night we're goners," said the fireman to d.i.c.k as the two worked, throwing log after log into the capacious maw of the engine, where the draft seemed quickly to turn them into a ma.s.s of dark red cinders which streamed out of the great stack and left a glowing trail as of a comet's tail following them through the night.

"I've been with old man Strong, the engineer, every trip he's made, and I never seen him light out like this. I almost believe we're making forty-five miles, and mebbe more than that, especially on the down grades. Wow! Man dear, but he took that curve on two wheels, and it's a wonder we stayed on the track when he struck the reverse. What's his idea of pullin' the whistle every two seconds, anyhow?"

"He's started sounding the 'S.O.S.' calls," said d.i.c.k, "hoping the train ahead will hear us and wait to see what's up."

"How many miles have we got left to catch 'em?"

"I don't know," answered d.i.c.k, as for a moment he ceased his labors, and holding to the rail at the side of the cab peered ahead along the parallel lines of light; "it can't be much more, for we are in the hills now, and on the down grade. If we are to do any good at all it must be soon."

The next moment there was a long weird shriek of the whistle, then the grinding of brake-shoes on the wheels as the signal for the train guards to man the wheel brakes followed in staccato blasts. Groaning, straining, shaking, screeching, b.u.mping and thumping, the train slackened its speed, crawled for a few yards, and then with one last resounding rattle it stopped, and there, but a few short yards ahead, waiting to discover the reason for the wild signals for help they had picked up, stood the officers and men of the artillery train, safe and unharmed.

Owing to a "hot-box" they had been forced to stop and repair at a station called Brasiles. While there they discovered that the lines of wire either side of the station had been cut and later, hearing the wild whistling of the engine in their rear as they proceeded cautiously on their way, and believing rightly that the signal was meant for them, it was decided best to await the arrival of the news before going further.

It was Richard Comstock who, a little later from the seat above the cow-catcher of the leading train, gave a shout of satisfaction.

Rounding the last abrupt curve in the hills before descending to the straight road-bed of the plain, he espied a great ma.s.s of rock thrown directly across the rails. Had the train been other than creeping along through the cuts and defiles a serious accident would have followed undoubtedly.

Slowly the train drew up to the dangerous obstacle, and then, true to the contents of the letter which d.i.c.k had delivered into the hands of the Marine Officer in charge, they found crushed beneath the ma.s.s of rock the body of a man in whose pockets was the letter and the money, which, if the truth had not been known, might have changed the pages of Nicaragua's history.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE SITUATION WELL IN HAND

Zoom! Whiz-z-z, and then a distant bursting cloud of cottony white smoke high in the blue sky over the hill called Coyotepe. Soon the waiting ear heard the sharp explosion of that seemingly soft fluffy cotton-ball, which in reality carried death in its wake, for with the bursting came hundreds of tiny bits of steel and bullets seeking out the enemy behind their entrenchments. And through the day and the night following the sound of the field guns prepared the way for the attacking marines, sailors and Federal troops the next morning.

At the first break of day two battalions of United States Marines began their advance. In reserve, a battalion of sailors, as yet untried in land warfare, fretted and fussed at their position behind the actual firing line, and some even rolled in the yellow mud till their white suits were the color of marine khaki and then, rifle in hand, sneaked away from their command and joined their brothers in arms. As for the Nicaraguans, supposed to attack but not relis.h.i.+ng the job, they delayed and delayed, only too happy to let Colonel Pendleton and his command a.s.sume the task of attempting to drive Zeladon and his insurrectos from Coyotepe and Barrancas. Deep down in their hearts they felt that what no Nicaraguan army had yet accomplished could never be carried to a successful issue by these few pale-faced Americans from the North.

No! It seemed that those who held these two hills which commanded the road and railroad, north and south, could never be driven from them.

Yet, little by little, step by step, up the rocky, slippery slopes, struggled the thin brown lines of marines. On through briar and bush; over jagged cliff or bullet-strewn open s.p.a.ce; on and ever on. Through prepared traps of barbed wire; cutting, slas.h.i.+ng, firing, sweating, swearing, always upward, till finally in one mad, glad, glorious, soul-stirring, blood-thrilling rush, they mounted the earthworks on the hilltop's crest, in spite of rocks, in spite of cannon, in spite of rifle, in spite of machine-gun fire, and there at bayonet's point engaged in hand-to-hand conflict with enraged men and wild Amazonian women who wielded b.l.o.o.d.y machetes with fanatical frenzy.

With those who shared in the glory of that conquest was Richard Comstock, his breath coming in short, labored gasps; the rifle he held, taken from a fallen comrade far down the slope, still burning hot, and the knife-like blade of the bayonet s.h.i.+ning brightly in the early morning sunlight.

And the marines accomplished this supposedly impossible task in less than forty minutes from the beginning of their advance. Is it any wonder that the natives of the countries where the fighters visit and uphold the glory of the stars and stripes, honor and respect them, individually and collectively?

After the pursuit of the fleeing rebels the Federal troops, encouraged by the unbelievable success of their allies, attacked, took and sacked the town of Masaya in true native style, which always involves useless destruction and uncalled-for brutality.

The "handwriting on the wall" was now unmistakable and when later in the day some of the victorious troops and the battery of field guns were entrained and started for Leon, the rebels in that city gave up all hope of ever putting their candidate into office.

Carrying despatches on the first train north went Sergeant Dorlan and his guard, d.i.c.k Comstock, and in those despatches was a very complimentary letter to d.i.c.k's immediate commanding officer which told of his timely warning and the manner of its accomplishment.

Barrancas and Coyotepe were taken on October fourth, and on the sixth long lines of marines and sailors were seen leaving Camp Pendleton.

That the rebels had agreed to surrender and lay down their arms without a fight was very much doubted, and Lieutenant Colonel Long, who had charge of the coming occupation, was going to enter the town in force and take no chances of a possible ambush.

Immediately after reveille the first troops had quietly reenforced the company already on duty at the railroad station. This was done without incident, and then on three sides of the city the forces began their advance. The rebel troops, knowing that their leaders, Generals Rivas and Osorio, had fled, had spent the night in drinking and debauchery. As the main column debauched into the princ.i.p.al street and the excited, inflamed wearers of the red c.o.c.kades saw the stars and stripes of the United States flaunting in the breeze, they resorted to their usual street fighting tactics.

Street by street the marines advanced. Every inch of the way was disputed and the bullets whizzed and cracked, sang and stung; taking their tally of wounded and dead.

"d.i.c.k, me lad, I'd give me old pipe, I would, to be able to be on ahead with the advance instead of here with the colors, much as I love 'em,"

announced Dorlan as he stood in the shelter of an overhanging roof and watched the windows of a pretentious building on his right.

Reaching a street corner or alley a little later it was found that the natives had resorted to their brutal, inhuman tactics in dealing even with civilized troops. A sailor, stripped of his clothing and mutilated, was lying in the roadway. Perhaps he had lost his section and wandering here trying to locate it, was set upon by the cruel natives.

"Ah! a sight like that makes the very blood in me bile," said Mike, shaking his fist in the direction of the dodging opponents far up the street; "if I knew the feller what did that to the poor flatfoot,[#] I'd be a brute meself and tear him to pieces with me bare hands."

[#] "Flatfoot"--Marine Corps slang for a sailor.

"Look out, Dorlan," yelled d.i.c.k, and falling flat on the rough cobble stones in the middle of the street he emptied a clip of cartridges into a doorway which that moment was flung open, and from which a half dozen rifle barrels were pointing from behind a rough barricade. But he did not stop the volley of shots which followed, and the heavy leaden slugs splashed, pattered, and flattened all about the little color guard.

They rained against the walls of the buildings on either hand, gouging out great chunks of mortar and plaster to a depth of several inches, and one bullet, partly spent, struck d.i.c.k in the shoulder, penetrated to the bone and lodged there.

"I guess I'm hit, old pal," he said weakly to Mike, after they had silenced the fighters behind the barricade and had gone on for a couple of blocks. "I thought it was only a scratch, but the blood's running down my back, and----" but just then it seemed as though a great thunder-storm was descending upon the city; the sky grew black and the darkness came so swiftly that he could not see where to step, and with a sob he fell into the arms of his faithful friend.

"After all, it is not much more than a scratch; it is lack of sleep and nourishment during the last few days," said the surgeon, handing d.i.c.k a piece of lead he had recently removed from the boy's wound, "but I have recommended that you be sent back to Corinto, where you can receive proper attention on board s.h.i.+p."

"But is the fighting all over?" asked d.i.c.k weakly.