While Phil and O’Neil were being tortured by Espinosa, Lopez had kept watch from his station, guarding the trail leading up the precipitous mountain from the valley below. His eyes fascinatedly held upon the scene in front of him had nevertheless guardedly turned backward, scanning anxiously the wooded foothills below him and the vista of the river as it entered the cañon. As yet no signs of the rescuers were visible. He trembled when he saw that Espinosa had determined to give the midshipman the water torture. But few white men had survived its harshness. Lopez’s face wore an increasingly anxious look as the minutes dragged into hours. The sun had passed the meridian and was dipping slowly in the western sky. His own men had not left their posts; each understood his duty; Rodriguez’s faithful followers alone had been selected to guard this southern bastion of the stronghold. The faithful native could see a handful of Espinosa’s men at the howitzer mounted to command the approach by water and farther along the edge of the precipice small knots of men squatting under shelters of bamboo. These latter he knew were to dislodge great boulders, which had been delicately balanced ready to be thrown downward, five hundred or more feet, into the racing river. Those who dared to enter the treacherous waters of the cañon must run the gauntlet of these huge rocks, but Lopez knew that the Americans would take any risk to reach the trail leading away from the stronghold and further into the mountain fastness, over which the trapped insurgents would endeavor to escape.
Several hundred natives, their weapons in hand, had gathered about their cruel leader. Every eye was turned in rapt enjoyment toward the delighting spectacle of the torture of a despised American. None save Lopez and his faithful guards had observed the glint of steel far down in the valley below. None save he discerned two small white poles creeping along above the high trees on the river bank. He glanced uneasily toward the torture. Phil was on his back securely bound, while Colonel Salas held above his head a long bamboo cane filled with water.
Lopez whispered an order to a native sergeant and the latter noiselessly edged his way in the direction of the sailor, now apparently senseless, deserted by those who had been torturing him, now that they were being indulged in a more interesting spectacle.
Lopez, his heart beating and his bronze face set determinedly, watched the two topmasts of the gunboat as they traveled toward the bend in the river. The next second the “Mindinao’s” white bow came slowly, majestically from behind the land and turned gracefully up the river toward the cañon. At the foot of the trail khaki-clad figures suddenly appeared and mounted slowly up the narrow path. He could see the guides in front clearing and uncovering the treacherous man traps. His men had now seen the approaching deliverers and their black eyes snapped excitedly. Any one with half an eye would have known that something out of the ordinary was going forward. The eager brown soldiers of Rodriguez moved about restlessly, glancing excitedly down into the valley below them. Fortunately the leader and his followers were too absorbed in watching the suffering of poor Phil to take heed of the strange behavior of the deserters from Rodriguez.
Lopez saw the little gunboat stop suddenly in the river and he observed plainly groups of men at the bow guns. Then came a flash of flame from her white hull and a reverberation which shook the mountain stronghold to its foundation.
The tortured and half-dead Americans were forgotten; their captors had rushed away to see the meaning of this interruption. It was but the work of an instant for the watchful Lopez to sever with a few swift strokes of his bolo the cords that bound his white chief. O’Neil was likewise cut down, and the two nearly lifeless men were dragged to the safety of that part of the stronghold guarded by Lopez and his small band.
Shell after shell came speeding up from the gunboat, and meanwhile the khaki-clad soldiers, unobserved, toiled onward up the slope.
“To your posts,” Espinosa cried out in alarm. “Open fire with that gun.” The surprised and terrified leader raved like a madman, taking all to task for their stupidity. Phil had been released so promptly, while all was uproar and confusion, that as yet the insurgents had not realized that Lopez and his men were against them. Espinosa, in a fever of excitement, himself ran to the howitzer and with his own hands pointed and fired the first shot. But that was the last shot the gun would ever fire, for Lopez with a number of his men pushed quietly forward, cutting its binding ropes and shoved it over the edge of the cliff from which it crashed downward to the river below.
Espinosa turned aghast and met the cold, defiant eye of Lopez. In them he read his doom. Lopez’s sharp bolo was already circling about his head. But the next second it had flashed harmlessly by and rattled on the rocky ground. Fearful of his life Espinosa had dodged the blow aimed at him and had taken flight, screaming as he ran for his men to open fire on the traitors. The shells of the gunboat seemed to fall in every part of the stronghold and the havoc of their explosions was terrible to witness; but the small band under Lopez remained unharmed.
Mad with fear, the natives who had been witnessing Phil’s torture, upon hearing the terrifying words of their leader and seeing the awful havoc behind them caused by the bursting shell, charged boldly on the natives in their front, believing that in that direction lay their one avenue of escape, but a well directed volley from Lopez’s men made them recoil in disorder.
Like one who is chained, powerless in the grip of an unnerving nightmare, Phil felt rather than saw the wild scenes about him. He heard the sharp rattle of musket fire and the sonorous discharge of cannon, the wild, vibrant cries of the natives as they dashed now forward and again retreating from the clash of contact and the avenging strokes of bayonet and bolo. By a mighty effort he struggled to his feet and leaned heavily for support upon the bamboo frame of his prison. His lungs seemed on fire and a red mist was still in his eyes. The riot of forms about him confused his brain and made him dizzy. Then his eyes fell upon the body of O’Neil lying on the ground where the natives had dragged him; the cruel marks of the rope stood out in blue welts on his muscular neck. His eyes were closed, but the lad saw with joy that he was alive. He knelt by the sailor’s side ministering to him as tenderly as if he were a child. Then in great anxiety he saw that Lopez’s men were slowly giving ground. Stubbornly they fought, but the overwhelming ranks of the enemy, now alive to the actual conditions and spurred forward by their leaders, came frantically forward across the open ground.
Phil dragged the senseless body of the sailor back until they were on the very edge of the hill and then a sight which made him mad with joy caused him to stand upright and swing his hat jubilantly, unheeding the leaden missiles on all sides. There scarcely a hundred yards below him struggling forward and upward was Captain Blynn and his five hundred soldiers. Dropping the sailor’s head he rushed madly into the company of loyal natives.
“Charge them,” he cried, beside himself with eagerness, for he saw that if the enemy, one thousand strong, should obtain possession of the top of the trail the struggling men below would never reach the top alive, and their retreat could mean but one thing—a rout and massacre.
The natives did not understand the lad’s words, but his meaning was only too plain as he snatched a rifle from the ground and led the remnant of that plucky band.
The next moment he was in the midst of the shrieking horde. In his nostrils was the reek of the Malay, almost sickening in its overpowering pungency. Blow after blow at his body he warded off with the barrel of his rifle.
Now the savage horde had given way and his men had quickly closed in, warily protecting their flanks, knowing full well the cunning of their enemy. To his left the lad saw hundreds of natives hurling rocks into the river below them, and he cut a lane toward them, yelling to the loyal natives to prevent what he feared would be the destruction of his ship. From below the ominous rattle of a Colt gun gladdened his heart and he saw with delight the men on the cliffs flee in terror, leaving great boulders balanced menacingly on the very edge of the abyss. An American cheer rang out from behind him and he became dizzy with joy at the good news it brought. He read in the natives’ eyes a look of terror at the sudden appearance of an unlooked for enemy, and at the same instant he realized that if he and his loyal natives were to be saved he must extricate them from this dangerous position between the fire of the two opposing forces. He looked wildly about him for Lopez, but he was nowhere in sight, and already the soldiers had begun to open a withering fire in their direction. Mad with their exertions, brought suddenly face to face with the enemy, the soldiers would have no discretion; friend and foe alike were mixed in one writhing mass of brown.
Then a sinister face showed itself on his right hand and all thoughts of safety were thrown to the winds. Espinosa, the tyrant and murderer, was within his reach. With a score of men as a body-guard he was hurrying away, deserting the field of battle. The midshipman pressed against the enemy to his right, fighting his way even through the remnant of the loyal natives, crying out to them to follow, while behind him he could hear the heavy footfalls of the soldiers.
HE GAZED DOWN INTO THE
STILL FACE
A body brushed him nearly off his feet and he turned toward it, his rifle raised as if to ward off an expected blow and then as his eyes fell upon the disheveled figure, he gave a cry of delight.
“O’Neil,” he shouted above the noise of the fighting, as he put his arm about the great figure to steady himself from the force of the impact from the khaki-clad soldiers pressing eagerly upon them.
“There’s that devil,” the sailor cried in smothered rage, and Phil saw with astonishment that O’Neil had naught but his bare hands though the lust of battle was in his eyes. The horror of his recent torture pressed heavily on his mind and he was bending every exertion to reach the retreating insurgent leader.
So closely did the Americans press their foes that the lifeless body of Lieutenant Tillotson was abandoned, and Phil stopped, kneeling at his side and gazed down into the still face. There was a deep wound in the neck. Phil saw that the troubled spirit had been released. Ahead the pursuers had stopped and were firing fiercely in the direction of the retreating enemy.
“We can’t allow Espinosa to escape,” the lad cried, aghast as he regained his men and saw with horror that many lay moaning on the ground.
“They’re intrenched there, sir,” a sergeant exclaimed. “It would be suicide to charge them;” but Phil had gone too far and had suffered too much to be stopped by any thoughts of discretion or danger.
“Charge, I say,” he cried; “that murderer Espinosa must not escape.”
The sergeant from his security on the ground gazed up at the lad, believing quite properly that he had lost his mind, but before he could be stopped, Phil was beyond reach, charging blindly forward, while from the intrenchments came a volume of fire which it seemed folly to face.
The seasoned old sergeant shook his head knowingly, but when an officer orders a charge there is but one thing to do.
As one man the line arose from its shelter and raced madly after the midshipman.
Hand to hand they battled—the natives with a courage born of desperation, for their backs were almost at the sheer edge of a precipice. Slowly they gave way before the onslaught of the Americans.
Phil and O’Neil fought shoulder to shoulder and the lad in his weakened condition, bleeding profusely from a score of wounds, never more sorely needed the help that the brave sailorman could give.
“He’s getting away,” O’Neil cried out in an agonized voice as the stubborn defenders fell one by one before the avenging bayonets.
The natives died bravely, in fanatical fervor, fighting to the last man, not wishing nor asking for quarter. O’Neil and Phil at last stood upon the brink of a yawning chasm while they saw, far below them, and just disappearing within the shadow of the woods, a small band of natives, while there dangled from the rocks at their feet the severed end of a rope—the leader’s road to safety.