Ranson's Folly (Fiscle Part 3) by Richard Harding Davis (dar e dil novel online reading TXT) 📕

Him That He Had Had Nothing To Eat. He Walked Over To The Wide Door

Of The Freight-Depot,  Where A White-Haired,  Kindly Faced,  And

Perspiring Officer Was,  With His Own Hands,  Serving Out Canned Beef

To A Line Of Cubans. The Officer's Flannel Shirt Was Open At The

Throat. The Shoulder-Straps Of A Colonel Were Fastened To It By

Safety-Pins. Channing Smiled At Him Uneasily.

"Could I Draw On You For Some Rations?" He Asked. "I'm From The Three

Friends. I'm Not One Of Their Regular Accredited Correspondents," He

Added,  Conscientiously,  "I'm Just Helping Them For To-Day."

"Haven't You Got A Correspondent's Pass?" Asked The Officer. He Was

Busily Pouring Square Hardtack Down The Throat Of A Saddle-Bag A

Cuban Soldier Held Open Before Him.

"No," Said Channing,  Turning Away,  "I'm Just Helping."

The Officer Looked After Him,  And What He Saw Caused Him To Reach

Under The Counter For A Tin Cup And A Bottle Of Lime-Juice.

"Here," He Said,  "Drink This. What's The Matter With You--Fever? Come

In Here Out Of That Sun. You Can Lie Down On My Cot,  If You Like."

Channing Took The Tin Cup And Swallowed A Warm Mixture Of Boiled

Water And Acrid Lime-Juice.

"Thank You," He Said,  "But I Must Keep Watch For The First News From

The Front."

A Man Riding A Government Mule Appeared On The Bridge Of The Lower

Trail,  And Came Toward Them At A Gallop. He Was Followed And

Surrounded By A Hurrying Mob Of Volunteers,  Hospital Stewards,  And

Cubans.

The Colonel Vaulted The Counter And Ran To Meet Him.

"This Looks Like News From The Front Now," He Cried.

The Man On The Mule Was From Civil Life. His Eyes Bulged From Their

Sockets And His Face Was Purple. The Sweat Ran Over It And Glistened

On The Cords Of His Thick Neck.

"They're Driving Us Back!" He Shrieked.

"Chaffee's Killed,  An' Roosevelt's Killed,  An' The Whole Army's

Beaten!" He Waved His Arms Wildly Toward The Glaring,  Inscrutable

Mountains. The Volunteers And Stevedores And Cubans Heard Him,  Open-

Mouthed And With Panic-Stricken Eyes. In The Pitiless Sunlight He Was

A Hideous And Awful Spectacle.

"They're Driving Us Into The Sea!" He Foamed.

"We've Got To Get Out Of Here,  They're Just Behind Me. The Army's

Running For Its Life. They're Running Away!"

Channing Saw The Man Dimly,  Through A Cloud That Came Between Him And

The Yellow Sunlight. The Man In The Saddle Swayed,  The Group About

Him Swayed,  Like Persons On The Floor Of A Vast Ball-Room. Inside He

Burned With A Mad,  Fierce Hatred For This Shrieking Figure In The

Saddle. He Raised The Tin Cup And Hurled It So That It Hit The Man's

Purple Face.

"You Lie!" Channing Shouted,  Staggering. "You Lie! You're A Damned

Coward. You Lie!" He Heard His Voice Repeating This In Different

Places At Greater Distances. Then The Cloud Closed About Him,

Shutting Out The Man In The Saddle,  And The Glaring,  Inscrutable

Mountains,  And The Ground At His Feet Rose And Struck Him In The

Face.

Channing Knew He Was On A Boat Because It Lifted And Sank With Him,

And He Could Hear The Rush Of Her Engines. When He Opened His Eyes He

Was In The Wheel-House Of The Three Friends,  And Her Captain Was At

The Wheel,  Smiling Down At Him. Channing Raised Himself On His Elbow.

"The Despatch-Rider?" He Asked.

"That's All Right," Said The Captain,  Soothingly. "Don't You Worry.

He Come Along Same Time You Fell,  And Brought You Out To Us. What

Ailed You--Sunstroke?"

Channing Sat Up. "I Guess So," He Said.

When The Three Friends Reached Port Antonio,  Channing Sought Out The

Pile Of Coffee-Bags On Which He Slept At Night And Dropped Upon Them.

Before This He Had Been Careful To Avoid The Place In The Daytime,  So

That No One Might Guess That It Was There That He Slept At Night,  But

This Day He Felt That If He Should Drop In The Gutter He Would Not

Care Whether Anyone Saw Him There Or Not. His Limbs Were Hot And

Heavy And Refused To Support Him,  His Bones Burned Like Quicklime.

The Next Morning,  With The Fever Still Upon Him,  He Hurried

Restlessly Between The Wharves And The Cable-Office,  Seeking For

News. There Was Much Of It; It Was Great And Trying News,  The

Situation Outside Of Santiago Was Grim And Critical. The Men Who Had

Climbed San Juan Hill Were Clinging To It Like Sailors Shipwrecked On

A Reef Unwilling To Remain,  But Unable To Depart. If They Attacked

The City Cervera Promised To Send It Crashing About Their Ears. They

Would Enter Santiago Only To Find It In Ruins. If They Abandoned The

Hill,  2,000 Killed And Wounded Would Have Been Sacrificed In Vain.

The War-Critics Of The Press-Boats And Of The Twitchell House Saw But

Two Courses Left Open. Either Sampson Must Force The Harbor And

Destroy The Squadron,  And So Make It Possible For The Army To Enter

The City,  Or The Army Must Be Reinforced With Artillery And Troops In

Sufficient Numbers To Make It Independent Of Sampson And Indifferent

To Cervera.

On The Night Of July 2d,  A Thousand Lies,  A Thousand Rumors,  A

Thousand Prophecies Rolled Through The Streets Of Port Antonio,  Were

Filed At The Cable-Office,  And Flashed To The Bulletin-Boards Of New

York City.

That Morning,  So They Told,  The Batteries On Morro Castle Had Sunk

Three Of Sampson's Ships; The Batteries On Morro Castle Had

Surrendered To Sampson; General Miles With 8,000 Reinforcements Had

Sailed From Charleston; Eighty Guns Had Started From Tampa Bay,  They

Would Occupy The Mountains Opposite Santiago And Shell The Spanish

Fleet; The Authorities At Washington Had At Last Consented To Allow

Sampson To Run The Forts And Mines,  And Attack The Spanish Fleet; The

Army Had Not Been Fed For Two Days,  The Spaniards Had Cut It Off From

Its Base At Siboney; The Army Would Eat Its Fourth Of July Dinner In

The Governor's Palace; The Army Was In Full Retreat; The Army Was To

Attack At Daybreak.

When Channing Turned In Under The Fruit-Shed On The Night Of July 2d,

There Was But One Press-Boat Remaining In The Harbor. That Was The

Consolidated Press Boat,  And Keating Himself Was On The Wharf,

Signalling For His Dingy. Channing Sprang To His Feet And Ran Toward

Him,  Calling Him By Name. The Thought That He Must For Another Day

Remain So Near The March Of Great Events And Yet Not See And Feel

Them For Himself,  Was Intolerable. He Felt If It Would Pay His

Passage To The Coast Of Cuba,  There Was No Sacrifice To Which He

Would Not Stoop. Keating Watched Him Approach,  But Without Sign Of

Recognition. His Eyes Were Heavy And Bloodshot.

"Keating," Channing Begged,  As He Halted,  Panting,  "Won't You Take Me

With You? I'll Not Be In The Way,  And I'll Stoke Or Wait On Table,  Or

Anything You Want,  If You'll Only Take Me."

Keating's Eyes Opened And Closed,  Sleepily. He Removed An Unlit Cigar

From His Mouth And Shook The Wet End Of It At Channing,  As Though It

Were An Accusing Finger.

"I Know Your Game," He Murmured,  Thickly. "You Haven't Got A Boat And

You Want To Steal A Ride On Mine--For Your Paper. You Can't Do It,

You See,  You Can't Do It."

One Of The Crew Of The Dingy Climbed Up The Gangway Of The Wharf And

Took Keating By The Elbow. He Looked At Him And Then At Channing And

Winked. He Was Apparently Accustomed To This Complication. "I Haven't

Got A Paper,  Keating," Channing Argued,  Soothingly. "Who Have You Got

To Help You?" He Asked. It Came To Him That There Might Be On The

Boat Some Philip Sober,  To Whom He Could Appeal From Philip Drunk.

"I Haven't Got Anyone To Help Me," Keating Answered,  With Dignity. "I

Don't Need Anyone To Help Me." He Placed His Hand Heavily And

Familiarly On The Shoulder Of The Deck-Hand. "You See That Man?" He

Asked. "You See Tha' Man,  Do You? Well,  Tha' Man He's Too Good For Me

An' You. Tha' Man--Used To Be The Best Reporter In New York City,  An'

He Was Too Good To Hustle For News,  An' Now He's--Now He Can't Get A

Job--See? Nobody'll Have Him,  See? He's Got To Come And Be A Stoker."

He Stamped His Foot With Indignation.

"You Come An' Be A Stoker," He Commanded. "How Long You Think I'm

Going To Wait For A Stoker? You Stoker,  Come On Board And Be A

Stoker."

Channing Smiled,  Guiltily,  At His Good Fortune,  He Jumped Into The

Bow Of The Dingy,  And Keating Fell Heavily In The Stern.

The Captain Of The Press-Boat Helped Keating Safely To A Bunk In The

Cabin And Received His Instructions To Proceed To Santiago Harbor.

Then He Joined Channing. "Mr. Keating Is Feeling Bad To-Night. That

Bombardment Off Morro," He Explained,  Tactfully,  "Was Too Exciting.

We Always Let Him Sleep Going Across,  And When We Get There He's

Fresh As A Daisy. What's This He Tells Me Of Your Doing Stoking?"

"I Thought There Might Be Another Fight Tomorrow,  So I Said I'd Come

As A Stoker."

The Captain Grinned.

"Our Sam,  That Deck-Hand,  Was Telling Me. He Said Mr. Keating Put It

On You,  Sort Of To Spite You--Is That So?"

"Oh,  I Wanted To Come," Said Channing.

The Captain Laughed,  Comprehendingly. "I Guess We'll Be In A Bad

Way," He Said,  "When We Need You In The Engine-Room." He Settled

Himself For Conversation,  With His Feet Against The Rail And His

Thumbs In His Suspenders. The Lamps Of Port Antonio Were Sinking Into