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

The Water,  The Moonlight Was Flooding The Deck.

"That Was Quite Something Of A Bombardment Sampson Put Up Against

Morro Castle This Morning," He Began,  Critically. He Spoke Of

Bombardments From The Full Experience Of A Man Who Had Seen Shells

Strike Off Coney Island From The Proving-Grounds At Sandy Hook. But

Channing Heard Him,  Eagerly. He Begged The Tugboat-Captain To Tell

Him What It Looked Like,  And As The Captain Told Him He Filled It In

And Saw It As It Really Was.

"Perhaps They'll Bombard Again To-Morrow," He Hazarded,  Hopefully.

"We Can't Tell Till We See How They're Placed On The Station," The

Captain Answered. "If There's Any Firing We Ought To Hear It About

Eight O'clock To-Morrow Morning. We'll Hear 'Em Before We See 'Em."

Channing's Conscience Began To Tweak Him. It Was Time,  He Thought,

That Keating Should Be Aroused And Brought Up To The Reviving Air Of

The Sea,  But When He Reached The Foot Of The Companion-Ladder,  He

Found That Keating Was Already Awake And In The Act Of Drawing The

Cork From A Bottle. His Irritation Against Channing Had Evaporated

And He Greeted Him With Sleepy Good-Humor.

"Why,  It's Ol' Charlie Channing," He Exclaimed,  Drowsily. Channing

Advanced Upon Him Swiftly.

"Here,  You've Had Enough Of That!" He Commanded. "We'll Be Off Morro

By Breakfast-Time. You Don't Want That."

Keating,  Giggling Foolishly,  Pushed Him From Him And Retreated With

The Bottle Toward His Berth. He Lurched Into It,  Rolled Over With His

Face To The Ship's Side,  And Began Breathing Heavily.

"You Leave Me 'Lone," He Murmured,  From The Darkness Of The Bunk.

"You Mind Your Own Business,  You Leave Me 'Lone."

Channing Returned To The Bow And Placed The Situation Before The

Captain. That Gentleman Did Not Hesitate. He Disappeared Down The

Companion-Way,  And,  When An Instant Later He Returned,  Hurled A

Bottle Over The Ship's Side.

The Next Morning When Channing Came On Deck The Land Was Just In

Sight,  A Rampart Of Dark Green Mountains Rising In Heavy Masses

Against The Bright,  Glaring Blue Of The Sky. He Strained His Eyes For

The First Sight Of The Ships,  And His Ears For The Faintest Echoes Of

Distant Firing,  But There Was No Sound Save The Swift Rush Of The

Waters At The Bow. The Sea Lay Smooth And Flat Before Him,  The Sun

Flashed Upon It; The Calm And Hush Of Early Morning Hung Over The

Whole Coast Of Cuba.

An Hour Later The Captain Came Forward And Stood At His Elbow.

"How's Keating?" Channing Asked. "I Tried To Wake Him,  But I

Couldn't."

The Captain Kept His Binoculars To His Eyes,  And Shut His Lips

Grimly. "Mr. Keating's Very Bad," He Said. "He Had Another Bottle

Hidden Somewhere,  And All Last Night--" He Broke Off With A Relieved

Sigh. "It's Lucky For Him," He Added,  Lowering The Glasses,  "That

There'll Be No Fight To-Day."

Channing Gave A Gasp Of Disappointment. "What Do You Mean?" He

Protested.

"You Can Look For Yourself," Said The Captain,  Handing Him The

Glasses. "They're At Their Same Old Stations. There'll Be No

Bombardment To-Day. That's The Iowa,  Nearest Us,  The Oregon's To

Starboard Of Her,  And The Next Is The Indiana. That Little Fellow

Close Under The Land Is The Gloucester."

He Glanced Up At The Mast To See That The Press-Boat's Signal Was

Conspicuous,  They Were Drawing Within Range.

With The Naked Eye,  Channing Could See The Monster,  Mouse-Colored

War-Ships,  Basking In The Sun,  Solemn And Motionless In A Great

Crescent,  With Its One Horn Resting Off The Harbor-Mouth. They Made

Great Blots On The Sparkling,  Glancing Surface Of The Water. Above

Each Superstructure,  Their Fighting-Tops,  Giant Davits,  Funnels,  And

Gibbet-Like Yards Twisted Into The Air,  Fantastic And

Incomprehensible,  But The Bulk Below Seemed To Rest Solidly On The

Bottom Of The Ocean,  Like An Island Of Lead. The Muzzles Of Their

Guns Peered From The Turrets As From Ramparts Of Rock.

Channing Gave A Sigh Of Admiration.

"Don't Tell Me They Move," He Said. "They're Not Ships,  They're

Fortresses!"

On The Shore There Was No Sign Of Human Life Nor Of Human Habitation.

Except For The Spanish Flag Floating Over The Streaked Walls Of

Morro,  And The Tiny Blockhouse On Every Mountain-Top,  The Squadron

Might Have Been Anchored Off A Deserted Coast. The Hills Rose From

The Water's Edge Like A Wall,  Their Peaks Green And Glaring In The

Sun,  Their Valleys Dark With Shadows. Nothing Moved Upon The White

Beach At Their Feet,  No Smoke Rose From Their Ridges,  Not Even A Palm

Stirred. The Great Range Slept In A Blue Haze Of Heat. But Only A Few

Miles Distant,  Masked By Its Frowning Front,  Lay A Gayly Colored,

Red-Roofed City,  Besieged By Encircling Regiments,  A Broad Bay

Holding A Squadron Of Great War-Ships,  And Gliding Cat-Like Through

Its Choked Undergrowth And Crouched Among The Fronds Of Its

Motionless Palms Were The Ragged Patriots Of The Cuban Army,  Silent,

Watchful,  Waiting. But The Great Range Gave No Sign. It Frowned In

The Sunlight,  Grim And Impenetrable.

"It's Sunday," Exclaimed The Captain. He Pointed With His Finger At

The Decks Of The Battleships,  Where Hundreds Of Snow-White Figures

Had Gone To Quarters. "It's Church Service," He Said,  "Or It's

General Inspection."

Channing Looked At His Watch. It Was Thirty Minutes Past Nine. "It's

Church Service," He Said. "I Can See Them Carrying Out The Chaplain's

Reading-Desk On The Indiana." The Press-Boat Pushed Her Way Nearer

Into The Circle Of Battleships Until Their Leaden-Hued Hulls Towered

High Above Her. On The Deck Of Each,  The Ship's Company Stood,  Ranged

In Motionless Ranks. The Calm Of A Sabbath Morning Hung About Them,

The Sun Fell Upon Them Like A Benediction,  And So Still Was The Air

That Those On The Press-Boat Could Hear,  From The Stripped And Naked

Decks,  The Voices Of The Men Answering The Roll-Call In Rising

Monotone,  "One,  Two,  Three,  Four; One,  Two,  Three,  Four." The White-

Clad Sailors Might Have Been A Chorus Of Surpliced Choir-Boys.

But,  Up Above Them,  The Battle-Flags,  Slumbering At The Mast-Heads,

Stirred Restlessly And Whimpered In Their Sleep.

Out Through The Crack In The Wall Of Mountains,  Where The Sea Runs In

To Meet The Waters Of Santiago Harbor,  And From Behind The Shield Of

Morro Castle,  A Great,  Gray Ship,  Like A Great,  Gray Rat,  Stuck Out

Her Nose And Peered About Her,  And Then Struck Boldly For The Open

Sea. High Before Her She Bore The Gold And Blood-Red Flag Of Spain,

And,  Like A Fugitive Leaping From Behind His Prison-Walls,  She Raced

Forward For Her Freedom,  To Give Battle,  To Meet Her Death.

A Shell From The Iowa Shrieked Its Warning In A Shrill Crescendo,  A

Flutter Of Flags Painted Their Message Against The Sky. "The Enemy's

Ships Are Coming Out," They Signalled,  And The Ranks Of White-Clad

Figures Which The Moment Before Stood Motionless On The Decks,  Broke

Into Thousands Of Separate Beings Who Flung Themselves,  Panting,  Down

The Hatchways,  Or Sprang,  Cheering,  To The Fighting-Tops.

Heavily,  But Swiftly,  As Islands Slip Into The Water When A Volcano

Shakes The Ocean-Bed,  The Great Battle-Ships Buried Their Bows In The

Sea,  Their Sides Ripped Apart With Flame And Smoke,  The Thunder Of

Their Guns Roared And Beat Against The Mountains,  And,  From The

Shore,  The Spanish Forts Roared Back At Them,  Until The Air Between

Was Split And Riven. The Spanish War-Ships Were Already Scudding

Clouds Of Smoke,  Pierced With Flashes Of Red Flame,  And As They Fled,

Fighting,  Their Batteries Rattled With Unceasing,  Feverish Fury. But

The Guns Of The American Ships,  Straining In Pursuit,  Answered

Steadily,  Carefully,  With Relentless Accuracy,  With Cruel

Persistence. At Regular Intervals They Boomed Above The Hurricane Of

Sound,  Like Great Bells Tolling For The Dead.

It Seemed To Channing That He Had Lived Through Many Years; That The

Strain Of The Spectacle Would Leave Its Mark Upon His Nerves Forever.

He Had Been Buffeted And Beaten By A Storm Of All The Great Emotions;

Pride Of Race And Country,  Pity For The Dead,  Agony For The Dying,

Who Clung To Blistering Armor-Plates,  Or Sank To Suffocation In The

Sea; The Lust Of The Hunter,  When The Hunted Thing Is A Fellow-Man;

The Joys Of Danger And Of Excitement,  When The Shells Lashed The

Waves About Him,  And The Triumph Of Victory,  Final,  Overwhelming And

Complete.

Four Of The Enemy's Squadron Had Struck Their Colors,  Two Were On The

Beach,  Broken And Burning,  Two Had Sunk To The Bottom Of The Sea,  Two

Were In Abject Flight. Three Battle-Ships Were Hammering Them With

Thirteen-Inch Guns. The Battle Was Won.

"It's All Over," Channing Said. His Tone Questioned His Own Words.

The Captain Of The Tugboat Was Staring At The Face Of His Silver

Watch,  As Though It Were A Thing Bewitched. He Was Pale And Panting.

He Looked At Channing,  Piteously,  As Though He Doubted His Own

Senses,  And Turned The Face Of The Watch Toward Him.

"Twenty Minutes!" Channing Said. "Good God! Twenty Minutes!"

He Had Been To Hell And Back Again In Twenty Minutes. He Had Seen An

Empire,  Which Had Begun With Christopher Columbus And Which Had

Spread Over Two Continents,  Wiped Off The Map In Twenty Minutes. The

Captain Gave A Sudden Cry Of Concern. "Mr. Keating," He Gasped. "Oh,

Lord,  But I Forgot Mr. Keating. Where Is Mr. Keating?"

"I Went Below Twice," Channing Answered. "He's Insensible. See What

You Can Do With Him,  But First--Take Me To The Iowa. The Consolidated

Press Will Want The 'Facts.'"

In The Dark Cabin The Captain Found Keating On The Floor,  Where

Channing Had Dragged Him,  And Dripping With The Water Which Channing

Had Thrown In His Face. He Was Breathing Heavily,  Comfortably. He Was

Not Concerned With Battles.

With A Megaphone,  Channing Gathered His Facts From An Officer Of The

Iowa,  Who Looked Like A Chimney-Sweep,  And Who Was Surrounded By A

Crew Of Half-Naked Pirates,  With Bodies Streaked With Sweat And

Powder.

Then He Ordered All Steam For Port Antonio,  And,  Going Forward To The

Chart-Room,  Seated Himself At The Captain's Desk,  And,  Pushing The

Captain's Charts To The Floor,  Spread Out His Elbows,  And Began To

Write The Story Of His Life.

In The Joy Of Creating It,  He Was Lost To All About Him. He Did Not

Know That The Engines,  Driven To The Breaking-Point,  Were Filling The

Ship With Their Groans And Protests,  That The Deck Beneath His Feet

Was Quivering Like The Floor Of A Planing-Mill,  Nor That His Fever

Was Rising Again,  And Feeding On His