BATTERY after battery within the government lines opened fire. The Americans could trace the points of defense by the red tongues of flame and the smoke from the heavy guns. The rattle of musketry spread along the line like a prairie fire, but its volume was greatest at Tortuga Hill. In a fever of excitement they saw the rebel columns advance from their protecting trenches; their heavy guns now took part in the battle and sent their shells over the heads of the advancing men against the waiting government soldiers.
“Divide your men,” Phil ordered the lieutenant; “four for each gun.”
They saw the machine guns placed in positions of vantage covering all directions from which the attack must come.
“Keep your fingers pressed on the triggers and the guns pointed at the enemy,” Phil instructed the anxious soldiers; “play the stream of bullets as if it were a hose, but for your lives don’t shoot until I give the order.”
The soldiers gazed in enchanted wonder at the guns. They had never seen their like before. They imagined they were something almost supernatural. Had not the Americans said one gun was equal to a company of soldiers?
“Look, Syd,” cried Phil in admiration, pointing toward Tortuga Hill; the entire hillside seemed alive with flashes of fire from countless guns, but Phil’s finger pointed at a horseman riding full gallop up the slope, shells bursting all about his mount. “There is the aide, but before reënforcements can reach us the fight will be over. If the guns don’t jam we can hold the hill.”
“My fear is that our men will not stand the preliminary shelling,” returned Sydney; “all their guns are directed at Tortuga Hill now, but when they have made their feint, look out up here. We’ll have every gun against us.”
“Our intrenchments are safe enough if the men keep down in them,” Phil encouraged, as they finished mounting the last gun and instructed its squad how to manipulate it, “but if a panic takes them, they will not listen to us. I wish we had O’Neil; his influence with these natives is next to marvelous.”
Everything was now ready; the soldiers had all been instructed how to fire and reload a second tape of six hundred fresh cartridges. All would go well if the soldiers’ courage could be depended upon to withstand the searching fire of artillery which the lads knew must soon commence.
The midshipmen viewed the appalling spectacle with nervous eyes. Regiment after regiment advanced from the cover of the trenches in extended order and pressed forward silently, the artillery behind them and on their flanks sending its heavily charged shells screeching over their heads to fall within the government lines.
“They are surely concentrating on Tortuga Hill,” Sydney exclaimed, hardly able to believe his eyes, as he saw masses of khaki clad men emerge from the dense foliage of the level country and sweep upward toward that almost impregnable position.
“They surely do not intend to assault that hill,” Phil exclaimed; “their loss would be tremendous.” Then he rubbed his eyes, believing that he must have been dreaming. The first line of assault had vanished into the earth. “Why, where did the first line go?” he shouted excitedly, peering down at the remaining columns as they swept silently forward. In but a minute the last enemy had disappeared from sight on the level plain. It seemed like magic. The soldiers whispered nervously to each other.
“What can it mean?” Sydney gasped as they gazed in wonder at this remarkable illusion. “Look out,” he cried, as a shrapnel shell exploded over their heads, sending showers of bullets all about them.
The artillery fire of the enemy redoubled, and now every gun in the rebel army was concentrating on La Mesa; bursting shell and shrapnel were falling on every hand, and the few defenders of the hill were in momentary danger from their well aimed shooting.
“Keep down in the trenches,” the lads warned the excited soldiers. A number had already ventured out to satisfy their curiosity and were stretched in their death agony behind the trench. The midshipmen paced up and down between their guns, apparently unconscious of the death-dealing missiles about them. Their one fear was that the men would break and run before this terrible bombardment was over.
Phil braved the storm of iron above his head and took a comprehensive look at the panorama before him. Something unusual was happening on Tortuga Hill; its fire lessened, and down the slope away from the enemy men streamed in countless numbers. Officers could be seen brandishing their swords and gesticulating wildly. Was it a retreat? Phil’s heart rose in his throat. A battery of field guns galloped wildly away down the hill; it reached the level country; the enemy saw its intention and opened upon it a scathing fire. Yet on it came heading directly for La Mesa.
The midshipmen cried out for joy and pointed out the nearing aid to their terrorized men.
“Steady your men,” Phil urged the lieutenant; “reënforcements are coming.”
A cry from Sydney at his side made his hopes sink.
“There they come,” he gasped. “We can never stop them.”
As Phil took in the situation his blood seemed to freeze in his veins. From the woods in front of La Mesa a swarm of men broke cover and pressed forward on a run. While as if from the ground, midway between them and La Mesa, a seething fire of musketry swept over the handful of defenders.
“We have the whole rebel army against us now,” he whispered to Sydney, fearing his men might hear this terrifying intelligence. “It was a trench. They moved in it by the flank and are now in front of us. They must have known this on Tortuga Hill when we saw them hurry our reënforcements to us. If we can hold our men fifteen minutes longer we’ll win.”
The lad was right. The insurgents had, unobserved by the defending army, dug a deep trench during the night, half-way between the two lines. The greater part of the assaulting army had advanced on Tortuga Hill until they had reached the shelter of this ditch, and then had, protected from their enemy’s fire, moved by the flank until they were directly in front of and but five hundred yards from the top of La Mesa. A withering fire came from the concealed men; bullets like hail sang about the Americans and their well-nigh demoralized men. The government batteries were directing a hot fire on the approaching masses; yet on they came determinedly. Phil knew that when the second column reached the trench thousands of soldiers would storm up the few hundred yards between them and their coveted prize, La Mesa. Would the machine guns have power to stem this irresistible host?
“How near will you let them come?” questioned Sydney eagerly.
Phil estimated the distance.
“If we fire as they leave the trench, they might return to it and continue their artillery to shell us out,” he answered quickly. “It would be wiser to let them gain half the distance before we let them know they have the guns against them. They must see the reënforcements coming to us from Tortuga Hill, but they now believe the hill will be theirs without a struggle before they can get here.”
The two midshipmen were at the highest pitch of excitement. They realized that the fortunes of the government of Verazala depended upon this assault. The insurgents’ brilliant strategy won their admiration. With these Colt guns in their hands the city would be theirs inside of twenty-four hours. They knew that in these countries a victory often means a complete rout for the vanquished. Whole regiments have been known to turn about, if the battle is seen to be going against their side, and fight with the enemy against their former comrades.
The batteries within range of the assaulting columns opened a furious cannonade as they saw the great surge of humanity leave the newly made trench and charge boldly up the slopes of La Mesa. Tortuga Hill batteries opened a rapid fire, but the distance was too great, their shells were opening deep holes in the earth, but many yards short of the attacking enemy.
The lads saw with anxiety that their men were fighting desperately against the terror which told them to flee; the awful, terrifying horde of armed enemy were rushing upon them with unnerving speed; they knew the custom of their countrymen: they gave “no quarter”; death approached them on three sides.
The midshipmen pleaded with the men to be calm; they even threatened them; but their courage was fast slipping away. The terrible sight of the thousands of their yelling merciless enemies was too much for their shaken nerves.
Then another sight brought a new fear to the hearts of the despairing boys; the men on the hill above them had abandoned their guns and were retreating. Down the spur of the hill they came. Their path led over part of the trench in which the midshipmen stood. The lads knew that this flood of fear would sweep their own men along with it as so much flotsam.
The time had arrived. Once the sound of the magic guns had been heard the engulfing tide might be turned.
“Open fire,” Phil shouted, his voice hoarse with emotion.
The furious barking of the guns, sending their leaden streams into the advancing ranks brought back the waning courage of the defending company.
The assaulting columns hesitated in their mad rush for the hill. They saw their comrades mowed down by the score. Where was the easy victory their officers had told them would be theirs? A horrible fear of treachery came into their simple minds; they stopped. No power could urge them a step further; in another second they had broken and fled in an ungovernable panic back to their trenches for safety.
The men on La Mesa were wild with delight. The lust of blood had entered their souls. They became foolishly brave and leaped upon the top of their protecting trench, screaming malediction and defiance at their routed enemy.
“Get down,” the lads cried, grasping those near them and dragging them forcibly to shelter; but some had already paid the penalty of their childlike, reckless bravado. The enemy, once again secure in its trenches, had opened a heavy fire on La Mesa.
Phil knew that the insurgents would attack again. Ruiz would not be satisfied, even if he sacrificed every man, until the hill was taken.
“Keep cool,” the lads urged the excited soldiers, moving among them and seeing that the guns were reloaded with a full supply of ammunition. “If you can hold them once more our reënforcements will be here.”
The rebels knew their time was short if they would take the hill; they saw the government reserves rapidly approaching to succor their comrades on La Mesa.
Phil felt a touch on his shoulder, and turning hastily, he looked into the revengeful face of Lazar.
“What do you mean by fighting here, wearing the uniform of the United States navy?” Lazar began peremptorily. “Come with me to the legation immediately, I command you!
“Do you hear?” he continued in a voice choking with wrath, as the lad showed no signs of obedience. “I order you to leave here and follow me. Both of you,” he added, pointing toward the oblivious Sydney, who was out of ear-shot at the far corner of the intrenchment, gazing in awe at the battlefield in front of them.
Phil sought the reason why Lazar was there. It came to him suddenly; he saw it all; it was not an accidental meeting; his stained uniform showed he had ridden hard to reach La Mesa. Juarez must have sent the chauffeur to the legation with the news that he and Sydney were on La Mesa, and Lazar had arrived in the nick of time. If he obeyed Lazar’s order and deserted the soldiers while the enemy were about to make a desperate assault, he knew that they would break before the rebels got half-way to the top, and the Colt guns would be lost. They would see a new and terrible peril in being deserted by the Americans. He could not explain to them why he must leave them. He saw in their eyes already an awakening dread. The next assault would be desperate. It had been the surprise at the defense of La Mesa that had sent the enemy back to their trenches in a panic. Now they knew with what they had to deal, and the knowledge that but a handful of men held the hill would spur them on to redoubled energy.
“DO YOU REFUSE?” HE CRIED,
HOARSELY
“Mr. Perry, do you realize that you are deliberately disobeying my orders?” cried Lazar in exasperation. “I am your superior officer, in command of our forces on shore, and I again order you both to come with me.”
“Mr. Lazar, can’t you see the consequences of deserting these men?” Phil questioned, struggling to keep calm.
“I have no concern for them,” answered Lazar hotly. “You are wearing the United States uniform and you are acting unadvisedly. I order you to leave this hill at once!” He was white with anger as he read in Phil’s face determination to disobey.
“Do you refuse?” he cried hoarsely, his hand moving almost unconsciously to his revolver holster.
Excited cries from the soldiers made Phil turn an anxious glance toward the enemy. They were sweeping out of their trenches and charging again up the hill. To leave now could mean but failure to the government arms.
“I am sorry, sir, I must disobey your order,” he said determinedly.
Lazar’s revolver was now out of its holster. His eyes blazed with anger and mortification.
“You defy me,” he roared, advancing menacingly, holding his revolver in his clenched hand.
Phil was so amazed that he could not find voice to answer. Then his indignation at the threatening attitude of his senior swept caution aside.
“I refuse to obey you,” he cried angrily. “I shall not leave until the rebels are repulsed.”
His body trembling with passion, Phil turned from the ensign toward the soldiers standing uncertainly watching the enemy’s approach.
“Hold on, sir, begging your pardon, sir, but that won’t do,” a familiar voice cried out behind him. Phil glanced about quickly. There was O’Neil, big and strong; he had seized Lazar’s arm as he spoke and was forcing his revolver back into its holster.
Lazar’s face was deadly white; he controlled himself with difficulty. The soldiers regarded the Americans anxiously, doubtlessly realizing that their own safety depended upon the outcome of this clash of authority.
Lazar gave Phil a look full of hatred, then turned away and disappeared by the way he had come.
The lieutenant had heard enough to fear that the Americans might leave them. He turned to Phil and begged him to remain. The lad assured him that they would stand by the guns.
The soldiers were experiencing the same sensations that they had felt when their enemy had commenced the first attack. Soldiers of this stamp never become veterans.
O’Neil steadied them in his cheery voice.
“What are you scared about?” he cried loudly. “All you got to do is to put your black fingers on the triggers; the guns will do the rest. If you fire when you get the order the rebels will not stop running until they strike the next republic.”
“Commence firing,” Phil ordered. The Colt guns spit flame, sending countless messengers of death into the rebel ranks.
On came the rebel hosts. Their ranks broke sorely, but with determination born of despair they closed in the gaps and charged onward.
The enemy’s artillery fire opened with redoubled energy. Shell and shrapnel burst with telling effect about the handful of men. The trenches could not protect them. One after another, the gun’s crews were depleted by bursting shrapnel. Yet the little guns spitefully ground out bullets from their heated muzzles into the unprotected mass of humanity now but a short distance from their goal.
The ominous sounds of jammed and overheated guns sent a thrill of dread through the hearts of the Americans. What they feared would happen was now taking place: the guns were thickly coated with a grease to preserve them in transit; there had been time to remove but a small part of it before the guns were fired; now this grease had become mixed with the residue of burnt powder and had formed a thick paste which clung to the delicately fitting parts of the mechanism, thus causing the guns to jam. Absolutely powerless to remedy this fatal defect, the lads stood, fear clutching at their hearts, hearing one gun after another cease its fire. But a handful of guns remained in action. The horrified soldiers were deserting, running away from the avalanche sweeping upon them.
A few of the guns were still pumping a leaden stream into the ranks of the rebels, now but a hundred feet away, firing their rifles as they came to keep up their fleeting courage.
The Colt guns were stilled, the last soldier had deserted; the Americans were alone in the trench except for the dead and those too badly wounded to escape from the terrifying sound of the advancing army.
The silence of their enemy behind the intrenchments on La Mesa sent a thrill of terror through the advancing hundreds. Their dead and dying behind them told them only too plainly the power of these concealed guns. They imagined the silence was but a trick to draw them nearer, then hurl on them a stream of bullets that would mow them down like chaff before the reaper. Fifty yards from the top of the hill they stood still, their contorted faces white with a terrible fear. Phil saw Juarez rush ahead of his demoralized men, urging them to advance. The glad rattle of a Colt gun rang in the lad’s ears. He saw O’Neil beside it; he had wiped out the hard obstructing substance. The gun again played its death-dealing stream on the doubting enemy. The rebels, impelled from behind, advanced slowly. Phil saw Juarez sink to the ground; the tide of soldiers streamed over his lifeless body; again they wavered, then came on more determinedly than ever. O’Neil’s gun jammed again with an ominous click. The enemy were now only a stone’s throw away from the trench; a few seconds more and they would be pouring over its top and butchering those who dared remain. Phil grasped his revolver, and leaned against the wall of earth behind him.