Transcriber’s Notes:

Issued Weekly—By Subscription: $2.50 per year. Entered as Second Class Matter at the N. Y. Post Office. Street & Smith, 81 Fulton St., N. Y. Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1898, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C.

No. 1. NEW YORK, May 7, 1898 Price Five Cents.

Under Blanco’s Eye;

OR,
HAL MAYNARD AMONG THE CUBAN INSURGENTS

By DOUGLAS WELLS.

First Part.

CHAPTER I.
“THE ONLY AMERICAN IN HAVANA.”

“Stop!”

A boy of some eighteen or nineteen years rushed frantically out upon a wharf bordering the harbor of Havana.

“Hold on!”

Elbowing his way through the dark-skinned crowd, he reached the string-piece, now waving his arms wildly.

At the top of his voice came the fervent appeal:

“Don’t leave me behind!”

Unheedful of the Spanish crowd about him, the boy gazed anxiously at the fast receding stern of the United States steamer Fern.

That crowd was bent on mischief. It had jeered itself nearly hoarse when the little steamer left her berth.

Now it saw in this shouting, gesticulating youth a closer victim of their sport.

“Swim!” jeered one low-browed, dirty Spaniard.

To this came an echoing shout of:

“Make him swim!”

“Yes! Throw the Yankee dog into the harbor. He will find company in the sailors of the Maine!”

A yell went up—a yell that was partly derisive and partly defiant.

It had one effect that the victim was quick to notice—it utterly drowned out his appealing shouts to those on the deck of the Fern, causing him to gasp:

“Am I the only American left behind in Havana?”

It looked like it.

Further from the pier, nearer every moment to the entrance of Havana harbor went the Fern, the last of the United States steamers to leave Cuba’s capital city on that memorable afternoon of the ninth of April, 1898.

Aboard the Fern was that sturdy American hero, General Fitzhugh Lee.

Up to the last moment he had served the interests of the United States and her citizens as consul general at Havana.

Now, when the state of affairs there had become intolerable, General Lee had sailed on the Fern.

After indomitable efforts extending over several days, he had succeeded in shipping, as he believed, the last American in that danger-infested city.

Then, and not until then, had General Lee stepped aboard the Fern.

His coming had been the signal for the start. A moment later the little steamer’s prow was cutting the muddy, blood-stained waters of Havana harbor.

Close to the wreck of the United States’ once proud battleship Maine passed the Fern.

Standing on deck, General Lee and his immediate party had bared their heads in silent respect and grief for the two hundred and sixty-six sailors whom Spanish treachery had destroyed.

General Lee believed that he had succeeded in bringing the last American away.

He certainly had, so far as he knew. He had done his duty like an American.

Yet, all unknown to him, one American remained behind—Hal Maynard, the boy who now stood watching the receding Fern with a look of mingled anxiety and wistfulness.

Suddenly Hal uncovered. His glance had rested on the Stars and Stripes at the steamer’s stern.

It was a courageous thing to do—to salute the hated Yankee flag in this stronghold of that flag’s bitterest enemies.

But Hal did it, without bluster or hesitation.

There was a choking sensation in the boy’s throat; tears glistened in his eyes.

“My country’s flag,” he murmured brokenly. “May God always bless your folds, and protect them! May those Stars and Stripes soon come back here, and float a supreme warning that treachery and tyranny can never flourish in the New World!”

It may be that some of the Spaniards grouped about him heard him. If so, they did not understand, or it would have been worse for this American boy.

“The senor does not like our climate!”

Jeeringly the words were uttered.

Half turning, Maynard gazed unto the speaker’s eyes.

The latter was a Spaniard, a peon or laborer. Ragged, barefooted, dirty, he had the appearance of a man half-starved.

The fellow’s tattered sombrero rested at an angle on his head. His gleaming, glittering eyes, made brighter by that nondescript illness, slow starvation, had an ugly light in them.

In whatever direction Maynard turned he saw others like this fellow—thousands of them.

Every wharf and pier, every building near the water front, every available spot of view was crowded by Spaniards who had come out to watch the departure of America’s consul general, and, watching, to jeer.

It was no use to gaze longer after the Fern, yet Hal Maynard found himself unable to stir.

“If I never see the flag again, I must see it to the last to-day,” he murmured.

“Senor does not like our climate?” again jeered the fellow at his elbow.

Hal made no answer, not even turning this time.

But his tormentor would not quit.

“Perhaps it is our people that the senor does not like? I have heard that there were some Americans who do not love the Spanish!”

Still Hal stood with his eyes fastened on the flag.

“If the senor is a good friend of Spain,” continued the fellow, with mocking insinuation, “he will shout, ‘viva Espana!’”

Long live Spain? Hal Maynard would have died a dozen deaths sooner than utter such a detestable wish!

Those black, gleaming eyes were fastened on him pitilessly, until—until the tormentor found himself ignored.

Then he swiftly turned to his fellow Spaniards.

“Here is an American!” he cried.

A laughing chorus greeted the announcement.

“He wanted to go home!”

More laughter greeted this stupid sally.

“And now,” continued the announcer, “he is crying to find himself left here with us!”

“There is yet time for him to swim after the vessel!” jibed another Spaniard.

“Or let him cruise home on the Maine!”

At this there was a cyclonic burst of laughter.

Instantly the other Spaniards began to cast about for sayings which the crowd would regard as being witty.

Hal Maynard’s eyes flashed.

A fight would be helpless—hopeless, leaving him only the fate of death at the hands of this jibing, vicious mob.

Yet no sooner was the word “Maine” uttered than he turned once more to where the wreck of the Maine lay and lifted his hat with a motion of reverence.

It was grit—clear grit! That much even the Spaniards could appreciate.

It was a defiance, too, and in a moment angry murmurs went up.

“Let us see if a Yankee pig can swim!”

“And if he steers toward that battered iron scow, we can shoot him from the wharf.”

“As we will shoot all Yankees who dare to come here after this!” shouted another.

Hal faced them, head erect and shoulders thrown back.

He fully expected to be thrown into the muddy water, but he did not propose to flinch.

For a moment the crowd hesitated, ready to follow any caprice, but waiting for a leader.

After waiting a moment for the attack, Hal felt a sudden thrill of misgiving.

His hand had touched, accidentally, on something under his coat.

That recalled him to his duty, to the reason for his being in Havana, to the cause of his being left behind.

Hidden away in his clothing was a bag. It contained two thousand dollars, the property of another, confided to his care.

“This mob is made up of worthless fellows,” muttered the boy. “They don’t know any better than to do as they are doing. They are so ignorant that not one in a dozen of them would know his own name in print. They shall not make me forget my duty. Since there is no American ship here, I will try to find an English one.”

Then, ignoring the crowd that surged about him, he turned again to scan the line of wharves.

Less than a quarter of a mile away lay a brig from whose masthead floated the Union Jack of Great Britain.

“I shall be safe there,” murmured Hal. “I can leave Havana on that craft. It may even be that the brig is bound for an American port.”

His mind made up, he turned to leave the wharf, meaning to walk along the river front until he came to the brig’s wharf.

But his original tormentor put himself fairly in the boy’s path.

“Where is the Yankee pig going to root?” he demanded.

Other murmurs went up.

“Do not let him leave us!”

“Not until he has cried ‘viva Espana!’”

“Gentlemen,” said Hal, trying to speak calmly, “I find that I am not on the right wharf. Will you allow me to pass?”

“Certainly, senor!”

“Way for the gentleman!”

“Let the Yankee pig find his wallow!”

Click-clack! click-clack! Way on the outskirts of the crowd a man had picked up a cobblestone, on which he now began to whet his knife.

It was a most suggestive sound. The crowd roared with merriment, craning their necks to see whether this Yankee blanched.

But Hal, though he knew that a spark would be sufficient to touch off a mine of Spanish mob-treachery, retained his composure.

“I am in a hurry, if you please,” he said, trying to edge his way through.

The crowd pretended to make way, yet each Spaniard took pains to get only more in the way.

They were playing with him, as a cat does with a mouse, enjoying their sport with true feline ferocity.

One of the crowd suddenly divined our hero’s purpose.

“He wants to reach that English ship. The gringo fancies he will be safer there than with us. Let us convince him that our hospitality is genuine.”

Still laughing, the crowd made way for Hal to pass off the pier, but the instant that he tried to walk along the shore in the direction of the bridge, he found himself confronted by the dense ranks of a barring crowd.

“No, no, senor! Straight back into Havana.”

“I guess I might as well go to a hotel,” Hal acquiesced, inwardly. “From there, an hour later, I may be able to get a closed carriage to the brig.”

There was a driver within call. To him Hal signaled.

The jehu came up, but on hearing the name of the hotel, he shook his head and scowled.

“No, no, senor,” he protested, “I cannot drive Yankees.”

“I will walk, then,” rejoined Hal.

But the crowd protested that he must ride.

“If the senor will pay three fares,” declared the jehu, “I will take him.”

“Very well,” muttered Hal, stepping into the carriage.

“Ha! Senor Maynard, wait! I must see you!” cried a man, making his way through the crowd.

“Vasquez!” thrilled the boy, recognizing his accoster.

Then, for the first time that day, Hal Maynard turned pale.

CHAPTER II.
JUAN RAMIREZ INTRODUCES HIMSELF.

Senor Vasquez, a middle-aged Spaniard with the air of a prosperous merchant, pushed his way through to the carriage.

The crowd, scenting as if by instinct some new trouble for the boy, made way for the newcomer.

Vasquez’s eyes glittered. He regarded the boy with a look of evil triumph, though his manner, as he stepped into the carriage, was faultlessly diplomatic.

“You will excuse my intrusion?” he begged.

“I shall have to,” was Hal’s cold rejoinder.

“I was anxious to see you. This meeting has given me great pleasure.”

Then, lowering his voice, he added:

“Senor Maynard, your employer owes me, as you know, two thousand dollars. I must have that money at once.”

“If Mr. Richardson owes you anything,” replied Hal, “he will pay it.”

“Bah! Do you think I am so simple? Senor Richardson left yesterday for Key West.”

“I repeat,” came firmly from Hal, “that, if he owes you anything he will pay it.”

“And I, my dear young friend,” rejoined the Spaniard, “assure you that I mean to collect from you. You have the money. I know it.”

Hal tried not to start at this cool piece of assurance.

“I know,” continued Senor Vasquez, in the same low tone, “where you collected the money. I know just how much you collected, and can tell you, to a peseta, just how much you carry in a certain bag. Ha! my friend, you do not seem happy over my knowledge. But a trustworthy man of mine has followed you. You see that there is no use denying what my faithful agent told me.”

“But did he tell you,” smiled Hal, coolly, “where I took that bag?”

Senor Vasquez changed color and hesitated.

That was enough to show observant Hal that his “bluff” had a chance of winning.

“If he did not tell you that,” resumed the American, “go back and cane your agent for a sleepy fellow. Senor Vasquez, if you meant to wrest the money from me by force, you should have employed a better agent.”

Maynard’s manner was so cool and convincing that for a moment the Spaniard was staggered.

“Ha!” he cried, suddenly. “Whatever you have done with the money, you have not had chance to send it out of Cuba, and your last chance to do that is gone. Perhaps you will conclude to tell me where the money is.”

“Assuredly not,” rejoined Hal, stoutly.

“Now, if I were to make a few remarks about you to the crowd which surges about this carriage, do you know what would happen to you?”

“Certainly,” replied Hal. “I should be in danger of being killed.”

“Do you feel like taking the risk?”

“If you were scoundrel enough, senor, I should be compelled to take it.”

Vasquez’s black eyes snapped dangerously.

“I have only to say the word,” he suggested.

Hal was playing a desperate game. The thought drove some of the color from his cheeks.

“Will you tell me where the money is?” insisted the Spaniard.

“Suppose that I did not know, how could I tell you?”

Vasquez snorted impatiently, then beckoned to one of the leaders of the mob, who quickly approached.

“Your last chance, Senor Maynard,” whispered the Spaniard.

“I can tell you nothing.”

As Hal uttered these words he expected to be handed over to the Spanish mob.

To his surprise Vasquez’s manner swiftly changed.

To the ring-leader Senor Vasquez said:

“Pedro, I trust that your friends will not molest this young man. He is in a measure under my protection.”

“Senor Vasquez’s words always carry weight,” was the quick, respectful answer.

“My dear young friend,” went on the Spaniard, “I may see you again. If we do meet, I trust I shall find you more gracious.”

With that the Spaniard slipped quickly from the carriage, and the driver, taking the cue, turned up one of the streets into the city.

Jeers followed, but nothing else happened.

“Vasquez is as slick as ever,” mused Hal, sinking back on the cushion. “At first, he thought he would frighten me. Now perhaps he means to call upon me at the hotel, try to convince me that he saved my life, and thus work upon my gratitude. If Senor Vasquez imagines that he can persuade me to betray my good old employer, he will wake up and find it all a dream!

“But first of all he will send his agents out again, to see if he can get them on the track of the place where the money is. How my Spanish pirate would swear if he knew that he had been within a foot of the money all the while! Yet, because I have fooled the fellow this time, I must not underrate him. He is deadly!”

Deadly, indeed! Vasquez, though a rich merchant, had seldom earned an honest dollar.

He belonged to a Spanish type that has been common in Cuba. American merchants and planters, especially those who were new to the island, had been his especial game for years.

He sought the acquaintance of such “new” Americans, tendered them his services and goods, and charged exorbitantly for both.

Should an American planter protest, the crop in one of his sugar or tobacco fields was burned, nor was it long before the planter learned that “irrepressible friends of Senor Vasquez had rebuked a grasping foreigner.”

Should an American merchant protest at Vasquez’s charges, something happened to the “impudent merchant’s” stores or warehouses.

Yet Vasquez himself had always kept on the safe side of the law, while cheerfully ruining Americans.

They were simply compelled to submit to his extortions. One American, a planter, who had resolutely resisted the Spaniard, had been found dead, but the crime could be fastened on no one.

Just before the outbreak of the Cuban rebellion, Henry Richardson had started sugar plantations in the interior. He had fallen into Vasquez’s hands at the outset, and had been systematically plundered.

Hal Maynard, who had come to Cuba a year before as Mr. Richardson’s private secretary, had detected the Spaniard in several doubtful dealings.

Naturally Vasquez’s feeling for our hero was far from cordial.

While Hal and his employer were still in the interior, Vasquez had tried to involve them in trouble with the Spanish authorities.

This menace Mr. Richardson had dodged by paying a liberal bribe to the officer commanding the nearest garrison.

Nevertheless, more dangers threatened these two Americans.

Then Consul General Lee’s call had come for Americans to leave Cuba. Mr. Richardson had gone the day before. Hal had lingered long enough to collect two thousand dollars due his employer. This accomplished, he had traveled hastily to Havana, meaning to leave there on the historic ninth of April. We have seen how he had reached there too late.

The money that Vasquez claimed as his due was the balance of an exorbitant bill. He had already been paid far more than he was entitled to.

But he had hoped to overtake and intimidate the American boy.

The carriage drew up before the hotel door, which appeared deserted as, indeed, it was, for with money and food both scarce in Havana, the hotels stand but a poor show of patronage.

“Your three fares, peon,” said Hal, dropping a few coins in the driver’s hand.

“Four pesetas more,” insisted the driver.

Hal paid it, without protest, and disappeared inside. He was quickly shown to a room, and requested that his trunk be sent up.

“Although I ordered that sent here from the interior,” he smiled, as he bent over the box, “I expected to leave it behind.”

Unlocking the lid, he examined the articles in the trunk for some moments, until a warning “Ss-sst!” reached his ear.

Rising quickly, Hal saw from whence the signal had come.

In the aperture made by an open skylight overhead appeared the head of a dark-skinned young man.

His bright, restless eyes took in everything in the room, our hero included.

“You are an American?” he asked, as Hal stepped under the skylight.

“Yes.”

“Then I am your friend. But have you an enemy?”

“I—I fear I have.”

“Look out of the window toward the harbor. Then come back.”

Hal quickly obeyed, returning with a perturbed face.

“You saw Senor Vasquez approaching, with two officers and a squad of soldiers?”

“Just that!” affirmed Hal.

“The officers have a pretense, but Vasquez will really seek your money. If you have it not with you, or know a safe hiding place, you will fool him, but if the money is in your possession, it will surely be taken from you.”

Hal hesitated, regarding the speaker with a look full of penetration.

What he saw was the frank, pleasing face of a youth of eighteen. Somehow, Hal’s heart went out to the stranger.

“If,” said the other, “you have the money, and wish to save it, you can trust it with me, senor.”

“What could you do with it?” projected Hal.

“Drop it into one of my pockets,” added the other, adding with a laugh:

“No one would search such a thin, ragged Cuban as I for the possession of so much money. But think quickly, senor, for Vasquez will be here in another moment. Juan Ramirez is my name.”

“A Cuban?” asked Hal.

“See!” And Juan drew from a pocket what could easily become his death-warrant—a small Cuban flag.

This he kissed with a simple, unaffected air of devotion.

“By Jove, I’ll trust you,” murmured Hal. “I’ve yet to meet a Cuban thief!”

R-rip! In a second he began to unbutton his clothing, bringing out to view from under his shirt a long, thin bag.

“This contains two thousand dollars,” he whispered.

“And if anything happens to you, to whom does the money belong?”

“Henry Richardson, at Key West.”

“He shall have it,” promised the Cuban. “Hush! There are steps on the stairs.”

Like a flash, Ramirez vanished.

“Have I been duped?” wondered Hal, with a quick thrill of apprehension.

Ramirez had looked like a fellow to be trusted. Yet, if Hal had kept the money about him, it would soon pass into the hands of Vasquez, who would be able to persuade the Spanish judges that his claim was just.

“If Ramirez has stolen it,” quivered Hal, “all I can say is that I’d sooner see him get it than Vasquez.”

Tramp! tramp! tramp! Reaching the head of the stairs, the soldiers were now marching straight for his door.

Whack! thump! The door was thrown unceremoniously open, and the uniforms of Spain filled the room.

CHAPTER III.
“SPANISH EVIDENCE.”

“This is the young man?”

One of the two officers who appeared at the head of a file of a dozen soldiers turned and put the question to Senor Vasquez.

That consummate liar responded by a nod of the head.

Though Hal Maynard had not studied his attitude, he stood at that moment a typical young American.

With feet rather spread, his hands thrust into his trousers pockets, shoulders manfully back and head inclining slightly forward, he ignored Vasquez, but regarded the officers with a rather indolent look in which there was just a trace of curiosity.

“A visitation, I presume?” he said, addressing one of the officers in Spanish.

But the latter, barely looking at him, turned to the other officer to command:

“Search the trunk.”

“It is locked,” said Hal, stepping slowly forward. “Permit me to offer you the key.”

The officer who received it merely grunted, and immediately knelt before the trunk.

Hal stood by looking on, until one of the soldiers, after scowling at him an instant, darted forward and gave the boy a push.

“If I am in your way,” retorted Maynard, recovering his equilibrium, “won’t you be kind enough to say so?”

“Silence!” ordered the commanding officer.

Hal responded by a polite nod.

“These officers don’t belong to the mob, and they should be gentlemen,” he murmured. “If they’re not, it’s not for me to set them the example.”

Flop! went a lot of Hal’s clothing, strewed promiscuously over the floor.

Slap! followed his linen.

Smash! went a small hand mirror, flung across the room so that it struck the wall and landed on the floor in atoms.

“May I ask a question, sir?” queried Hal, turning to the officer in charge.

“Silence!”

“I beg your pardon,” went on Hal, imperturbably. “All I wanted to ask was whether my property is to be ruthlessly destroyed before a charge has been even made against me?”

“Silence!”

“If I had committed any breach of decorum in asking,” pursued Hal, calmly, “please consider that I didn’t ask.”

“Silence!”

Thump! The butt of a soldier’s musket landed forcibly in Hal’s stomach.

“Ouch!” grunted the boy.

“Silence!”

“Not even allowed to express natural emotion,” murmured our hero. He couldn’t have talked much in his breathless condition, just then, even if he wanted to.

He saw the soldier’s musket-butt aimed at him, and dodged as nimbly as he could.

Click!

Another soldier cocked his weapon, aiming fully at the American’s head.

At this the commanding officer smiled. Some of the soldiers laughed softly. They wanted to see the Yankee flinch, and were sure that he would—for had not their Havana newspapers told them that all the Yankees were cowards?

But Hal, who felt reasonably sure that nothing short of violence on his part would result in his death just then, did not feel inwardly alarmed.

Instead, he slowly folded his arms, closed one eye, and with the other squinted down the steel barrel that stared him in the face.

“Bah!” muttered he who had aimed, now raising the muzzle of his piece. “The Yankee pig doesn’t even know what a gun is.”

“Silence!” came sharply from the commanding officer.

“Well,” murmured Hal, under his voice, “I am gratified to learn that somebody else besides myself has to hold his tongue. I wouldn’t like to do all the shutting-up!”

It was all a picnic, so he fancied, since he was not only sure that the officers would find nothing compromising, but also sure that, whoever got the money, Senor Vasquez would not.

But the Spaniard, who had been narrowly watching the boy, now interposed:

“Captain, may a civilian subject suggest that the accused has not yet been searched?”

“Senor,” replied the captain, bowing slightly, “your loyal suggestion shall be at once acted upon. I myself will make the search.”

Thereupon the captain waved the soldiers away, most of them withdrawing to the corridor and doorway.

“Stand beside the accused,” ordered the captain, nodding at two of his men, who accordingly ranged themselves on either side of the American.

“Senor,” said the captain, coldly, “you will understand that what I am about to do is a duty imposed upon me.”

There was a trace of civility about this, which caused Hal to reply politely:

“If it is your duty, captain, I would be the last one to urge you from it. But I can tell you what I have about me. I have a pocket knife and a sum of money.”

“Money?” uttered Vasquez, becoming alert at once. “It is mine—mine by right!”

“You are mistaken,” replied Hal, coldly; “but if you need it you may have it. I have only three pesetas.”

“Three pesetas?” faltered the Spanish merchant. He looked as angry as a man who is being robbed, for three pesetas is but about sixty cents.

“You may have it,” rejoined Hal, with mock generosity, “if the officer permits me to present it to you.”

Then he threw his hands up while the captain went through his pockets.

That officer looked a trifle ashamed of his task, for an army officer is a gentleman, at least by education.

But Hal’s pockets, under the most rigid search, showed no more than he had mentioned.

“Off with your clothes, senor,” came the next command.

Hal looked and felt a trifle surprised, but saw that the order was a serious one.

“Shall I er—er—withdraw to the closet before disrobing?” he suggested.

Under Blanco's eye; or, Hal Maynard among the Cuban insurgents

Transcriber’s Notes:

Under Blanco’s Eye;

CHAPTER I.“THE ONLY AMERICAN IN HAVANA.”

CHAPTER II.JUAN RAMIREZ INTRODUCES HIMSELF.

CHAPTER III.“SPANISH EVIDENCE.”

CHAPTER I.
“THE ONLY AMERICAN IN HAVANA.”

CHAPTER II.
JUAN RAMIREZ INTRODUCES HIMSELF.

CHAPTER III.
“SPANISH EVIDENCE.”