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Updated: June 10, 2025
His keen knife glanced in the air as he raised it in his outstretched arm and leaped upon the unsuspecting cadet. Ignacio was clever at that sort of thing. He had tried it before; his spring had been silent as a cat's. Neither the sailors nor the officer heard him. And the blow might have fallen; Clif's only warning of his deadly peril.
He took the glass eagerly from the lad's hand and anxiously studied the sky in the direction indicated. "It's too far west to be near Havana!" he exclaimed. And he stepped into the pilot house to direct the vessel in a new direction. At the same time the smoke began to pour from the funnel, showing that those down in the engine-room had heard Clif's hail.
"This isn't Ignacio!" he panted. And a moment later he received proof positive of that fact. For again the hand stole down his arms and there came a couple of quick slashing cuts that hurt his wrists more than the ropes. But seconds were precious then. In one of them Clif's hands were free. And his pulses leaped as he felt the knife thrust into his palm.
For an appalling discovery was made, one that seemed fairly to freeze Clif's blood. He was struggling with his back toward Bessie Stuart. And the joy that was in his heart was turned to horror by hearing the girl give a shrill scream. The cadet whirled about. He saw the girl, her face transfixed and white as a sheet, pointing with a trembling finger off to starboard.
The only things that bound Clif now were the ropes that had held his wrists at first. He tugged at them, but in vain. There was a moment's silent pause. And then to Clif's unutterable consternation he heard another sound, a sound from across the room a low, grating sound! It left him breathless. Some one else was coming into the cell! And with one rush the true state of affairs swept over Clif.
The Spaniard peered over the side of the boat in the darkness, expecting to see Clif's form appear on the surface, and hoping to see his life's blood staining the waters, a testimony to his marksmanship. How could he have failed to send that bullet crashing through the American's brain? thought he. But nothing of the sort happened. Clif not only was not wounded, but was chipper as a lark.
"The boat is gone." But to make assurance doubly sure, they searched the beach under Clif's direction, examining every clump of bushes that was large enough to conceal the boat. But the result was a foregone conclusion. The boat was gone. "Now what's to be done, sir?" asked one of the men. What, indeed! "Something's got to be done," said Clif, with determination.
"They'll be raging mad when they do," he thought. "Gorry! they'll murder every one of us." For they would probably call the shooting of that officer a murder; it did not trouble Clif's conscience, for he knew that a merchant vessel has the same right to resist the enemy that a warship has. It was not as if they had surrendered and then imitated the example of the treacherous Ignacio.
The old hag was still shaking her cane and yelling her maledictions. At that moment a man snatched the stick from her hand and aimed a blow at Clif's face. The cadet's hands were tied behind him, and he was nearly helpless. But he managed to turn and catch the blow upon his shoulders. And an instant later his foot shot out and caught the enraged Spaniard squarely in the stomach.
They were not deterred by the superior numbers of the Spaniards, but Clif's words about the importance of seeing the dispatches safely in the rear admiral's hand had some restraining effect upon their ardor. Clif, with all his bravery, was naturally prudent, but was strongly tempted to make one effort to release the captive Cuban.
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