  The battle of Rio Hondo will probably never be recorded on the printed pages of the history of Honduras or Mexico, but to the last day of his life it will remain indelibly stamped on Pant’s memory. As he caught the white gleam of machetes against the morning sky, many searching questions invaded his mind. He was about to engage in a battle that might mean the death of some faithful Carib. Was there yet an opportunity for parley, for compromise? No! It was too late. Yet, in their previous actions had there been blunders? Had he been too hasty? Could the fight have been avoided? These questions he could not fully answer; all he could say was that he had believed himself to be acting for the good of all. “As for compromise,” he told himself stoutly, “there can be no compromise with evil. This man Daego hesitates at nothing that he may gain a little more wealth, wealth for which he has no need. The men we must fight have sold their souls to him.” Having thus put himself at peace with his own mind, he set calmly about the task of posting his men. The purpose of the raiders was to break up his raft. If they could but sever the encircling boom, his logs would be set free, each to find its separate way to the ocean. They would then be lost to him forever. One anxious glance he cast toward the approaching boats. One thing he feared most of all,—firearms. “He wouldn’t dare,” Pant told himself, as no rifle or pistol appeared in the uplifted hands. “A fight between crews is one thing; wholesale slaughter quite another. The laws of Great Britain are strict, her officers tireless.” His eyes gleamed with a touch of pride as he surveyed his small army of defense. What stalwart fellows they were! How their dark arms gleamed in the sun! From the belt of each hung a machete. These they had been ordered to use only as a last resort. By the side of each, grounded like a rifle, was a stout six-foot mahogany pike-pole. He had taught them the last trick of offense and defense with these weapons. So they waited as on came the invading host. In the hands of some he saw the white gleam of sapodilla axe handles. With these axes they would attempt to loosen a chain of the boom or chop a log of it in two. Others balanced heavy sledges on the edge of their boats. With these they hoped to sever the chains. Their machetes were for defense. They waved them to intimidate the Caribs. “Not so easily done,” Pant smiled grimly as his Caribs sent back a ringing cry of defiance. “Don’t let a man of them board us,” was the last word Pant passed along the line. “If they gain a footing on the raft we’re lost. If one gets aboard, double on him and pitch him overboard.” As the dark line advanced it spread out fan-shape; then, with every wild-eyed Spaniard of them all splitting his lungs in a savage yell, they shot their crafts alongside. With drawn machetes they leaped for the first mahogany logs that lay against the boom. But what was this? As they swung their machetes threateningly, they received a rain of blows that sent many a machete whirling through space to find its watery grave beneath the black waters. Against such an offensive they were not able to stand. Seizing their paddles, they backed away to a respectful distance, there to hold a council of war. The result of this council Pant read as if it were an open book. With machetes sheathed, but with axes and sledges at hand, the enemy spread out to advance upon the raft from every side. By this Pant judged that they hoped to scatter his men and to effect a break in the boom that would not only set his logs free, but throw his Caribs into the river, there to fight for their lives against pitching, grinding logs and lurking alligators. One move he had not anticipated became apparent soon enough. The instant their boats touched, as the Caribs rushed at them with their mahogany pikes, the Spaniards who were not armed with sledges and axes did their best to seize the pikes and wrest them from the Caribs. In this, here and there, they were successful, and always in the corner where this occurred, the tide began to turn. It was one thing to prod and beat a Spaniard; quite another to be prodden and beaten by him. In the meantime, keen oars flashed here and there. There came the disheartening chop-chop of axes and the thud of sledges that told that at any moment the boom might be broken, the battle lost. Heroic work was going on at every point. Outnumbered almost two to one, the Caribs fought valiantly. With their wild shouts forever on their lips, they seized fresh pikes when one was lost and fought with renewed vigor. Tivoli, their chief, seemed everywhere at once. His great strength served him well. Here, where a sledge was battering dangerously at a chain, he made a mighty thrust, swinging his pike sidewise at a Spaniard’s head. The sledge splashed into the water. Danger at this point was at an end. Here an axe swung in air to meet with Tivoli’s well aimed pike and go spinning through air to join the sledge. But for all this, the battle was going badly. Here and there a chain was badly battered and in several places a log of the boom was half cut through. Seeing his men outnumbered where ten Spaniards crowded a single dugout, Pant, whose slight strength had lost him his pike at the very onset, seized a pike aimed at his head and, gripping hard, executed a flying pole vault right over the heads of the enemy and into the booming waters. The result was all that could be hoped for. The Spaniard, who still clung to the pike, was dragged half out of the dugout, whereupon that unstable craft promptly capsized, pitching ten lusty attackers, axes, sledges and all, into the river. Tivoli, too, lost his pike. Angered at this victory on the part of an enemy, he watched his chance and when the Spaniard swung his pike to one side, with bare hands and unarmed, Tivoli rushed at him and rained such blows on his head as drove him to drop his pike and leap into the river. This much for scattered conflicts. Victory here and there along the line; more than one Spaniard in the river; but for all that, here and there the boom was being dangerously weakened. The battle was going badly. “Only a matter of time,” thought Pant, as he struggled back to the raft. “A half hour; perhaps less. Then our work is all undone!” * * * * * * * * Just as the storm came to an end and morning broke, Johnny Thompson, still blindfolded and riding among the Mayas, felt his boat swerve sharply to the right and enter a small creek where overhanging branches swept the awnings over the boats. They had not gone far up this stream before their boat bumped the bank and they were helped to disembark. Imagine their surprise and joy when someone, very short, very laughingly tugged away the cloths that blinded them and permitted them for the first time in two days to see. “See!” exclaimed the princess, for it was she who had unbound their eyes. “See what a beautiful world we have brought you to!” It was indeed a beautiful world. All a-glitter with raindrops flashing in the sun, palms and giant tropical ferns had never seemed so lovely as now. Birds sang their best. Even the screaming parrots, that they might not be entirely out of harmony, appeared to soften their discordant notes. But into this symphony there crept a wildly disturbing sound. Dim, indistinct, yet unmistakable, there came the noise of battle. At the first sound of it, Johnny Thompson glanced wildly about him. Then, having sighted down the creek a familiar bend in the river, he exclaimed: “It’s Daego. The battle is on! They are not a mile from here. I must go!” Seizing the prow of a boat, he pushed it into the stream, sprang in, seized a paddle, and would have been away, single-handed, to enter the conflict. They dragged him back. The old chief tried to learn, from Johnny’s wild flinging arms, what it was all about. In the end he appeared to understand, for, after instructing his men to look to their weapons, he ordered them into their boats. Once more the Mayas, a hundred strong, swept down the river, grim, silent, determined. So it happened that a second time that day Pant saw the river above his raft lined with boats. “Friends or enemies?” he thought. “Let them come. Without aid we lose. More of the enemy cannot matter.” As for Daego’s men, they watched the on-coming fleet with consternation. Daego had no men up the river. They knew that. Who, then, were these? As the fleet came closer, a figure standing in the prow of the foremost boat became plainly visible. He was waving his arms and shouting wildly. It was Johnny. One of Daego’s keen-eyed Spaniards was the first to recognize him. With a wild cry of fear he dashed for his pit-pan. “There is the man who has died,” he shouted. “His ghost has been seen many times above the treetops. Now he comes back. He is a ghost. Who are these with him? They have gleaming spears. They, too, are ghosts.” So he thought, and prepared to flee. So thought they all. To a man they dropped oar, maul, pike, pole or machete, and turned to flee. When Johnny’s boat bumped the raft there was not a Spaniard within gunshot. But what was this? As he turned about to look at his companions in the boat he saw only Roderick and Jean. By some skillful trick of boatmanship or swimming, the Maya paddlers had left the boat. Now, some distance away, the Maya princess was waving them farewell as the remaining boats went speeding back up the river. “That’s funny,” said Johnny. “How—how strange and ghost-like!” murmured Jean. “Nothing ghost-like about this,” said Johnny, as he patted his pack which held the rare Maya god. The joyful reunion that followed was cut short by the pressing business of getting the log boom started down the river. The motor boat was brought around, the Carib sail boats hitched on behind, and they were away. Hardgrave, who knew Jean’s father and the location of his camp, advised her and Roderick to go with them down the river. This advice was not unwelcome, especially to Johnny, who felt that he could never see too much of the bonny Scotch girl. They had made their slow way down two-thirds of the distance when a strange procession caught up with and passed them. Motor boats, launches, flatboats, and pit-pans moved by. Each was loaded to capacity with the strangest cargoes. Here were four tractors on a flat-boat; there many wheels that might have belonged to cannons, but did belong to logging wagons; here a pit-pan loaded high with great vats and kettles that had once held the boiling sap of the sapodilla tree. So they drifted by. It was like the passing of a defeated army. And so it was. The defeated king of the Black River was leaving the Rio Hondo forever. Two weeks later, with his treasure of red lure safely piled at the waterfront in Belize, Johnny met his millionaire friend, Roderick Grayson, at the dock as a United Fruit steamer’s launch came in. Three days later, in Johnny’s room at the hotel, Grayson met the Governor of Quintanaroo and together they drew up contracts which were to mean much, not only to Quintanaroo and Grayson, but to Johnny and Pant as well. In each contract it was agreed that Grayson’s company was to pay the boys a royalty, a wee bit of a royalty on their entire output and, though the percentage is small, the output is destined to be large, and there is no reason to believe that the two boys will lack for funds for travel and adventure in the future. The rare Maya god found its way to a museum in London. The proceeds from its sale Johnny insisted upon dividing with Jean. There was talk of spending the whole of it in a visit to London and the Old World by Jean and her family, accompanied by Johnny and Pant. At about this time, however, Johnny chanced to wander down to the breakwater, where little boats anchor, and there he met a strange seafaring man who had a strange tale to tell. And right there began one of the most unusual adventures that ever befell Johnny Thompson. You will find it all written down in our next book, “Forbidden Cargoes”. |
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