occupied the adjoining table waswatching the affair from a vantage point half a block away.
With a leap that was catlike in its agility, Stewart seized the swaggering native by the legs in a football tackle, and upset him against his assistants.
"Quick, this way!" he called to Dawson, starting up the street away from the watcher at the far corner. As he ran, his hand slipped into his coat pocket where the small, but extremely efficient, automatic with which all government agents are supplied usually rested. But the gun wasn't there! Apparently it had slipped out in the scuffle a moment before.
Hardly had he realized that he was unarmed before he and Dawson were confronted by five other natives coming from the opposite direction. The meager lighting system of the Mexican capital, however, was rather a help than a detriment, for in the struggle which followed it was practically impossible to tell friend from foe. The two[37] Americans, standing shoulder to shoulder, had the added advantage of teamwork--something which the natives had never learned.
"Don't use your gun if you can help it," Stewart warned. "We don't want the police in on this!"
As he spoke his fist shot out and the leader of the attacking party sprawled in the street. No sound came from Dawson, beyond a grunt, as he landed on the man he had singled out of the bunch. The ten seconds that followed were jammed with action, punctuated with the shrill cries for reinforcements from the Mexicans, and brightened here and there by the dull light from down the street which glinted off the long knives--the favorite weapon of the Latin-American fighter.
Stewart and Dawson realized that they must not only fight, but fight fast. Every second brought closer the arrival of help from
15
the rear, but Dawson waited until he could hear the reinforcements almost upon them before he gave the word to break through. Then--
"Come on, Jack!" he called. "Let's go!"
Heads down, fists moving with piston-like precision, the two Americans plowed their way through. Dawson swore later that he felt at least one rib give under the impact of the blows and he knew that he nursed a sore wrist for days, but Stewart claimed that his energies were concentrated solely on the scrap and that he didn't have time to receive any impression of what was going on. He knew
that he had to fight his way out--that it was essential for one of them to reach the telegraph office or the embassy with the news
they carried.
It was a case of fight like the devil and trust to luck and the darkness for aid.
Almost before they knew it, they had broken through the trio in front of them and had turned down the Calles[38] Ancha, running in a form that would have done credit to a college track team. Behind them they heard the muffled oaths of their pursuers as they fell over the party they had just left.
"They don't want to attract the police any more than we do," gasped Dawson. "They don't dare shoot!"
But as he spoke there came the z-z-i-pp of a bullet, accompanied by the sharp crack of a revolver somewhere behind them.
"Careful," warned Stewart. "We've got to skirt that street light ahead. Duck and--"
But with that he crumpled up, a bullet through his hip.
Without an instant's hesitation Dawson stooped, swung his companion over his shoulder, and staggered on, his right hand groping
for his automatic. Once out of the glare of the arc light, he felt that he would be safe, at least for a moment.
Then, clattering toward them, he heard a sound that spelled safety--one of the open nighthawk cabs that prowl around the streets of the Mexican capital.
Shifting Stewart so that his feet rested on the ground, he wheeled and raked the street behind him with a fusillade from his automatic. There was only a dull mass of whitish clothing some fifty yards away at which to aim, but he knew that the counter-attack would probably gain a few precious seconds of time--time sufficient to stop the cab and to put his plan into operation.
The moment the cab came into the circle of light from the street lamp Dawson dragged his companion toward it, seized the horse's
bridle with his free hand and ordered the driver to halt.
Before the cabby had recovered his wits the two Americans were in the vehicle and Dawson had his revolver pressed none too gently into the small of the driver's back.[39] The weapon was empty, but the Mexican didn't know that, and he responded instantly to Dawson's order to turn around and drive "as if seventy devils of Hades were after him!"
Outside of a few stray shots that followed as they disappeared up the street, the drive to the Embassy was uneventful, and, once
under the shelter of the American flag, the rest was easy.
Stewart, it developed, had sustained only a flesh wound through the muscles of his hip--painful, but not dangerous. Within ten minutes after he had reached O'Shaughnessy's office he was dictating a code wire to Washington--a cable which stated that a vessel with a Spanish name, commencing with something that sounded like "Eep," had cleared Hamburg on the seventh, loaded with arms and ammunition destined to advance the interests of Mexican revolutionists and to hamper the efforts of the United States to preserve order south of the border.
The wire reached Washington at noon of the following day and was instantly transmitted to Berlin, with instructions to Ambassador
Gerard to look into the matter and report immediately.
Vessel in question is probably the Ypiranga [stated a code the following morning]. Cleared Hamburg on date mentioned, presumably loaded with grain. Rumors here of large shipment of arms to some Latin American republic. Practically certain that Wilhelmstrasse is behind the move, but impossible to obtain confirmation. Motive unknown.
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Ten minutes after this message had been decoded the newspaper correspondents at the White House noted that a special Cabinet meeting had been called, but no announcement was made of its purpose or of the business transacted, beyond the admission that "the insult to the flag at Tampico had been considered."[40]
Promptly at noon the great wireless station at Arlington flashed a message to Admiral Mayo, in command of the squadron off the
Mexican coast. In effect, it read:
Proceed immediately to Vera Cruz. Await arrival of steamer Ypiranga, loaded with arms. Prevent landing at any cost. Blockade upon
pretext of recent insult to flag. Atlantic Fleet ordered to your support.
"The rest of the story," concluded Quinn, "is a matter of history. How the fleet bottled up the harbor at Vera Cruz, how it was forced to send a landing party ashore under fire, and how seventeen American sailors lost their lives during the guerrilla attack which followed. All that was spread across the front pages of American papers in big black type--but the fact that a steamer named the Ypiranga had been held up by the American fleet and forced to anchor at a safe distance offshore, under the guns of the flagship,
was given little space. Apparently it was a minor incident--but in reality it was the crux of the whole situation, an indication of Germany's rancor, which was to burst its bounds before four months had passed, another case in which the arm of Uncle Sam had been long enough to stretch halfway across a continent and nip impending disaster."
