The Little Cuban Rebel: A War Correspondent's Sweetheart
Edna Winfield
9781465550705
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
On the upper deck of the fast coastwise steamer Columbian, bound for Santiago de Cuba, sat a young man of not more than twenty-three years of age, tall, well-formed, and with a face as striking as it was handsome. The noble steamer was just passing out of sight of Sandy Hook and many of the passengers, Americans and Spaniards, with a sprinkling of Englishmen and creoles, were leaning on the rails, anxious to catch a parting glimpse of terra firma. Not a few eyes were moist, the eyes of those who did not expect to soon return, perhaps not forever. The young man, who had made himself thoroughly comfortable in a steamer chair, divided his time in studying a number of documents he held in his hand, and in surveying his fellow passengers critically. His eyes, a deep brown, were thoughtful in the extreme, and at once gave forth the correct impression that he was a close student of human nature, as well as a keen observer of all that was transpiring about him. As the last glimpse of the distant sand-banks faded from view in the bluish mist, one after another of those by the rails turned to the decks, to find their seats, or to seek the seclusion of the cabins and state-rooms. It was not long ere the young man's attention was attracted to a young lady, small and slender, who came close to him with graceful steps, and sank into a seat opposite to his own. The face of the fair stranger was dark, with ruddy cheeks, each with the daintiest of dimples, while another dimple was hidden in the roundest of chins. The low forehead, with its heavy and deep eyelashes, was surmounted by an abundance of dark and wavy tresses, which clustered about the most beautiful of well-rounded shoulders, and fell over a bosom that rose and fell at every breath like the swells of the ocean. "By Jupiter!" murmured the young man, and that exclamation, simple as it was, meant a good deal. Howard Sherwood, newspaper correspondent of the New York United Press, was not in the habit of expressing any feeling or sentiment concerning the looks of the opposite sex. "A strict young man of business," was what his friends called him, "and he doesn't care a rap for the girls," they would add. Howard Sherwood had taken one long look at the beautiful girl before him, and now he dropped his eyes to the document in his hand. Unconscious of his presence, the fair stranger opened a book and began to read. It was not long before the young newspaper correspondent again raised his eyes, somewhat slyly and shyly. But, instead of that fascinating face, he saw only the back of the book. "Songs of Vassar!" he muttered, as he read the title of the book. "By Jove! can she be a college-bred miss—an American? I thought she must surely be a Spaniard or a Cuban. But perhaps she was sent to the United States by her parents to be educated, and is now going home on account of the war. Heavens! what a form and what features! more perfect than the studies of Spanish beauties by the old masters. I wish she would look up again." Hardly had the last thought come to his lips than the song-book dropped into the fair stranger's lap, and she did look up, humming the last bar of one of the favorite melodies. Her eyes met those of Howard Sherwood fully, the song stopped, the heavy eyelashes shrouded those beautiful orbs, and the young man murmured a sigh that came straight from his heart. In confusion, he once more turned his eyes upon his papers, and soon after both were reading again. But not for long. The private dispatches which Howard Sherwood carried became meaningless to him, and it was in vain that he tried to get to the close of the letter of instructions which had been thrust into his hands at the last moment. That fair face was in his mind's eye, and disturbed him as he had never been disturbed before. At last, totally unaccustomed to such sensations, he arose to his feet, thrust his papers away, and began to pace the deck.
