Three months after, one dark and rainy night, the Frolic lay at anchor in the harbor of Santiago de Cuba. In the steerage a number of young officers were gathered around a table, before which was spread a map of the harbor and the town. One was talking in low, earnest tone, and others were listening with rapt attention. The speaker was saying: “Now, gentlemen, these prisoners have been placed in this prison--here it is upon this map, and to-morrow they will be taken to the fortress, where they will remain until Sunday, when, with the others now condemned and captured on the Commandatario, they will be shot by the Spaniards, for Spain is merciless to her foes. If they are removed to the fortress, then all hope for them is gone, so we must act to-night. I have bribed a Spaniard to aid us, and he is to secure the uniform of an aide to General Buriel, and meet us at this point--here on this map. He will have uniforms awaiting us, and we will march to the outpost for the prisoners, while he states that he has been sent to conduct them to the fortress, fearing an attempt at rescue by the Cubans. The commandant of the outpost prison is a new man, and his men have just come from Havana, so that Buriel’s aides are not known to them, and herein is our strength. Now I saw these prisoners to-day, and every one of the seven are Americans, whom, as our cruiser will not protect, we must aid to escape. Nay, more, one of these prisoners is the gallant Bascomb, who resigned after leaving the academy, and accepted a position as commander of a Cuban blockade runner. Another is Scott Clemmons, also once a cadet, who was Bascomb’s lieutenant, and the others are also brave American boys who must not be shot to satiate Governor Buriel’s thirst for blood. Are you with me?” “To a man,” said Bemis Perry, and the others, eight in number, held forth their hands and grasped that of Mark Merrill, who continued: “It is not law; I know, it is against naval discipline; but it is justice, it is humanity, for if we do not save those poor lads they are dead men within thirty-six hours. Now we have leave to go on a special invitation to our fellows of the Powhattan, so we’ll instead pull ashore and meet my Spaniard.” “We are ready,” said Perry, and soon after, muffled in their great coats, the young officers entered a cutter and were rowed away through the darkness and rain. They landed at a certain point on the shore where there was a hut in which shone a light. Here a Spaniard met them, and Spanish uniforms were put on over their own, muskets were taken, and they marched off. The Spaniard was in the uniform of a captain, and wore a cloak. He led the way, and after a march of half a mile they came to the outpost _carcel_, or prison. The pretended Spanish officer gave the countersign, and going into the _carcel_ told what his orders were.