LITTLE NELL, sometimes
called the Blessed Damosel, was a war correspondent for the New York Eclipse,
and at sea on the despatch boats he wore pyjamas, and on shore he wore whatever
fate allowed him, which clothing was in the main unsuitable to the climate. He
had been cruising in the Caribbean on a small tug, awash always, habitable
never, wildly looking for Cervera's fleet; although what he was going to do
with four armoured cruisers and two destroyers in the event of his really
finding them had not been explained by the managing editor. The cable
instructions read: 'Take tug; go find Cervera's fleet.' If his unfortunate
nine-knot craft should happen to find these great twenty-knot ships, with their
two spiteful and faster attendants, Little Nell had wondered how he was going
to lose them again. He had marvelled, both publicly and in secret, on the
uncompromising asininity of managing editors at odd moments, but he had wasted
little time. The Jefferson G. Johnson was already coaled, so he passed the word
to his skipper, bought some tinned meats, cigars, and beer, and soon the
Johnson sailed on her mission, tooting her whistle in graceful farewell to some
friends of hers in the bay.
So the Johnson crawled
giddily to one wave-height after another, and fell aslant, into one valley
after another for a longer period than was good for the hearts of the men,
because the Johnson was merely a harbour-tug, with no architectural intention
of parading the high seas, and the crew had never seen the decks all white water
like a mere sunken reef. As for the cook, he blasphemed hopelessly hour in and
hour out, meanwhile pursuing the equipment of his trade frantically from side
to side of the galley. Little Nell dealt with a great deal of grumbling, but he
knew it was not the real evil grumbling. It was merely the unhappy words of men
who wished expression of comradeship for their wet, forlorn, half-starved
lives, to which, they explained, they were not accustomed, and for which, they
explained, they were not properly paid. Little Nell condoled and condoled
without difficulty. He laid words of gentle sympathy before them, and smothered
his own misery behind the face of a reporter of the New York Eclipse. But they
tossed themselves in their cockleshell even as far as Martinique; they knew
many races and many flags, but they did not find Cervera's fleet. If they had
found that elusive squadron, this timid story would never have been written;
there would probably have been a lyric. The Johnson limped one morning into the
Mole St. Nicholas, and there Little Nell received this despatch: 'Can't
understand your inaction. What are you doing with the boat? Report immediately.
Fleet transports already left Tampa. Expected destination near Santiago.
Proceed there immediately. Place yourself under orders.--Rogers. Eclipse.'
One day, steaming along
the high luminous blue coast of Santiago province, they fetched into view the
fleets, a knot of masts and funnels, looking incredibly inshore, as if they
were glued to the mountains. Then mast left mast, and funnel left funnel,
slowly, slowly, and the shore remained still, but the fleets seemed to move out
toward the eager Johnson. At the speed of nine knots an hour the scene
separated into its parts. On an easily rolling sea, under a crystal sky,
black-hulled transports--erstwhile packets--lay waiting, while grey cruisers
and gunboats lay near shore, shelling the beach and some woods. From their grey
sides came thin red flashes, belches of white smoke, and then over the waters
sounded boom--boom--boom-boom. The crew of the Jefferson G. Johnson forgave
Little Nell all the suffering of a previous fortnight.
To the westward, about
the mouth of Santiago harbour, sat a row of castellated grey battleships, their
eyes turned another way, waiting.
The Johnson swung past
a transport whose decks and rigging were aswarm with black figures, as if a
tribe of bees had alighted upon a log. She swung past a cruiser indignant at
being left out of the game, her deck thick with white-clothed tars watching the
play of their luckier brethren. The cold blue lifting seas tilted the big ships
easily, slowly, and heaved the little ones in the usual sinful way, as if very
little babes had surreptitiously mounted sixteen-hand trotting hunters. The
Johnson leered and tumbled her way through a community of ships. The
bombardment ceased, and some of the troopships edged in near the land. Soon
boats black with men and towed by launches were almost lost to view in the
scintillant mystery of light which appeared where the sea met the land. A
disembarkation had begun. The Johnson sped on at her nine knots, and Little
Nell chafed exceedingly, gloating upon the shore through his glasses, anon
glancing irritably over the side to note the efforts of the excited tug. Then
at last they were in a sort of a cove, with troopships, newspaper boats, and
cruisers on all sides of them, and over the water came a great hum of human
voices, punctuated frequently by the clang of engine-room gongs as the steamers
manœuvred to avoid jostling.
In reality it was the
great moment--the moment for which men, ships, islands, and continents had been
waiting for months; but somehow it did not look it. It was very calm; a certain
strip of high green rocky shore was being rapidly populated from boat after
boat; that was all. Like many preconceived moments, it refused to be supreme.
But nothing lessened
Little Nell's frenzy. He knew that the army was landing--he could see it; and
little did he care if the great moment did not look its part--it was his virtue
as a correspondent to recognise the great moment in any disguise. The Johnson
lowered a boat for him, and he dropped into it swiftly, forgetting everything.
However, the mate, a bearded philanthropist, flung after him a mackintosh and a
bottle of whisky. Little Nell's face was turned toward those other boats filled
with men, all eyes upon the placid, gentle, noiseless shore. Little Nell saw
many soldiers seated stiffly beside upright rifle barrels, their blue breasts
crossed with white shelter tent and blanket-rolls. Launches screeched;
jack-tars pushed or pulled with their boathooks; a beach was alive with working
soldiers, some of them stark naked. Little Nell's boat touched the shore amid a
babble of tongues, dominated at that time by a single stern voice, which was
repeating, 'Fall in, B Company!'
He took his mackintosh
and his bottle of whisky and invaded Cuba. It was a trifle bewildering.
Companies of those same men in blue and brown were being rapidly formed and
marched off across a little open space--near a pool--near some palm trees--near
a house--into the hills. At one side, a mulatto in dirty linen and an old straw
hat was hospitably using a machete to cut open some green cocoanuts for a group
of idle invaders. At the other side, up a bank, a block-house was burning
furiously; while near it some railway sheds were smouldering, with a little
Rogers' engine standing amid the ruins, grey, almost white, with ashes until it
resembled a ghost. Little Nell dodged the encrimsoned block-house, and proceeded
where he saw a little village street lined with flimsy wooden cottages. Some
ragged Cuban cavalry-men were tranquilly tending their horses in a shed which
had not yet grown cold of the Spanish occupation. Three American soldiers were
trying to explain to a Cuban that they wished to buy drinks. A native rode by,
clubbing his pony, as always. The sky was blue; the sea talked with a gravelly
accent at the feet of some rocks; upon its bosom the ships sat quiet as gulls.
There was no mention, directly, of invasion--invasion for war--save in the roar
of the flames at the block-house; but none even heeded this conflagration,
excepting to note that it threw out a great heat. It was warm, very warm. It
was really hard for little Nell to keep from thinking of his own affairs: his
debts, other misfortunes, loves, prospects of happiness. Nobody was in a
flurry; the Cubans were not tearfully grateful; the American troops were
visibly glad of being released from those ill transports, and the men often
asked, with interest, 'Where's the Spaniards?' And yet it must have been a
great moment! It was a great moment!
It seemed made to prove
that the emphatic time of history is not the emphatic time of the common man,
who throughout the change of nations feels an itch on his shin, a pain in his
head, hunger, thirst, a lack of sleep; the influence of his memory of past
firesides, glasses of beer, girls, theatres, ideals, religions, parents, faces,
hurts, joy.
Little Nell was hailed
from a comfortable verandah, and, looking up, saw Walkley of the Eclipse,
stretched in a yellow and green hammock, smoking his pipe with an air of having
always lived in that house, in that village. 'Oh, dear little Nell, how glad I
am to see your angel face again! There! don't try to hide it; I can see it. Did
you bring a corkscrew too? You're superseded as master of the slaves. Did you
know it? And by Rogers, too! Rogers is a Sadducee, a cadaver and a pelican,
appointed to the post of chief correspondent, no doubt, because of his rare
gift of incapacity. Never mind.'
'Where is he now?'
asked Little Nell, taking seat on the steps.
'He is down interfering
with the landing of the troops,' answered Walkley, swinging a leg. 'I hope you
have the Johnson well stocked with food as well as with cigars, cigarettes and
tobaccos, ales, wines and liquors. We shall need them. There is already famine
in the house of Walkley. I have discovered that the system of transportation
for our gallant soldiery does not strike in me the admiration which I have
often felt when viewing the management of an ordinary bun-shop. A hunger,
stifling, jammed together amid odours, and everybody irritable--ye gods, how
irritable! And so I-- Look! look!'
The Jefferson G.
Johnson, well known to them at an incredible distance, could be seen striding
the broad sea, the smoke belching from her funnel, headed for Jamaica. 'The
Army Lands in Cuba!' shrieked Walkley. 'Shafter's Army Lands near Santiago!
Special type! Half the front page! Oh, the Sadducee! The cadaver! The pelican!'
Little Nell was dumb
with astonishment and fear. Walkley, however, was at least not dumb. 'That's
the pelican! That's Mr. Rogers making his first impression upon the situation.
He has engraved himself upon us. We are tattooed with him. There will be a
fight to-morrow, sure, and we will cover it even as you found Cervera's fleet.
No food, no horses, no money. I am transport-lame; you are sea-weak. We will
never see our salaries again. Whereby Rogers is a fool.'
'Anybody else here?'
asked Little Nell wearily.
'Only young Point.'
Point was an artist on the Eclipse. 'But he has nothing. Pity there wasn't an
almshouse in this God-forsaken country. Here comes Point now.' A sad-faced man
came along carrying much luggage. 'Hello, Point! lithographer and genius, have
you food? Food. Well, then, you had better return yourself to Tampa by wire.
You are no good here. Only one more little mouth to feed.'
Point seated himself
near Little Nell. 'I haven't had anything to eat since daybreak,' he said
gloomily, 'and I don't care much, for I am simply dog-tired!'
'Don't tell me you are
dog-tired, my talented friend,' cried Walkley from his hammock. 'Think of me.
And now what's to be done?'
They stared for a time
disconsolately at where, over the rim of the sea, trailed black smoke from the
Johnson. From the landing-place below and to the right came the howls of a man
who was superintending the disembarkation of some mules. The burning
block-house still rendered its hollow roar. Suddenly the men-crowded landing
set up its cheer, and the steamers all whistled long and raucously. Tiny black
figures were raising an American flag over a block-house on the top of a great
hill.
'That's mighty fine
Sunday stuff,' said Little Nell. 'Well, I'll go and get the order in which the
regiments landed, and who was first ashore, and all that. Then I'll go and try
to find General Lawton's headquarters. His division has got the advance, I
think.'
'And lo! I will write a
burning description of the raising of the flag,' said Walkley. 'While the
brilliant Point buskies for food--and makes damn sure he gets it,' he added
fiercely.
Little Nell thereupon
wandered over the face of the earth, threading out the story of the landing of
the regiments. He only found about fifty men who had been the first American
soldiers to set foot on Cuba, and of these he took the most probable. The army
was going forward in detail, as soon as the pieces were landed. There was a
house something like a crude country tavern--the soldiers in it were looking
over their rifles and talking. There was a well of water quite hot--more palm
trees--an inscrutable background.
When he arrived again
at Walkley's mansion he found the verandah crowded with correspondents in
khaki, duck, dungaree, and flannel. They wore riding-breeches, but that was
mainly forethought. They could see now that fate intended them to walk. Some
were writing copy, while Walkley discoursed from his hammock. Rhodes--doomed to
be shot in action some days later--was trying to borrow a canteen from men who had
one, and from men who had none. Young Point, wan, utterly worn out, was asleep
on the floor. Walkley pointed to him. 'That is how he appears after his
foraging journey, during which he ran all Cuba through a sieve. Oh, yes; a can
of corn and a half-bottle of lime juice.'
'Say, does anybody know
the name of the commander of the 26th Infantry?'
'Who commands the first
brigade of Kent's Division?'
'What was the name of
the chap that raised the flag?'
'What time is it?'
And a woeful man was
wandering here and there with a cold pipe, saying plaintively, 'Who's got a
match? Anybody here got a match?'
Little Nell's left boot
hurt him at the heel, and so he removed it, taking great care and whistling
through his teeth. The heated dust was upon them all, making everybody feel
that bathing was unknown and shattering their tempers. Young Point developed a
snore which brought grim sarcasm from all quarters. Always, below, hummed the
traffic of the landing-place.
When night came Little
Nell thought best not to go to bed until late, because he recognised the
mackintosh as but a feeble comfort. The evening was a glory. A breeze came from
the sea, fanning spurts of flame out of the ashes and charred remains of the
sheds, while overhead lay a splendid summer-night sky, aflash with great
tranquil stars. In the streets of the village were two or three fires,
frequently and suddenly reddening with their glare the figures of low-voiced
men who moved here and there. The lights of the transports blinked on the murmuring
plain in front of the village; and far to the westward Little Nell could
sometimes note a subtle indication of a playing search-light, which alone
marked the presence of the invisible battleships, half-mooned about the
entrance of Santiago Harbour, waiting--waiting--waiting.
When Little Nell
returned to the verandah he stumbled along a man-strewn place, until he came to
the spot where he left his mackintosh; but he found it gone. His curses mingled
then with those of the men upon whose bodies he had trodden. Two English
correspondents, lying awake to smoke a last pipe, half rose and looked at him
lazily. 'What's wrong, old chap?' murmured one. 'Eh? Lost it, eh? Well, look
here; come here and take a bit of my blanket. It's a jolly big one. Oh, no trouble
at all, man. There you are. Got enough? Comfy? Good-night.'
A sleepy voice arose in
the darkness. 'If this hammock breaks, I shall hit at least ten of those
Indians down there. Never mind. This is war.'
The men slept. Once the
sound of three or four shots rang across the windy night, and one head uprose
swiftly from the verandah, two eyes looked dazedly at nothing, and the head as
swiftly sank. Again a sleepy voice was heard. 'Usual thing! Nervous sentries!'
The men slept. Before dawn a pulseless, penetrating chill came into the air,
and the correspondents awakened, shivering into a blue world. Some of the fires
still smouldered. Walkley and Little Nell kicked vigorously into Point's
framework. 'Come on, brilliance! Wake up, talent! Don't be sodgering. It's too
cold to sleep, but it's not too cold to hustle.' Point sat up dolefully. Upon
his face was a childish expression. 'Where are we going to get breakfast?' he
asked, sulking.
'There's no breakfast
for you, you hound! Get up and hustle.' Accordingly they hustled. With
exceeding difficulty they learned that nothing emotional had happened during
the night, save the killing of two Cubans who were so secure in ignorance that
they could not understand the challenge of two American sentries. Then Walkley
ran a gamut of commanding officers, and Little Nell pumped privates for their
impressions of Cuba. When his indignation at the absence of breakfast allowed
him, Point made sketches. At the full break of day the Adolphus, an Eclipse
despatch boat, sent a boat ashore with Tailor and Shackles in it, and Walkley
departed tearlessly for Jamaica, soon after he had bestowed upon his friends
much tinned goods and blankets.
'Well, we've got our
stuff off,' said Little Nell. 'Now Point and I must breakfast.'
Shackles, for some
reason, carried a great hunting-knife, and with it Little Nell opened a tin of
beans.
'Fall to,' he said
amiably to Point.
There were some hard
biscuits. Afterwards they--the four of them--marched off on the route of the
troops. They were well loaded with luggage, particularly young Point, who had
somehow made a great gathering of unnecessary things. Hills covered with
verdure soon enclosed them. They heard that the army had advanced some nine
miles with no fighting. Evidences of the rapid advance were here and
there--coats, gauntlets, blanket-rolls on the ground. Mule-trains came herding
back along the narrow trail to the sound of a little tinkling bell. Cubans were
appropriating the coats and blanket-rolls.
The four correspondents
hurried onward. The surety of impending battle weighed upon them always, but
there was a score of minor things more intimate. Little Nell's left heel had
chafed until it must have been quite raw, and every moment he wished to take
seat by the roadside and console himself from pain. Shackles and Point disliked
each other extremely, and often they foolishly quarrelled over something, or
nothing. The blanket-rolls and packages for the hand oppressed everybody. It
was like being burned out of a boarding-house, and having to carry one's trunk
eight miles to the nearest neighbour. Moreover, Point, since he had stupidly
overloaded, with great wisdom placed various cameras and other trifles in the
hands of his three less-burdened and more sensible friends. This made them fume
and gnash, but in complete silence, since he was hideously youthful and
innocent and unaware. They all wished to rebel, but none of them saw their way
clear, because--they did not understand--but somehow it seemed a barbarous
project--no one wanted to say anything--cursed him privately for a little ass,
but--said nothing. For instance, Little Nell wished to remark, 'Point, you are
not a thoroughbred in a half of a way. You are an inconsiderate, thoughtless
little swine.' But, in truth, he said, 'Point, when you started out you looked
like a Christmas-tree. If we keep on robbing you of your bundles there soon
won't be anything left for the children.' Point asked dubiously, 'What do you
mean?' Little Nell merely laughed with deceptive good-nature.
They were always very
thirsty. There was always a howl for the half-bottle of lime juice. Five or six
drops from it were simply heavenly in the warm water from the canteens. Point
seemed to try to keep the lime juice in his possession, in order that he might
get more benefit of it. Before the war was ended the others found themselves
declaring vehemently that they loathed Point, and yet when men asked them the
reason they grew quite inarticulate. The reasons seemed then so small, so
childish, as the reasons of a lot of women. And yet at the time his offences
loomed enormous.
The surety of impending
battle still weighed upon them. Then it came that Shackles turned seriously
ill. Suddenly he dropped his own and much of Point's traps upon the trail,
wriggled out of his blanket-roll, flung it away, and took seat heavily at the
roadside. They saw with surprise that his face was pale as death, and yet
streaming with sweat.
'Boys,' he said in his
ordinary voice, 'I'm clean played out. I can't go another step. You fellows go
on, and leave me to come as soon as I am able.'
'Oh, no, that wouldn't
do at all,' said Little Nell and Tailor together.
Point moved over to a
soft place, and dropped amid whatever traps he was himself carrying.
'Don't know whether
it's ancestral or merely from the--sun--but I've got a stroke,' said Shackles,
and gently slumped over to a prostrate position before either Little Nell or
Tailor could reach him.
Thereafter Shackles was
parental; it was Little Nell and Tailor who were really suffering from a
stroke, either ancestral or from the sun.
'Put my blanket-roll
under my head, Nell, me son,' he said gently. 'There now! That is very nice. It
is delicious. Why, I'm all right, only--only tired.' He closed his eyes, and
something like an easy slumber came over him. Once he opened his eyes. 'Don't
trouble about me,' he remarked.
But the two fussed
about him, nervous, worried, discussing this plan and that plan. It was Point
who first made a business-like statement. Seated carelessly and indifferently
upon his soft place, he finally blurted out:
'Say! Look here! Some
of us have got to go on. We can't all stay here. Some of us have got to go on.'
It was quite true; the
Eclipse could take no account of strokes. In the end Point and Tailor went on,
leaving Little Nell to bring on Shackles as soon as possible. The latter two
spent many hours in the grass by the roadside. They made numerous abrupt
acquaintances with passing staff officers, privates, muleteers, many stopping
to inquire the wherefore of the death-faced figure on the ground. Favours were
done often and often, by peer and peasant--small things, of no consequence, and
yet warming.
It was dark when
Shackles and Little Nell had come slowly to where they could hear the murmur of
the army's bivouac.
'Shack,' gasped Little
Nell to the man leaning forlornly upon him, 'I guess we'd better bunk down here
where we stand.'
'All right, old boy.
Anything you say,' replied Shackles, in the bass and hollow voice which arrives
with such condition.
They crawled into some
bushes, and distributed their belongings upon the ground. Little Nell spread
out the blankets, and generally played housemaid. Then they lay down,
supperless, being too weary to eat. The men slept.
At dawn Little Nell awakened
and looked wildly for Shackles, whose empty blanket was pressed flat like a wet
newspaper on the ground. But at nearly the same moment Shackles appeared,
elate.
'Come on,' he cried;
'I've rustled an invitation for breakfast.'
Little Nell came on
with celerity.
'Where? Who?' he said.
'Oh! some officers,'
replied Shackles airily. If he had been ill the previous day, he showed it now
only in some curious kind of deference he paid to Little Nell.
Shackles conducted his
comrade, and soon they arrived at where a captain and his one subaltern arose
courteously from where they were squatting near a fire of little sticks. They
wore the wide white trouser-stripes of infantry officers, and upon the
shoulders of their blue campaign shirts were the little marks of their rank;
but otherwise there was little beyond their manners to render them different
from the men who were busy with breakfast near them.
The breakfast was of
canned tomatoes stewed with hard bread, more hard bread, and coffee. It was very
good fare, almost royal. Shackles and Little Nell were absurdly grateful as
they felt the hot bitter coffee tingle in them. But they departed joyfully
before the sun was fairly up, and passed into Siboney.
The beach at Siboney
was furious with traffic, even as had been the beach at Daqueri. Launches
shouted, jack-tars prodded with their boathooks, and load of men followed load
of men. Straight, parade-like, on the shore stood a trumpeter playing familiar
calls to the troop-horses who swam towards him eagerly through the salt seas.
Crowding closely into the cove were transports of all sizes and ages. To the
left and to the right of the little landing-beach green hills shot upward like
the wings in a theatre. They were scarred here and there with block-houses and
rifle-pits. Up one hill a regiment was crawling, seemingly inch by inch.
Shackles and Little Nell walked among palms and scrubby bushes, near pools,
over spaces of sand holding little monuments of biscuit-boxes,
ammunition-boxes, and supplies of all kinds. Some regiment was just collecting
itself from the ships, and the men made great patches of blue on the brown
sand.
Shackles asked a
question of a man accidentally: 'Where's that regiment going to?' He pointed to
the force that was crawling up the hill. The man grinned, and said, 'They're
going to look for a fight!'
'Looking for a fight!'
said Shackles and Little Nell together. They stared into each other's eyes.
Then they set off for the foot of the hill. The hill was long and toilsome.
Below them spread wider and wider a vista of ships quiet on a grey sea; a busy,
black dis-embarkation-place; tall, still, green hills; a village of
well-separated cottages; palms; a bit of road; soldiers marching. They passed
vacant Spanish trenches; little twelve-foot block-houses. Soon they were on a
fine upland near the sea. The path, under ordinary conditions, must have been a
beautiful wooded way. It wound in the shade of thickets of fine trees, then
through rank growths of bushes with revealed and fantastic roots, then through
a grassy space which had all the beauty of a neglected orchard. But always from
under their feet scuttled noisy land-crabs, demons to the nerves, which is some
way possessed a semblance of moon-like faces upon their blue or red bodies, and
these faces were turned with expressions of deepest horror upon Shackles and
Little Nell as they sped to overtake the pugnacious regiment. The route was
paved with coats, hats, tent and blankets, rolls, ration-tins,
haversacks--everything but ammunition belts, rifles and canteens.
They heard a dull noise
of voices in front of them--men talking too loud for the etiquette of the
forest--and presently they came upon two or three soldiers lying by the
roadside, flame-faced, utterly spent from the hurried march in the heat. One
man came limping back along the path. He looked to them anxiously for sympathy
and comprehension. 'Hurt m' knee. I swear I couldn't keep up with th' boys. I
had to leave 'm. Wasn't that tough luck?' His collar rolled away from a red
muscular neck, and his bare forearms were better than stanchions. Yet he was
almost babyishly tearful in his attempt to make the two correspondents feel
that he had not turned back because he was afraid. They gave him scant
courtesy, tinctured with one drop of sympathetic yet cynical understanding.
Soon they overtook the hospital squad; men addressing chaste language to some
pack-mules; a talkative sergeant; two amiable cool-eyed young surgeons. Soon
they were amid the rear troops of the dismounted volunteer cavalry regiment
which was moving to attack. The men strode easily along, arguing one to another
on ulterior matters. If they were going into battle, they either did not know
it or they concealed it well. They were more like men going into a bar at one
o'clock in the morning. Their laughter rang through the Cuban woods. And in the
meantime, soft, mellow, sweet, sang the voice of the Cuban wood-dove, the
Spanish guerilla calling to his mate--forest music; on the flanks, deep back on
both flanks, the adorable wood-dove, singing only of love. Some of the
advancing Americans said it was beautiful. It was beautiful. The Spanish
guerilla calling to his mate. What could be more beautiful?
Shackles and Little
Nell rushed precariously through waist-high bushes until they reached the
centre of the single-filed regiment. The firing then broke out in front. All
the woods set up a hot sputtering; the bullets sped along the path and across
it from both sides. The thickets presented nothing but dense masses of light
green foliage, out of which these swift steel things were born supernaturally.
It was a volunteer
regiment going into its first action, against an enemy of unknown force, in a
country where the vegetation was thicker than fur on a cat. There might have
been a dreadful mess; but in military matters the only way to deal with a situation
of this kind is to take it frankly by the throat and squeeze it to death.
Shackles and Little Nell felt the thrill of the orders. 'Come ahead, men! Keep
right ahead, men! Come on!' The volunteer cavalry regiment, with all the
willingness in the world, went ahead into the angle of a V-shaped Spanish
formation.
It seemed that every
leaf had turned into a soda-bottle and was popping its cork. Some of the
explosions seemed to be against the men's very faces, others against the backs
of their necks. 'Now, men! Keep goin' ahead. Keep on goin'.' The forward troops
were already engaged. They, at least, had something at which to shoot. 'Now,
captain, if you're ready.' 'Stop that swearing there.' 'Got a match?' 'Steady,
now, men.'
A gate appeared in a
barbed-wire fence. Within were billowy fields of long grass, dotted with palms
and luxuriant mango trees. It was Elysian--a place for lovers, fair as Eden in
its radiance of sun, under its blue sky. One might have expected to see
white-robed figures walking slowly in the shadows. A dead man, with a bloody
face, lay twisted in a curious contortion at the waist. Some one was shot in
the leg, his pins knocked cleanly from under him.
'Keep goin', men.' The
air roared, and the ground fled reelingly under their feet. Light, shadow,
trees, grass. Bullets spat from every side. Once they were in a thicket, and
the men, blanched and bewildered, turned one way, and then another, not knowing
which way to turn. 'Keep goin', men.' Soon they were in the sunlight again.
They could see the long scant line, which was being drained man by man--one
might say drop by drop. The musketry rolled forth in great full measure from
the magazine carbines. 'Keep goin', men.' 'Christ, I'm shot!' 'They're flankin'
us, sir.' 'We're bein' fired into by our own crowd, sir.' 'Keep goin', men.' A
low ridge before them was a bottling establishment blowing up in detail. From
the right--it seemed at that time to be the far right--they could hear steady,
crashing volleys--the United States regulars in action.
Then suddenly--to use a
phrase of the street--the whole bottom of the thing fell out. It was suddenly
and mysteriously ended. The Spaniards had run away, and some of the regulars
were chasing them. It was a victory.
When the wounded men
dropped in the tall grass they quite disappeared, as if they had sunk in water.
Little Nell and Shackles were walking along through the fields, disputing.
'Well, damn it, man!'
cried Shackles, 'we must get a list of the killed and wounded.'
'That is not nearly so
important,' quoth Little Nell, academically, 'as to get the first account to
New York of the first action of the army in Cuba.'
They came upon Tailor,
lying with a bared torso and a small red hole through his left lung. He was
calm, but evidently out of temper. 'Good God, Tailor!' they cried, dropping to
their knees like two pagans; 'are you hurt, old boy?'
'Hurt?' he said gently.
'No, 'tis not so deep as a well nor so wide as a church-door, but 'tis enough,
d' you see? You understand, do you? Idiots!'
Then he became very
official. 'Shackles, feel and see what's under my leg. It's a small stone, or a
burr, or something. Don't be clumsy now! Be careful! Be careful!' Then he said,
angrily, 'Oh, you didn't find it at all. Damn it!'
In reality there was
nothing there, and so Shackles could not have removed it. 'Sorry, old boy,' he
said, meekly.
'Well, you may observe
that I can't stay here more than a year,' said Tailor, with some oratory, 'and
the hospital people have their own work in hand. It behoves you, Nell, to fly
to Siboney, arrest a despatch boat, get a cot and some other things, and some
minions to carry me. If I get once down to the base I'm all right, but if I
stay here I'm dead. Meantime Shackles can stay here and try to look as if he liked
it.'
There was no disobeying
the man. Lying there with a little red hole in his left lung, he dominated them
through his helplessness, and through their fear that if they angered him he
would move and--bleed.
'Well?' said Little
Nell.
'Yes,' said Shackles,
nodding.
Little Nell departed.
'That blanket you lent
me,' Tailor called after him, 'is back there somewhere with Point.'
Little Nell noted that
many of the men who were wandering among the wounded seemed so spent with the
toil and excitement of their first action that they could hardly drag one leg
after the other. He found himself suddenly in the same condition. His face, his
neck, even his mouth, felt dry as sun-baked bricks, and his legs were foreign
to him. But he swung desperately into his five-mile task. On the way he passed
many things: bleeding men carried by comrades; others making their way grimly,
with encrimsoned arms; then the little settlement of the hospital squad; men on
the ground everywhere, many in the path; one young captain dying, with great
gasps, his body pale blue, and glistening, like the inside of a rabbit's skin.
But the voice of the Cuban wood-dove, soft, mellow, sweet, singing only of
love, was no longer heard from the wealth of foliage.
Presently the hurrying
correspondent met another regiment coming to assist--a line of a thousand men
in single file through the jungle. 'Well, how is it going, old man?' 'How is it
coming on?' 'Are we doin' 'em?' Then, after an interval, came other regiments,
moving out. He had to take to the bush to let these long lines pass him, and he
was delayed, and had to flounder amid brambles. But at last, like a successful
pilgrim, he arrived at the brow of the great hill overlooking Siboney. His
practised eye scanned the fine broad brow of the sea with its clustering ships,
but he saw thereon no Eclipse despatch boats. He zigzagged heavily down the
hill, and arrived finally amid the dust and outcries of the base. He seemed to
ask a thousand men if they had seen an Eclipse boat on the water, or an Eclipse
correspondent on the shore. They all answered, 'No.'
He was like a
poverty-stricken and unknown suppliant at a foreign Court. Even his plea got
only ill-hearings. He had expected the news of the serious wounding of Tailor
to appal the other correspondents, but they took it quite calmly. It was as if
their sense of an impending great battle between two large armies had quite got
them out of focus for these minor tragedies. Tailor was hurt--yes? They looked
at Little Nell, dazed. How curious that Tailor should be almost the first--how
very curious--yes! But, as far as arousing them to any enthusiasm of active
pity, it seemed impossible. He was lying up there in the grass, was he? Too
bad, too bad, too bad!
Little Nell went alone
and lay down in the sand with his back against a rock. Tailor was prostrate up
there in the grass. Never mind. Nothing was to be done. The whole situation was
too colossal. Then into his zone came Walkley the invincible.
'Walkley!' yelled
Little Nell. Walkley came quickly, and Little Nell lay weakly against his rock
and talked. In thirty seconds Walkley understood everything, had hurled a drink
of whisky into Little Nell, had admonished him to lie quiet, and had gone to
organise and manipulate. When he returned he was a trifle dubious and backward.
Behind him was a singular squad of volunteers from the Adolphus, carrying among
them a wire-woven bed.
'Look here, Nell!' said
Walkley, in bashful accents; 'I've collected a battalion here which is willing
to go bring Tailor; but--they say--you--can't you show them where he is?'
'Yes,' said Little
Nell, arising.
. . . . . . .
When the party arrived
at Siboney, and deposited Tailor in the best place, Walkley had found a house
and stocked it with canned soups. Therein Shackles and Little Nell revelled for
a time, and then rolled on the floor in their blankets. Little Nell tossed a
great deal. 'Oh, I'm so tired. Good God, I'm tired. I'm--tired.'
In the morning a voice
aroused them. It was a swollen, important, circus voice, saying, 'Where is Mr.
Nell? I wish to see him immediately.'
'Here I am, Rogers,'
cried Little Nell.
'Oh, Nell,' said
Rogers, 'here's a despatch to me which I thought you had better read.'
Little Nell took the
despatch. It was: 'Tell Nell can't understand his inaction; tell him come home
first steamer from Port Antonio, Jamaica.'
STEPHEN CRANE. Copyright, 1899, by Stephen Crane, in the United States
of America.