LAST SHOT OF THE CAMPAIGN
The American army occupying the muddy trenches before Santiago had been
rendered very unhappy that morning by a rumor that Cervera's ships had
made a dash from the harbor, evaded the blockade, and escaped almost
unharmed. How this rumor started no one knew, but it spread like
wildfire, and was generally believed. There was ample opportunity for
discussing it, since all firing had ceased, while under a flag of truce
an envoy from General Shafter demanded the surrender of Santiago. So
the men in the trenches were free to stand erect and stretch
themselves, to wander about, leaving their rifles in position between
the sand-bags, and even to make little fires, over which to boil cups
of coffee, all without drawing the fire of a single Spanish
sharp-shooter. It was a very novel sensation, and they enjoyed it. At
the same time they were not happy, for Cervera's ships had escaped.
What could the Yankee sailors have been about to let such a thing
happen? What a disgrace it was, and how the whole world would jeer!
Even Santiago seemed hardly worth capturing now.
All at once a sound of shouting was borne faintly to their ears from
the distant rear. What had happened? Had they been outflanked by the
Spaniards and attacked from that direction? No, for a band was playing
on El Poso Hill, and the sound of shouting was advancing, like a roar
of the sea. No one looked towards Santiago now, but all eyes, turned
to the rear, were fixed on the point where the Sevilla road left the
timber. At this place they gazed in eager but silent anticipation.
Suddenly a horseman emerged from it and dashed at full speed across the
valley, waving his hat and yelling as he came.
Up the slope of San Juan Hill he charged and through the terraced
camps, that broke into a jubilant roar as he reached them. But he did
not pause until he had gained the very trenches, where among the
wondering Rough Riders he slipped wearily from his foam-flecked horse,
shouting huskily but exultantly as he did so:
"Sampson has destroyed the Spanish fleet! Not a ship escaped! I know,
for I saw the whole fight!"
"Hurrah!" "Hooray!" "Whoop-ee!" "Wow, wow, wow!" howled the Riders,
as in their wild jubilation they danced, hugged each other, and flung
things in the air. Then they raised Ridge high on their shoulders and
bore him as proudly aloft as though he alone had achieved the wonderful
victory of which he brought the news. Indeed, they seemed to believe
that but for his presence with the American ships things might perhaps
have gone differently, and Rollo Van Kyp only voiced the general
sentiment when he said:
"Lucky thing for Sampson that he had at least one 'Terror' along to see
that the scrap was conducted according to rules. How I wish, though,
that the _Nun_ had got here in time to take part in that fight, for she
can outfoot the old _Corsair_--_Gloucester_, I mean--almost two to one.
If she had only been on hand I believe she would have captured one of
these little fellows alive, before he had a chance to make the beach."
"The who?" asked Ridge, in perplexity, for the latter part of this
remark had been addressed to him alone.
"The _Nun_. _Gray Nun_ is her whole name. My yacht--used to be the
_Royal Flush_, you know. I offered her to the government as a gift, to
be converted into a war-ship. But they wouldn't accept her. So I
changed her name, and turned her over to the Red Cross people, to use
as long as they had need of her. Don't know, though, as they took me
up, for we left about that time, and I haven't heard since."
"But they did!" exclaimed Ridge. "And she reached Siboney to-day, for
I saw her there not more than two hours ago, flying a Red Cross flag,
and crowded with nurses."
"Good enough!" cried Rollo. "That is almost as fine news as the other.
The old _Flush_ must feel funny, though, all cluttered up with nurses,
for that isn't exactly the kind of a crowd she has been used to. Same
time, if my steward carried out the orders I wired him, she must be
loaded to the muzzle with good things to eat and drink, for I told him
to fill her up with the best to be had in New York City. So if any of
the fellows are hankering for a change of grub, all they've got to do
is to catch a fever or a Mauser bullet, and apply for a berth on the
Nun. For my own part I prefer hardtack, bacon, and good health; but
then tastes differ, you know."
"It was a splendid thing to do!" exclaimed Ridge; "and I don't believe
there is another in the command would have thought of it. The boys
will be prouder than ever of the old regiment to know that it contains
a fellow not only able but willing to do such a thing."
"Oh, pshaw!" replied Rollo, flushing. "There isn't one but would do as
much and more, only some of them don't happen to have yachts lying
idle. And you mustn't tell them, old man. I wouldn't for anything
have it get out that the _Nun_ is my boat. That's the reason I changed
her name. Some of them might think I was putting on airs, you know, if
it should get out that I kept my yacht here at Siboney."
"But you'll get leave to run down and see her, won't you?"
"Not much, I won't. The dear old skipper would be sure to give me
away, though his orders are not to mention my name in connection with
her."
So the bountiful supply of delicacies and comforts of every kind
provided by Rollo Van Kyp were distributed among the sick and wounded
in the Siboney hospitals, and many a fever-stricken patient owed his
life to the devoted care of the "gray nuns," as the nurses brought by
the yacht were generally called; but only Ridge Norris knew whose was
the generous forethought that had provided all these things.
In the mean time the truce, first declared on that memorable Sunday,
was extended from day to day, for one reason or another, for a week.
General Linares had been wounded early in the fighting, General Vara
del Rey had been killed at Caney, and the command of Santiago had
finally devolved upon General Toral. To him, then, was sent the
summons to surrender. This he refused to do, but begged for time in
which to remove women, children, and other non-combatants from the city
before it should be bombarded. This was allowed, and nearly 20,000 of
these helpless ones, frightened, bewildered, and half famished, were
driven from Santiago to seek such refuge as the surrounding country
might afford. War-wrecked and devastated as it was, its resources in
the way of food and shelter were so slender that hundreds of them died
from exposure, starvation, or disease, and but for the generosity of
the Americans, who fed them to the full extent of their ability,
thousands more must have perished.
And others came out from the beleaguered city; for an exchange of
prisoners had been effected, and just before sunset on the third day of
the truce three horsemen rode towards the American lines along the
palm-shaded highway leading from Santiago. Two of them were Spanish
officers, but one wore the white duck uniform of the American navy, and
behind him clattered an ambulance in which were seven of the proudest,
happiest sailormen ever turned loose from an enemy's prison. They were
Hobson and his men, the heroes of the _Merrimac_, free at last to
return to their own people. And never did heroes receive a more royal
welcome than that accorded this handful of blue-jackets by their
comrades of the army. From the outermost trenches all the way to
Siboney, where a launch awaited them, their progress was an ovation of
wildest enthusiasm. Every soldier of the thousands whom they
encountered first saluted and then cheered until he was hoarse, while
one regimental band after another crashed forth its most inspiring
music in their honor. Out on the star-lit sea lay the great flag-ship
from which these men had departed on their desperate mission more than
a month before, and when, late that evening, they again reached it,
they were once more safe at home with their work well done, and their
fame established forever.
For a week the truce continued, and while the Spaniards strengthened
their defences, the Americans lengthened their lines, built roads over
which to bring up their artillery, provided their camps with bomb-proof
shelters, and received reinforcements. Knowing all this, General Toral
still refused to surrender, and during the afternoon of Sunday, July
10th, the white flags were taken down and a bombardment of the city was
begun. For two hours, or until the coming of darkness, a heavy
cannonade with brisk rifle-fire was kept up by both sides, but with
little damage to either. With sunrise of the following morning it was
resumed.
"I wonder what it is all for?" asked Rollo Van Kyp, as he crouched in
the hot trench, industriously firing his carbine at the flashes from
the Spanish rifle-pits. "We don't seem to hit them, and they certainly
don't hit us. Now if Teddy would only order a charge, it would be
something sensible. But this play-fighting is disgusting!"
Just then a Spanish shell burst close above the heads of this
particular group of Rough Riders, and a fragment from it cut the staff
of the troop guidon, planted in the soft earth, so that the silken flag
fell outward. In an instant Rollo had leaped over the protecting
embankment, picked up the fallen flag, and, amid yells of approbation
from his comrades, restored it to its former position. Then,
half-turning and swinging his hat defiantly above his head, the daring
young trooper sprang back to his place of safety. As he did so,
something seemed to go wrong, and instead of landing on his feet he
pitched awkwardly, and then lay motionless in the bottom of the trench.
At the same moment trumpet and bugle along the whole line sounded the
order "cease firing," and once more the white flags of truce fluttered
in the sunlight. Santiago was again summoned to surrender; and this
time the summons was so seriously considered that, two days later, it
was obeyed. Although no one knew it at the time, the last shot of the
campaign had been fired and the war was virtually ended.
But the last shot had stricken down brave, generous, light-hearted
Rollo Van Kyp just as he had covered himself with glory and was within
a hair's-breadth of safety; for, as Lieutenant Norris knelt anxiously
beside his friend, the gallant young trooper lay as though dead, with
blood streaming over his face.