THE SITUATION WELL IN HAND
Zoom! Whiz-z-z, and then a distant bursting cloud of cottony white
smoke high in the blue sky over the hill called Coyotepe. Soon the
waiting ear heard the sharp explosion of that seemingly soft fluffy
cotton-ball, which in reality carried death in its wake, for with the
bursting came hundreds of tiny bits of steel and bullets seeking out the
enemy behind their entrenchments. And through the day and the night
following the sound of the field guns prepared the way for the attacking
marines, sailors and Federal troops the next morning.
At the first break of day two battalions of United States Marines began
their advance. In reserve, a battalion of sailors, as yet untried in
land warfare, fretted and fussed at their position behind the actual
firing line, and some even rolled in the yellow mud till their white
suits were the color of marine khaki and then, rifle in hand, sneaked
away from their command and joined their brothers in arms. As for the
Nicaraguans, supposed to attack but not relishing the job, they delayed
and delayed, only too happy to let Colonel Pendleton and his command
assume the task of attempting to drive Zeladon and his insurrectos from
Coyotepe and Barrancas. Deep down in their hearts they felt that what
no Nicaraguan army had yet accomplished could never be carried to a
successful issue by these few pale-faced Americans from the North.
No! It seemed that those who held these two hills which commanded the
road and railroad, north and south, could never be driven from them.
Yet, little by little, step by step, up the rocky, slippery slopes,
struggled the thin brown lines of marines. On through briar and bush;
over jagged cliff or bullet-strewn open space; on and ever on. Through
prepared traps of barbed wire; cutting, slashing, firing, sweating,
swearing, always upward, till finally in one mad, glad, glorious,
soul-stirring, blood-thrilling rush, they mounted the earthworks on the
hilltop's crest, in spite of rocks, in spite of cannon, in spite of
rifle, in spite of machine-gun fire, and there at bayonet's point
engaged in hand-to-hand conflict with enraged men and wild Amazonian
women who wielded bloody machetes with fanatical frenzy.
With those who shared in the glory of that conquest was Richard
Comstock, his breath coming in short, labored gasps; the rifle he held,
taken from a fallen comrade far down the slope, still burning hot, and
the knife-like blade of the bayonet shining brightly in the early
morning sunlight.
And the marines accomplished this supposedly impossible task in less
than forty minutes from the beginning of their advance. Is it any
wonder that the natives of the countries where the fighters visit and
uphold the glory of the stars and stripes, honor and respect them,
individually and collectively?
After the pursuit of the fleeing rebels the Federal troops, encouraged
by the unbelievable success of their allies, attacked, took and sacked
the town of Masaya in true native style, which always involves useless
destruction and uncalled-for brutality.
The "handwriting on the wall" was now unmistakable and when later in the
day some of the victorious troops and the battery of field guns were
entrained and started for Leon, the rebels in that city gave up all hope
of ever putting their candidate into office.
Carrying despatches on the first train north went Sergeant Dorlan and
his guard, Dick Comstock, and in those despatches was a very
complimentary letter to Dick's immediate commanding officer which told
of his timely warning and the manner of its accomplishment.
Barrancas and Coyotepe were taken on October fourth, and on the sixth
long lines of marines and sailors were seen leaving Camp Pendleton.
That the rebels had agreed to surrender and lay down their arms without
a fight was very much doubted, and Lieutenant Colonel Long, who had
charge of the coming occupation, was going to enter the town in force
and take no chances of a possible ambush.
Immediately after reveille the first troops had quietly reenforced the
company already on duty at the railroad station. This was done without
incident, and then on three sides of the city the forces began their
advance. The rebel troops, knowing that their leaders, Generals Rivas
and Osorio, had fled, had spent the night in drinking and debauchery. As
the main column debauched into the principal street and the excited,
inflamed wearers of the red cockades saw the stars and stripes of the
United States flaunting in the breeze, they resorted to their usual
street fighting tactics.
Street by street the marines advanced. Every inch of the way was
disputed and the bullets whizzed and cracked, sang and stung; taking
their tally of wounded and dead.
"Dick, me lad, I'd give me old pipe, I would, to be able to be on ahead
with the advance instead of here with the colors, much as I love 'em,"
announced Dorlan as he stood in the shelter of an overhanging roof and
watched the windows of a pretentious building on his right.
Reaching a street corner or alley a little later it was found that the
natives had resorted to their brutal, inhuman tactics in dealing even
with civilized troops. A sailor, stripped of his clothing and
mutilated, was lying in the roadway. Perhaps he had lost his section
and wandering here trying to locate it, was set upon by the cruel
natives.
"Ah! a sight like that makes the very blood in me bile," said Mike,
shaking his fist in the direction of the dodging opponents far up the
street; "if I knew the feller what did that to the poor flatfoot,[#] I'd
be a brute meself and tear him to pieces with me bare hands."
[#] "Flatfoot"--Marine Corps slang for a sailor.
"Look out, Dorlan," yelled Dick, and falling flat on the rough cobble
stones in the middle of the street he emptied a clip of cartridges into
a doorway which that moment was flung open, and from which a half dozen
rifle barrels were pointing from behind a rough barricade. But he did
not stop the volley of shots which followed, and the heavy leaden slugs
splashed, pattered, and flattened all about the little color guard.
They rained against the walls of the buildings on either hand, gouging
out great chunks of mortar and plaster to a depth of several inches, and
one bullet, partly spent, struck Dick in the shoulder, penetrated to the
bone and lodged there.
"I guess I'm hit, old pal," he said weakly to Mike, after they had
silenced the fighters behind the barricade and had gone on for a couple
of blocks. "I thought it was only a scratch, but the blood's running
down my back, and----" but just then it seemed as though a great
thunder-storm was descending upon the city; the sky grew black and the
darkness came so swiftly that he could not see where to step, and with a
sob he fell into the arms of his faithful friend.
"After all, it is not much more than a scratch; it is lack of sleep and
nourishment during the last few days," said the surgeon, handing Dick a
piece of lead he had recently removed from the boy's wound, "but I have
recommended that you be sent back to Corinto, where you can receive
proper attention on board ship."
"But is the fighting all over?" asked Dick weakly.
"Surest thing you know, my boy, for 'the marines have landed and have
the situation well in hand,' as the papers always say," answered the
surgeon smiling.
"Thanks for the Navy's bringing us here," added Dick with a wan smile,
and then he dropped off into a much needed peaceful sleep.
Two days later as he lay on his white bunk in the sick bay of the U.S.S.
_Buffalo_, steaming southward to Panama, and the wonderful hospital at
Ancon, a letter was handed him. On opening it he found a document
appointing him a corporal in the United States Marine Corps. Also
enclosed was a very complimentary letter from the Commanding Officer of
Marines ashore, thanking him for his excellent work during the exciting
days of the campaign, and at the end he read with satisfaction that,
owing to his information, a certain German and his accomplice had been
arrested by the Government authorities and were on their way to the
coast, where they were to be deported, and forbidden ever to return.