The "Dolphin" and her passengers and crew reached Porto Rico in safety,
having made the voyage without detention or mishap. The yacht lay in
the harbor of San Juan for nearly a week, while its passengers made
various little excursions here and there to points of interest upon
the island. Then the yacht made its circuit, keeping near enough to
the shore for a good view of the land, in which all were greatly
interested--especially in those parts where there had been some
fighting with the Spaniards in the late war.
"Now, father, you are going to take us to Santiago next, are you not?"
asked Lucilla, as they steamed away from the Porto Rican coast.
"Yes," he replied, "I am satisfied that you all take a particular
interest in that place, feeling that you would like to see the scene
of the naval battle and perhaps to look from a distance upon some of
the places where there was fighting on land."
"It will be interesting," said little Elsie, "but, oh, how glad I am
that the fighting is all over!"
"As I am," said her father; "but if it wasn't, I should not think of
taking my family and friends to the scene."
"That was a big battle," said Ned. "I'm glad I'm going to see the place
of the fight; though I'd rather see Manila and its bay, because Brother
Max had a share in that fight. Uncle Harold, you came pretty near
having a share in the Santiago one, didn't you?"
"I was near enough to be in sight of some of it," said Harold; "though
not so near as to some of the fighting on the land."
"That must have been a very exciting time for you and your fellows,"
remarked Mr. Lilburn.
"It was, indeed; there was slaughter enough on land," said Harold; "and
though we were pretty confident that victory would perch upon our
banners in the sea fight, we could not hope it would prove so nearly
bloodless for our side."
"The sea fight?"
"Yes; that on the land was harder on our fellows, particularly because
our unreasonable Congressmen had failed to furnish for them the
smokeless powder and Mauser bullets that gave so great an advantage to
the Spaniards."
"Yes, indeed," said the Captain, "that absolute freedom from smoke made
it impossible to tell exactly whence came those stinging darts that
struck men down, and the great penetrating power of the Mauser bullet
made them doubly deadly. They would cut through a palm-tree without
losing anything of their force, and, in several instances, two or more
men were struck down by one and the same missile."
"It was very sad that that gallant young soldier, Captain Capron, was
killed by that first volley," remarked Violet.
"Yes," said her mother, "I remember reading the account of his death,
and that he came of a family of soldiers; that his father, engaged with
his battery before the Spanish lines, left it for a brief time and came
over to where the body of his son lay on the rank grass, and, looking
for a moment on the still features, stooped and kissed the dead face,
saying, 'Well done, boy, well done.' That was all, and he went back to
the battle."
"Yes, mother," said Harold, in moved tones, "my heart aches yet when I
think of that poor, bereaved but brave father. Ah, war is a dreadful
thing, even when undertaken from the good motive which influenced our
people, who felt so much sympathy for the poor, abused Cubans."
"The Americans are, as a rule, kind-hearted folk," remarked Mr.
Lilburn, "and I doubt if there are any troops in the world superior to
them in action; not even those of my own land."
"No," said the Captain, "they were brave fellows and good fighters,
having seen service in our Northwest and Southwest, on the prairies,
among the mountains and on the Mexican frontier, so that war was no new
thing to them, and they went about it calmly even in so unaccustomed a
place as a tropical forest."
"Papa, that Captain Capron wasn't instantly killed by that Mauser
bullet, was he?" asked Grace.
"No; he was struck down early in the action and knew that his wound
was mortal, but he called to a man near him to give him the rifle that
lay by the side of a dead soldier; then, propped up against a tree,
he fired at the enemy with it until his strength failed, when he fell
forward to die."
"What a brave fellow! It is dreadful to have such men killed," said
Grace, her voice trembling with emotion.
"Another man, Private Heffener, also fought leaning against a tree
until he bled to death," said Harold. "Then there was Trooper Rowland,
a cowboy from New Mexico, who was shot through the lungs early in that
fight. He said nothing about it, but kept his place on the firing-line
till Roosevelt noticed the blood on his shirt and sent him to the
hospital. He was soon back again and seeing him Colonel Roosevelt said,
'I thought I sent you to the hospital.' 'Yes, sir; you did,' replied
Rowland, 'but I didn't see that they could do much for me there, so I
came back.' He stayed there until the fight ended. Then he went again
to the hospital. Upon examining him the doctors decided that he must be
sent back to the States, with which decision he was greatly disgusted.
That night he got possession of his rifle and pack, slipped out of the
hospital, made his way back to his command and stayed there."
"Perhaps," said Grandma Elsie, "you have not all read Marshall's
experiences then and there. It happens that I have just been re-reading
an extract which has interested me greatly. Let me read it aloud that
you may all have the benefit of it. It is a description of the scene
in the field hospital where badly wounded men lay crowded together
awaiting their turns under the surgeon's knife. Shall I read it?"
There was a universal note of assent from her hearers, and she began.
"There is one incident of the day which shines out in my memory
above all others now, as I lie in a New York hospital, writing.
It occurred at the field hospital. About a dozen of us were lying
there. A continual chorus of moans rose through the tree-branches
overhead. The surgeons, with hands and bared arms dripping, and clothes
literally saturated, with blood, were straining every nerve to prepare
the wounded for the journey down to Siboney. Behind me lay Captain
McClintock, with his lower leg-bones literally ground to powder. He
bore his pain as gallantly as he had led his men, and that is saying
much. I think Major Brodie was also there. It was a doleful group.
Amputation and death stared its members in their gloomy faces.
"Suddenly, a voice started softly:
'My country, 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,
Of thee I sing.'
"Other voices took it up:
'Land where my fathers died,
Land of the Pilgrims' pride----'
"The quivering, quavering chorus, punctuated by groans and made
spasmodic by pain, trembled up from that little group of wounded
Americans in the midst of the Cuban solitude--the pluckiest, most
heartfelt song that human beings ever sang. There was one voice that
did not quite keep up with the others. It was so weak that I did not
hear it until all the rest had finished with the line:
'Let Freedom ring.'
"Then, halting, struggling, faint, it repeated slowly:
'Land--of--the--Pilgrims'--pride,
Let Freedom----'
"The last word was a woeful cry. One more son had died as died the
fathers."
There was a moment's pause when Grandma Elsie had finished reading, and
there were tears in the eyes of many of her hearers.
It was Harold who broke the silence.
"That battle of Guasimas was a complete victory for our forces, but
dearly paid for," he said; "of the nine hundred and sixty-four men
engaged, sixteen were killed and fifty-two wounded; thirty-four of the
wounded and eight of the killed were Rough Riders."
"And a scarcity of doctors seems to have caused great suffering to our
wounded men," Grandma Elsie said, with a sigh.
"Yes; there were too few of us," said Harold, "and, through somebody's
blundering, needed supplies were also scarce. I think our men were
wonderfully patient, and it is hard to forgive those whose carelessness
and inefficiency caused them so much unnecessary suffering."
"Yes, it is," said his mother; "war is a dreadful thing. How the
people of beleaguered Santiago suffered during the siege, and
especially when they were sent out of it that they might escape the
bombardment. Think of eighteen to twenty thousand having to take refuge
in that little town, El Caney, foul with the effluvium from unburied
mules and horses, and even human victims of the battle; houses so
crowded that they could not even lie down on the floors, but had to
pass their nights sitting on them; and food so scarce that one small
biscuit sold for two dollars, and seven dollars was refused for a
chicken."
"It was dreadful, dreadful indeed!" said Mrs. Lilburn.
"Yet not so bad as it would have been to let Spain continue her
outrageous cruelty to the poor Cubans," said Evelyn.
"No," said Lucilla, "I should be sorry, indeed, to have to render up
the account that Weyler and the rest of them will in the Judgment Day."
"I think he is worse than a savage," sighed Mrs. Lilburn. "I should
think if he had any heart or conscience he would never be able to enjoy
a morsel of food for thinking of the multitude of poor creatures--men,
women and children--he has starved to death."