The Second Day Ends
_A personal résumé of the fight_--_Lack of melodramatic accompaniments_--_A
lost chance of glory_--_Another neglected opportunity_--_A glimpse of the
flag_--_Once more into camp_.
At the risk of being considered tautological, I cannot refrain from
devoting another chapter to the Hormigueros fight: first, because it was my
initial experience under fire; and, second, because there are more things
in a soldier's memory than are set forth in the official report of his
commanding general.
[Illustration: Plaza Mercado, Mayaguez.]
Our advance-guard, after leaving San German, marched rapidly along the
level road leading to Mayaguez until about three o'clock in the afternoon.
As the head of our column came into view, the country people living along
the route gathered their most precious possessions into huge bundles, and
hurried away across the fields,--a sure sign that we were approaching the
enemy's position. At the hour mentioned we were suddenly set upon by a
blinding shower, and a halt was made for about fifteen minutes, when, the
fury of the downpour having somewhat abated, we once more began to move
ahead. The cavalry had gone off on a side road for some purpose not known
to me, and the infantry was deployed in long lines to the right and left,
while the artillery brought up the rear at an interval of about a hundred
yards. At half-past three the skirmishers came to the Rio Rosario, but,
being unable to ford it, were called back to the road and started across
the iron bridge, already described by General Schwan. It was at this moment
that the Spanish forces opened fire, concealed in a dense undergrowth about
500 yards in our front.
All jammed together as we were, it would seem that we might have been
absolutely slaughtered by the leaden hail which was poured in upon us; and
the only explanation of our marvellous immunity probably lies in the fact
that the enemy were surprisingly bad shots. Bullets whistled by our heads,
or kicked up the dirt at our feet; but, though the pop of rifles made up a
continuous sound like the opening of a hundred thousand beer-bottles, not a
vestige of smoke rose in the clear air, not a patch of hostile uniform was
to be seen.
For some reason our infantry did not at once reply to the Spanish
fusillade; and during this brief interval two men and two horses were
wounded in the platoon of artillery which stood idly just behind the
foot-soldiers,--too close, in fact, to be of any service, and in the way
of everybody. Then the two Gatling guns under Lieutenant Maginnis went off
into the field at our right, where they began to speak for themselves; and
Gatling guns in action have a mighty cheerful effect upon your nerves,
if they happen to be on your side of the fracas. Next, an order from the
general sent the artillery galloping to the rear for about an eighth of a
mile, where, after a short detour to the left and a mad race across swampy,
ditch-dug fields, it took up a temporary position on a convenient knoll.
The main body of our command had meanwhile arrived, and got into the row
without ceremony, the firing now being heavy on both sides. My memory
serves me with no clear impression of the sequence of events after this
period.
[Illustration: Mouth of the Mayaguez River.]
During the first hour of our fighting all the powder used by us was as
smokeless as that of the foe, and again and again the remark was passed
that this did not seem like the real business of war. In other respects
as well there were few of the accompaniments that we conjure up in our
stay-at-home imagination of battle scenes. There was a little galloping of
hooves, not long sustained; an occasional sharp cry of command or sharper
oath; an intermittent rumble and jar from the infrequently moved artillery,
not yet in action; and perhaps a groan or two from the wounded. But, even
when the field-rifles began to boom and shroud the landscape in drifting
smoke, the make-believe aspect of the affair did not in any degree
diminish. There were no clouds of dust, no heaps of slain, no cheers, no
desperate charges, and not even a glimpse of the stars and stripes. Away
to our right we could see crowds of spectators on the elevated platform
surrounding the Sanctuary of Montserrate; and I remember thinking it was
well no admission fee had been charged for the spectacle upon which they
gazed, else they would have murmured themselves defrauded.
[Illustration: A Bit of Yauco.]
My own most thrilling moments came about in this way: The platoon of
artillery to which I belonged had, as already related, decided that its
position directly behind the hotly beset infantry was untenable, and
consequently fell back at speed, for some distance. Standing at the head of
the first piece, with all my faculties engrossed by the scene before me, I
did not hear the order which should have sent me scampering to my seat on
the limber-chest, and so suddenly found myself alone, with my comrades
mounted and away in full career. A glance about me disclosed the fact that
no other living thing was standing up within a radius of five hundred
yards. I was a conspicuous mark for the eager slayers in the adjacent
underbrush; and I ought, of course, to rejoin my section as quickly as
possible. So I ran. It occurred to me that here was my chance to show what
I was made of. I would stop running, fill and light my pipe, and stalk in
a leisurely manner down the white road, thus winning, perhaps, comment
and applause from high places. I say all this occurred to me; but I also
happened to recollect the story told of the survivor of Bull Run, who
replied to a sneering criticism anent the Federal retreat from that famous
field by the sententious rejoinder that "all them as didn't run was there
yet,"--and I felt that I could fully appreciate the point. So I continued
to sprint as fast as I could, leaving the bubble Reputation for other
seekers, or for myself upon some other day and field. I was not afraid, and
I was simply doing my duty; but I sometimes think that I may have neglected
the flood-tide of opportunity, and I often wonder why, in melodramatic
crises, a man's mind is not always able to control his legs.
I was not alone in the disregard of romantic possibilities. Later in the
afternoon I saw a wounded private propped up against a fence, and bleeding
copiously from a bullet-hole that extended through both cheeks. His eyes
were closed, and he was making queer noises in his throat. As I happened to
be idle at the instant, I stepped to his side, and inquired compassionately
if I could do anything for him. He opened his eyes with a jerk, spat forth
a couple of teeth, and replied: "If you'll tell me how the beginning of
'Sweet Marie' goes, I'll give you a piece of my face for a souvenir. I've
been trying to get that blame tune straight for the last fifteen minutes,
but keep getting off my trolley." And he laughed a ghastly laugh. I stared
at him in amazement, and then, seeing that he was not delirious, strode
moodily away. What that man ought to have said was, "How goes the fight?"
or "A drop of water, for God's sake"; but it is the painful truth that he
didn't.
[Illustration: Wooden Dock at Mayaguez. In the Offing can be seen the
German Man-of-war "Geier."]
A striking feature of the engagement was the thoroughly matter-of-fact
manner in which both officers and men went about their work. There was no
strutting, no posing, no shirking, but an evident intention on the part
of all concerned, from General Schwan down, to do whatever had to be done
without unnecessary fuss and feathers, promptly and well. I have seen far
more excitement displayed on an ordinary drill-ground at home, in the
piping times of peace.
A sudden appearance of the flag just after the trumpets had sounded "cease
firing" brought moisture to the eyes of many a toughened veteran; but even
then, with victory still glowing in our grasp, there was not the ghost of a
cheer. We were simply more tired and hungry than usual, and until matters
had been straightened out for the night had no time for sentiment. And,
when we finally went into camp on the very field where we had just ceased
fighting, we found our chief interest centred in hot coffee, crisp
hard-tack, and comfortable blankets. We had begun to realize that we might
have lain stiffer and starker that night but for the whim of chance, and
were silent with the clacking tongue.
* * * * *
Hormigueros, the village which gave its name to this engagement, is a place
of about 3,000 inhabitants, whose houses cluster about the base of the
mountain crowned by the Sanctuary of Montserrate. This church is visited by
an endless stream of pilgrims, and many wild legends are told concerning
it.
[Illustration: "Eleventh of August" Street.]