But the fanatical Moros would not give up; there they stood in the very
midst of that hurricane of death, calm, immovable, and indifferent to it
all. Their resistance could not help but be admired as they stood there
calm and defiant, against that advancing, enveloping thunderstorm of
musketry. But it must not be imagined that they were idle; far from it.
If one can imagine taking a handful of pebbles and hurling them with a
strong force against a pane of glass, then, and then only, can one
imagine the whirlwind of bullets which the Moros were pouring into that
little army of Americans out there in the open.
When it is considered that the Americans were out in the open storming
this fort while the Moros were strongly fortified and deeply intrenched,
the fierceness of the battle and the heroism of the troops can be
imagined. Nothing like it had ever been seen before and nothing like it
ever will be seen again. Regardless of bullets and the flying fragments
of shell and shrapnel, Baldwin's men kept steadily onward and upward,
until they were within a few yards of that impregnable wall, through
whose portholes there poured a constant stream of fire. It was like
gazing through the doors of a red hot furnace. And all the time the
swarm of blue-shirted figures rolled on and upward until they could have
dropped a stone over the wall.
They had now gone the limit, as they were very near the dangerous zone
of the exploding shrapnel and were compelled to halt to keep from being
struck by their own men.