The insurgent general stood in the middle of the road gnawing his lips.
Occasionally, he stamped a foot and beat his hands passionately
together. The carriers were streaming past him, patient, sweating
fellows, bowed under their burdens, but they could not move fast enough
for him when others of his men were engaged both to the east and to the
west, and he, too, knew from the sound that those to the east were in a
sore way. Moreover, he could hear that accursed bugling, bugling,
bugling in the west.
He turned suddenly to the new lieutenant who stood behind him, pale and
quiet. "Did you ever think a hundred men were so many?" he cried,
incensed to the point of beating them. Then he said longingly: "Oh, for
a half an hour! Or even twenty minutes!"
A practico racked violently up from the east. It is characteristic of
these men that, although they take a certain roadster gait and hold it
for ever, they cannot really run, sprint, race. "Captain Rodriguez is
attacked by two hundred men, señor, and the cavalry is behind them. He
wishes to know----"
The general was furious; he pointed. "Go! Tell Rodriguez to hold his
place for twenty minutes, even if he leaves every man dead."
The practico shambled hastily off.
The last of the carriers were swarming across the road. The
rifle-drumming in the east was swelling out and out, evidently coming
slowly nearer. The general bit his nails. He wheeled suddenly upon the
young lieutenant. "Go to Bas at the blockhouse. Tell him to hold the
devil himself for ten minutes and then bring his men out of that
place."
The long line of bearers was crawling like a dun worm toward the safety
of the foot-hills. High bullets sang a faint song over the aide as he
saluted. The bugles had in the west ceased, and that was more ominous
than bugling. It meant that the Spanish troops were about to march, or
perhaps that they had marched.
The young lieutenant ran along the road until he came to the bend which
marked the range of sight from the blockhouse. He drew his machete, his
stunning new machete, and hacked feverishly at the barbed wire fence
which lined the north side of the road at that point. The first wire
was obdurate, because it was too high for his stroke, but two more cut
like candy, and he stepped over the remaining one, tearing his trousers
in passing on the lively serpentine ends of the severed wires. Once out
in the field and bullets seemed to know him and call for him and speak
their wish to kill him. But he ran on, because it was his duty, and
because he would be shamed before men if he did not do his duty, and
because he was desolate out there all alone in the fields with death.
A man running in this manner from the rear was in immensely greater
danger than those who lay snug and close. But he did not know it. He
thought because he was five hundred--four hundred and fifty--four
hundred yards away from the enemy and the others were only three
hundred yards away that they were in far more peril. He ran to join
them because of his opinion. He did not care to do it, but he thought
that was what men of his kind would do in such a case. There was a
standard and he must follow it, obey it, because it was a monarch, the
Prince of Conduct.
A bewildered and alarmed face raised itself from the grass and a voice
cried to him: "Drop, Manolo! Drop! Drop!" He recognised Bas and flung
himself to the earth beside him.
"Why," he said panting, "what's the matter?"
"Matter?" said Bas. "You are one of the most desperate and careless
officers I know. When I saw you coming I wouldn't have given a peseta
for your life."
"Oh, no," said the young aide. Then he repeated his orders rapidly. But
he was hugely delighted. He knew Bas well; Bas was a pupil of Maceo;
Bas invariably led his men; he never was a mere spectator of their
battle; he was known for it throughout the western end of the island.
The new officer had early achieved a part of his ambition--to be called
a brave man by established brave men.
"Well, if we get away from here quickly it will be better for us," said
Bas, bitterly. "I've lost six men killed, and more wounded. Rodriguez
can't hold his position there, and in a little time more than a
thousand men will come from the other direction."
He hissed a low call, and later the young aide saw some of the men
sneaking off with the wounded, lugging them on their backs as porters
carry sacks. The fire from the blockhouse had become a-weary, and as
the insurgent fire also slackened, Bas and the young lieutenant lay in
the weeds listening to the approach of the eastern fight, which was
sliding toward them like a door to shut them off.
Bas groaned. "I leave my dead. Look there." He swung his hand in a
gesture and the lieutenant looking saw a corpse. He was not stricken as
he expected; there was very little blood; it was a mere thing.
"Time to travel," said Bas suddenly. His imperative hissing brought his
men near him; there were a few hurried questions and answers; then,
characteristically, the men turned in the grass, lifted their rifles,
and fired a last volley into the blockhouse, accompanying it with their
shrill cries. Scrambling low to the ground, they were off in a winding
line for safety. Breathing hard, the lieutenant stumbled his way
forward. Behind him he could hear the men calling each to each: "Segue!
Segue! Segue! Go on! Get out! Git!" Everybody understood that the peril
of crossing the road was compounding from minute to minute.