To load his piece, each of our men
was forced to crawl to it on his stomach, rise on one elbow in order
to shove in the shell and lock the breech, and then, still flat on
the ground, wriggle below the crest. In the three minutes three men
were wounded and two killed; and the guns were withdrawn. I also
withdrew. I withdrew first. Indeed, all that happened after the
first three seconds of those three minutes is hearsay, for I was in
the Santiago road at the foot of the hill and retreating briskly.
This road also was under a cross-fire, which made it stretch in
either direction to an interminable distance. I remember a
government teamster driving a Studebaker wagon filled with ammunition
coming up at a gallop out of this interminable distance and seeking
shelter against the base of the hill. Seated beside him was a small
boy, freckled and sunburned, a stowaway from one of the transports.
He was grandly happy and excited, and his only fear was that he was
not "under fire." From our coign of safety, with our backs to the
hill, the teamster and I assured him that, on that point, he need
feel no morbid doubt. But until a bullet embedded itself in the blue
board of the wagon he was not convinced. Then with his jack-knife he
dug it out and shouted with pleasure. "I guess the folks will have
to believe I was in a battle now," he said. That coign of safety
ceasing to be a coign of safety caused us to move on in search of
another, and I came upon Sergeant Borrowe blocking the road with his
dynamite gun. He and his brother and three regulars were busily
correcting a hitch in its mechanism. An officer carrying an order
along the line halted his sweating horse and gazed at the strange gun
with professional knowledge.
"That must be the dynamite gun I have heard so much about," he
shouted. Borrowe saluted and shouted assent. The officer, greatly
interested, forgot his errand.
"I'd like to see you fire it once," he said eagerly. Borrowe,
delighted at the chance to exhibit his toy to a professional soldier,
beamed with equal eagerness.
"In just a moment, sir," he said; "this shell seems to have jammed a
bit." The officer, for the first time seeing the shell stuck in the
breech, hurriedly gathered up his reins. He seemed to be losing
interest. With elaborate carelessness I began to edge off down the
road.
"Wait," Borrowe begged; "we'll have it out in a minute."
Suddenly I heard the officer's voice raised wildly.
"What - what," he gasped, "is that man doing with that axe?"
"He's helping me to get out this shell," said Borrowe.
"Good God!" said the officer. Then he remembered his errand.
Until last year, when I again met young Borrowe gayly disporting
himself at a lawn-tennis tournament at Mattapoisett, I did not know
whether his brother's method of removing dynamite with an axe had
been entirely successful. He said it worked all right.
At the turn of the road I found Colonel Leonard Wood and a group of
Rough Riders, who were busily intrenching. At the same moment
Stephen Crane came up with "Jimmy" Hare, the man who has made the
Russian-Japanese War famous. Crane walked to the crest and stood
there as sharply outlined as a semaphore, observing the enemy's
lines, and instantly bringing upon himself and us the fire of many
Mausers. With every one else, Wood was crouched below the crest and
shouted to Crane to lie down. Crane, still standing, as though to
get out of ear-shot, moved away, and Wood again ordered him to lie
down.
"You're drawing the fire on these men," Wood commanded. Although the
heat - it was the 1st of July in the tropics - was terrific, Crane wore
a long India rubber rain-coat and was smoking a pipe. He appeared as
cool as though he were looking down from a box at a theatre. I knew
that to Crane, anything that savored of a pose was hateful, so, as I
did not want to see him killed, I called, "You're not impressing any
one by doing that, Crane." As I hoped he would, he instantly dropped
to his knees. When he crawled over to where we lay, I explained, "I
knew that would fetch you," and he grinned, and said, "Oh, was that
it?"
A captain of the cavalry came up to Wood and asked permission to
withdraw his troop from the top of the hill to a trench forty feet
below the one they were in. "They can't possibly live where they are
now," he explained, "and they're doing no good there, for they can't
raise their heads to fire. In that lower trench they would be out of
range themselves and would be able to fire back."
"Yes," said Wood, "but all the other men in the first trench would
see them withdraw, and the moral effect would be bad. They needn't
attempt to return the enemy's fire, but they must not retreat."
The officer looked as though he would like to argue. He was a West
Point graduate and a full-fledged captain in the regular army. To
him, Wood, in spite of his volunteer rank of colonel, which that day,
owing to the illness of General Young, had placed him in command of a
brigade, was still a doctor. But discipline was strong in him, and
though he looked many things, he rose from his knees and grimly
saluted. But at that moment, without waiting for the permission of
any one, the men leaped out of the trench and ran.
