They seemed endless, interminable; there
were cavalry mounted and dismounted, artillery with cracking whips
and cursing drivers, Rough Riders in brown, and regulars, both black
and white, in blue.
Midnight came, and they were still stumbling and
slipping forward.
General Sumner's head-quarters tent was pitched to the right of El
Poso hill. Below us lay the basin a mile and a half in length, and a
mile and a half wide, from which a white mist was rising. Near us,
drowned under the mist, seven thousand men were sleeping, and,
farther to the right, General Chaffee's five thousand were lying
under the bushes along the trails to El Caney, waiting to march on it
and eat it up before breakfast.
The place hardly needs a map to explain it. The trails were like a
pitchfork, with its prongs touching the hills of San Juan. The long
handle of the pitchfork was the trail over which we had just come,
the joining of the handle and the prongs were El Poso. El Caney lay
half-way along the right prong, the left one was the trail down
which, in the morning, the troops were to be hurled upon San Juan.
It was as yet an utterly undiscovered country. Three miles away,
across the basin of mist, we could see the street lamps of Santiago
shining over the San Juan hills. Above us, the tropical moon hung
white and clear in the dark purple sky, pierced with millions of
white stars.
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