For A Time It Seemed As Though Every Second Man Was Either Killed Or
Wounded; One Came Upon Them Lying
Behind the bush, under which they
had crawled with some strange idea that it would protect them, or
crouched under
The bank of the stream, or lying on their stomachs and
lapping up the water with the eagerness of thirsty dogs. As to their
suffering, the wounded were magnificently silent, they neither
complained nor groaned nor cursed.
"I've got a punctured tire," was their grim answer to inquiries.
White men and colored men, veterans and recruits and volunteers, each
lay waiting for the battle to begin or to end so that he might be
carried away to safety, for the wounded were in as great danger after
they were hit as though they were in the firing line, but none
questioned nor complained.
I came across Lieutenant Roberts, of the Tenth Cavalry, lying under
the roots of a tree beside the stream with three of his colored
troopers stretched around him. He was shot through the intestines,
and each of the three men with him was shot in the arm or leg. They
had been overlooked or forgotten, and we stumbled upon them only by
the accident of losing our way. They had no knowledge as to how the
battle was going or where their comrades were or where the enemy was.
At any moment, for all they knew, the Spaniards might break through
the bushes about them. It was a most lonely picture, the young
lieutenant, half naked, and wet with his own blood, sitting upright
beside the empty stream, and his three followers crouching at his
feet like three faithful watch-dogs, each wearing his red badge of
courage, with his black skin tanned to a haggard gray, and with his
eyes fixed patiently on the white lips of his officer.
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