Munroe Kirk
"Forward, March": A Tale of the Spanish-American War
CHAPTER XXVIII
LAST SHOT OF THE CAMPAIGN
The American army occupying the muddy trenches before Santiago had been rendered very unhappy that morning by a rumor that Cervera's ships had made a dash from the harbor, evaded the blockade, and escaped almost unharmed. How this rumor started no one knew, but it spread like wildfire, and was generally believed. There was ample opportunity for discussing it, since all firing had ceased, while under a flag of truce an envoy from General Shafter demanded the surrender of Santiago. So the men in the trenches were free to stand erect and stretch themselves, to wander about, leaving their rifles in position between the sand-bags, and even to make little fires, over which to boil cups of coffee, all without drawing the fire of a single Spanish sharp-shooter. It was a very novel sensation, and they enjoyed it. At the same time they were not happy, for Cervera's ships had escaped. What could the Yankee sailors have been about to let such a thing happen? What a disgrace it was, and how the whole world would jeer! Even Santiago seemed hardly worth capturing now.
All at once a sound of shouting was borne faintly to their ears from the distant rear. What had happened? Had they been outflanked by the Spaniards and attacked from that direction? No, for a band was playing on El Poso Hill, and the sound of shouting was advancing, like a roar of the sea. No one looked towards Santiago now, but all eyes, turned to the rear, were fixed on the point where the Sevilla road left the timber. At this place they gazed in eager but silent anticipation. Suddenly a horseman emerged from it and dashed at full speed across the valley, waving his hat and yelling as he came.
Up the slope of San Juan Hill he charged and through the terraced camps, that broke into a jubilant roar as he reached them. But he did not pause until he had gained the very trenches, where among the wondering Rough Riders he slipped wearily from his foam-flecked horse, shouting huskily but exultantly as he did so:
"Sampson has destroyed the Spanish fleet! Not a ship escaped! I know, for I saw the whole fight!"
"Hurrah!" "Hooray!" "Whoop-ee!" "Wow, wow, wow!" howled the Riders, as in their wild jubilation they danced, hugged each other, and flung things in the air. Then they raised Ridge high on their shoulders and bore him as proudly aloft as though he alone had achieved the wonderful victory of which he brought the news. Indeed, they seemed to believe that but for his presence with the American ships things might perhaps have gone differently, and Rollo Van Kyp only voiced the general sentiment when he said:
"Lucky thing for Sampson that he had at least one 'Terror' along to see that the scrap was conducted according to rules. How I wish, though, that the Nun had got here in time to take part in that fight, for she can outfoot the old Corsair--Gloucester, I mean–almost two to one. If she had only been on hand I believe she would have captured one of these little fellows alive, before he had a chance to make the beach."
"The who?" asked Ridge, in perplexity, for the latter part of this remark had been addressed to him alone.
"The Nun. Gray Nun is her whole name. My yacht–used to be the Royal Flush, you know. I offered her to the government as a gift, to be converted into a war-ship. But they wouldn't accept her. So I changed her name, and turned her over to the Red Cross people, to use as long as they had need of her. Don't know, though, as they took me up, for we left about that time, and I haven't heard since."
"But they did!" exclaimed Ridge. "And she reached Siboney to-day, for I saw her there not more than two hours ago, flying a Red Cross flag, and crowded with nurses."
"Good enough!" cried Rollo. "That is almost as fine news as the other. The old Flush must feel funny, though, all cluttered up with nurses, for that isn't exactly the kind of a crowd she has been used to. Same time, if my steward carried out the orders I wired him, she must be loaded to the muzzle with good things to eat and drink, for I told him to fill her up with the best to be had in New York City. So if any of the fellows are hankering for a change of grub, all they've got to do is to catch a fever or a Mauser bullet, and apply for a berth on the Nun. For my own part I prefer hardtack, bacon, and good health; but then tastes differ, you know."
"It was a splendid thing to do!" exclaimed Ridge; "and I don't believe there is another in the command would have thought of it. The boys will be prouder than ever of the old regiment to know that it contains a fellow not only able but willing to do such a thing."
"Oh, pshaw!" replied Rollo, flushing. "There isn't one but would do as much and more, only some of them don't happen to have yachts lying idle. And you mustn't tell them, old man. I wouldn't for anything have it get out that the Nun is my boat. That's the reason I changed her name. Some of them might think I was putting on airs, you know, if it should get out that I kept my yacht here at Siboney."
"But you'll get leave to run down and see her, won't you?"
"Not much, I won't. The dear old skipper would be sure to give me away, though his orders are not to mention my name in connection with her."
So the bountiful supply of delicacies and comforts of every kind provided by Rollo Van Kyp were distributed among the sick and wounded in the Siboney hospitals, and many a fever-stricken patient owed his life to the devoted care of the "gray nuns," as the nurses brought by the yacht were generally called; but only Ridge Norris knew whose was the generous forethought that had provided all these things.
In the mean time the truce, first declared on that memorable Sunday, was extended from day to day, for one reason or another, for a week. General Linares had been wounded early in the fighting, General Vara del Rey had been killed at Caney, and the command of Santiago had finally devolved upon General Toral. To him, then, was sent the summons to surrender. This he refused to do, but begged for time in which to remove women, children, and other non-combatants from the city before it should be bombarded. This was allowed, and nearly 20,000 of these helpless ones, frightened, bewildered, and half famished, were driven from Santiago to seek such refuge as the surrounding country might afford. War-wrecked and devastated as it was, its resources in the way of food and shelter were so slender that hundreds of them died from exposure, starvation, or disease, and but for the generosity of the Americans, who fed them to the full extent of their ability, thousands more must have perished.
And others came out from the beleaguered city; for an exchange of prisoners had been effected, and just before sunset on the third day of the truce three horsemen rode towards the American lines along the palm-shaded highway leading from Santiago. Two of them were Spanish officers, but one wore the white duck uniform of the American navy, and behind him clattered an ambulance in which were seven of the proudest, happiest sailormen ever turned loose from an enemy's prison. They were Hobson and his men, the heroes of the Merrimac, free at last to return to their own people. And never did heroes receive a more royal welcome than that accorded this handful of blue-jackets by their comrades of the army. From the outermost trenches all the way to Siboney, where a launch awaited them, their progress was an ovation of wildest enthusiasm. Every soldier of the thousands whom they encountered first saluted and then cheered until he was hoarse, while one regimental band after another crashed forth its most inspiring music in their honor. Out on the star-lit sea lay the great flag-ship from which these men had departed on their desperate mission more than a month before, and when, late that evening, they again reached it, they were once more safe at home with their work well done, and their fame established forever.
For a week the truce continued, and while the Spaniards strengthened their defences, the Americans lengthened their lines, built roads over which to bring up their artillery, provided their camps with bomb-proof shelters, and received reinforcements. Knowing all this, General Toral still refused to surrender, and during the afternoon of Sunday, July 10th, the white flags were taken down and a bombardment of the city was begun. For two hours, or until the coming of darkness, a heavy cannonade with brisk rifle-fire was kept up by both sides, but with little damage to either. With sunrise of the following morning it was resumed.
"I wonder what it is all for?" asked Rollo Van Kyp, as he crouched in the hot trench, industriously firing his carbine at the flashes from the Spanish rifle-pits. "We don't seem to hit them, and they certainly don't hit us. Now if Teddy would only order a charge, it would be something sensible. But this play-fighting is disgusting!"
Just then a Spanish shell burst close above the heads of this particular group of Rough Riders, and a fragment from it cut the staff of the troop guidon, planted in the soft earth, so that the silken flag fell outward. In an instant Rollo had leaped over the protecting embankment, picked up the fallen flag, and, amid yells of approbation from his comrades, restored it to its former position. Then, half-turning and swinging his hat defiantly above his head, the daring young trooper sprang back to his place of safety. As he did so, something seemed to go wrong, and instead of landing on his feet he pitched awkwardly, and then lay motionless in the bottom of the trench.
At the same moment trumpet and bugle along the whole line sounded the order "cease firing," and once more the white flags of truce fluttered in the sunlight. Santiago was again summoned to surrender; and this time the summons was so seriously considered that, two days later, it was obeyed. Although no one knew it at the time, the last shot of the campaign had been fired and the war was virtually ended.
But the last shot had stricken down brave, generous, light-hearted Rollo Van Kyp just as he had covered himself with glory and was within a hair's-breadth of safety; for, as Lieutenant Norris knelt anxiously beside his friend, the gallant young trooper lay as though dead, with blood streaming over his face.
CHAPTER XXIX
TWO INVALID HEROES
Rollo Van Kyp, carefully lifted from the bloody trench in which he had fought and suffered so cheerfully, was borne to the rear, and the assistant surgeon of his regiment accompanied him to the hospital at Siboney. Ridge Norris wanted to do this, but his duties would not permit of his absence, for officers were becoming scarce, and as yet no one knew but that the fighting might be resumed at any moment. So he watched the departure of the ambulance with a heavy heart, and the whole troop shared his sorrow at the loss of their well-loved comrade.
The next day the assistant surgeon returned and reported Rollo's wound apparently so serious that there was little hope for him. "There was just one chance," he added, in answer to Lieutenant Norris's anxious inquiry for details, "and, by good luck, I secured it for him at the last moment. He would surely have died in Siboney, but if he can get home and into a Northern hospital he may pull through. By the greatest good fortune a Red Cross ship was about to start for the States with a number of the worst cases; and, just as she was sailing, I managed to get Van Kyp aboard. She was so crowded that they weren't going to take him, until her skipper–as big-hearted a Yankee sailorman as ever trod a deck–said he would give up his own cabin rather than have a Rough Rider left behind to die."
"What was his name?" asked Ridge.
"Haven't an idea."
"Do you know the name of the ship?"
"Yes, of course. She is the Gray Nun, a converted yacht."
"Rollo Van Kyp's own boat!" cried Ridge.
"You don't mean it?"
"I do." And then Ridge told all that he knew of his friend's splendid contribution to the service that was doing more than the government itself towards alleviating the sufferings of the American troops before Santiago. When he finished, he said, "Of course the skipper recognized Van Kyp?"
"No, he didn't," replied the other–"at least, not then, for the poor chap's face was covered to protect it from the sun, and I didn't mention his name until after he had been taken aboard, when I gave it to the surgeon in charge. At first I only described him as a Rough Rider wounded in recovering his troop flag, and the skipper said that was all he wanted to know about him."
Besides his news of Rollo, the surgeon had brought from Siboney a number of letters recently arrived there for the Rough Riders, and one of these was handed to Ridge. Opening it curiously, for he did not recognize the handwriting of its address, the latter read as follows:
"DEAR MR. NORRIS,–I have just been made very happy by learning from a friend of yours, a Mr. Comly, who is in the navy, that you are not only alive and well, but still with your regiment, and have done all sorts of splendid things. This is news that will cause great rejoicing among all your friends, including your own family, who have been very anxious and unhappy concerning you. Major Dodley reported in New Orleans that you had been placed under arrest for desertion–of course no one who knew you believed that for a moment–but had escaped and run away. Your father was so furious that he gave the Major a horse-whipping in front of the St. Charles, and made him take back every word. Then he telegraphed and wrote to Tampa; but half of your regiment had left, and those who remained behind could tell nothing except that you had disappeared in a very mysterious manner. You may imagine the distress of your father.
"I had returned to my own home, but Dulce wrote me all about it, and I received her letter when on the point of starting for New York to offer my services as a Red Cross nurse, for I didn't feel that I could let the war go on a day longer without having some share in it. I was accepted, and immediately assigned to duty aboard the society's ship Gray Nun, to which I am still attached. That is how I happen to be here, and I am so glad I came, for I don't believe even you can imagine how much we were needed. I have also discovered you, and shall write to Dulce at once. Hoping that we may meet before long, I remain,
"Very sincerely your friend,
"SPENCE CUTHBERT.
"On board Gray Nun, off Siboney, July 8, 1898."
"Whew!" whistled Ridge, softly, as he finished reading this letter. "If that isn't a budget of news! Spence Cuthbert here in Cuba nursing wounded soldiers! But it is just like the dear girl to do such a thing. If I had only known of it sooner, though, I might have found a chance to run down to Siboney and see her. Now it is too late, for the Nun has gone again. She will discover Rollo, though, and take care of him. Lucky fellow! Wish I was in his place! And Comly, too! He must have made that call and scraped an acquaintance. What cheek those navy chaps have, anyway! So Dodley reports me as a deserter, does he? And the dear old dad horsewhipped him. Oh, if I had only been there! It is a shame that I haven't managed to write home, and I'll do so this very minute."
In pursuance of this resolve, Ridge did write a long letter to his mother, in which he told of his great disappointment at not seeing Spence Cuthbert before she left Cuba, and sent it to Siboney to be forwarded at the first opportunity.
After that, other exciting events in connection with his duty occupied our young Lieutenant's attention; for at a meeting of Generals Shafter and Toral, under a great tree midway between the American and Spanish lines, the latter finally agreed to surrender the entire province of Santiago, with all the troops within its limits. On this occasion each General was accompanied by members of his staff, and to Ridge again fell the honor of acting as official interpreter. Thus for days he was kept so continually busy that he hardly found time for sleep. Then, on Sunday, the 17th of July, one week after the firing of the last shot, and two weeks after the destruction of Cervera's ships, at precisely noon, the red and yellow banner of Spain was lowered forever from over Santiago's municipal palace, and the glorious stars and stripes proudly flung to the breeze in its place. The impressive ceremony was witnessed by the Ninth Regiment of United States Infantry, two mounted troops of the Second Regular Cavalry, and by the brilliant staff who surrounded General Shafter. Besides these, Spanish officers and citizens of Santiago crowded every window, doorway, and portico of the cathedral, the San Carlos Club, the Venus restaurant, and other buildings facing the Plaza de Armas, and watched the proceedings in silence.
As the starry flag of the United States ran slowly to the top of the tall staff the Ninth Regiment band crashed forth the inspiring strains of "The Star-spangled Banner," and every American present, excepting, of course, the troops on duty, bared his head. At the same moment the thunder of distant artillery firing a national salute of twenty-one guns and exultant cheering from the trenches a mile beyond the city told that the glorious news had reached the waiting army.
At the conclusion of the ceremony, General Leonard Wood, formerly Colonel of the Rough Riders, was installed as Military Governor of the conquered city, and one of the first to congratulate him upon this new honor was the young Lieutenant of his old command, who had been permitted to do so much towards bringing the Santiago campaign to its happy conclusion. For Ridge Norris, in appreciation of his recent services, had been one of the very few guests invited to witness the change of flags.
Shortly after it was all over, as Ridge was slowly making his way back to camp, no longer upheld by excitement and utterly weary from his recent labors, he encountered a forlorn little group of natives, who aroused his instant sympathy. A young woman, gaunt and hollow-cheeked, with three children, trying to make her way back to the city, had sunk exhausted by the road-side. One of the children was a babe held tightly pressed to her bosom. Of the others, one was a small boy, who stood manfully by his mother's side; while a little girl, burning with fever, lay tossing and moaning on the ground.
As Ridge reached this group the woman cried, imploringly, "Help, Señor Americano! For love of the good God help me reach the city before my little ones perish!"
Ridge could understand and could talk to her in her own tongue. So in a few minutes he had learned her pitiful story. It was that of many another–a tale of starvation, sickness, death of her husband, and of homeless wandering for days. Now her one desire and hope was to return to her home in Santiago. Even before she had concluded her sad narration our young trooper had picked up the fever-stricken child, and, with the others following him, was retracing his steps towards the city. He did not leave them until they were safe in the wretched hovel they called home, and he had procured for them a supply of food. Then, followed by fervent blessings, he again started for the American lines.
That evening he could not eat the coarse camp fare of his mess, and the next morning found him raving in the delirium of fever. When, a little later, the Rough Riders were removed to a more healthful camp-ground, a few miles back in the hills, Lieutenant Norris, with several other fever-stricken members of the command, was taken to one of the Spanish hospitals in Santiago, where, three days later, Spence Cuthbert found him.
CHAPTER XXX
ROLLO MAKES PROPOSITIONS
The month of August was drawing to its close when an expectant throng of people gathered about the wharf of the great military camp recently established for the home-returning American army at Montauk Point, on the extreme eastern end of Long Island. Most of the throng were soldiers, but among them was a little group of civilians accompanied by a young trooper wearing a brand-new uniform, but looking very pale and weak, as though recovering from a severe illness. He was Rollo Van Kyp, only just out from the New York hospital to which he had been taken more than a month before. With him, and anticipating his every need, were Mr. and Mrs. Norris and Dulce. Their Long Island summer home had not been sold, and now there was no need that it should be, since Mr. Norris's affairs had taken a decided turn for the better. As soon, therefore, as they learned that the army was to be sent to Montauk, they went to this cottage and fitted it up as a convalescent hospital, for any of their boy's wounded comrades to whom he might desire to show particular attention. Thus Dulce, though not enrolled in the Red Cross service, wore a nurse's costume, and Rollo Van Kyp, who had insisted on coming down to welcome his home-returning comrades, was one of her patients. Now they were looking for Ridge, of whose illness they had not yet learned.
Those Rough Riders left behind at Tampa had already been transferred to Montauk, together with all the horses of the regiment, and these hearty young troopers formed the greater part of the throng now assembled to greet the heroes of Las Guasimas, of San Juan, and of the Santiago trenches, for Colonel Roosevelt and his men were coming home, and the Miami, on which they were embarked, was nearing the wharf. Her decks were crowded with men, worn and weary, clad in battle-stained uniforms, and filled with a great joy at once more breathing the air of their native land. Already was Rollo recognizing familiar faces, and eagerly pointing them out.
"But where is my boy?" cried Mrs. Morris. "I cannot see him."
The others did not answer, for they too were greatly disappointed at not discovering the face they most longed to see.
At length the slow-moving ship was made fast, its gang-plank was run out, and the eager troopers began to swarm ashore. Some were so weak that comrades were obliged to support their feeble steps; but all were radiant with the joy of home-coming. Cheer after cheer greeted each troop, as with silken guidons fluttering above them they marched from the ship, and finally a perfect roar of welcome announced the appearance of their Colonel.
"There's Teddy!" cried Rollo, with a feeble attempt at waving his hat. "Oh, how good it is to see him again!"
"But my boy! Where is my boy?" cried the distracted mother, crowding her way to the very front rank of spectators. As she did so, Colonel Roosevelt passed close to her, and she clutched his arm.
"Oh, sir, my boy! Where is my boy? Do not tell me he is dead!"
"It is Mrs. Norris, Colonel," explained Rollo Van Kyp, pressing forward, "and she is disappointed at not seeing the Lieutenant."
"Thank God, my dear fellow, that you are alive!" exclaimed the Colonel, grasping Van Kyp's hand. Then, in a lower tone, he added, "We had to leave poor Norris behind. He was too ill to be brought on a transport, but he may come at any time on a hospital-ship. Here is a note for his family from one of the hospital nurses. My dear madam," he added, turning to Mrs. Norris, "your son is alive, but detained for a time at Santiago. If you will excuse me now, I will see you again very shortly, and tell you of all the fine things he has done."
With this the embarrassed Colonel passed on, thankful at having thus concluded one of the interviews with anxious parents that he so dreaded.
For a moment Mrs. Norris stared after him in speechless agony; for the mother's keen ear had overheard his low-spoken words to Rollo Van Kyp, and she knew that her boy had been left in Cuba too ill to be moved. Then she uttered a moan, and fainted in her husband's arms.
A little later, when the saddened group had been driven back to the cottage that had been so happily prepared for the reception of their soldier, they read Spence Cuthbert's note, hastily written as the Rough Riders were embarking at Santiago. It told of the terrible suffering that had impelled her to remain behind when the Gray Nun went north, of her disappointment at not hearing anything from Ridge, and how she had at last discovered him in the Santiago hospital, to which she had been transferred immediately after the surrender.
"I did not dare write sooner," she continued, "for we had no hope that he could live; but now he is again conscious, and has recognized me. The doctors talk of sending him north as soon as he can be moved; but, remembering the horrors of the Seneca and the Concho, I dread the voyage for him even more than I do the pestilent air of this awful hospital. In fact, I am in despair, and know not what is best to be done."
"I know!" exclaimed Rollo Van Kyp, as Dulce, with tear-filled eyes, finished reading this pitiful note. "He must be brought back on the Nun. Mr. Norris, she leaves New York to-morrow with a fresh lot of nurses for Santiago, and if you will only take the run down on her you can bring the dear old chap back in comfort."
Mr. Norris hesitated a moment. "Do you realize," he asked, "that if your yacht brings back a single yellow-fever patient it may never be safe to use her again?"
"My dear sir!" cried Rollo, "if she were all that I had in the world she would still be at the service of my dearest friend."
So Mr. Norris thankfully accepted the young millionaire's offer, and sailed the very next day for Santiago.
A week later a Red Cross nurse, worn and wearied almost to the point of exhaustion by her days and nights of caring for sick and dying soldiers, sat in a Santiago hospital beside one of her patients, gently fanning him. His eyes were closed, and she hoped that he slept. As she watched him her own eyes slowly filled with tears; for she did not believe he would ever gain sufficient strength to bear removal from that house of sorrow. The air of the ward was hot, damp, and lifeless. Sickening odors rising from the streets of the filthy city drifted in through its open windows. The whole atmosphere of the place was depressing, and suggestive of suffering that could only end with death.
"Poor Ridge!" she murmured bitterly to herself. "After all your splendid work, it is cruel to leave you here to die, deserted and forgotten!"
Just then the patient opened wide his eyes, and an expression of eager anticipation flitted across his white face. "Dad is coming," he whispered. "I hear his footstep. Oh, Spence, he is here, and will take us home!"
The nurse listened, but heard only the moans of other sufferers, and thinking that this one had dreamed of his father's coming, tried to soothe him with hopeful promises. Then, all at once, she uttered a little cry of joy, for at the far end of the long white ward she saw one of the house surgeons escorting a familiar figure. In another minute Mr. Norris, seeming to bring with him a breath of bracing northern air, stood beside his son's cot.
"I thank God and you, Spence Cuthbert, that my boy is still alive!" he cried. "And now, how soon can we take him north? I have Van Kyp's yacht waiting out here in the harbor, and we can start at a moment's notice."
"I believe I could go this very minute, dad," said Ridge, his voice already strengthened with hope and happiness. "But, father," he added, anxiously, "we must take Spence with us; for she has promised to stay with me as long as I need her, and I know I couldn't travel without her."
"Of course we will take her, son, and keep her, too, just as long as we can."
For three days longer Ridge lay on that cot, gaining strength with each moment of renewed hope and eager anticipation. During this time Mr. Norris occupied the intervals of rest from watching beside his son with visiting the battle-fields near the city over which the young trooper had so bravely fought. On these expeditions he was accompanied and guided by a Cuban named del Concha, recommended by General Wood, to whom he had rendered valuable service by the giving of intelligent and honestly patriotic advice. When del Concha discovered that the American señor whom he was asked to guide was father to his friend, the brave teniente Norris, he was overjoyed to be of assistance to him, and completely won the elder gentleman's heart by praise of his son and stories of the latter's exploits while executing his dangerous mission among the Spaniards of Cuba. Del Concha also told of himself; and, among other things, that, on the very day he had learned of Santiago's surrender, he had married his sweetheart, the brave girl who had assisted Ridge to escape from the Holguin prison, and who was now very nearly recovered from her wound.
At length the joyous day came when Ridge could be moved, and he was carefully borne in a litter, by four of the stalwart negro troopers, in whose company he had charged up San Juan Heights, through the streets of Santiago to the waiting yacht. Besides the young trooper and his proud father, the Nun carried northward a score more of convalescent soldiers, to whom Spence Cuthbert, and a group of her companion nurses, also returning home from their glorious service, gave devoted care.
On the day that Montauk was to be reached, Ridge was strong enough to be carried on deck, where, from a pillowed steamer-chair, he gazed happily at the loved features of the nearing coast. He was the very first to spy his mother, who again waited in trembling eagerness on the wharf, this time not to be disappointed.
"And there are Rollo," he said, to the girl who stood beside him, "and Dulce, and the Colonel. And oh, Spence, to think that but for you I should certainly never have seen them again!"
For many days after the home-coming of our young trooper the Norris cottage was strictly quarantined against a possible outbreak of yellow-fever; but, as Rollo Van Kyp said:
"Who cares? I'm sure I don't; for all of the world I want to see just now is held within these walls."
The very first time Ridge was allowed to go out, he was driven to the Rough-Rider camp to be mustered from service with his regiment. On this occasion he wore a lieutenant's uniform, at which his mother, seated beside him in the carriage, gazed with such undisguised pride that he laughingly accused her of being more susceptible to the influence of brass buttons than any girl of his acquaintance.
