Ever After (39 page)

When he returned along the trail to the Rough Riders’ camp on Saturday morning he met more sorry cavalcades of wounded on the way down. He found the regiment established in a marshy spot close to a stream a mile or so ahead of the place where the skirmish had begun. They were now host to two of the attachés—Captain Arthur Lee, the Englishman, whom everybody liked, and the German von Götzen, who seemed very anxious to be popular.

General Young had got fever, and Wheeler was laid up too, so Wood was the brigadier now and Roosevelt was colonel of the
regiment
. General Shafter, said to be suffering acutely from the heat,
remained
on board the headquarters ship. Transport was the greatest problem at the camp. The officers’ baggage had come up by
muletrain
,
but they possessed few comforts anyway and whatever extras they might have been entitled too in the officers’ mess they turned in to the wounded, refusing anything which was different from what the men had.

Thousands of tons of rations were still on the transports in the bay, but the unloading and wagon-train service up the trail were so slow that the Rough Riders were on one-third rations, which
consisted
of salt pork and hardtack and were more suitable for the Klondike than the tropics. Coffee and sugar were short, and there was no tobacco. Roosevelt went all the way down to the coast with an improvised caravan of officers’ horses and a stray mule or two and brought up beans and canned tomatoes for the men, purchased from the commissary with his own money.

Many of the men had lost or thrown away their blanket-rolls and knapsacks and other equipment at Las Guasimas, and it had been appropriated by the Cubans, who then swore that they had had it all there lives. Shelter tents were inadequate against the periodic downpours of rain which started rivulets large enough to float away a mattress unless it was being lain on. Shacks were built and thatched with palm and banana leaves, and these harboured
tarantulas
and other callers who came out at night. Lights were forbidden, no matter what dropped on you, for the Spanish sharpshooters never slept. They even picked off the unwary by the flashes of solid lightning which accompanied the tropical thunderstorms.

For nearly a week the regiment rested and sorted itself out while reconnaissance went on and maps were made and the Engineers
attempted
to widen and corduroy the trail from Siboney, in rich loamy soil that went to sticky mud every day during the regular afternoon downpour. The trail ran on to Santiago from the crest whence the Spanish had fled. About three miles ahead as you stood in their
deserted
trenches you could see where it cut through a series of jungly ridges known collectively as San Juan Hill, commanded by heights either side which were scarred by the lines of freshly dug Spanish earthworks. It involved itself too in the windings of the little Aguadores River, which it sometimes closely resembled, and there were no bridges, only fords. A broken-down wagon could snarl traffic for an hour almost anywhere. A narrower track led into it from El Caney on the right, where there was a stone fort with a strong Spanish garrison.

On the twenty-seventh General Shafter rode up from Siboney and observed the view towards El Caney, which would be the next point of attack. He returned to the headquarters ship the same afternoon. Still nothing happened at the front-line camp. The regiment was blooded now and wanted another go at the Spanish. It was
uncomfortable
where it was, and wanted to move on. There began also to
be a certain feeling that the place for a headquarters was in the field and not on a ship eight almost impassable miles from the front.

After two more days Bracken was increasingly anxious about his father and curious about the situation in Siboney. He and Fitz
decided
to go down to the coast—the journey would have to be made on foot through mud like black glue—give Wendell the story of the dull week in camp, and put themselves in touch with things.

On the way they met General Shafter coming up again, his
enormous
bulk carried astride a lathered horse, his blue woollen jacket open over an expanse of damp white shirt, his white helmet pulled low. He rode like a bag of meal and the slender, easy figure of Lieutenant Miley, opening and reading a handful of dispatches as he rode beside his General, was not complimentary.

Bracken paused, frowning, when they had squeezed to the side of the trail to let the group of mounted officers pass.

“I’d better go back,” he said. “Might miss something at last. You go on down with these.” He handed over the dispatch and some letters. “Give them to Wendell and—now, Fitz, don’t you lie to papa, you don’t feel right today, do you?”

Fitz blinked away the persistent haziness which had afflicted his vision all morning and turned an aggressively cheerful countenance on his cousin.

“Who, me? I never felt better!”

“Got a headache?”

“Well, maybe—just a little one. Too many beans, I reckon.”

Bracken felt the skin of his forearm.

“Are you kind of chilly?”

“
Chilly!
In this heat? You’re crazy!”

“Fitz, do me a favour, won’t you? When you get down to Siboney find out if Wendell has any more quinine and start taking it.”

“What for?”

“Quinine is usually for malaria.”

“But I haven’t got malaria. I just feel kind of all-overish, that’s all. It’s those beans.”

“Will you do as I say, Fitz?”

Fitz blinked again, for Bracken’s face, not three feet away from him, had a way of weaving in and out of focus when he tried to see it.

“Oh, sure, sure, anything you say,” he agreed meekly, and turned away down the trail. “So long. Back in the morning.”

“Take a day’s rest down there if you need it.”

“Think I’m a sissy?” floated back as the green jungle walls closed in on Fitz, walking very straight and rather fast, because things showed a tendency to slip sideways.

By the time he reached Sibonev the sun was dropping and he ran down to the beach to signal Daisy, who lay off shore plucking
peevishly at her anchor chain on the swell. While he stood there, waving the
Star’s
yellow scarf to attract the captain’s attention, a voice spoke behind him.

“Thought you’d
never
show up,” said Wendell. “What’s going on up there?”

“Nothing. That’s the trouble. Here, before I forget ’em—” Fitz handed him the papers for the cable and the mail. “You seen a cup of coffee anywhere?”

Wendell took another look at him in the fading light.

“Gosh, you’ve lost
pounds
along that trail! Had anything to eat lately?”

“I just want a cup of coffee, that’s all.”

“Come on over to the Engineers, they’ll find you something. But first—” Wendell put out a detaining hand. “Fitz, the news is pretty bad.”

“Uncle Cabot?”

“He died last Monday.”

F
ITZ
woke with a jerk and found himself in a cramped position on an improvised mattress on the porch of one of the Cuban shanties at Siboney. It was just before dawn. For a moment he was unable to collect himself at all. Then he remembered everything with
sickening
clarity. Wendell—who, like everybody else, had run out of quinine—had put him there some hours before, with solicitous care for his night’s rest, and then gone to Jamaica with Daisy. And it was now his, Fitz’s job to go back up the trail and tell Bracken that his father was dead.

Cautiously he unkinked himself under the rough blanket which smelled strongly of horse. Things seemed to be far from well with him somewhere. He still had the headache—not such a little one now—and an unreasonable desire for hot food and drink. As he sat up a long, shuddering shiver began at the back of his neck and ran in detail down the whole length of his spine. A cup of coffee—that was the stuff. Go wake up the Engineers and get a cup of coffee….

But before he reached the first smoky cook-fires his teeth were chattering and he had begun to shake. The sergeant was helpful and advised going over to the hospital and asking for quinine.

“Hm-mm,” said Fitz, and the slight shake of his head set it
pounding
like a bass drum. “I’ve got no time for hospitals and they’ve got no time for me. Must go back up the trail today.”

“You won’t go up no trail like that,” the sergeant told him gloomily. “You got malaria, that’s what you got.”

“Well, the hell with it,” said Fitz, trying to drink coffee without the tin cup clattering against his teeth. “Think I can find anything to ride?”

“Might try and steal a mule,” the sergeant suggested. “Can’t any more’n get hanged for it if you’re caught.”

“You got any mules lyin’ round loose?”

The sergeant said they hadn’t.

“You might try the Artillery,” he added as an afterthought. “They’re a mighty careless lot.”

For an hour or so while the sun got hot, Fitz pottered about in search of a mule, trying not to attract attention to himself because by now he had the shakes good and proper. Suddenly something fell on him from behind, almost knocking him over and sending out bright red sparks in all directions from his headache, and he looked round to see Johnny Malone.

“Fitz, for the love of God!” Johnny was yelling. “I’ve asked everywhere for you! Where’s Bracken?”

“Up the trail.”

“You don’t look much,” Johnny accused, squinting at him. “You been sick? Say, you’ve got the fever!”

“Sh! Not so loud. Find me a mule, can’t you, I’ve got to get out of here.”

“You aren’t fit to travel like that, you’ll keel right over!”

“Got to get to Bracken.” Fitz wet his lips nervously, and looked away from Johnny’s anxious face. “Johnny, the Boss is dead.”

“
Our
Boss? Why, he was good for years yet! What happened?”

“His heart wore out. Bracken’s got to know, you see, he’ll have to—well, he’s in charge now.”

“And you’ve got to tell him?” Johnny shook his head. “Man, you’d better rest up some first!”

“Can’t stop now, got to find something to ride. You seen a spare mule?”

“Where’s the fellow that runs the boat for you—Wendell, wasn’t it? You’d better send him.”

“He’s gone to Jamaica.”

“What for?” Johnny wanted to know. “The cable at
Guantanamo
is working now, why doesn’t he use that?”

“Government supervision. They limit your wordage. Army comes first there. You know what happens when somebody cuts Bracken’s copy!”

“When will Wendell be back from Jamaica?” Johnny stuck to his idea.

“I dunno. I can’t wait. This is bad news, and it’s got to travel fast.”

“It’s terrible news,” said Johnny solemnly, and slid his arm through Fitz’s and eased him down on to a pile of feed-sacks nearby. “It’s the worst news I’ve ever heard. When did it happen?”

“Last Monday. At Tampa.” Fitz put his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. “And it’s got to be me,” he moaned. “I’ve got to be the one to tell Bracken.”

“Send Wendell when he comes,” Johnny insisted. “You’re all played out.”

“Nope. Even if Wendell was right here it’s got to be me. Bracken will want—there ought to be somebody from the family there, when he hears—can’t just send a message—not that message—not to Bracken—” Fitz slid, off the feed-sacks sideways and lay in a heap on the ground. When Johnny bent over him he didn’t move.

He came to some time later on a cot in a small white-washed room with a single little window high in the wall which gave a glimpse of the green jungle at the edge of the town. He was very hot now, and his skin felt the way a rhinocerous looks. His thirst was a tangible, corporeal thing, pressing in on him from all sides. He lay for a minute trying to push it away but it was too heavy and would not budge. The cell-like room was empty, but it seemed to him he heard voices outside. With a great effort of his will he summoned strength to make a noise.

“Hey!” he croaked feebly, and a chair scraped back somewhere and a head looked in at the door.

“Hullo,” it said. “You’ve come round. Want something?”

“Water,” said Fitz.

The head disappeared and soon its owner returned with a canteen and a quinine pill.

“You’re not supposed to drink it all at once,” he said kindly. “Wouldn’t be good for you. Go easy, now.”

“Is this the hospital?” Fitz asked after a few grateful gulps of rather tinny lukewarm water.

“Lord, no, you wouldn’t be half as comfortable there! This is the Siboney poker club for newspaper men. A friend of mine started it. My name is Baker, by the way—Philadelphia
Clarion.
Have you heard about Ed Marshall? He’s still alive.”

“Can you fellows lend me a mule?” Fitz asked. “I’ve got to go up the trail.”

“Not right now, you can’t. Not till after the sweat has been and gone. That’s the way malaria acts. Once you’ve had the sweat you’ll be all right for a few hours before it begins all over again. You might get up to the front and back again if you’re quick, between spells. I don’t recommend it, though.”

“Got to try,” said Fitz, and closed his eyes against the glare from the window. “How long have I got to wait?”

“Twelve hours—fifteen.”

“Oh, hell,” said Fitz.

“Can’t be helped. Could you eat a little something? We’ve got rice and canned tomatoes.”

“Too hot.”

Baker said it would break, finally, and meanwhile just to take it easy, and if there was anything they could do, holler.

When he had departed the murmur of voices and click of chips outside went on. Fine way to write up a war, Fitz thought. Sittin’ on the beach playin’ poker. He’d get fired from the
Star,
we work for our money! Think of Bracken being Boss now. Maybe he ought to go home. Cuba would be kind of lonesome if Bracken goes home….

For hours he lay in a waking nightmare of flies and heat and fever, dozing, mumbling to himself, trying in wretched lucid intervals to imagine how he was going to tell Bracken the terrible news he brought. Then the sweat started, and the nice clean clothes
Wendell
had brought him from Daisy’s lockers were drenched and wringing. Somewhere he had laid down the bundle which was Bracken’s clean clothes and lost them. That was stupid, just because he had a headache….