The Rough Rider (26 page)

Deborah was delighted with the woman. “What did Colonel Rucker say?” she asked.

“Oh, he was very helpful,” Miss Barton nodded. “He gave me the pass and the wagons.” A smile creased her lips and she glanced at David. “That was the first time I’d ever broken through the barriers of male military bureaucracy—but not the last!”

“What was it like, Miss Barton?” Burns asked.

“I wore a bonnet, a red bow at the neck, a blouse, and a plain dark skirt,” Miss Barton said slowly. “We’d just lost a battle. General Pope had been beaten at Bull Run, and as we pulled into the depot of Culpepper Court House, several hundred wounded men lay bleeding and dying under a blistering sun. There were no medical attendants in sight, and the men were dying for lack of water. I saw filthy bandages and wondered, ‘If this is an evacuation area, what will a real battlefield be like?’

“I found a four-horse team and set out to distribute the supplies as fast as I could.” She paused and the vivid moment came back to her, casting a shadow over her face. “I’d never seen a field hospital after a battle, of course, and I was
stunned. Men with arms and legs blown away, faces mangled, stomachs torn up and intestines hanging out lay on floors in their own filth and blood, crying out for water—some of them begging for death. . . .”

For over an hour the small woman related the details, including what the .58-caliber minié ball could do—shattering, splintering, and splitting human flesh. And the canister was capable of whirling iron balls through the air at great distances that blasted gaping holes in the lines of men, showering the earth with blood, pieces of skin, and decapitated heads.

“And there was no notion of sanitary methods in those days,” Miss Barton continued. “Those who survived the battlefield and were taken to a hospital faced what amounted to another serious battle. Nobody knew what caused infection. Surgeons operated in coats stained with pus and blood, their hands unwashed. They dipped their saws, scalpels, and forceps into a bucket of tap water and sewed up wounds with undisinfected silk.”

“A man had little chance of surviving under those conditions,” David murmured. “The death rate must have been monstrous.”

“It was! At least ninety percent of those with abdominal wounds died. Any man with a bone-breaking wound in the arm or leg faced amputation.” When David pressed her for details of that operation, she said, “The patient was put on the operating table and put to sleep with ether or chloroform. But often there was none, so he got a swig of whiskey or simply a slab of leather placed beneath his teeth. The surgeon would slice through the flesh with a razor-sharp knife, saw through the bone with a sharp-toothed saw, and snip off the jagged ends of bones with pliers. Then he’d place a clamp on the spewing arteries, tie with oiled silk, and dress the bloody stump.”

“I don’t see how a person could survive such a thing!” Gail shivered, her lips drawn into a tight line from the thought of soon having to face some of the same injuries.

“Many of them didn’t. Over one fourth of all who had amputations died.”

David shook his head. “We know more about such things now. Surely we can do better.”

Clara Barton fixed her dark brown eyes on the young physician. “I trust that is so. But war is terrible, and no amount of science will ever make it less so.”

****

Early in the morning, Miss Barton left to visit the sick among the troops. Burns and his two assistants did what they could to get ready for the patients who would soon be brought back from the battle. They had been sobered by the stark details that Miss Barton had related to them, and though they didn’t speak of it, they all were apprehensive about the gruesome task awaiting them.

Gail stopped as she was carrying trash out the door and turned to say, “Deborah, what about Isaiah?”

Deborah looked up in surprise. She’d tied a rag around her forehead and was busy scrubbing the floors. “What do you mean, Gail?”

“We’ve got to have his funeral.” Gail’s eyes were tragic with grief as she said, “They found his body—it washed up on shore.”

“Then we’ll have a funeral. He deserves that.”

Burns had entered in time to hear the two talking. “I’ll see to the arrangements. One of the officers will give us some men to dig a grave.”

They worked hard all day, but Burns carried out his word. He persuaded a busy captain to detail two men to dig a grave. Burns, himself, prepared the body. There was no time to build a casket, so the soldier was wrapped in a blanket. They lowered the body into the grave at dusk. Most of the Rough Riders were gone, so only a few gathered around to pay their respects. A few native Cubans came curiously to watch as Burns stood at the head of the grave. The two soldiers who
had dug the grave moved back, tossed their shovels down, and waited.

Burns opened his well-worn Bible and read the old words that had comforted thousands: “ . . . for this mortality must put on immortality.” He spoke of death for a time, then made a few more remarks about the goodness of the man. “Isaiah loved God, he loved his family, and he loved his friends,” Burns said. “That’s all any man can do that’s put on this earth. He was taken from life into death, but God who knows all things knew that it was his time.” He spoke quietly, but there was a triumph that overruled the sadness in his voice. Finally he prayed, then with a nod at the two soldiers, turned away.

The sun beat down as Burns walked with Gail and Deborah down to the beach, where they stood looking out over the water. The ocean moaned softly, punctuated by the surf at regular intervals. There was a rhythm and cadence to the sound that fell on them, and they stood silently for a long time. “I wish Lewis and Aaron could have been here. They were his friends,” David said finally.

“They were indeed,” Deborah said. She hesitated, then said, “I know they loved him. Strange—two Southerners loving a black man. We don’t think about something like that where I come from in the North. We think Southerners dislike blacks.”

“No, that’s not true,” Gail said instantly. “Neither Aaron nor Lewis are like that.”

They stood for a long time gazing out into the sea, reluctant to leave. But finally David said heavily, “We’d better get some rest. I think there’ll be casualties coming soon. We’ll probably have to move the hospital closer to the battlefield over by Siboney.”

****

Aaron trudged wearily along the winding road—no more than a narrow jungle trail—that led from Siboney toward the main Santiago road. The company had started up the
trail at five in the morning, and now they were struggling up a steep coastal bluff. Marching single file, they were led by two Cuban scouts who were accompanied by New York socialite Hamilton Fish, son of one of the wealthiest men in America. Richard Harding Davis and Edward Marshall, two newspapermen, were not far behind Roosevelt, who was marching at the front of the column.

As Aaron looked around, he said with some surprise, “You know, this isn’t bad-looking country.” He looked down at the glades that spread out below them, then glanced at the line of armed men. “It’s like we’re on a little hunting expedition.” He looked ahead and shook his head. “It’ll be a bit different from that, though.”

Soon, however, they found themselves lost in a jungle labyrinth. They thrashed around through the jungle, slashing at vines and cursing as bugs attacked them and snakes slithered under their feet. There was no sign of the enemy, but as they turned down the trail, Aaron was startled by a peculiar sound—a sharp crack followed by a hissing noise. His mind said,
That’s rifle fire!
and he ducked his head inadvertently. Roosevelt began yelling for the men to move forward faster. They saw no Spaniards, but finally Richard Harding Davis grasped Roosevelt’s elbow and pointed across a valley. “There they are, Colonel! Look over there!” Roosevelt turned his own glasses in the direction Davis indicated. “Over there!” he insisted. “You can see their hats.”

The men in front, including Aaron and Lewis, looked in that direction and saw the distinctive Spanish hats. Roosevelt at once said, “I want four of the best marksmen in the troop!”

Quickly, the sergeant picked four men, who moved forward and began firing their Krag rifles. At the sound of gunfire, the Spaniards suddenly jumped up and began to retreat. Roosevelt screamed, “Forward, men—after them!” and a running battle through the jungle ensued. Aaron and the others took advantage of the cover, dodging behind the trees.

Once Aaron reached up and yanked Lewis down, shouting, “Get down, you fool!”

Lewis gave him a wild look and grinned faintly, “Right, brother.” Even as he spoke, a bullet ripped through a branch overhead, knocking it down on their heads.

For what seemed like hours, they slowly moved forward, unable to do little more than keep their heads down. The Spaniards were impossible to see through the thick vegetation, and their long-range Mausers, fired with great accuracy, found their targets, dropping some of the Rough Riders.

Roosevelt was moving forward when he suddenly stopped. He passed by the pointmen who had fallen during the first seconds of the battle. He stopped, and there lay Hamilton Fish, his dead eyes gazing up at the sky. Roosevelt stared at him and seemed about to speak, then he shook his head and ran on, his sword slapping at his knees.

Stephen Crane, the famous journalist, had arrived in Siboney just in time to make the trip. He had made his way to the battle front just as the Rough Riders moved forward. He wrote in his journal:

The battle seemed to end abruptly, as if someone had thrown a switch. An eerie silence fell across the jungle, and Aaron, gasping for breath, looked around. “I reckon it’s over,” he croaked, his throat dry and his lips parched, but he had no water.

Lewis was lying behind a tree across from him. He held his head up, stared, and said, “I don’t see anything. I guess they’ve cleared out.”

It was over—but there were eight dead Rough Riders, and eight more from the ranks of the First and Tenth Regiments. One of the correspondents, Edward Marshall, had suffered a shattered spine, and the field surgeon had told him he was about to die. Stephen Crane stopped and knelt down beside him and tried to cheer him up. “A newspaperman to the last!” he said. “File my dispatches, will you, old boy—if you find it handy.”

The wounded were picked up to begin the long trek back to the field hospital that Dr. Burns had set up in the abandoned building. The walking wounded arrived first, and soon Dr. Burns and his assistants had all they could handle. Most of the wounds were clean and some were easily bandaged, but others suffered abdominal wounds and were dying in the small makeshift hospital.

Gail was mopping the brow of a dying boy of no more than eighteen. Knowing he didn’t have much time left, she said, “Do you know the Lord?”

The boy looked at her with a frightened look. “No, I don’t. I ain’t never known the Lord.”

“Let me tell you about Him, then.” Gail spoke quietly and quoted Scripture to the young man. The whole time she told him of God’s love, he held her hand tightly. He was no more than a boy and far from home. He died later that night.

Gail walked over to stand beside a sergeant who’d been watching. The sergeant had his arm in a sling from a bullet he took in the forearm, and he said quietly, “I’m glad you talked to the boy. He needed a woman’s touch—a woman of God, at that!”

A look of compassion crept across Gail’s face. It was the first of many young men—most only a few years older than Jeb—with whom she would sit holding their hand in their last moments of life. Sighing, she shrugged her shoulders and moved her head from side to side to loosen the tension that had been building up. “Where are the troops now, Sergeant?”

The sergeant ran his hand through his sandy hair. “Up there aways—right down at the foot of those rocky hills.”

“What’s the name of it?”

“I think they call it San Juan Hill. . . .”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A Matter of Courage

Out of the pitch-black darkness, a voice with a New York accent suddenly called out, “Halt! Who’s there?” A shot immediately followed, and Aaron sat straight up, recognizing the sound of a .45-caliber Springfield.

Again the cry, “Halt! Who’s there?”

“The captain—who are you shooting?”

“Well, I seen a Spaniard—I seen him!” Again the sound of rifle fire pierced the night. Aaron sprang to his feet and groped his way forward. There was a sliver of a moon that lit the floor, and he could see Captain Marvin advance to check it out. “Did you see him?” asked the sentry. “There he is—right there! Look, see down on the ground!”
Bang.
Then farther down the line, another rifle exploded, then a third.

“Stop shooting, blast it!” shouted the captain.

“But—the Spaniards!” said a trigger-happy sentry.

“Those aren’t Spaniards! Those are land crabs.” The movement the night guard had heard had come from huge creatures—crabs as large as dinner plates. They had two long foreclaws, small eyes, and horny beaklike mandibles—the stuff that makes for bad dreams.

Aaron leaned up against a tree, his knees feeling a little weak. Lewis’s voice came at him with a shaky laugh, “I guess the boys got a little nervous.”

“I don’t blame them much,” Aaron grunted, then tried to rub the sleep out of his eyes. He peered through the murky
light and saw that the first rays of dawn were illuminating the San Juan hills.

“All right, you fellows get your gear together!” snapped a sergeant.

“Where we going, Sarge?” asked a private who was standing guard.

“We’re going down that road, and we’re going to take that hill in front of us!”

That was the simple plan devised by General Shafter. The orders that had come down were that there was to be no attempt of turning or of flanking the enemy—the Rough Riders and the other troops were to march straight ahead. Actually, there was only one obstacle as the men advanced toward San Juan—a small village called El Caney, which was reported to be held by a squadron of Spanish riflemen.