Roosevelt was electrified at the prospect of entering the fray. He at once called for his officers, and soon bugle calls were rallying the men into marching order. Aaron found himself trudging through a jungle with Lewis right behind him. It was late in the afternoon, and the men were tired, for they already had been aboard a crowded ship for many days. They had suffered patiently the heat of Tampa, and now they were on their way to do what they had come to do. Long after midnight, they tracked through the darkness till they reached Siboney. There they cooked a hasty meal of coffee, pork, and hardtack, while a drenching two-hour thunderstorm poured the heavens down upon them. As they were eating, Roosevelt got orders from Wheeler to attack the following morning.
“I guess we’d better get some sleep,” Lewis said. He was huddled in his wet blanket, the water running off his hat. He stared at Aaron, who looked as miserable as he felt.
“I don’t see how we’re going to get any sleep in this downpour.” Exhausted from the trek through the tangled jungle, they stretched out, and the rain drummed into the mud and made a soothing sound.
Finally, Lewis lifted his hat and peered at Aaron, who was sitting upright staring into the darkness blindly. “I sure do miss Isaiah,” Lewis whispered. “I thought he’d be with us. He was such a happy fellow—and a good man, too.”
“Yes, he was,” muttered Aaron, his heart still aching from the death of his friend.
Lewis thought hard for a moment, then lay back, but not before he said, “He knew the Lord, Aaron. He’s in heaven now.”
Aaron looked over at Lewis and said nothing. The rain continued to beat down on the troops, and the heavens were completely hidden by black thunderclouds. He thought of the cheerful smile of Isaiah Wilson, and a heavy gloom settled upon him. Finally he lay back and shut his eyes, trying not to think what would happen when dawn came.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Battle Cry
William Randolph Hearst had decided to “visit” the Spanish war zone. He had a proprietary attitude toward the war, bearing in his mind the grandiose notion that he had been instrumental in causing it. He had plastered the words “How Do You Like The Journal’s War?” on the front-page banners of his newspaper, and stated proudly, “It is a satisfactory thing to be an American and to be here on the soil of Cuba at the threshold of what may prove to be the decisive battle of the war.”
Actually, he was not on the soil of Cuba, but stood on the deck of the Sylvia as he dictated these words to his personal secretary. He’d donated his yacht, the Buccaneer, to the navy for conversion into a gunboat, so he had chartered the Sylvia, a large steamer belonging to the Baltimore Fruit Company, and fitted it out with offices, a printing press, and even a darkroom fully stocked to develop the action shots he wanted for his feature stories. Firmly convinced that the war was his personal property, he led an army of reporters, artists, and photographers to the front.
He was determined to take advantage of the situation. All America and even the nations of Europe were watching to see the outcome. Hearst was going to make sure this kind of news was in his New York and San Francisco newspapers. He had even brought a staff prepared to distribute a Cuban edition of the Journal.
Now as he stood looking out over the rolling sea, he felt pleased with his prodigious efforts. He had come early, in time to interview Admiral Sampson: “A quiet, conservative man with thin features and melancholy eyes.” He had been pleased with the impressive appearance of the commander, General Shafter: “A bold, lion-headed hero, and massive as to body—a sort of human fortress in blue coat and flannel shirt.” And he had described General Garcia, who had led the rebel troops for years, as: “A splendid old hero in spotless white linen from head to foot.”
Not far from Hearst’s “press” ship, another civilian vessel swung at anchor. The State of Texas had been chartered to carry food, medicine, and other relief supplies to aid the Cuban rebel forces. The Red Cross expedition was led by a woman committed to helping the Cuban people.
Even as Hearst was staring from the deck of the Sylvia at the outlines of Santiago, Clara Barton was on her way to the shore. She sat in the stern of the small boat as upright as a soldier, her eyes searching the buildings that lined the beach. As soon as the prow of the skiff nudged into the sand, she rose and stepped ashore. Pulling herself up to her full five-feet height, she took in the soldiers scrambling ashore, the frantic horses and mules that had been shoved overboard, and the disorder along the beach as screaming officers and non-coms tried to get their men into some sort of order. As calmly as if she were strolling along the streets of Boston, she picked her way through the masses of men and animals. For several minutes she walked along the streets of the miserable village, then approached a grizzled sergeant, who stopped shouting at his men long enough to stare at her curiously.
“I’m looking for the medical facilities, Sergeant.”
“Ain’t any,” the sergeant grinned. He nodded impatiently toward his left, adding, “Doc Burns—he come ashore. Down that way, I reckon.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
Five minutes later Miss Barton walked up to a man, asking, “Are you Dr. Burns?”
David was dripping with perspiration, and he took time to wipe his eyes before he answered. “Yes, I’m Burns.”
“My name is Clara Barton.”
Deborah had been picking up a wooden box filled with medical supplies, but she set it down instantly, her eyes wide with astonishment when she heard the woman’s name. Coming to stand beside David, she said, “Miss Barton! I’m Deborah Laurent, one of Dr. Burns’s nurses.” She gave a half laugh, then added, “I can’t believe it’s really you!”
A glint of humor appeared in the eyes of Clara Barton. “Most people think I’m dead,” she laughed. She was seventy-seven years old, and her hair, which was still brown, had been combed into a bun on the back of her head. Her face was round, with a wide mouth and expressive dark brown eyes. She wore a gray dress with black bands down the front and high on the arms—much like the ones she had worn on the battlefields of the Civil War.
David smiled wearily, but managed to show a touch of chivalry. “I’m an old admirer of yours, Miss Barton,” he said. “Your fieldwork during the Civil War was splendid. I’m glad you’re here.” As Gail emerged from the weatherbeaten building, David turned and introduced her as well. Then he asked Miss Barton, “What are your plans?”
“We landed at Guantanamo,” Miss Barton said, “and tried to get some of our supplies overland—but it was very difficult. I thought it best to come here.” She looked up at the brooding hills, then added, “I suppose the fighting will be there.”
“I think so,” Burns nodded. “We’ll be following the troops, but I found this empty building and simply started moving our supplies in.”
“We’ve managed to make some sort of order—a place to sleep, anyway,” Deborah said quickly. “If you’d like to stay with us, it would be an honor.”
“That’s most kind of you, Miss Laurent.” A thoughtful expression crossed the face of the famous nurse, and she appeared to make an instant decision. “The supplies will be coming ashore soon. I’ll have to find room for them. But I’d rather stay ashore than on the ship.”
All afternoon the three women and the doctor worked hard to make the building ready to receive the wounded. After a search, they found another empty building for Clara Barton and the Red Cross supplies. The sun was sinking into the copper sea when Gail came to announce that a meal was ready. “It’s not much,” she warned the others as they came inside and sat around a wobbly table. “But we all need to eat.”
“Why, this is fine, Gail!” Burns exclaimed, looking down at the food she had prepared. “I’m hungry enough to eat shoe leather.” He waited until the three women were seated, then sat down carefully on a wooden packing crate. He bowed his head and asked a blessing, then smiled at his companions. “No haggis, but I suppose we can’t have everything.”
“What’s haggis?” Gail inquired as sh
e spooned stew from a large bowl into her U.S. army-issue tin plate.
“Sheep stomach,” David grinned.
Gail halted midair with her spoon, stared at him, then laughed. “I’m glad I didn’t find any of that! You’ll have to be satisfied with stew, potatoes, and army-issue bread.”
As they sat on crates, enjoying their simple meal, they speculated about the battle that was to come, and Clara Barton seemed placid. She ate well, asking for a second helping of canned peaches. When a cup of coffee was put before her, she drank it and asked for another. “A fine meal, Miss Summers,” she smiled. “I wish I could have fed the troops as well at Bull Run.”
Deborah leaned forward, her eyes alive with interest. “I’ve read about your work, Miss Barton,” she said. “But I’d like to hear what it was like.”
“It was worse than it will be here, Miss Laurent.” Taking a sip of the coffee that she’d laced with canned cream, her deep-set eyes grew thoughtful. She began to speak of her early days, and they could all see that the difficulties she’d encountered were like a barb in her soul that still rankled her otherwise calm demeanor. She related how she’d gathered supplies for the soldiers, but had not been permitted to go to the front.
“Finally I went to Colonel Daniel Rucker, head of the Quartermaster Depot in Washington City,” she murmured, and a smile touched her broad lips. “I was so bashful in those days, and when the colonel snapped, ‘Well, what do you want?’ I just burst into tears! He was really a gentle man, but was terribly worried about our wounded. He asked me to take a seat and got me calmed down. Finally I told him I wanted to go to the front. He just stared at me saying, ‘The front? Why, that’s no place for a lady! Have you got a father or sweetheart there?’ I told him I had nobody, but that I had three storehouses full of food and hospital supplies and that I needed a pass and some wagons.”
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 final
ly 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.”
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