Cub Sawbones, alone with the wounded folk, I hailed him with our old college yell, He grinned, as he watched a bursting shell. HENRY CABOT LODGE (1850- > Out of the mist of events and the gathering darkness of passing time the great fact and the great deed stand forth for the American people and their children's children, as white and shining as the Santiago channel glaring under the searchlights through the Cuban night. They remember, and will always remember, that hot summer morning, and the anxiety, only half whispered, which overspread the land. They see, and will always see, the American ships rolling lazily on the long seas, and the sailors just going to Sunday inspection. Then comes the long, thin trail of smoke drawing nearer the harbor's mouth. The ships see it, and we can hear the cheers ring out, for the enemy is coming, and the American sailor rejoices mightily to know that the battle is set. There is no need of signals, no need of orders. The patient, long-watching admiral has given direction for every chance that may befall. Every ship is in place; and they 1 From "The War with Spain." Copyright, 1899, by Harper & Brothers, New York. Used by permission of the publishers. close in upon the advancing enemy, fiercely pouring shells from broadside and turret. There is the Gloucester, firing her little shots at the great cruisers, and then driving down to grapple with the torpedo boats. There are the Spanish ships, already mortally hurt, running along the shore, shattered and breaking under the fire of the Indiana, the Iowa, and the Texas; there is the Brooklyn, racing by outside to head the fugitives, and the Oregon, dealing death strokes as she rushes forward, forging to the front and leaving her mark everywhere she goes. It is a captain's fight, and they all fight as if they were one man with one ship. On they go, driving through the water, firing steadily and ever getting closer; and presently the Spanish cruisers, helpless, burning, twisted wrecks of iron, are piled along the shore, and we see the younger officers and men of the victorious ships periling their lives to save their beaten enemies. We see Wainwright on the Gloucester, as eager in rescue as he was swift in fight to avenge the Maine. We hear Philip cry out: "Don't cheer. The poor devils are dying." We watch Evans as he hands back the sword to the wounded Eulate, and then writes in his report: "I cannot express my admiration for my magnificent crew. So long as the enemy showed his flag, they fought like American seamen; but when the flag came down, they were as gentle and tender as American women." They all stand out to us, these gallant figures, from the silent admiral to the cheering seamen, with an intense human interest, fearless in fight, brave and merciful in the hour of victory. WHEELER AT SANTIAGO1 JAMES LINDSAY GORDON Into the thick of the fight he went, pallid and sick and wan, Borne to the front in an ambulance, a ghostly wisp of a man; But the fighting soul of a fighting man, approved in the long ago, Went to the front in that ambulance - and the body of Fighting Joe! Out from the front they were coming back, smitten of Spanish shells Wounded boys from the Vermont hills and the Alabama dells. "Put them into the ambulance: I'll ride to the front," he said, And he climbed to the saddle and rode right on, that little old ex-Confed. From end to end of the long blue ranks rose up the ringing cheers, And many a powder-blackened face was furrowed with sudden tears, 1 General Joseph Wheeler, a graduate of West Point, went into the Confederate Cavalry in 1861, and at the age of twenty-six was a lieutenant general. After the war his native state, Alabama, sent him to Congress, where he served for thirty years. At the outbreak of the war with Spain, in 1898, although sixty-two years of age, he was commissioned with the first contingent of cavalry. Owing to the nature of the country the cavalry went into battle dismounted, and Wheeler, although at the time suffering from a sharp attack of fever, insisted on going with his command if he had to be carried on a cot. From the New York Sun, July, 1898. Used by permission of the publishers. As with flashing eyes and gleaming sword, and hair and beard of snow, Into the hell of shot and shell rode little old Fighting Joe! Sick with fever and racked with pain, he could not stay away, For he heard the song of the yester-year in the deepmouthed cannon's bay He heard in the calling song of the guns there was work for him to do, Where his country's best blood splashed and flowed 'round the old Red, White, and Blue! Fevered body and hero heart! this Union's heart to you Beats out in love and reverence and to each dear boy in blue Who stood or fell 'mid the shot and shell, and cheered in the face of the foe, As, wan and white, to the heart of the fight rode little old Fighting Joe! WHEN WITH THEIR COUNTRY'S ANGER 1 RICHARD WATSON GILDER (1844-1909) When with their country's anger They flame into the fight, On sea, in treacherous forest, To strike with main and might, 1 This poem by Richard Watson Gilder, well known not only as a poet but as the editor for many years of the Century Magazine, was written during the period of the war with Spain. From Richard Watson Gilder's Complete Poems. Copyright, 1908, by Richard Watson Gilder. Published by Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston. Used by permission of the publishers. He shows the gentlest mercy What stays the noblest memory Rescued with peerless daring! And, now, in the breast of the hero Sown in the battle-hour. But the brave man's Love of Courage, The Love of Comrade-Foes. For since the beginning of battles The brave have honored the brave. |