Once Grafton started into a tent. On the first cot lay a handsome boy,
with a white, frank face and a bullet hole through his neck, and he
recognized the dashing little fellow whom he had seen splashing through
the Bloody Ford at a gallop, dropping from his horse at a barbed-wire
fence, and dashing on afoot with the Rough Riders. The face bore a
strong likeness to the face he had seen on the hill--of the Kentuckian,
Crittenden--the Kentucky regular, as Grafton always mentally
characterized him--and he wondered if the boy were not the brother of
whom he had heard. The lad was still alive--but how could he live with
that wound in his throat? Grafton's eyes filled with tears: it was
horror--horror--all horror.
Here and there along the shadowed road lay a lifeless mule or horse or a
dead man. It was curious, but a man killed in battle was not like an
ordinary dead man--he was no more than he was--a lump of clay. It was
more curious still that one's pity seemed less acute for man than for
horse: it was the man's choice to take the risk--the horse had no
choice.
Here and there by the roadside was a grave. Comrades had halted there
long enough to save a comrade from the birds of prey. Every now and
then he would meet a pack-train loaded with ammunition and ration boxes;
or a wagon drawn by six mules and driven by a swearing, fearless,
tireless teamster. The forest was ringing with the noise of wheels, the
creaking of harness, the shouts of teamsters and the guards with them
and the officer in charge--all on the way to the working beavers on top
of the conquered hill.
Going the other way were the poor wounded, on foot, in little groups of
slowly moving twos and threes, and in jolting, springless army
wagons--on their way of torture to more torture in the rear. His heart
bled for them. And the way those men took their suffering! Sometimes the
jolting wagons were too much for human endurance, and soldiers would
pray for the driver, when he stopped, not to start again. In one
ambulance that he overtook, a man groaned. "Grit your teeth," said
another, an old Irish sergeant, sternly--"Grit your teeth; there's
others that's hurt worse'n you." The Sergeant lifted his head, and a
bandage showed that he was shot through the face, and Grafton heard not
another sound. But it was the slightly hurt--the men shot in the leg or
arm--who made the most noise. He had seen three men brought into the
hospital from San Juan. The surgeon took the one who was groaning. He
had a mere scratch on one leg. Another was dressed, and while the third
sat silently on a stool, still another was attended, and another, before
the surgeon turned to the man who was so patiently awaiting his turn.