Crittenden

Already now, the first little fight was going on, and Grafton, the last

newspaper man ashore, was making for the front--with Bob close at his

heels. It was hot, very hot, but the road was a good, hard path of clean

sand, and now and then a breeze stirred, or a light, cool rain twinkled

in the air. On each side lay marsh, swamp, pool, and tropical

jungle--and, to Grafton's Northern imagination, strange diseases lurked

like monsters everywhere. Every strange, hot odour made him uneasy and,

at times, he found himself turning his head and holding his breath, as

he always did when he passed a pest-house in his childhood. About him

were strange plants, strange flowers, strange trees, the music of

strange birds, with nothing to see that was familiar except sky,

mountain, running water, and sand; nothing home-like to hear but the

twitter of swallows and the whistle of quail.

That path was no road for a hard-drinking man to travel and, now and

then, Grafton shrank back, with a startled laugh, from the hideous

things crawling across the road and rustling into the cactus--spiders

with snail-houses over them; lizards with green bodies and yellow legs,

and green legs and yellow bodies; hairy tarantulas, scorpions, and

hideous mottled land-crabs, standing three inches from the sand, and

watching him with hideous little eyes as they shuffled sidewise into the

bushes. Moreover, he was following the trail of an army by the

uncheerful signs in its wake--the débris of the last night's

camp--empty cans, bits of hardtack, crackers, bad odours, and, by and

by, odds and ends that the soldiers discarded as the sun got warm and

their packs heavy--drawers, undershirts, coats, blankets, knapsacks, an

occasional gauntlet or legging, bits of fat bacon, canned meats,

hardtack--and a swarm of buzzards in the path, in the trees, and

wheeling in the air--and smiling Cubans picking up everything they could

eat or wear.

An hour later, he met a soldier, who told him there had been a fight.

Still, an hour later, rumours came thick, but so conflicting and wild

that Grafton began to hope there had been no fight at all. Proof met

him, then, in the road--a white man, on foot, with his arm in a bloody

sling. Then, on a litter, a negro trooper with a shattered leg; then

another with a bullet through his throat; and another wounded man, and

another. On horseback rode a Sergeant with a bandage around his

brow--Grafton could see him smiling broadly fifty yards ahead--and the

furrow of a Mauser bullet across his temple, and just under his skin.

"Still nutty," said Grafton to himself.