Crittenden

God, how the bullets hissed and the shells shrieked; and, God, how

slow--slow--slow was the run! Crittenden's legs were of lead, and

leaden were the legs of the men with him--running with guns trailing the

earth or caught tightly across the breast and creeping unconsciously. He

saw nothing but the men in front of him, the men who were dropping

behind him, and the yellow line above, and the haven at the bottom of

the hill. Now and then he could see a little, dirty, blue figure leap

into view on the hill and disappear. Two men only were ahead of him when

he reached the foot of the hill--Sharpe and a tall Cuban close at his

side with machéte drawn--the one Cuban hero of that fierce charge. But

he could hear laboured panting behind him, and he knew that others were

coming on. God, how steep and high that hill was! He was gasping for

breath now, and he was side by side with Cuban and Lieutenant--gasping,

too. To right and left--faint cheers. To the right, a machine gun

playing like hail on the yellow dirt. To his left a shell, bursting in

front of a climbing, struggling group, and the soldiers tumbling

backward and rolling ten feet down the hill. A lull in the firing--the

Spaniards were running--and then the top--the top! Sharpe sprang over

the trench, calling out to save the wounded. A crouching Spaniard raised

his pistol, and Sharpe fell. With one leap, Crittenden reached him with

the butt of his gun and, with savage exultation, he heard the skull of

the Spaniard crash.

* * * * *

Straight in front, the Spaniards were running like rabbits through the

brush. To the left, Kent was charging far around and out of sight. To

the right, Rough Riders and negroes were driving Spaniards down one hill

and up the next. The negroes were as wild as at a camp meeting or a

voodoo dance. One big Sergeant strode along brandishing in each hand a

piece of his carbine that had been shot in two by a Mauser bullet, and

shouting at the top of his voice, contemptuously:

"Heah, somebody, gimme a gun! gimme a gun, I tell ye," still striding

ahead and looking never behind him. "You don't know how to fight. Gimme

a gun!" To the negro's left, a young Lieutenant was going up the hill

with naked sword in one hand and a kodak in the other--taking pictures

as he ran. A bare-headed boy, running between him and a gigantic negro

trooper, toppled suddenly and fell, and another negro stopped in the

charge, and, with a groan, bent over him and went no farther.