Crittenden

Looking toward Caney he could even see the hill from which he had

witnessed the flight of the first shell that had been the storm centre

of the hurricane of death that had swept all through the white,

cloudless day. It burst harmlessly--that shell--and meant no more than a

signal to fire to the soldiers closing in on Caney, the Cubans lurking

around a block-house at a safe artillery distance in the woods and to

the impatient battery before San Juan. Retrospectively now, it meant the

death-knell of brave men, the quick cry and long groaning of the

wounded, the pained breathing of sick and fever-stricken, the quickened

heart-beats of the waiting and anxious at home--the low sobbing of the

women to whom fatal news came. It meant Cervera's gallant dash, Sampson

and Schley's great victory, the fall of Santiago; freedom for Cuba, a

quieter sleep for the Maine dead, and peace with Spain. Once more, as

he rose, he looked at the dark woods, the dead-haunted jungles which the

moon was draping with a more than mortal beauty, and he knew that in

them, as in the long grass of the orchard-like valley below him, comrade

was looking for dead comrade. And among the searchers was the faithful

Bob, looking for his Old Captain, Crittenden, his honest heart nigh to

bursting, for already he had found Raincrow torn with a shell and he had

borne a body back to the horror-haunted little hospital under the creek

bank at the Bloody Ford--a body from which the head hung over his

shoulder--limp, with a bullet-hole through the neck--the body of his

Young Captain, Basil.