Could the story of these sufferers be individually told there would not be wanting subject matter of much interest; in many cases the thrilling, tender, or romantic element stands forth.
Perhaps one of the most romantic instances is that of a young American. A fine specimen of manhood as he stood before me and quietly told me his story, led on by my interest and questioning: tall, erect, well-knit and seasoned to meet emergencies; a refined, open, strong face, a well poised head; one felt the real courage in the man. Over three years ago, led by high hopes inspired by the cause of suffering Cuba, as set forth in our land of free press agency, and fanned to a holy flame by the pen of a ready writer, he set out with the zeal of a crusader to plant the ensign of true liberty. A handful of comrades they were with hopes high, burning to do a righteous deed.
Landed upon Cuban soil at evening, this little body of men was embraced by the natives; on the morrow these new-found friends had looted even the luggage of their would-be helpers. The life of frontier warfare began; in combat the Americans were always given the exposed positions of danger, and were accordingly picked off one by one.
Over a year ago, the friend of this young hero was dangerously wounded in the hip. A Cuban operation was performed; finally a piece of bone has worked itself out from the injured hip. The condition of the injured man becoming serious; food, medicines and clothing growing less; no possibility of carrying the injured man to find help, the case became desperate, and for his comrade’s sake, the young warrior started overland to Santiago, a distance of some three hundred miles, in quest of aid. He, a young French captain and two servants made up the little caravan for this journey.
Any one who has experienced Cuban roads in the rainy season can imagine what such a journey means through woods and marsh, over mountains and across burning plains. That he was not to be daunted he proved by safely reaching Santiago. Horses had to be discarded and the journey over the mountains made on foot. Tales of destitution and suffering he brought from all the country through which he came. People were so scantily clad that they could not come out to offer a glass of water. Lands laid waste where the guerilla force had swept by like a swarm of locusts and had left nothing but desolation behind. It was, indeed, a pleasure to give of our stores such as the young officer could venture to carry upon that hazardous return journey, unarmed, for even his weapons had been stolen, and his recital in Santiago of his experiences had caused scowling looks from under drawn brows. His hope was to get his wounded comrade home, or at least where surgical aid may be had before it is too late.
One of the thrilling tales is that of Marco Sancho, a Cuban warrior, who was brought in to be clothed. He had been in the country whither he had deserted from the Spanish ranks to join the Cubans. While one of the Red Cross staff had been making an overland tour of this province he had discovered the man and had told him to come to Santiago for medical treatment. He came with a companion. There his former captain, a Spaniard, discovered him, had him arrested, threatened him with death when he was returned to Spain. Fortunately the Cuban bethought himself of the Red Cross physician and sent word to him of this peril. At the jail the prisoner was brought out between two guardsmen. A needless precaution one would think to see the diminutive form of the man.
The Spanish captain was over-confident of his right to punish his soldier. The thought was suggested that he, a prisoner himself, had no right to punish a man, who by birth a Cuban, had served in his country’s cause. Pompously he could not see it until by the persuasion of General Wood’s order to liberate the man at once, he became servilely humble. Marco Sancho was so rejoiced at his escape from horrors untried, that his agile little framework expressed his entire satisfaction in the situation by turning a complete somersault.
The tender side to hard soldier life is not wanting. A young lieutenant, refined yet every inch a soldier and a gentleman, with a something indefinably fine above the common lot of man, brought in a little Cuban lad of eight years. He had lost his mother five years ago, and in the encounter in July his father had been killed. Three officers had adopted the boy, and were about to take him North when they returned. The difficulty of introducing a Cuban lad into our civilization habilitated after the fashion and condition of his native land faced them, when they bethought themselves of the resources of the Red Cross. The boy himself was a pitiful object; he had had the fever, the results of which had left him with a partial paralysis in the hips; he seemed out of physical proportion; his bright, intelligent eyes, and that peculiar pathetic soprano of the voices of many of the children in Cuba made him a strangely picturesque figure. But the manly tenderness of the young officer as he did the little offices of the toilet for the lad, the unconsciously gentle tone of his voice as he spoke, the kindly gleam of his eye as it lighted upon the boy, made a picture not to be forgotten. As they rolled away in one of the quaintly primitive-looking Cuban carriages, the front seat stacked with gifts, the little fellow delightfully spick and span, and confidingly trustful of his future in the hands of his youthful protector who sat beside him, one felt a quickening at the heart-strings to know what the adopted son of the regiment would become, how it would all turn out. Surely, so far as the boy is concerned, unusual opportunities have opened.
Contrasts stand ever quietly side by side, telling their story to him who will read, perhaps nowhere else more markedly than here in Cuba, where the conditions of life are most abnormal.
These few snap-shots at history, as it is making in these stirring times, show that even behind the closed doors of a wareroom, where the overlooking, assorting and repacking of cases of garments, which the kind hearts of people at home have prompted them to send, is not without its human, vital interest. Meanwhile the work goes steadily on; as each case is repacked, it is nailed up. A Red Cross label is pasted on, below the label its contents are duly noted in blue pencil, and the box is neatly piled, with like cases and barrels, ready to be sent out to the commissioners, the hospitals, orphanages, medical clinic, outlying towns whenever the call may come.