To the southwest, at a distance of about 3,000 yards, the city of Santiago lay slumbering in the morning sun. The chain of hills which surrounded the city, lying between it and our position, was crowned with rank tropical verdure, and gave no indications of military fortifications. There was no sign of life, a gentle land breeze swayed the tops of the royal palms, and the little birds flitted from bough to bough caroling their morning songs as though no such events were impending as the bombardment of a city and the death of 400 gallant soldiers. The gentle ripple of the creek, lapping over its pebbly bed at the foot of the hill, was distinctly audible.
The artillery officers produced their range-finders and made a scientific guess at the distance from the hill to a red brick building in the northern edge of Santiago. This guess was 2600 yards. They signalled to the lead piece of Grimes’ Light Battery to ascend the hill. It was delayed for a moment while picks and shovels were plied upon the top of the hill to make slight emplacements for the guns, and at last, at ten minutes before eight o’clock, the first piece started the difficult ascent. The drivers stood up in their stirrups and lashed their horses and shouted; the horses plunged and reared and jumped. The piece stuck half way up the hill. The leaders were turned slightly to the right to give new direction and another attempt was made—ten yards gained. The leaders were swung to the left, men and officers standing near by added their shouts and blows from sticks. A tall artillery officer, whose red stripes were conspicuous, jumped up and down and swore; the team gave a few more jumps, then they wheeled the gun by a left about, with its muzzle pointing toward the city. It was quickly unlimbered and run to its place.
The second piece started up the hill. The drivers of this piece sat quietly in their saddles, and, with a cluck, started up the hill at a walk. The tall artillery officer shouted, and a driver muttered under his breath, “Damned fool!” Regardless of the orders to rush their horses, the drivers of this piece continued to walk up the hill. At the steepest part of the hill, they rose slightly in their stirrups, as one man, and applied the spur to the lead horses, and, at the same time, a lash of the quirt to the off horses of the team. The horses sprang forward, and in an instant the second piece was in battery. The third and fourth pieces were taken up in the same manner as the second.
The pieces were loaded; a party of newspaper correspondents produced their lead pencils and pads, and began to take notes; the little birds continued to sing. The Gatling Gun man, the Army and Navy Journal man, and the assistant adjutant-general stepped to the windward a few yards to be clear of the smoke. The range was given by the battery commander—2600 yards; the objective was named, a small, almost indistinguishable redoubt, below the hospital about 300 yards. The cannoneers braced themselves, No. 3 stretched the lanyard taut on his piece, and Grimes remarked, in a conversational tone, “Let her go.”
The report of the field-piece burst with startling suddenness upon the quiet summer morning, and a dense cloud of grayish-colored smoke spurted from the muzzle of the gun. Everybody involuntarily jumped, the sound was so startling, although expected. The piece recoiled eight or ten feet, and the gunners jumped to the wheels and ran it forward again into battery. Field-glasses were glued upon the vicinity of the brick hospital. There was a puff of white smoke and an exclamation, “A trifle too long!” The second piece was aimed and fired. There was no response. The third, and fourth, and fifth, with like results. It was like firing a salute on the Fourth of July. There was no indication of any danger whatever; laugh and jest were beginning to go round.
Suddenly a dull boom was heard from somewhere, the exact direction could not be located. The next thing was a shrill whistle overhead, and then a most startling report. The first Spanish shell exploded about twenty feet above the surface of the ground, and about twenty yards in rear of the crest of the hill. It exploded in the midst of our brave Cuban contingents, killed one and wounded several. The valiant sons of Cuba libre took to their heels, and most of the newspaper correspondents did likewise. The members of Grimes’ Battery, who were not needed at the guns, were sent back to the caissons, and another round of shrapnel was sent in reply. Again a hurtling sound rent the air; again there was the fierce crack of a Spanish shell in our immediate vicinity, and, on looking around to see where this shell struck, it was observed that it had burst over the Gatling battery. Luckily, it had gone six or eight feet beyond the battery before exploding. A fragment of the shell had struck Priv. Bremer upon the hand, producing quite a severe contusion. The Missouri mules stamped the ground impatiently; one of them uttered the characteristic exclamation of his race, “Aw! hee! aw! hee! aw!” and the members of the detachment burst into a merry peal of hearty laughter. It was evident that this detachment was not going to run, and it was equally evident that the Missouri mules would stand fire.
A Fighting Cuban, and Where He Fought.