There were some ignorant Volunteers at Santiago, but of all the willful violation of all the laws of sanitation, camp hygiene, and health ever seen, these particular Volunteers did the most outrageous things. They threw their kitchen refuse out on the ground anywhere; half of the time they did not visit the sink at all, but used the surface of the ground anywhere instead; and they continued these offenses at Montauk Point. They raked over an abandoned camp of the Spanish prisoners on their arrival at Fort Roosevelt, and appropriated all the cast-off articles they could find, using the débris for bedding. This surgeon, a “family doctor” from the pine woods in northern Michigan, did not seem to regard these matters as of any importance. His attention was called to them, but he took no action. In short, there was no law of health which these people did not utterly ignore, no excess dangerous to health which they did not commit. Three-fourths of them were too sick for duty, and the rest looked like living skeletons. They fairly wallowed in their own filth—and cursed the climate of Cuba on account of their sickness.
In sharp contrast to the 34th Michigan was the 1st U. S. Volunteer Cavalry, the Rough Riders. This was an organization the peer of any in the Regular Army in morale, in fighting, and in every quality that goes to make up a fine body of soldiers. They were picked men; all classes were shown in that organization. The tennis champion was a private, the champion oarsman of Harvard a corporal. On the 2d of July a stock-broker of Wall Street who can sign his check for $3,000,000 was seen haggling with a cow-puncher from the Indian Territory over a piece of hardtack. Both were privates and both were fine soldiers. The whole regiment was just such a medley, but fought like Regulars, and endured like Spartans. They hung on like bull-dogs, and charged like demons. They were as strict about the camp police as Regular Army surgeons, and as punctilious about saluting as a K. O. on “official relations.” Withal, they were a clean-mouthed, clean-clad, clean-camped lot of gentlemen, each in his way, from the “Hello, pard!” of the cowboy to the frozen stare of the monocled dude from Broadway. And they fought—like Regulars; there is no other just comparison. Roosevelt said: “They are the 11th Cavalry.” He found enthusiastic endorsers of this remark in every Regular who saw them fight. They were the finest body of Volunteers who ever wore uniform, and they were stamped indelibly with the personality of Theodore Roosevelt. Pushing, aggressive, resolute, tenacious, but self-contained, cool, and restrained, they represented the very best type of what the Volunteer ought to be—but often was not.
Relics of the Battle. 1. Range Table of 16-cm. Gun in Spanish Fort, Silenced by Gatlings July 1, ’98. 2. Rear Sight of same Gun. 3. Fuse picked up by J. Shiffer July 1. 4. Remington Cartridge used by the Spanish Volunteers, the so-called “Explosive” Brass-covered Bullet. 5. Piece of Coral dug up in the Trenches. 6. Spanish Spurs.
Above them all, however, shone out three types.
Theodore Roosevelt. He needs no eulogy from my pen. He has done everything, and in each occupation has been conspicuously successful. He is, however, a born soldier. His virile frame contains the vigorous mind, the keen intellect, the cool judgment, and the unswerving, never-hesitating courage of the natural soldier. He is affable and courteous, or stern and scathing, as circumstances demand. One instant genial smiles overspread his expressive countenance, whereon the faintest emotion writes its legend with instantaneous and responsive touch; the next, on occasion, a Jove-like sternness settles on his face, and, with a facility of expression bewildering to less gifted tongues, scathing invective, cutting sarcasm, or bitter irony impress upon an offender the gravity of a breach of discipline. Withal, he is modest. He appreciates his own power, but there is no undue display of that appreciation, no vainglorious boasting over achievements which read like a fairy-tale. Fittest to lead or follow, idol of every true soldier. Who, that knows him as those who fought beside him, does not wish to see him at the head of that army and that nation of which he is the brightest ornament in every position, civil, military, or political?
Woodbury Kane—social leader, Fortune’s favorite, aristocratic, refined, cultured, wealthy, haut ton de haut ton, and sabreur sans peur et sans reproche—how shall I paint him to you as I learned to know him in those dreadful, delightful seventeen days in which we lived only from instant to instant, and every man unconsciously bared his soul to his comrades because he could not help it?
A gentleman—he always looked that in the fullest sense of the word. Well groomed; in those days when our bed was a mud-puddle and our canopy the stars, when the music which lulled us to sleep was the hum of the Mauser bullets and the vicious popping of the Remingtons, when water to drink had to be brought at the peril of life for every mouthful, Kane turned up every morning clean-shaved and neatly groomed, shoes duly polished, neat khaki, fitting like a glove and brushed to perfection, nails polished, and hair parted as nicely as if he were dressed by his valet in his New York apartments. How did he do it? We never knew. He kept no servant; he took his regular turn in the ditches, in the mud, or torrid sun, or smothering rain. No night alarm came that did not find Kane first to spring to the trench—and yet he did it, somehow. The courteous phrases of politest speech fell ever from his ready lips, as easily as they would have done in the boudoir of any belle in the metropolis. The shrieking of a shell or tingling hiss of a sharpshooter’s close-aimed bullet never came so near as to interrupt whatever polished expression of thanks, regret, or comment he might be uttering. And it was the real thing, too. The gentle heart was there. No man was readier to bind a wound or aid a sun-struck soldier in the ranks; none more ready to deny himself a comfort or a luxury to help a more needy comrade. A braver man, a surer or more reliable officer, never trod in shoe-leather. A grand example to our pessimistic, socialistic friends and cheap demagogues of the sterling worth and noble, chivalric character of a “society man of wealth.” He is a living type of “Bel à faire peur,” without the idiotic sentimentality of that maudlin hero, and with all his other characteristics.
Greenway and Tiffany. The one a Harvard football-player, just out, plunging into the great game of war with all the zest he formerly found in the great college game. The other the petted son of wealthy parents, also a college graduate, and the idolized fiancé of his childhood’s sweetheart. Equally ready for fight or fun, they were the finest type of youthful manhood to be found. Endowed by Nature with every gift, educated at the best of colleges, bred in the best of society, ready to enter upon the most desirable of careers, they threw all upon the altar of country’s love. They entered battle as one might go to a game or begin a play. All of unbounded zeal, youthful enthusiasm, restless energy, keen enjoyment—everything seemed to be equally acceptable to them, and no discomfort ever assumed any guise other than that of a novel and untried sensation.