Because we had no Volunteers with us, we were not granted even one little word-spattering newspaper scribe, and so relinquished at the outset any fugitive hopes of glory that otherwise might have been entertained. We were out for business,—hard marching, hard living, hard fighting,—and the opening vista was fringed with gore. We were none of us the darlings of any particular State, nor the precious offspring of a peripatetic statesman with a practised pull. We were at no time decimated by disease through ignorant or insubordinate disregard of the primary principles of hygiene. We didn't write long wailing letters home because we were obliged to sleep on the damp ground, and had neither hot rolls, chocolate, nor marmalade for breakfast. We were ragged, hungry, tough, and faithful. In other words, we were regular army men, and, most distinctly, not Volunteers.
[Illustration: Statue of Columbus, Mayaguez.]
There is a personality peculiar to the professional soldier, even though he be but a half-fledged recruit, that defies analysis and baffles description. He is of course built from the same clay as his brother of the Volunteers; but the latter is a tin god, and the former is a devil. Yet the difference does not spring from anything more fundamental than environment, and therein lies the solace of the other fellow. Putting aside all odious comparisons and limiting myself to a view of the regular army man as I know him, I can simply say that in the eight months during which I underwent in his company hard knocks and privations without number I could not have found a more truly satisfactory comrade and friend. He doesn't, on the average, know much about books; nor did he ever hear of the Etruscan Inscriptions or the Pyramidal Policy of the Ancient Egyptians. He takes a grim delight in smashing the English language into microscopic atoms at a single blow. He is more fond of women, horses, and prize-fighting than is good for him. He will steal when he is hungry, lie to save his skin, curse most terribly on trifling provocation, and spend, to his last sou markee, his hard-won wage on adulterated drink.
"He's a devil an' a ostrich an' a orphan-child in one."
But he will stand his ground in action while there is ground to stand on; he will throw his life away at a moment's notice for the flag, or a chosen comrade, or a worthless girl; he will march and starve and thirst world without end if he has a leader who holds his confidence; and he is, on the whole, a rather fine specimen of the true American—being usually Irish or German.
[Illustration: American Cavalry entering Mayaguez on the 11th of
August.]
Our brigade commander, General Theodore Schwan—silent, upright, tall, and spare—was regarded with affection and respect by every one who came into personal contact with him, officer and man alike. He was shrewd, clever, and distinguished, but never too busy or elevated to listen to the humblest soldier from the ranks, and from first to last a gentleman. Of his staff it is the highest praise to say that they were in every way worthy of their chief. Bluff Captain Davison, gruff Captain Hutcheson, studious Major Root, saturnine Major Egan, wounded Lieutenant Byron, patient Lieutenant Poore, dashing Captain Elkins, and courteous Lieutenant Summerlin, I salute you all in the most military manner of the soldier dismounted! You were my friends in need, you lent me money, you gave me fatherly counsel and passes of freedom to the shimmering tropic dawn—and I shall not forget.
At the head of the Eleventh Infantry was Colonel I.D. DeRussy, who, with his ministerial drawl and dry wit, was a sharp contrast to his blunt, impetuous, and fiery second in command, Lieutenant-Colonel Burke. But, so far as I am aware, perpetual harmony reigned between them; and both were beloved by their men. The battalion of artillery was commanded by Captain Frank Thorp of Light Battery "D," my own outfit. He was best known in the ranks as "Side-wheeler," from a peculiarity of gait, and, though well on in years, was at all times gallant, courageous, and capable. A stiff disciplinarian, he kept his guardhouse well filled from week to week; but he was as quick to reward as punish, when warranted by circumstances. It is worthy of note that although he took each day enough medicine to lay an ordinary man on his back, or in an early grave, yet he was well and fit from start to finish.
Captain Macomb of the Fifth Cavalry is not an easy man to describe in cold ink. Handsome, stalwart, and grave; black-haired, black-eyed, a scarf of yellow knotted at his throat,—he was Custer without the vanity or Lancelot devoid a Guinevere.
[Illustration: The Public Fountain in Aguadilla, a Favorite Rendezvous for
Runaway Lovers.]