"Forward, March": A Tale of the Spanish-American War

by Kirk Munroe

"The Spaniards are right in front of us," he whispered, and almost instantly the startling news was passed down the line. There was no joking now, nor complaints of the heat, but each man stood with compressed lips, peering into the dense underbrush on either side, and wishing that the suspense was over.

Now came the hurried forming of a line of battle. One troop was sent straight to the front, two were deployed to the left, and two more, one of which was that of Ridge and Rollo, were ordered to force their way through the thickets on their right, down into the valley, where they were to make connection with the regulars. While these movements were being executed, and with a suddenness that caused every man's nerves to tingle, a sharp firing began somewhere off in the right, and ran like a flash of powder along the whole line.

Blanket-rolls and haversacks had already been flung aside, and the sweating troopers, with their flannel shirts open at the throat and sleeves rolled up to the elbows, bore only their carbines, ammunition, and canteens of water. At first Ridge had only his revolver, but within five minutes he had snatched up the carbine of a man who fell dead at his side, and was as well armed as the rest.

For an hour the Riders fought blindly, seeing no enemy, but pouring their own volleys in the direction from which the steady streams of Mauser bullets seemed to come. The smokeless powder used by the Spaniards gave no trace of their location, while the sulphurous cloud hanging over the Americans formed a perfect target for the Spanish fire.

Still the dark-blue line was steadily advanced, sometimes by quick rushes, and again by a crawling on hands and knees through the high, hot grass. Always over the heads of the troopers and among them streamed a ceaseless hail of bullets from Mauser rifles and machine-guns. Men fell with each minute, some not to rise again, some only wounded; but the others never paused to note their fate. Those who could must push on and get at the Spaniards. Those who were helpless to advance must, for the present, be left to care for themselves as best they might.

At length the ever-advancing line reached the edge of a grassy valley set here and there with clumps of palms. To the left was a stone building, formerly a distillery, now a Spanish fort, and directly in front was an intrenched ridge. To this the Spaniards had been slowly but surely driven, and now they occupied their strongest position.

At almost the same moment, and as though animated by a single thought, Roosevelt on the extreme left and Wood on the right gave the order to charge. With a yell the panting, smoke-begrimed Riders broke from cover and sprang after their dauntless leaders. They charged by rushes, running fifty feet, then dropping in the hot grass and firing; then reload, rise, and run forward. On their right the regulars were doing the same thing in the same manner with the precision of machines, while the colored troops stormed the ridge with a steadiness and grim determination that won for them undying fame, and answered forever the question as to whether or not the negro is fitted to be a soldier.

The assault was unsupported by artillery; those making it had no bayonets, and the Spanish fire, ripping, crackling, and blazing in vivid sheets from block-house and rifle-pit, was doubling and trebling in fury; but there was no hesitation on the part of the Americans, no backward step.

The Spaniards could not understand it. This thin line of yelling men advancing with such confidence must have the whole American army close behind them. In that case another minute would see an assault by overwhelming numbers. Thus thinking, the Spaniards faltered, glanced uneasily behind them, and finally ran, panic-stricken, towards Santiago, while Rough Riders and regulars swarmed with exulting yells and howls of triumph into the abandoned trenches. The first land battle of the war had been fought and won. Wood, Roosevelt, Young, Rough Riders, and regulars had covered themselves with glory, and performed a deed of heroism that will never be forgotten so long as the story of the American soldier is told.

"If we only had our horses we could catch every one of those chaps," said Rollo Van Kyp, as he sat in a window of the ruined building just captured by the Riders, happily swinging his legs and fanning himself with his hat. The young millionaire's face was black with powder, covered with blood from the scratching of thorns, and streaked with trickling perspiration. His shirt and trousers were in rags.