The night was black, save where the forks
Of tropic lightning ran,
When, with a long deep thunder-roar,
The typhoon storm began.
Then, suddenly above the din,
We heard the steady bay
Of volleys from the trenches where
The Pennsylvanias lay.
The Tenth, we thought, could hold their own
Against the feigned attack,
And, if the Spaniards dared advance
Would pay them doubly back.
But soon we marked the volleys sink
Into a scattered fire—
And now we heard the Spanish guns
Boom nigher yet and nigher!
Then, like a ghost, a courier
Seemed past our picket tossed,
With wild hair streaming in his face—
"We're lost—we're lost—we're lost!"
"Front, front—in God's name—front!" he cried:
"Our ammunition's gone!"
He turned a face of dazed dismay—
And through the night sped on!
"Men, follow me!" cried McIlrath,
Our acting sergeant then;
And when he gave the word he knew
He gave the word to men!
Twenty there—not one man more—
But down the sunken road
We dragged the guns of Battery H,
Nor even stopped to load!
Sudden, from the darkness poured
A storm of Mauser hail—
But not a man there thought to pause,
Nor any man to quail!
Ahead, the Pennsylvanias' guns
In scattered firing broke;
The Spanish trenches, red with flame,
In fiercer volleys spoke!