The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, January 17, 1904, Page 2

This is the Third In- stallment of “Crittenden,” and now, when beautiful Judith Page has really found her heart and knows | that “Critten- she loves den,” even more passion- ately than he had loved her, can you solve the problem of whether he really loves her now ? This is a trnly rattling good [ story of love and the ter- | rors of war. by Charles Scribner's Sons.) first little and Graf- man LREADY the fight newspaper making for the his heels, It > road was'a nd, and now a light each and trop- northern lurked ast ashore, was Bob close front—with th On c rain twinkled in passed & pe About him were e flowers, strange ange birds, with was far running wat me-like to hear r and, now and ton shrank back, with a star- e ugh, Tn the hideous things « vling across the road and rus in b « us—spiders with snail- hous lizards with green legs amd gree pty can: ad odors, ds that the t warm liscard as the the air— up every- ick, but . fton be- » fight at in the 1oad— : th his arm in a t eg ough his throat; a an, and an- ( rseback rode a sergeant around brow—Graf- t him smiling broadly fifty and the furrow of a Mau- ss his temple, and just said Grafton to himself. was a camp af insurgents brown fellows, ragged, > s—each with a sugar-loaf a Remington rifie of the pat- f 1882, or a brand new Krag-Jor- ed by Uncle Sam, and the an ever ready machete n a case of embossed leather hip. Very young they were, d; and wiry, quick-eyed, in- the most part and, in vacious and rather gen. as a little creek next, and, bank of the other side, »ed short, with a start, in t and on a sloping ight gray shapes, muffled to foot, and Grafton would 2 that all of them were in their last sleep but one, who lay with his lef t and upright, his left elt his blanket, and his han heart. He slept like & child was the camp of the regulars en part in the fight. On stood @ colonel, who himself a Hotchkiss gun in the lit- e—covered with grime and eweat, and with the passion of battle Dot quite gone from his eyes; and across the road soldiers were digging one long grave. Grafton pushed on a little farther, and on the top of the ridge and on the grassy sun-lit knoll, was the camp of the Riders, just be- yond the rifie-pits from which they bad driven the Spaniards. Under a tree to the right lay another row of muffied shapes, and at once Grafton walked with the colonel to the hospi- tal, a quarter of 2 mile away. The path, thickly ghaded and dappled with sunshine, ran along the ridge through the battie-field, and it was as pretty, peaceful and romantic as a lovers’ walk in a garden. Here and there, the tall grass along the path was pressed flat whe a wounded man had lain. In one place, the grass was matted d dark red; near by was a blood-staine hat marked with the initials “E. L.” Here was the spot where the first vie- tim the fight fell. A passing soldier, who reluctantly gave his name as Blackford, bared his left arm and showed the pewspaper man three places between his wrist and elbow where the skin had been merely blis- tered by three separate bullets as he lay fighting unseen enemies. Farther on, lay a dead Spaniard, with covered face. “There’s one,” said the colonel, with & careless gesture. A huge buzzard flapped from the tree over the dead man as they passed beneath. Beyond was the open-air hospital, where were two more rigid human figures, and i8] “IAE P OF DE where the wounded lay—white, qulet, uncomplaining, And there a surgeon told him how the wounded had lain there during the fight singing: My country, "tis of thee! And Grafton beat his hands together, while his throat was full and his eyes were full of tears. To think what he had missed—to think what he had missed! He knew that national interest would center in this regiment of Rough Rid- ers; for every State in the Union had a son in its ranks, and the sons repre- sented every social element in the na- tional life. Never was there a more representative body of men, nor a body of more varied elements standing all on one and the same basis of American manhood. He recalled how, at Tampa, he had stood with the célonel while the regiment filed past, the colonel, mean- while, telliig him about the men—the strong men, who made strong stories for Wister and strong pictures for Remington. And the colonel had pointed with especial pride and affec- tion to two boy troopers, who marched at the head of his column—a Puritan from Massachusetts and a cavalier through Virginia blood from Kentucky; one the gon of a Confederate general, the other the son of a Union general— both b:w)fl “bunkies,” brothers In arms, fast becoming brothers at heart—Rotert Sumner and Basil Crit- tenden. The colonel waved his hand toward the wild Westerners who fol- lowed them. “It’s odd to think it—but those two boys are the fathers of the regiment.” And now that Grafton looked around ang thought of it all agdin—they Were. The fathers of the regiment had planted Plymouth and Jamestown; had wrenched life and liberty from the granite of New England, the fast- nesses of the Cumberland, and the wildernesses of the rich valleys ' yond; while the sires of these v Westerners had gone on with the same trinity through the barren wastes of plains. And, now, having conguered the New World, Puritan and cavaller, the children of both were come to- gether again on the same old mission of freedom, but this time the freedom of others; carrying the fruits of their own struggle back to the old land from which they came; with the sword in one hand, if there whs need, but with the torch of liberty In the othe: eld high, and, as God's finger nted, lighting the way. To think what he had missed! As Grafton walked slowly back, an officer was calling the roll of his com- pany under the quiet, sunay hill, ‘uu he stopped to listen, Now and then there was no answer, and he went on— thrilled and saddened. The play was ended—this was war. S Outside the camp, the road was full of half-angry, bitterly disappointed in- THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. santry — Chaffee’'s men. When he reached the camp of the cavairy at the foot of the hill again, a soldier called his name as he passed—a grimy soldler —and Grafton stopped In his tracks. “Well, by Go It was Crittenden, who smiled when he saw Grafton's bewildered face. Then the Kentuckian, too, stared in utter amazement at a black face grinning over Grafton's shoulder. “Bob!” he said, sharply. 'Yessuh,” said Bob humbly. “What are you doing here?” “Nothin’, ole cap'n—jes nothin'," said Bob, with the naivete of a child. “Jes lookin® fer you.” “Is that your negro?” A sarcastic lieutenant was asking the guestion. “He's my gervant, sir.” “Well, we don't allow soldiers to take their valets to the fleld.” "My servant at home, sir, I meant. He came of his own accord.” “Go find Basll,” Crittenden said to Bob, “and if you can’t find him,” he added in a_lower tone, “and want any- thing, come back here to me.” “Yessuh,” sald Bob, loth to go, but, seeing the lieutenant scowling, he moved on down the road. “I thought you were a captain,” sdid Grafton. Crittenden laughed. “Not exactly. “Forward,” shouted the lieutenant, *“march!” Grafton looked Crittenden over. “Well, I swear,” he said heartily, and, as Crittenden moved forward, Grafton stood looking after him. “A regular—I do be damned!™ That night Basil wrote home. He had net fired his musket a single time. He saw nothing to shoot at, and he saw no use shooting until he did have some- thing to ‘'shoot at. It was terrible to see men dead and wounded, but the fight itself was stupid—blundering through a jungle, bullets zipping about, and the Spaniards too far away and invisible. He wanted to be closer. ' “General Carter has sent for me to take my place on his staft. I don't want to go, but the colonel says I ‘ought. I don't believe I would, if the general hadn't been father's friend and if my ‘bunkie’ weren't wounded. He's all right, but he'll have to go back. I'd " like to have his wound, but I'd hate to have to go back. The colonel says he's sorry to lose me. He meant to make me & corporal, he says. I don't know what for—but hooray! “Brother was not in the fight, I sup- pose. Don't worry about me—please don’t worry. *“P, 8.—I have often wondered what it would be like to be on the eve of a battle. It's no different from anything else.” Abe Long and Crittenden were bun- kies now. Abe's comrade, the boy San- ders, had been wounded and sent to the rear. Reynolds, too, was shot through the shoulder, and, despite his protests, was ordered to the coast. “Oh, I'l be on hand for the next scrap,” he sald. ¢ Abe and Crittenden had been side by side in the fight. It was no surprise to Crittenden that any man was brave. By his code, a man would be better dead than alive a coward. He believed cow- ardice exceptional and the brave man the rule, but he was not prepared for Abe’s coolness and humor. Never did the Westerner's volce change, and never did\the grim half-smile leave his eyes or his mouth. Once during the fight he took off his hat. “How's my halir parted?” he asked, quietly. A Mauser bullet had mowed a path through Abe's thick, upright hair, gcraping the gkin for three inches, and aving a trail of tiny red drops. Crit- tenden turned to look and laugh, and a bullet cut through the apen flap of his shirt, fust over his heart. He pointed to it. “See the good turn you did me." While the two were cooking supper, the old sergeant came up. “If you don't obey orders next time,” he said to Crittenden, sternly, for Abe was present, “I'll report you to the captain.” Crittenden had declined to take shelter during the fight—it was a racial inheritance that both the North and the South learned to correct in the old war. “That's right, governor,” said Abe. “The colonel himself wanted to know Wwhat damn fool that was standing out in the road. He meant you.” “All right, sergeant,” Crittenden said. When he came in from guard duty, late that night, he learned that Basil was safe. He lay down with a grate- ful heart, and his thoughts, like the thoughts of every man in that tropical forest, took flight for home. Life was getting very simple now for him— death, too, and duty. Alreddy he was beginning to wonder at his old seif and, with a shock it came to him that there were but three women in the world to him—Phyllis and his mother— and Judith. 'He thought of the night of the parting, and it flashed for the first time upon him that Judith might have taken the shame that he felt red- dening his face as shame for her, and not for himself, and a pain shot through him so keen that he groaned aloud. Above himi was a clear sky, a quarter moon, an enveloping mist of stars, and the very peace of heaven. But there was little sleep—and that battle-haunt- ed—for any; and for him none at all And none at all during that night of agony for Judith, nor Phyllis, nor the mother at Canewood, though there was 4 reaction of joy, next morning, when the name of neither Crittenden was among the wounded or dead. Nothing had been heard. so far, of the elder brother, but, as they sat in the porch, a negro bey brought the town paper, and Mrs. Crittenden found a paragraph about a sgldier springing into the sea ip full uniform at Stboney to rescue a dr}v"nln}’:gfi'ruae. who had fallen into the ggrf while trying to land and had sunk to the bottom by his arms and ammunition. And the res- cuer's name was Crittenden. The writer went on to tell who he was, and how he had given up his commission to & younger brother and had gone as a private in the regular army—how he had been ofler’d another after he had reached Cuba, and had declined that, too—having entered with his comrades, he would stay with them to the end. ‘Whereat the moth#ér’s face burned with a proud fire, as did Phyllis, when Mrs. Crittenden read on about this Critten- den’s young brother, who, while wait- ing for his commission, had gone as a Rough Rider, and who, after gallant conduct during the first fight, had taken his place on General Carter's staff. Phyllis clapped her hands, softly with a long sigh of pride—and relief. “I can eat strawberries, now.” And she blushed again. Phyllls had been living on bacon and m-b}ufl. she confessed shamefacedly, / because Trooper Basil was living on bacon and hardtack—little dreaming that the food she forced upon herself in this sacrifi- cial way was being swallowed by that hearty youngster with a relish that he 7 would not have known at home for fried chicken and hot rolls. “Yes,” laughed Mrs. Crittenden. “You can eat strawberries now. You can balance them against his cocoa- nuts.” Phyllis picked .up the paper then, with a cry of surprise—the name signed to the article: was Grafton, whom she had seen at the recruiting camp. And then she read the last par- egraph that the mother had not read aloud, and then she turned sharply away and stooped to-a pink-bed, as though she would pick one and the mother saw her shoulders shaking with silent sobs, and she took the child in her arms. There was to be a decisive fight in a few days—the attack on Santiago— that was what Phyllis had read. The Spaniards had a good muster-roll of regulars and ald from Cervera's fleet; were well armed and had plenty of time to intrench and otherwise prepare themselves for a bloody fight In the last ditch. S0 that each day there was a relief to the agony, which, every morning, began straightway with the thought that the fight might be going on at that very hour. Not once did Judith come near. She had been ill, to be sure, but one day Mrs. Crittenden met her on,the way to town and stopped her in the road; but the girl had spoken so strangely that the mother drove on, at a loss to understand and much hurt. Next day she learned that Judith, despite her ill health and her fathdr’s protests, had gone to nursé the sick and the wounded—what Phyllis pleaded in vain to do. The following day a letter came from Mrs. Critten- den’s elder son. He was well, and the mother must not worry about either him or Basil. He did not think there would be much fighting and, anyhow, the great risk was from disease, and he feared very little from that. Basil would be much safer as an ald on a general's staff. He would get plenty to eat, would be less exposed to weather, have no long marches—as he would be mounted—and no guard duty at all hours of day and night. And, more- over, he would probably be less con- stantly exposed to bullets. So ghe must not worry about him. Not one word was there about Judith—not even to ask how she was, which was strange. He had said nothing abdut the girl when he told his mother good- by; and whef she broached the sub- ject, he answered, sadly: “‘Don’t, mother; I can't say a word— not a word.” In his letter he had outlined Basil's advantages, not one of which was his —and sitting on the porch of the old homestead at sunset of the last day In June, the mother was following her €ldest born through the transport life, the flery marches, the night watches on lonely outposts, the hard food, the drenching rains, steaming heat, laden with the breath of terrible disease. not realizing how little he minded it all and how much good it was doing him. She* did know, however, that it had been but play thus far to what must follow. . Perhaps, even now, he thought, the deadly work was begin- ning, while she sat in the shrine of peace—even now. And it was. Almost at'.that hour the troops were breaking camp and moving forward along the one narrow jungle-road—choked with wagon, pack mule and soldier—through a haze of dust, and, turning to the right at the first crossing beyond corps_head- quarters—under Chaffee—for Caney. Now and then a plece of artillery, with its flashes of crimson, would pass through the advancing columns amid the waving of hats and a great cheer- ing to take position agalnst the stone fort at Caney or at El Poso, to be trained on the block house at San Juan. And through the sunset and the dusk the columns marched, and, after night fell, the dark, silent masses of slouch hats, shoulders, and gunm muz- zles kept on marching past the smoke and flare of the deserted camp fires that lighted thicket and grassy plat along the trail. And after the flames had died down to cinders—in the same black terrible silence, the hosts were marching still. That night a last good-by to all wo- mankind, but wife, mother, sister, sweetheart, The world was to be 2 man’s world next day, and the man a coarse, dirty, sweaty, swearing, good- natured, grimly humorous, cruel, kind- 1y soldier, feverish for a fight and as primitive In passion as a cave dweller fghting his kind for food. The great little fight was at hand. XI. Before dawn ‘again—everything In war begins at dawn—and the thickets around a certain little gray stone fort altve with slouch hat, blue blouse, and Krag-Jorgenson, slipping through the brush, building no fires, and talking in low tones for fear the timorous enemy would see, or hear, and run before the American sharpshooter could ‘get a chance to try his marksmanship: won- dering. eight hoars later, if the tim- orous enemy were ever going fo run Eastward and on a high knoll stripped of bushes, 3.2 guns unlimbered and thrown into position against that fort gnd a certain little red-roofed town the of it. This was Caney . FEastward still, three miles across an uneven expanse of green, jungle-road alive with men, bivouacking fearlessly around and under four more 3.3 guns planted on another high-stripped knall —El Poso—and trained on a little pa- goda-like block house, which sat like a Christmas toy on top of a green little, steep little hill from the base of which curved an orchard-like valley back to sweeping curve of the jungle. This was San Juan. Nature loves sudden effects in the tropics. While Chaffee fretted In val- ley shadows around Caney and Law- ton strode like a yellow lion past the guns on the hill and, eastward, gun- ner on the other hill at El Poso and soldier in the jungle below listened westward, a red light ran like a flame over the east, the tops of the moun- tains shot suddenly upward and It was day—flashing day, with dripping dew and birds singing and a freshness of light and air that gave way suddenly when the sun quickly pushed an aro of fire over the green shoulder of a hill and smote the soldiers over and under the low trees like rays from an open furnace. It smote Reynolds as he sat by the creek under the guns before San Juan, idly watching water bubble into three canteens, and it opened his lips for an oath that he was too lazy to speak: It smote Abe Long cooking coffee on the bank some ten yards away. and made him ralse from the fire and draw first one long forearm and then the other across his heat-wrinkled brow; but, unheeded, it smote Crittenden—who stood near, leaning against a palm tree—full in his uplifted face. Perhaps that was the last sunrise on earth for him. He was watching it In Cuba, but his spirit was hovering around home. He could feel the air from the woods in front of Canewood; could hear the darkies going to work and Aunt Kezlah singing in the kitchen. He could see his mother's shutter open, could see her a moment later, smiling at him from her door. And Judith—where was she, and what was she doing? Could she be thinking of him? The sound of his own name com- ing down through the hot air made him start, and, looking up toward the Rough Riders, who were gathered about a little stuccoed farm house just behind the guns on the hill, he saw Blackford waving at him. At the same moment hoofs beat the dirt road behind him—familiar hoof beats—and he turned to see Basil and Raincrow— for Crittenden’s colonel was sick with fever and Basil had Raincrow now— on their way with a message to Chaffes at Caney. Crittenden saluted gravely, as did Basil, though the boy turned In his saddle, and with an affectionate smile waved back at him. Crittenden’s lips moved: “God bless him.” four to left “Fire!” Over on the hill, before Caney, & man with a lanyard gave a quick jerk There was a cap explosion at the butt of the gun and a bulging white cloud from the muzzle; the trail bounced from its shallow trench, the wheels whirled back twice on the rebound, and the shell was hissing through the air as iron hisses when a blacksmith thrusts it red-hot Into cold water. Basil could hear that awful hiss so plainly khat he seemed to be following the shell with his naked eye; he could hear it above the reverberating roar of the gun up and down the coast mountain; hear it until, six seconds later, a puff of smoke answered be- yond the Spanish column where the shell burst. Then in eight seconds—for the shell traveled that much faster than sound—the muffled report of its bursting struck his ears, a:d all that was left of the first shot that started the great little fight was the thick, sunlit smoke sweeping away from the muzzle of the gun and the little mist cloud of the shell rising slowly upward beyond the stone fort, which seemed not to know any harm was possible or near. e Again Crittenden, leaning against the palm, heard his name called. Again it was Blackford who was opening his mouth to shout some message when— Ah! The shout dled on Blackford's lips, and every man on the hill and in the woods, at that instant, stayed his foot and his hand—even a man standing with a gray horse against the blue wall —he. too, stopped to listen. It really sounded too dull and muffled for a shell; but, a few seconds later, thers was a roar against the big walls of living green behind Caney. The first shot! “Ready!"” BEven with the cry at El Poso came another. sullen, low boom and another aggressive roar from Caney; then a great crackling in the air, as though thousands of scheolboys were letting off fire crackers, pack after pack. “Fire!” Every ear heard, every eye saw the sudden white mist at a gun muzzle and f llowed that first sheil screaming to- ward the little Christmas toy in the sun on that distant little hill. And yet it was nothing. Another and yet an- other mass of shrapnel went screaming, and still there was no response, no sign. It was nothing—nothing at all. ‘Was the Spaniard asleep? Crittenden could see attache, corre- spondent, aid, staff officer, non-comba- tant, sightseer erowding close about the guns—so close that the gunners could hardly work. He could almost hear them saying, one to another: “Why, is this war—really war? Why, this isn’t so bad.” Twanged just then a bow string in the direction of San Juan hill, and the twang seemed to be getting louder and to be coming toward the little blue farm house. No cannon was in sight; there was no smoke visible, and many, with an upward look, wondered what the queer sound could be. Suddenly there was a screeching, crackling an-