Some  of  them  could  see  the  rifle-pits  of  the  enemy
quite  clearly  and  the  men  in  them,  but  many  saw
nothing  but  the  bushes  under  which  they  lay,  and
the  high  grass  which  seemed  to  burn  when  they
pressed  against  it.  It  was  during  this  period  of
waiting  that  the  greater  number  of  our  men  were
killed.  For  one  hour  they  lay  on  their  rifles  star-
ing at  the  waving  green  stuff  around  them,  while
the  bullets  drove  past  incessantly,  with  savage
insistence,  cutting  the  grass  again  and  again  in
hundreds  of  fresh  places.  Men  in  line  sprang
from  the  ground  and  sank  back  again  with  a

88


The  Battle  of  San  Juan  Hill

groan,  or  rolled  to  one  side  clinging  silently  to  an
arm  or  shoulder.  Behind  the  lines  hospital  stew-
ards passed  continually,  drawing  the  wounded
back  to  the  streams,  where  they  laid  them  in  long
rows,  their  feet  touching  the  water's  edge  and  their
bodies  supported  by  the  muddy  bank.  Up  and
down  the  lines,  and  through  the  fords  of  the
streams,  mounted  aides  drove  their  horses  at  a
gallop,  as  conspicuous  a  target  as  the  steeple  on
a  church,  and  one  after  another  paid  the  price  of
his  position  and  fell  from  his  horse  wounded  or
dead.  Captain  Mills  fell  as  he  was  giving  an
order,  shot  through  the  forehead  behind  both
eyes;  Captain  O'Neill,  of  the  Rough  Riders,  as  he
said,  "There  is  no  Spanish  bullet  made  that  can
kill  me."  Steel,  Swift,  Henry,  each  of  them  was
shot  out  of  his  saddle.
