It was part of the strategy practised by the Cuban leaders to divide their forces into separate columns for the purpose of raiding the smaller Spanish garrisons1 and harassing2 the troops sent to their relief, reassembling these bands only when and where some telling blow was to be struck. Not only had the military value of this practice been amply demonstrated, but it had been proved a necessity, owing to the fact that the Insurrectos were compelled to live off the country.
When O'Reilly and Branch enlisted3 in the Army of the Orient they were assigned to the command of Colonel Miguel Lopez, and it was under his leadership that they made their first acquaintance with the peculiar4 methods of Cuban warfare6.
Active service for the two Americans began at once; scarcely a week had passed before Leslie Branch gained his opportunity of tasting the "salt of life" in its full flavor, for the young Matanzas colonel was one of the few Cuban commanders who really enjoyed a fight.
There had been, at first, some doubt of Branch's fitness to take the field at all—he had suffered a severe hemorrhage shortly after his arrival at Cubitas—and it was only after a hysterical7 demonstration8 on his part that he had been accepted as a soldier. He simply would not be left behind. At first the Cubans regarded him with mingled9 contempt and pity, for certainly no less promising10 volunteer had ever taken service with them. Nevertheless, he would doubtless have made many friends among them had he not begun his service by refusing to abide11 by discipline of any sort and by scorning all instruction in the use of arms, declaring this to be, in his case, a silly waste of effort. Such an attitude very naturally aroused resentment12 among the other men; it was not long before they began to grumble13 at the liberty allowed this headstrong weakling. But upon the occasion of the very first fight this ill-will disappeared as if by magic, for, although Branch deliberately14 disobeyed orders, he nevertheless displayed such amazing audacity15 in the face of the enemy, such a theatrical16 contempt for bullets, as to stupefy every one. Moreover, he lived up to his reputation; he continued to be insanely daring, varying his exploits to correspond with his moods, with the result that he attained17 a popularity which was unique, nay18, sensational19.
His conduct in the face of this general admiration20 was no less unexpected than his behavior under fire: Branch gruffly refused to accept any tribute whatever; he snarled21, he fairly barked at those of his comrades who tried to express their appreciation22 of his conduct—a demeanor23 which of course awakened24 even greater admiration among the Cubans. He was uniformly surly and sour; he sneered25, he scoffed26, he found fault. He had the tongue of a common scold, and he used it with malevolent27 abandon.
It was fortunate indeed that he knew no Spanish and that most of his companions were equally ignorant of English, for mere28 admiration, even of the fervent29 Latin quality, would scarcely have been proof against his spleen. As it was, his camp-mates endured his vituperations blandly31, putting him down as a pleasing eccentric in whom there blazed a curious but inspiring spirit of patriotism33.
O'Reilly alone understood the reason for the fellow's morbid34 irritability35, his suicidal recklessness; but when he privately36 remonstrated37 he was gruffly told to mind his own business. Branch flatly refused to modify his conduct; he seemed really bent38 upon cheating the disease that made his life a misery39.
But, as usual, Fate was perverse40; she refused to humor the sick man's hope. When, after blindly inviting41 death, Leslie had emerged from several engagements unscathed, his surprise—and perhaps a natural relief at finding himself whole—became tinged42 with a certain apprehension43 lest he survive those deliberately courted dangers, only to succumb44 to the ills and privations of camp life. Cuban equipment was of the scantiest45. Cuban dews are heavy; Cuban nights are cool—these were perils46 indeed for a weak-lunged invalid47. Branch began to fret48. Rain filled him with more terror than fixed49 bayonets, a chill caused him keener consternation50 than did a thousand Spaniards; he began to have agonizing51 visions of himself lying in some leaky hovel of a hospital. It was typical of his peculiar irritability that he held O'Reilly in some way responsible, and vented52 upon him his bitterness of spirit.
The fellow's tongue grew ever sharper; his society became intolerable, his gloom oppressive and irresistibly53 contagious54. When, after several weeks of campaigning, the column went into camp for a short rest, O'Reilly decided55 that he would try to throw off the burden of Leslie's overwhelming dejection, and, if possible, shift a portion of it upon the shoulders of Captain Judson.
On the day after their arrival O'Reilly and the big artilleryman took advantage of a pleasant stream to bathe and wash their clothes; then, while they lay in their hammocks, enjoying the luxury of a tattered57 oil-cloth shelter and waiting for the sun to dry their garments, O'Reilly spoke58 what was in his mind.
"I'm getting about fed up on Leslie," he declared. "He's the world's champion crepe-hanger, and he's painted the whole world such a deep, despondent59 blue that I'm completely dismal60. You've got to take him off my hands."
Judson grunted62. "What ails63 him?"
"Well, he wears a wreath of immortelles day and night. Haven't you guessed why he runs such desperate chances? He's sick—thinks he's going to die, anyhow, and wants to finish the job quick. I'm the one who has to endure him."
"Suicide?"
"It amounts to that."
"The devil!" Judson pondered for a moment. "Can't you cheer him up?"
"I?" O'Reilly lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "When I try he gets sore at my heartless indifference64; when I sympathize he declares I'm nudging him closer to his grave—says I'm kicking the crutches65 out from under him. He's just plain vitriol. I—I'd rather live with an adder66!"
O'Reilly's youthful asistente, who at the moment was painstakingly67 manufacturing a huge, black cigar for himself out of some purloined68 tobacco, pricked69 up his ears at the mention of Branch's name and now edged closer, exclaiming:
"Carumba! There's a hero for you. Meester Branch is the bravest man I ever seen. Our people call him 'El Demonio'!"
O'Reilly jerked his head toward the Cuban. "You see? He's made the hit of his life, and yet he resents it. The Cubans are beginning to think he carries a rabbit's foot."
"No rabbit's foot about it," the captain asserted. "He's just so blamed thin the Spaniards can't hit him; it's like shooting at the edge of a playing-card. Annie Oakley is the only one who can do that."
"Well, my nerves are frayed70 out. I've argued myself hoarse71, but he misconstrues everything I say. I wish you'd convince him that he has a chance to get well; it might alter his disposition72. If SOMETHING doesn't alter it I'll be court-martialed for shooting a man in his sleep—and I'll hit him, right in the middle, no matter how slim he is." O'Reilly compressed his lips firmly.
The asistente, who had finished rolling his cigar, now lighted it and repeated: "Yes, sir, Meester Branch is the bravest man I ever seen. You remember that first battle, eh? Those Spaniards seen him comin' and threw down their guns and beat it. Jesus Cristo! I laugh to skill myself that day."
"Jacket" was at once the youngest and the most profane73 member of Colonel Lopez's entire command. The most shocking oaths fell from his beardless lips whenever he opened them to speak English, and O'Reilly's efforts to break the boy of the habit proved quite unavailing.
"Colonel Miguel," continued Jacket, "he say if he's got a hunnerd sick men like El Demonio he'll march to Habana. By God! What you think of that?"
Judson rolled in his hammock until his eyes rested upon the youth. Then he said, "You're quite a man of arms yourself, for a half-portion."
"Eh?" The object of this remark was not quite sure that he understood.
"I mean you're a pretty good fighter, for a little fellow."
"Hell, yes!" agreed the youth. "I can fight."
"Better look out that some big Spaniard doesn't carry you off in his pocket and eat you," O'Reilly warned; at which the boy grinned and shook his head. He was just becoming accustomed to the American habit of banter74, and was beginning to like it.
"Jacket would make a bitter mouthful," Judson ventured.
The lad smiled gently and drew on his huge cigar. "You betcher life.
That——Spaniard would spit me out quick enough."
This Camagueyan boy was a character. He was perhaps sixteen, and small for his age—a mere child, in fact. Nevertheless, he was a seasoned veteran, and his American camp-mates had grown exceedingly fond of him. He was a pretty, graceful75 youngster; his eyes were large and soft and dark; his face was as sensitive and mobile as that of a girl; and yet, despite his youth, he had won a reputation for daring and ferocity quite as notable in its way as was the renown76 of Leslie Branch.
There were many of these immature77 soldiers among the Insurrectos, and most of them were in some way distinguished78 for valor79. War, it seems, fattens80 upon the tenderest of foods, and every army has its boys—its wondrous81, well-beloved infants, whom their older comrades tease, torment82, and idolize. Impetuous, drunk with youth, and keeping no company with care, they form the very aristocracy of fighting forces. They gaily83 undertake the maddest of adventures; and by their examples they fire the courage of their maturer comrades. All history is spiced with their exploits.
Jacket was one of these, and he was perhaps the truest patriot32 of any soldier in Miguel Lopez's band; for liberty, to him, was not a mere abstraction or a principle, but something real, tangible84, alive—something worthy85 of the highest sacrifice. In his person all the wrongs of Cuba burned perpetually. It mattered not that he himself had never suffered—his spirit was the spirit of his country, pure, exalted86, undefiled. He stood for what the others fought for.
In order to expand his knowledge of English—of which, by the way, he was inordinately87 proud—Jacket had volunteered to serve as O'Reilly's striker, and the result had been a fast friendship. It was O'Reilly who had given the boy his nickname—a name prompted by a marked eccentricity88, for although Jacket possessed89 the two garments which constituted the ordinary Insurrecto uniform, he made a practice of wearing only one. On chilly90 nights, or on formal occasions, he wore both waistcoat and trousers, but at other times he dispensed91 entirely92 with the latter, and his legs went naked. They were naked now, as, with the modesty93 of complete unconsciousness, he squatted94 in the shade, puffing95 thoughtfully at his giant cheroot.
Once Jacket's mind was fastened upon any subject, it remained there, and after a time he continued:
"Yes, I bet I don't taste good to no Spaniard. Did I told you about that battle of Pino Bravo? Eh?" He turned his big brown eyes upward to O'Reilly. "Cristo! I skill more'n a dozen men that day!"
"Oh, Jacket!" the Americans cried. "You monstrous96 little liar5!" commented O'Reilly.
"Si, senors," the boy went on, complacently97. "That day I skill more'n six men. It was this way; we came on them from behind and they don't see us. Phui! We skill plenty, all right!"
"It was a hot scrimmage," Judson attested98. "Some of Luque's niggers, those tall, lean, hungry fellows from Santiago, managed to hack99 their way through a wire fence and get behind a detachment of the enemy who had made a stand under a hill. They charged, and for a wonder they got close enough to use their machetes. It was bloody100 work—the kind you read about—no quarter. Somehow Jacket managed to be right in the middle of the butchery. He's a bravo kid, all right. Muy malo!"
There was a moment's silence, then Judson continued: "Funny thing happened afterward101, though. Jacket had to do his turn at picket102 duty that night, and he got scared of the dark. We heard him squalling and screaming—"
Jacket started to his feet. "That's a dam' lie." he exclaimed, resentfully. "I'm not scared of no dark."
"Didn't you holler till you woke the whole camp?"
"I ain't scared of no dark," the boy repeated; but his pride, his complacency, had suddenly vanished. He dug his toes into the dirt; in his eyes were tears of mortification103. His cigar had evidently become tasteless, for he removed it from his lips and gazed at it indifferently.
"Did you cry?" O'Reilly smiled; and the lad nodded reluctantly.
"Did he cry?" Judson echoed. "Why, we thought we were attacked. He put the whole camp in an uproar104."
"What was the trouble, Jacket?"
"I—I was—" The boy's smooth brown cheeks paled, and his moist eyes dilated105 at the memory. "I ain't scared of any———-Spaniard when he's ALIVE, but—it's different when he's dead. I could see dead ones everywhere!" He shuddered106 involuntarily. "They fetched me to General Gomez and—Caramba! he's mad. But after I tell him what I seen in the dark he say I don't have to go back there no more. He let me go to sleep 'longside of his hammock, and bimeby I quit cryin'. I ain't never stood no picket duty since that night. I won't do it."
It was plain that discussion of this unhappy subject was deeply distasteful to the youthful hero of Pino Bravo, for he edged away, and a moment later disappeared. "Queer little youngster," Captain Judson said, meditatively107. "He idolizes you."
O'Reilly nodded. "Yes, poor little kid. I wonder what will become of him after the war? After the war!" he mused108. "I wonder if it will ever end."
"Humph! If we had more generals like Gomez and Garcia and Maceo—"
"We've got three better generals than they."
"You mean—-"
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