a long skirmish line on the edge of the
timber. In this position they lay down, sheltering themselves as best
they could behind bushes or in the tall hot grass, and anxiously
awaited further orders from headquarters. The Spanish fire, which they
might not return, was ceaseless and pitiless, though because of absence
of smoke none could see whence it came.

Already the loss in killed and wounded was assuming alarming
proportions, and still on-coming troops were pouring into that Bloody
Bend, where they must accept, with what fortitude they could command,
their awful baptism of fire. Fifty feet above their heads floated the
observation balloon of the engineers, betraying their exact position
and forming an admirable focus for the enemy's fire, which, after
awhile, to the vast relief of every one, shot the balloon to pieces so
that it dropped from sight among the trees.

For hours the troops waited thus in the frightful tropical heat,
monuments of patient endurance. The dead and the living lay side by
side, though such of the wounded as could be reached were dragged back
to dressing-stations on the river-banks. Even here they were not safe,
for the dense foliage that afforded a grateful shade also concealed
scores of Spanish sharp-shooters. These maintained a cowardly and
deadly fire, the source of which could rarely be discovered, upon all
coming within range, regardless of whether they were wounded men,
surgeons in discharge of their duties, hospital stewards, or Red Cross
assistants, thus adding a fresh horror to warfare.

It was a terrible position, and the American army was being cut to
pieces without a chance to fire a gun in self-defence. To advance
appeared suicidal, to attempt a retreat meant utter destruction. No
orders could come over the blockaded road from the Commander-in-Chief,
miles in the rear, nor could word of the awful situation be sent back
to him in time. The men thus trapped gazed at one another with the
desperate look of hunted animals brought to bay. Must they all die,
and was there no salvation?

Suddenly a mounted officer dashed into the open, pointing with his
sword to the nearest hill crowned by a block-house. Then through a
storm of bullets he spurred towards it, and, with a mighty yell ringing
high above the crash of battle, his men sprang after him.

CHAPTER XXV

RIDGE WINS HIS SWORD

A few minutes before this, while the Rough Riders lay in sullen
despair, with deat