Captain Macklin: His MemoirsDavis, Richard Harding
General
Captain Macklin: His Memoirs
Davis, Richard Harding
Adventure stories; Central America -- Fiction; Soldiers -- Fiction; United States Military Academy -- Fiction; War stories
We broke camp at four in the morning, but in spite of our early start
the next day’s advance was marked by the most cruel heat. We had left
the shade of the high lands and now pushed on over a plain of dry,
burning sand, where nothing grew but naked bushes bristling with thorns,
and tall grayish-green cacti with disjointed branching arms. They
stretched out before us against the blazing sky, like a succession of
fantastic telegraph-poles. We were marching over what had once been the
bed of a great lake. Layers of tiny round pebbles rolled under our feet,
and the rocks which rose out of the sand had been worn and polished by
the water until they were as smooth as the steps of a cathedral. A mile
away on each flank were dark green ridges, but ahead of us there was
only a great stretch of glaring white sand. No wind was stirring, and
not a drop of moisture. The air was like a breath from a brick oven,
and the heat of the sun so fierce that if you touched your fingers to a
gun-barrel it burned the flesh.
We did not escape out of this lime-kiln until three in the afternoon,
when the trail again led us into the protecting shade of the jungle. The
men plunged into it as eagerly as though they were diving into water.
About four o’clock we heard great cheering ahead of us, and word was
passed to the rear that Miller had come in touch with Garcia’s scouts. A
half hour later, we marched into the camp of the revolutionists. It was
situated about three miles outside of Santa Barbara, on the banks of the
river where the trail crossed it at a ford. Our fellows made a rather
fine appearance as they rode out of the jungle among the revolutionists;
and, considering the fact that we had come to fight for them, I thought
the little beggars might have given us a cheer, but they only stared
at us, and nodded stupidly. They were a mixed assortment, all of them
under-size and either broad or swarthy, with the straight hair and wide
cheek-bones of the Carib Indian, or slight and nervous looking, with the
soft eyes and sharp profile of the Spaniard. The greater part of
them had deserted in companies from the army, and they still wore
the blue-jean uniform and carried the rifle and accoutrements of the
Government. To distinguish themselves from those soldiers who had
remained with Alvarez, they had torn off the red braid with which their
tunics were embroidered.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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