At the risk of being considered tautological, I cannot refrain from devoting another chapter to the Hormigueros fight:  first, because it was my initial experience under fire; and, second, because there are more things in a soldier’s memory than are set forth in the official report of his commanding general.

[Illustration:  Plaza Mercado, Mayaguez.]

Our advance-guard, after leaving San German, marched rapidly along the level road leading to Mayaguez until about three o’clock in the afternoon.  As the head of our column came into view, the country people living along the route gathered their most precious possessions into huge bundles, and hurried away across the fields,—­a sure sign that we were approaching the enemy’s position.  At the hour mentioned we were suddenly set upon by a blinding shower, and a halt was made for about fifteen minutes, when, the fury of the downpour having somewhat abated, we once more began to move ahead.  The cavalry had gone off on a side road for some purpose not known to me, and the infantry was deployed in long lines to the right and left, while the artillery brought up the rear at an interval of about a hundred yards.  At half-past three the skirmishers came to the Rio Rosario, but, being unable to ford it, were called back to the road and started across the iron bridge, already described by General Schwan.  It was at this moment that the Spanish forces opened fire, concealed in a dense undergrowth about 500 yards in our front.

All jammed together as we were, it would seem that we might have been absolutely slaughtered by the leaden hail which was poured in upon us; and the only explanation of our marvellous immunity probably lies in the fact that the enemy were surprisingly bad shots.  Bullets whistled by our heads, or kicked up the dirt at our feet; but, though the pop of rifles made up a continuous sound like the opening of a hundred thousand beer-bottles, not a vestige of smoke rose in the clear air, not a patch of hostile uniform was to be seen.

For some reason our infantry did not at once reply to the Spanish fusillade; and during this brief interval two men and two horses were wounded in the platoon of artillery which stood idly just behind the foot-soldiers,—­too close, in fact, to be of any service, and in the way of everybody.  Then the two Gatling guns under Lieutenant Maginnis went off into the field at our right, where they began to speak for themselves; and Gatling guns in action have a mighty cheerful effect upon your nerves, if they happen to be on your side of the fracas.  Next, an order from the general sent the artillery galloping to the rear for about an eighth of a mile, where, after a short detour to the left and a mad race across swampy, ditch-dug fields, it took up a temporary position on a convenient knoll.  The main body of our command had meanwhile arrived, and got into the row without ceremony, the firing now being heavy on both sides.  My memory serves me with no clear impression of the sequence of events after this period.