And further, as to lack of qualifications for command, I will say that when our soldiers, who can and will write history, sever their connections with the Regular Army, and thus release themselves from their voluntary status of military lockjaw, and tell what they saw, those who now preach that the Negro is not fit to exercise command over troops, and will go no further than he is led by white officers, will see in print held up for public gaze, much to their chagrin, tales of those Cuban battles that have never been told outside the tent and barrack room, tales that it will not be agreeable for some of them to hear.  The public will then learn that not every troop or company of colored soldiers who took part in the assaults on San Juan Hill or El Caney was led or urged forward by its white officer.

It is unfortunate that we had no colored officers in that campaign, and this thing of white officers for colored troops is exasperating, and I join with The Age in saying our motto for the future must be:  “No officers, no soldiers.”

PRESLEY HOLLIDAY,

Sergeant Troop B, Tenth Cavalry.

Fort Ringgold, Texas, April 22, 1899.

* * * * *

JACOB A. RIIS in The Outlook gives the following interesting reading concerning the colored troopers in an article entitled “Roosevelt and His Men”: 

[Illustration:  GENERAL NELSON A. MILES.]

“It was one of the unexpected things in this campaign that seems destined to set so many things right that out of it should come the appreciation of the colored soldier as man and brother by those even who so lately fought to keep him a chattel.  It fell to the lot of General ‘Joe’ Wheeler, the old Confederate warrior, to command the two regiments of colored troops, the Ninth and Tenth Cavalry, and no one will bear readier testimony than he to the splendid record they made.  Of their patience under the manifold hardships of roughing it in the tropics, their helpfulness in the camp and their prowess in battle, their uncomplaining suffering when lying wounded and helpless.  Stories enough are told to win for them fairly the real brotherhood with their white-skinned fellows which they crave.  The most touching of the many I heard was that of a Negro trooper, who, struck by a bullet that cut an artery in his neck, was lying helpless, in danger of bleeding to death, when a Rough Rider came to his assistance.  There was only one thing to be done—­to stop the bleeding till a surgeon came.  A tourniquet could not be applied where the wound was.  The Rough Rider put his thumb on the artery and held it there while he waited.  The fighting drifted away over the hill.  He followed his comrades with longing eyes till the last was lost to sight.  His place was there, but if he abandoned the wounded cavalryman it was to let him die.  He dropped his gun and stayed.  Not until the battle was won did the surgeon come that way, but the trooper’s life was saved.  He told of it in the hospital with tears in his voice:  ’He done that to me, he did; stayed by me an hour and a half, and me only a nigger.’”