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HEROES IN THE HOLD.

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HILE unlimited praise has been given to the gallant man who stood on the bridge of the fated Merrimac," and to his companions who were at their perilous posts of duty on the upper deck, on that memorable morning in Santiago harbor, let us not forget the heroes in the "stoke hole."

If Lieutenant Hobson and his associates were brave, what is to be said of the sublime courage of the engineer whose hand was at the throttle, and the firemen who shoveled coal into the blazing furnaces as the good ship sailed into the jaws of death? Here were heroes, indeed-heroes of song and story, of romance and rhyme, such as might inspire poets to the loftiest flights and the pen of the historian with glowing imagery.

On the bridge stood a man who played in the great lottery for the grandest prize of life. Whether he lost or won, enduring fame was his. Success meant the listing of his name on the roll of immortality along with those of Dewey, Schley, Paul Jones, Decatur, Perry and Farragut. What a laurel wreath of everlasting glory for one single act in the great drama of war! But down in the hold, twenty feet below the surface of the rolling billows, in ominous darkness relieved only by the light of flickering lamps, no sounds save the drone of the engine, the creaking of the hull and the swash of the lashing waves came to tell aught of what was transpiring above. Nothing but the soul of valor to inspire such men! No place for them on fame's eternal camping ground. Nothing but the self-same spirit of Jim Bludsoe to keep "her nozzle agin the bank" till all but himself were safe on shore. The man with his hand upon the valve and his keen ear intent upon the warning bells, the men, grimy, sweating, blackened, furiously piling coal into the yawning, roaring furnaces-neither knowing when the dread explosion would come that might send them, torn to fragments and scattered upon the four winds, to their fearful doom-these were the real heroes of the "Merrimac."

They knew there would be no lasting reward for them, no glorious heritage which they could transmit to their children, no renown such as would envelop the leaders at Thermopylæ, at the Alamo, or the cool and daring lieutenant on the bridge above them. To them it was duty, plain and simple, humble and obscure, with the full knowledge that the reward must be the consciousness of duty well performed. No substantial promotion, only a fleeting notoriety, no pointing to the way where glory waits.

All honor, say we, to the intrepid engineers and the firemen of our war ships! Long may their memories be preserved by their admiring countrymen! All honor to men whose only reward is the consciousness of duty well performed!

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HOW IT FEELS TO BE UNDER FIRE.

A Realistic Description of a Bloody Engagement by One Who

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Participated.

BY JOHN G. WINTER, JR.

R. WINTER, who is barely twenty-one years of age, comes from a fighting family; his grandfather, thrice removed, was on the staff of General George Washington; his father served under Fitzhugh Lee, and also under General Wheeler, in the Civil War, and, singularly enough, he has two sons, one of whom served under General Lee and the other under General Wheeler during the war with Spain. The young Santiago hero was graduated from the University of Virginia, and had the distinction of being the best all-round athlete of that institution. Previously, he was graduated from the military academy, where he and his brother, who was valedictorian, were two of the four who took first honors. Young Winters was with the Rough Riders in front of Santiago, and was severely wounded before Siboney, on the first day of July.

It is of an ever memorable experience that I write, one which the whole nation felt much interest in, but to me it is one specially to be remembered for reasons I will presently give.

Our march toward Santiago was by regiment in line of battle; F troop, which was on the extreme left, took position on the brow of a low hill. Except for the troops next to F, I soon lost track of the movements of the other men. Then came the most unique experience of my life, and one I shall never forget; both lines opened fire, and Mauser bullets began to whistle around our heads. The Spaniards were on a hill and in a sunken road immediately opposite to us, and in a position of no disadvantage. They had several machine-guns, which were quickly put in action, and then the men began to drop. You have never been under the fire of a gun shooting 300 times a minute; this is one of the first battles in civilized warfare in which it has been used. When the bullets strike the ground they all appear to do so at once, and as if they were strung out in a row. One man in my squad was struck in three places simultaneously. It would be difficult-almost impossible for me to describe clearly my feelings during the first part of the engagement. I felt very much as if I was shooting doves, and held my carbine in the same position, advancing slowly, excited, and impatient for the order to "Fire at will." For the first half-hour I loaded, aimed and shot as fast as my hands and eyes could work, but after a while the first excitement of the fight passed off, and I worked more calmly and methodically. I cannot say whether or not my shots had any effect, but for the most part I directed my fire toward a kind of blockhouse in which there were a large number of Spaniards. At one stage of the fight the enemy made a movement toward our right, and the troops on the left, considerably scattered, were ordered to march "by the right flank, double time." It was not until this moment that I realized the horror of war. There was a man named Irvine in our troop with whom I had been thrown a good deal. We had become as close friends as an acquaintanceship of several weeks could make us, and we had been fighting together a good deal. In executing the order just mentioned he was a little in front of me and to one side, both of us running; there were a number of dead around, and several wounded that had not been taken to the rear, and the sight of them stirred me greatly; but as I looked at the man in front of me the breath left my body for the moment as the whole top of his head flew up in the air, his skull blown to atoms by an explosive bullet. He fell heavily with a thud, and I ran on past his body, but I knew at last the meaning of the phrase, "The art of war." He was the only man that I saw killed; it was but a short time before the enemy were run out of their position, retreating toward Santiago. We lost about sixty killed, wounded and missing, a little less than 10 per cent, and the Rough Riders buried 105 Spaniards. A fitting end to the battle was the burial of our own dead; they were all put in one grave. The men were grouped with bared heads around the grave, while the chaplain read a chapter from the Bible; then all sang "Nearer, My God to Thee." "Taps" were sounded over the grave, and the services ended with prayer.

A Comrade's Head

Shot Off.

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WHEN THE GREAT GRAY SHIPS COME IN.
BY GUY WETMORE CARRYL.

O eastward ringing, to westward winging, o'er mapless miles of sea,
On winds and tides the gospel rides that the furthermost isles are
free,

And the furthermost isles make answer, harbor, and height, and hill, Breaker and beach cry each to each, "'Tis the Mother who calls! Be still!" Mother! new-found, beloved, and strong to hold from harm, Stretching to these across the seas the shield of her sovereign arm, Who summoned the guns of her sailor sons, who bade her navies roam, Who calls again to the leagues of main, and who calls them this time home!

And the great gray ships are silent, and the weary watchers rest,

The black cloud dies in the August skies, and deep in the golden west
Invisible hands are limning a glory of crimson bars,

And far above is the wonder of a myriad wakened stars!
Peace!. As the tidings silence the strenuous cannonade,
Peace at last! is the bugle-blast the length of the long blockade,
And eyes of vigil weary are lit with the glad release,

From ship to ship and from lip to lip it is "Peace! Thank God for peace!"

Ah, in the sweet hereafter Columbia still shall show

The sons of these who swept the seas how she bade them rise and go;

How, when the stirring summons smote on her children's ear,

South and North at the call stood forth, and the whole land answered

"Here!"

For the soul of the soldier's story and the heart of the sailor's song

Are all of those who meet their foes as right should meet with wrong,
Who fight their guns till the foeman runs, and then, on the decks they trod,
Brave faces raise, and give the praise to the grace of their country's God!

Yes, it is good to battle, and good to be strong and free,
To carry the hearts of the people to the uttermost ends of sea,
To see the day steal up the bay where the enemy lies in wait,
To run your ship to the harbor's lip and sink her across the strait :-
But better the golden evening when the ships round heads for home
And the long gray miles slip swiftly past in a swirl of seething foam,
And the people wait at the haven's gate to greet the men who win!
Thank God for peace! Thank God for peace, when the great gray ships
come in!

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