Sweet Everlasting by Patricia Gaffney Page A

band was playin ‘There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight.’ ”
    “That’s right—”
    “And Roosevelt wouldn’t ride his horse because he wanted to walk with his men, sweatin’ like a pig in his yellow mackintosh.”
    “He walked with us from Daiquiri to Siboney, that’s right. And—”
    “And you slept on your ponchos in the hundred-degree heat, beatin’ off red ants and mosquitoes, eatin’ fried mangoes, and drinkin’ fire-boiled coffee and black market rum.”
    “Who’s telling this story, Hoyle?”
    “You are, Doc. So, go on. You routed ’em at La whatever it was, and then—”
    “Las Guásimas. We didn’t rout them, we survived an ambush and outlasted them.” Carrie thought his wide, handsome mouth got a fixed look to it, and his eyes, which had been laughing before, turned somber. “Hamilton Fish was the first man to die. A fellow named Capron was the second. Six more fell after that, all hit by high-speed Mauser bullets. Thirty-four troopers were wounded before it was over. We buried our dead the next day in a common grave.”
    Nobody said anything for a minute.
    “Okay, but get to the part about the charge,” Hoyle urged. “Teddy’s on his horse, even though the bullets are rainin’ down like—like—”
    “Rain,” Dr. Wilkes continued obligingly. He folded his arms. “Thousands of them, ripping down in sheets through the grass and the reeds. We couldn’t see the Spanish snipers up in the palm trees because their uniforms were green and their powder was smokeless. There wasn’t any cover except the mosquito bogs. We kept waiting for the order to charge, men taking hits everywhere around us.” He got that odd expression in his eyes again and looked straight at Hoyle. “Bucky O’Neill took one in the mouth, about a minute after he bragged to his mate, ‘The Spanish bullet ain’t made that’ll kill me.’ It blew the back of his head off.”
    Even Hoyle got pale for a second. “Okay, but then Roosevelt says charge, and that’s when you gave ’em hell.”
    Carrie thought Dr. Wilkes looked exhausted all of a sudden. He dredged up a half smile for Hoyle, though, and said, “That’s when we gave ’em hell. We just kept coming, crawling up the grass slopes, pounding and pounding, until they could see we weren’t going to go away. When we saw them jumping out of the trees and running, we knew it was over.”
    “And you took a shot in the leg, but you kept on running.”
    “I what?”
    “Didn’t you? And when you got to the top, the trenches were filled with Spanish corpses, and the rest of ’em were runnin’ away like ants. And our guys—”
    “When I got hit, Hoyle, I didn’t do any more running. It was a glorious victory, but it got celebrated without me.”
    “Oh, yeah. Okay, but you heard what happened afterward.”
    “Yes, I heard. Eighty-nine Rough Riders died that day. We lost more men than any other regiment in the cavalry. “
    “And then Santiago surrendered without a fight,” Hoyle insisted. “Right? Come on, Doc. Finish it.”
    But Dr. Wilkes pushed away from the table where he’d been leaning and stood up straight. “You finish it, Hoyle,” he said shortly, but still smiling. “You tell it better than I do anyway. “He gave Hoyle a slap on his scrawny shoulder. “Besides, I’m parched from all this bragging. I need some punch—that is, if Stoneman hasn’t already spiked it.”
    That brought a relieved-sounding laugh, and the group of men started to break up.
    The Blue Ridge Shufflers had returned and were tuning up their instruments—a pretty kind of music all by itself, thought Carrie. Eppy let go of her arm and went straight over to Dr. Wilkes, who was standing by himself now, drinking a glass of punch. Go over with her, Carrie ordered herself; maybe he’ll talk to you. But she couldn’t make her feet move. Carrie Wiggins, you are the backwardest, bird-heartedest mouse brain in this whole town! The story he’d told had moved