at Rivas.

My post thenceforward was, with that of others, at the head of a lane
not far from the town, where we heard the voices of the combatants
and the whistling of balls, but could see nothing. After some hours'
comparative quiet, the drums began beating a charge again, and every gun
on the ground seemed awakened and doing its best. Then there was a loud,
heart-lifted shout, which rose above the din, and gave us too much joy;
and, a moment after, Colonel Casey, a hard-faced, one-armed man, spurred
past towards Rivas, saying, as he went, that our men were in the
_plaza,_ the greasers were running, and "we had 'em, sure as hell!" I
recollect some one observing, that it were of no use to believe Colonel
Casey, for he was the greatest liar in the army of Nicaragua. And
shortly after, the firing having ceased, another officer, Baldwin, I
think it was, came past and told us, with curses of vexation, that the
men had been checked, by command, in the heat of the assault, when the
greasers were already wavering,--and that the latter, recovering, had
rebarricaded so strongly, that we might now all go back to Rivas and
whistle.

However, this failure was not the end. Towards evening, another
detachment renewed the assault, and the uproar commenced again. It
seems, that, during the whole day, there was no simultaneous attack by
all the detachments. Now, it was the infantry who charged,--with the
riflemen in reserve, probably to prevent a rout, in case the enemy
pursued a repulse; then, it was the riflemen, with the infantry in
reserve; and so alternating through three or four charges;--so that
there never could have been more than a very contemptible force facing
the enemy at one time.

As it grew late, the wagons began to jolt past, removing the wounded to
Rivas. Some were drunk and merry in spite of their wounds; and their
laughter and drunken sport made strange concert with the cries and
curses of the others. I remember one man going by on foot, with a small
cut on the brow, from which blood was flowing copiously. He said the
wound was a mere scratch,--too slight to have sent him out of the fight,
had not the blood run down into his eyes and blinded him, preventing his
aim. Yet this small affair brought his death shortly afterwards. The
surgeons at Rivas gave him no care,--not so much as to wash his wound,
or have him wash it; and the climate is so malignant to strangers, that
the smallest cut, with the best care, heals